The results page had three boxes giving name, address and telephone number. In the case of both Gordon and the Elizabeth who shared his address, the box for the telephone number was blank. Hannah leaned back in the chair and reached for her bag on the bed, hooking a finger through the strap and swinging it across into her lap. Finding her phone, she entered the number for Directory Enquiries. She paused briefly before making the call, checking her conscience, but discovered that every last vestige of guilt about investigating the Reillys had gone.
She gave the operator Gordon’s name and address and waited. The tapping of keys and then the woman came back on the line. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but that number’s ex-directory.’
Hannah thought. ‘Does that mean,’ she said, ‘that there’s definitely a Gordon Reilly at that address?’
‘That’s what the records say.’
‘Could you try Elizabeth Reilly, please? Same address.’
More tapping. ‘Yes, there’s an Elizabeth Reilly listed but again, it’s ex-directory.
‘Okay, thanks.’ Hannah hung up and started a text message. Morning, she wrote. A favour: if Mark rings, will you tell him I’m with you but I’m in the loo or I’ve popped to the shops with Lydia or something, then call me?
Within seconds, her phone started ringing. Tom’s number. She hesitated, torn between the urge to pick up and tell him everything, and the sudden time pressure: it was quarter past eleven already and Eastbourne was . . . what? An hour and a half’s drive from London? More, maybe. If she was going to get there and back by seven, she didn’t have a lot of time to spare, and no honest conversation with Tom at this point was going to be short. She let the phone ring and got ready to go. When she came out of the bathroom, the phone had stopped ringing for the third time and there was a text instead: What’s going on?
Perversely, she immediately felt better about dodging him: there was an obvious logic, surely, to finding out whether there actually was anything going on before she freaked her brother out. What? asked the snide voice in her head. Anything other than Nick being a killer, you mean?
She ignored it and tapped out a reply: Nothing going on, just need a bit of space today. Full explanation coming Monday, promise.
I don’t like it. Tom’s response was almost instant. But if you swear you’re telling me the truth, I’ll do it. And stop ignoring my calls.
Swear, she wrote, feeling guilty. And I will. Thanks, bro.
Chapter Twenty-three
The Underground was the quickest way to Parsons Green but it wasn’t nearly quick enough. The train lingered at Earl’s Court, doors wide open to the freezing platform, and Hannah was on the point of getting off and taking a taxi when she remembered that she only had six pounds in her purse. Going to the cash-point would just swallow more time. There was no guarantee that a taxi would be quicker, anyway: it was Saturday and the roads around the north of Fulham would be gridlocked, especially if Chelsea were playing at home.
She rested her head against the glass panel and tried to stay calm. Outside the hotel she’d stopped to look at the TT. It would have been much faster – it was right there in front of her, she had the key in her bag – but when it came to it, she hadn’t been able to. For this, she wanted – needed – her own car.
She was standing ready at the doors as the train pulled into Parsons Green. The temperature had dropped noticeably since she’d left Shepherd’s Bush and a cold wind was gusting round the elevated platform. She took the stairs at a gallop and headed out of the station, car key already in her hand. As she made her way down the side of the Green, a car slowed almost to a stop behind her and the hairs stood up on the back of her neck. Then, though, she heard it go over a speed bump and it accelerated past.
The VW was further down Quarrendon Street than she remembered. As she passed the house, she thought it looked different. They’d been gone fewer than twenty-four hours but somehow it had already taken on an empty look, the upstairs windows blankly reflecting the cold white sky, the privet of the front hedge shivering stiffly in the wind. A little way up, on the other side of the street, she’d seen a man in a non-descript blue Honda with a newspaper spread across the steering wheel: the police watch. He’d barely glanced up as she passed but she knew that he’d registered her, discounted her as not-Nick.
She ran the last twenty yards to the car, got in and slapped the lock down as if he was actually behind her. Reaching over, she took the Sat Nav out of the glove box. It had been a present from Mark but, besides the rare occasions when he was in the car, she barely used it, objecting to having orders barked at her. Today, though, it would be a godsend. Hands shaking, she entered the address from the Internet and waited for it to calculate a route. When it was finished, the estimated journey time said two hours, three minutes. Shit. For a moment she considered ditching the whole idea – she’d never get back to the hotel by seven; it was probably a wild goose chase, anyway – but then she heard an echo of Mark’s voice: ‘My parents were already gone.’