Page 62

SIXTY

Enderford is a beautiful village. Ash has heard of it but never visited before, although it’s only forty minutes away from the Riviera.

The shop in front of her right now is called Martha’s Garden.

It’s quite charming, with bowed and dimpled windows and woodwork painted an exquisite shade of pink, pale without being washed-out, intense without being gaudy.

There are potted trees on the pavement, old wrought-iron guard railings, and fairy lights threaded through everything.

An old-fashioned copper bell jingles above the door as Ash pushes it open and then she is ensconced in the warm embrace of a fragrant store full of perfectly displayed plants and flowers, pots and vases.

Behind the counter is a pretty young girl in a sleeveless fur jacket and fingerless gloves, her hair piled into a huge bun on top of her head, arranging white flowers into a posy. She smiles at Ash.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Ash replies.

“Let me know if you need any help.”

Ash nods and walks toward her. “Yes, actually. I was wondering—do you recognize these?” She pulls the box of soaps out of her shoulder bag and even as she does so she sees a display out of the corner of her eye: soaps and handwashes and candles all in the same packaging, the same shade of pink, and yes, she sees it now, the same embossed linear rose.

The girl looks at the box and says, “Yes! These are ours! A woman in the village makes them for us. They’re lovely, aren’t they? Did you want another set?”

“Er, no. Thank you. It’s just they were a gift from someone, and he can’t remember where he got them from and—” She stops abruptly, not sure how to continue, or whether to. “Is this your shop? Are you Martha?”

“No!” she laughs lightly. “God, no! I’m only twenty! Martha is my boss. But she’s not here today. She’s gone off on some mystery mission. Left me in charge.”

“Ah. Right. When will she be back?”

“She didn’t say. But after lunch, probably.”

“Can I…” Ash pauses again, not sure if her next question is appropriate, or incendiary. But then she pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Do you recognize this man? He’s the man who bought me the soaps. Has he ever been in here that you remember?”

She shows the photograph of Nick Radcliffe to the girl, who says, “Yeah. That’s Al.”

A blast of shock runs through Ash’s system. “Al?”

“Yes. Alistair. Martha’s husband.”

Martha’s husband. Of course, she thinks. Of course.

“Oh.” She doesn’t let the shock register on her face. “Right. And is he here today?”

“Er, no. He’s had to go up to the Midlands,” she says in a low voice, as though someone might be listening. “His mother has Alzheimer’s and he’s taking care of her.”

“Oh,” Ash says again, struggling now to control the note of surprise in her voice. “Right. So you haven’t seen him for a while?”

“No, not since before Christmas. Poor Martha, it’s such a stretch with the little one and her boys and this…

” She gestures at the shop. “And doing it all by herself. She’s amazing, actually.

One of the most amazing women I know. But…

” Ash sees the obvious question percolate through the girl and form itself into a quizzical frown.

“Why have you got a photo of him on your phone?”

“Oh,” Ash replies nonchalantly. “He’s a friend of my dad’s.

An old friend. Yeah. And he got me these for Christmas.

And they’re so nice. And he told me he got them from some posh place in Mayfair, but I couldn’t find them and I think maybe he was just fibbing, because obviously he must have got them from here for free.

But don’t worry. It’s fine. Mystery solved.

” She flashes the girl a huge grin and tucks the soaps back into her bag.

“Oh,” says the girl. “Right. I mean, are you sure you don’t want to buy some more? While you’re here? They’re on sale? Twenty percent off?”

“Oh, no, honestly. It’s fine. I know where to come now if I need some more, though, thank you.” Ash flashes the girl another smile, and then she turns and leaves.

Married to Martha.

Children together.

A flower shop.

There it is. All of it. She’s got him. He’s lying to his wife and he’s lying to Nina.

He’s lying to everyone about everything, and Ash finally has him pinned down, limb to limb, inescapably.

But now what? She needs a plan. She needs a strategy.

She messages Jane from the train back home and tells her everything.

A moment later, Jane replies.

Fuck a duck.

Then, another moment later:

I have a number for Emma Greenlaw. Do you want to message her, or shall I?