“He said he wasn’t worried about a student loan anymore.”
“. . . Okay . . .”
Clare shot her a look. “You don’t think that’s significant?”
“I don’t think anything. I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s something we’ve talked about, the cost of a degree. I’ve told him I’ll help as much as I can, but he knows he’s going to have to take out a loan. And he’s been, well, not obsessing about it exactly. But it keeps coming up. He wants to travel, wants to go to the States, but he’s also aware that everything costs so much. But suddenly he’s saying it’s not a problem.”
Louisa didn’t know how to respond. She said, “What about his brother? You have two boys, right?”
“Andrew. He’s two years younger.”
“And he doesn’t have any idea where Lucas might have gone?”
“He says not. They fight like cats and dogs half the time. They’ll grow out of it, but . . . No. He has no idea.”
“And where did Lucas’s savings come from? Does he have a job?”
“Not during term time. But he was working over Christmas. We were in Pembrokeshire. In Wales?”
Yeah, thanks, thought Louisa.
“We go there often, family holidays. We started when Lucas was two. So we’ve made friends down there, and . . .”
The way she tailed off made Louisa wonder whether any particular friend came to mind. But not her business.
“And he was working there?”
“I know someone runs a catering business, he takes on part-time help. And it pays well. So Lucas usually does a few jobs when we’re down there. It’s cash in hand, so . . .”
She looked up once more as the door jangled again. Despite everything, it was getting on Louisa’s nerves. She said, “Clare? He’s not about to walk in. If you’re expecting him, it’s your home he’ll turn up at.”
“It’s not that, I just . . . Oh, I’m just feeling paranoid. These past few days. As if I’m being watched.”
“. . . Really?”
“I’m all over the place. It’s nothing.”
Louisa finished her coffee. She played it out for a few seconds, hunting for an escape clause. She’d come expecting a showdown, or perhaps a tearful encounter and a few shared memories. But Clare had no idea she’d been more to Min than a colleague, and her missing son was a teenager with a couple of ton in his backpack and a history of going walkabout while stoned. It didn’t feel like anything she should be getting involved with.
Her stonewalling technique might need working on. Clare said, “I shouldn’t have bothered you. Not on your weekend.”
“It’s no bother.”
“You’re right. He’ll turn up. Or he won’t. But that’s no concern of yours, is it?”
She gathered herself together and stood.
“He’ll be fine,” Louisa said. “I’m sure he will.”
“You’re sure,” said Clare. “That’s okay, then.”
“What is it you expected me to do?”
“You work for the security services,” Clare said, a bit louder than Louisa would have preferred in a crowded café. “I thought you might think of something. Not as a favour to me, or even to Lucas. But you were fucking Min, weren’t you? I’d have hoped that counted for something.”
This time, the door slammed instead of just clicking shut. But then, Clare put some shoulder into it.
Excellent Saturday morning so far, thought Louisa. But as she was in town anyway, she might as well get some shopping done.
Lech remembered the memorial as soon as he laid eyes on it. It was a shrine, almost; a drystone alcove, under a tree. There was a statue of the Virgin, of course, and vases of flowers, and saucers holding unlit candles. He wondered about lighting one, but didn’t have a match, and anyway, it wouldn’t flicker for a moment before the wind put it out of its misery. Besides, who was he kidding? He read the inscription, or started reading it, then hurried to the end, cherry-picking words:
He could hear shouting from the garages, horseplay, and he closed his eyes, pretending that this was a normal day, and the impulse that brought him here a Saturday whimsy. Sara would be wondering where he was. If he turned his phone on it would confirm this, with a series of irritated chirrups. But Sara, at least, believed in him—or would do, if she knew what was going on, which she didn’t. He’d explained that it was stuff, that’s all; a protocol issue; that he’d been seconded to an office near the Barbican for the time being. Even he hadn’t known what “protocol issue” meant.
Someone had stubbed out a nearly complete cigarette on the stonework, and left it nestled in a rift. He looked at it for a moment or two, then walked on.
