Page 53 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘Yeah.’ She looks hesitant. ‘We’d better do that.’

Sam scans the area around them, aware of how ridiculous this is. So, Dom was at a barbecue here? That doesn’t mean it’s his place. Perhaps he’s prone to rocking up at friends’ gatherings with his tongs and special marinades, as he’s known to be a whizz at cooking over coals? Sam has never quite understood why barbecuing is regarded as such a guy thing (does it bring out a hunter-gatherer aspect, even when it’s burgers from Sainsbury’s?). However, it seems like a reasonable explanation. Which means, he figures, that ‘G’ could just be a friend of Dom’s, and nothing more worrying than that. And maybe she’s a friend he prefers to keep tucked away – compartmentalised – because she doesn’t quite fit in with the image he likes to portray? While this wouldn’t exactly show him in a favourable light, it hardly warrants Sam and Andie creeping around a stranger’s garden on a Sunday morning.

The fact is, he decides, if Dom had a girlfriend already when he went on the cruise, it’s feasible that he might be stringing Eva along on the side. But he wouldn’t be marrying her, would he? None of it would make any sense and, for this reason, Sam is keen for them to complete their ‘search’ as quickly as possible and leave.

As Andie investigates the area underneath the plastic table, he flicks his gaze towards the back of the house. Any moment, that woman will come out. She is definitely in there; Sam is certain now that her voice was coming from the open window next to the back door. A kitchen window, by the look of it. He can make out shelves of crockery, an outsized wall clock, a tall fridge. But there’s still no visible sign of any activity inside the house.

He looks over at Andie who has crouched down, seeming fully immersed in her role of purse-hunter as she rakes through the weeds. For a London terraced garden, it’s unusually sizeable and Sam wonders if she is planning to search every inch of it. They seem to have switched now, in that Andie appears to be unfazed – at least, she’s putting on a good act of it – whereas Sam’s heart is hammering an urgent beat.

Relax, he tells himself. He’s not expecting the woman to come out with mugs of coffee and buttered toast – but she did say it was okay to come here. So surely she isn’t going to storm out and cause a scene? Andie straightens up, brushing grass from the knees of her jeans. As Sam makes his way over to her, she flinches. ‘Shit,’ she mutters.

‘What is it?’

‘I just saw someone in the house.’

‘It’s all right,’ he says quickly. He doesn’t actually know this, but he wants Andie to feel safe and protected, even though he’s aware that she doesn’t need him for anything on that score. He’d had to insist that he came with her today. What was that about? Hadn’t she said that they were in this together?

The back door opens and Sam hears Andie’s sharp intake of breath as an elderly woman steps out. She is smoking a cigarette and clutching a small pile of papers. Her face is drawn and deeply lined, her hair a little wild and dyed an unconvincing plummy grey, the colour of spilt red wine on the carpet when you’ve had a go at it with salt. Apparently, she hasn’t seen them yet.

‘Uh… hello!’ Sam calls out.

The woman looks at him, narrowing her eyes in apparent confusion.

‘I’m, er… the one who phoned you?’ Andie says. ‘Left my purse at your barbecue…’

‘Oh, yeah.’ She nods, then drops the stack of papers into a rectangular metallic container on the patio area by the house. ‘For burning,’ she announces. ‘You never know who goes through the bins, do you?’

‘No, you’re quite right,’ Sam says quickly. So she’s more worried about identity theft than a couple of strangers prowling about in her garden?

The woman takes a puff of her cigarette and drops it onto the cracked flagstone where she grinds it out with her slipper. Short and wiry, she is wearing a pink sweatshirt over sheeny navy-blue tracksuit bottoms. Sam notices that the plummy hair dye seems to have seeped into her forehead as there is a little staining there.

‘No luck yet, though,’ Andie offers, and the woman shrugs.

‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ she says, plodding back inside the house and shutting the door behind her.

Sam and Andie exchange a look of surprise combined with no small degree of relief. Despite his show of bravado, Sam had half expected the woman to grab the floor brush propped up against the house and set about them. For a few minutes they continue their fake search until, satisfied that she’s not at the window, Sam turns and fixes his gaze upon the metallic box sitting by the back door.

The fact that the paperwork is for burning suggests that it might tell them something, at least. It can’t just be old newspapers and packaging and shopping lists. He checks the kitchen window again and aware of Andie’s look of alarm, he treads stealthily towards the metal container and snatches the top piece of paper from it. Then, with the forced casualness of a shoplifter trying to act normal, he quickly marches away towards the dilapidated shed, where Andie joins him.

‘What’ve you got?’ she exclaims.

Sam shows her the lightly crumpled white envelope bearing a handwritten name and address:

Mrs Geraldine Morecock

65 Storey Avenue

London W4 9ZP

‘Geraldine Morecock.’ Andie looks at him. ‘Morecock. That was the name on that company website⁠—’

‘Yeah, his other name.’ Sam turns the envelope over but there’s nothing on the other side. ‘So, who is she?’

‘His mum, maybe? Same surname and the right kind of age…’

‘Of course,’ Sam agrees, although he is having trouble reconciling the fact that the lady with the stained forehead is even vaguely related to the man who mixed him a cocktail with some kind of burnished rosemary in it.

Andie touches his arm. ‘When we went to Boggis Road, what did that girl say their landlord’s name was? It was Jerry, wasn’t it?’