LITMIR.BIZ

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I’ll make her talk to me, really talk to me and we will repair what came apart since she left.

      Then something occurs to me. ‘Maybe the reason that woman had Mum’s bag was because she knew her? If so, that man might know where Mum is.’

      I go to walk towards him but Sam stops me. ‘Louise … give him a minute.’

      I look into Sam’s eyes. I can tell he thinks I’m grasping at straws. Maybe I am, but what other leads do I have? ‘I have to find my mum, I have to bring her back to me, back to her grandchildren. I don’t care what it takes, where I have to go, but Mum’s going to be on that plane back to the UK with me.’

      I shrug off his arm and march towards the man. He looks up when I approach, his eyes red.

      I hesitate a moment. Maybe Sam’s right. But then I think of Mum out there somewhere, possibly injured in some filthy hospital with doctors who don’t speak English.

      ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I say softly, kneeling down to his level and putting my hand on his arm. He’s wearing a powder-blue suit, more expensive-looking than any of Will’s.

      He shakes his head in disbelief, tears falling down his tanned cheeks. ‘I knew she was in the worst possible place for the wave to hit. But I never dreamed I’d find her body. She’s been through so much, gone through so much, and always come out fighting. Oh God.’

      His voice cracks and I feel like crying with him. It could have been me kneeling here grieving for my mother. It was for a few moments.

      ‘I think my mum knew your wife,’ I say gently.

      The man flinches. ‘Friend, not wife.’

      ‘Friend. Sorry. She had my mum’s bag when she was found,’ I say, gesturing to the bag slung over my shoulder. ‘And there was an atlas with a note written by someone called Claire Shreve in it?’

      He frowns. ‘Are you sure that’s your mother’s bag?’

      ‘Her passport was in it. It’s quite a distinctive bag too.’

      ‘Did your mother know Nathan Styles?’

      I think of the business card in the atlas. ‘No. Why?’

      He ignores my question. ‘What’s your mother’s name?’ he asks instead.

      ‘Nora McKenzie.’

      His face flickers with recognition. ‘The name rings a bell.’

      All my nerves stand on edge. ‘Really? Did Claire know my mother?’

      ‘No, I don’t think so. Sorry, I’m not very good with names, especially now.’ He looks down at the body again, face crumpling. Then he takes in a deep breath, composing himself. ‘I need to make some calls then I really must sleep. But maybe it’ll come to me once I get some rest. Where are you staying?’ I tell him the name of my hotel in Ao Nang and he nods. ‘I’m not far from there. There’s a small café just a few minutes’ walk from it.’ He pulls out a pen and business card from his pocket and scribbles down the café’s address before handing it to me. ‘Shall we meet there tomorrow morning, at nine?’

      I want to tell him he needs to remember right now but then I put myself in his shoes again.

      ‘Perfect.’ I look down at the business card: Jay Hemingford, Journalist. ‘Thank you, Jay.’

      He smiles very slightly then looks back down at Claire Shreve. I leave him alone and follow Sam through the gates, the crowds and noise a contrast to the quiet solemnity and hushed sobs of the makeshift morgue behind us.

      ‘Mum mentioned you booked a hotel in Ao Nang,’ Sam says. ‘There’s a bus coming soon that’ll get you there. You should go check in and get some rest then start again with a fresh head tomorrow. I can come by the café tomorrow morning after you’ve met with that man to see if I can help with any information he gives you?’

      ‘That’ll be great, thanks.’

      ‘And my mum gave you my number right? So just call if you need me.’

      ‘I will. I really appreciate your help, Sam.’

      ‘No problem. I better get back to it.’ He shoots me one last pained look then jogs away.

      When the bus arrives, I step onto it like I’m sleepwalking, slumping into a chair near the back and staring blankly out of the window as it starts rumbling down the road. There’s a young boy crying for his mum in front of me, his dad cuddling him to his chest as he tries to hold back his own tears. I wish I were a child again so I could cry for my mum. I’m relieved that wasn’t her body, but that’s not to say there won’t be other temples, other bodies to see … one of which might really be hers.

      The bus bumps over a pothole, and something digs into my hip. I look down and realise I still have the atlas. I must remember to give it to Jay Hemingford when I meet him tomorrow so he can return it to Claire Shreve’s family.

      I hesitate a few moments then lift the atlas to my nose. It smells of salt, of mangoes too, I think. I go to open it, unable to resist. It’s clear Claire Shreve wouldn’t want random people poking their nose in. Maybe if I just look in the pocket next to the Thailand map? If Mum met Claire Shreve out here and they visited the same places, there might be some breadcrumbs leading me to Mum’s whereabouts. And anyway, if they did know each other, surely Claire Shreve would want to help me find my mum?

      I find the right page then reach into the pocket. The first item is a photo of three people I don’t recognise: a young girl with curly red hair, a petite brunette a few years older than me, then a young blond man. There’s a hint of a palm tree in the background and, behind them, a large elephant statue with blue jewels all over it. I turn it over, but there’s nothing on the back.

      I go to the next item, a creased napkin with a pencil drawing of a rock jutting from the sea, someone standing on it with their arms wide open, like they want to catch the scribbled moon above.

      And then the final item, a piece of orange tissue paper patterned with flowery swirls. Attached to it with a safety pin is part of a torn note, three words scrawled across it:

       The bad things …

      I shiver slightly, despite the heat, then tuck it back into the pocket before leaning my forehead against the cool window, thinking of that first note I’d found.

       A watercolour of grey pooling around the edges of moss green valleys …

      I’d visited Devon for the weekend with the girls the year before. Will had meant to come with us but something big had gone down at work. He’d suggested cancelling it but I’d thought, what the hell, why can’t I do it alone? It wasn’t easy. The drive down there was a challenge with two grumpy, tired kids. But once we’d got into the stride of things, it had been a little adventure – just me and the girls enjoying long walks and scones crammed with jam and cream, no frowning husband and Daddy to tell us we’d get fat.

      God, how I’d love to be back there right now on safe and familiar ground, away from the fierce heat and the strange smells and sounds. The past few years, I’ve dreamed of spreading my wings a little. But I’d meant trying a holiday to Greece instead of Portugal; meeting new friends whose lives revolved around more than the school run and bake-offs; romantic dinners somewhere other than the local Italian. I didn’t mean this – fumbling blind in a country with bamboo houses on stilts. I’d rather see thatched cottage roofs and feel Exmoor’s sharp westerly wind fierce against my skin …

       Chapter Two

       Exmoor, UK

       1997

      In Exmoor, there’s a feeling that, at any moment, something

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