The Cold Light of Mourning - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,22

Emyr. This must be unbearable for you. She left no note, no word, nothing?”

Emyr shook his head.

“Not with me, not with Anne or Jennifer. Nothing. She went out this morning, and now she’s, well, vanished. She’s just not here anymore. Nobody has seen her, nobody knows anything.”

Rhys seemed to shrink inside himself, as if the news had diminished him.

“So what are you going to do?” he asked.

“Well, it’s too late to call the wedding off, because people are driving in from all over the place, and we can’t get in touch with them. They’ll most likely go directly to the church, so what we’re doing is just carrying on.”

“I think that’s all you can do,” Rhys agreed. “By the way, have you told the rector? He needs to know.”

“Oh, God, I didn’t think of that,” Emyr said. “I’ll get David to do that. He can sort out some of the details. We’d better call her parents again, too, unless Anne or Jennifer already did that.”

Rhys sat quietly for a moment, and then looked at his son.

“Have you called the hospitals? What about the police?”

Emyr shook his head.

“Dear boy, I think I’d like to lie down now. I’m not going to get dressed and go to the church. I’ll stay here and you can let me know what happens. But, Emyr, I think you should call the police sooner rather than later.”

He sighed and reached up to touch his son.

“This has really knocked the stuffing out of me and although I would have made the effort for her, not now. Not for this. Ask Louise to come back in now. I’m very tired and I need to lie down. You get on and do what you have to do. Forgive me.”

Emyr patted his father’s shoulder and nodded. He left the room to find his father’s nurse, and then went in search of his reliable, trustworthy old friend.

It was rumoured that David had made a lot of money in the booming London real estate market and although he had apparently held down no real job for years, he lived very well in an understated mews house in Devonshire Place, from which he was unself-consciously building a reputation as a dedicated man about town. Celebrity-studded charity events and dinner parties or nightclubbing into the wee hours with the drunken daughters of a viscount seemed to take up more and more of his time. Impossible-to-get front row seats for opening nights and backstage passes at sold-out rock concerts were no problem for him. But amongst the people in his set, dark whispers were starting to circulate of long nights spent at exclusive gaming tables with careless wagering costing him astronomical sums.

David was in his bedroom, talking on his mobile as he mixed a whisky and soda from the drinks tray.

“How many?” he was saying. “We need three times that many. Tell them to get their fingers out and get it done.” He pressed the button to end the call, set the mobile down on the windowsill, and looked up as Emyr entered.

“You all right, old son? You don’t look so good. Getting nervous? Here have a drink with me, and then we’ll get changed. Get you to the church on time and all that, eh?” He sipped his drink.

Unable to meet his gaze, Emyr looked around the room and then out the window at sheep grazing in the lower field.

“David, it’s bad news, and it’s getting worse, I’m afraid.”

He told his friend that Meg Wynne was missing, and then asked him to help sort out the logistics of informing the people who needed to be told.

“You can get the numbers from the directory in the estate office downstairs. You’ll have to call the rector—he might already be at the church—or leave a message with his wife. And call Meg Wynne’s parents at the hotel and then check in with Anne and Jennifer. Tell them my mobile’s switched on. I think they’re in Anne’s room now, maybe Jennifer’s, I can’t remember. Reception should know. Or try both. Do whatever you have to do. Oh, and for what it’s worth, I tried calling Meg Wynne in London but there’s no answer and her mobile isn’t switched on.

“I’m going to ring the hospitals, and you’ll just have to try to stay on top of everything else, David. I’m sorry to dump all this on you, but I can’t think what else to do. And I can’t handle all the details. And speaking of details, you might have