At the most she’d expected someone who’d never heard of Noelle Donnelly. But here was a blood relative.
“Oh,” she says. “Right. Yes. She disappeared, didn’t she?”
“So they say,” says the boy. “So they say.”
“I wondered . . .” Laurel begins. “I’ve become quite friendly with Noelle’s daughter. And Noelle’s ex. And there’s . . .” How could she phrase this? “There’s things I’m not sure about. About her leaving. Could I come and see you?”
“Who are you, did you say?”
“I’m a friend of Poppy’s.”
“Ah, right. The girl she had. My grandma talks about her sometimes.”
There’s a brief silence and Laurel wonders if he heard her asking to come over, but then he says, “Sure. Why not? It’s number twelve Harlow Road. Just off Stroud Green Road.”
“Now?” she confirms. “I can come now?”
“Sure,” he says. “My name’s Joshua, by the way. Joshua Donnelly.”
“And I’m Laurel Mack,” she says. “I’ll be there in about half an hour.”
Harlow Road is a turning off the high road, a section of the road that Laurel is more than familiar with after watching the CCTV footage from the day Ellie disappeared so many times on the news. It’s exactly opposite the spot where the car had been parked, the one whose windows Ellie had checked her reflection in.
Number twelve is close to the turning. It’s a tiny house, in a terrace of other tiny houses, with a small cherry tree in the front garden. The house is in a bad state. It looks almost as though nobody lives there.
Joshua Donnelly opens the door wide and steps aside. “Come in, Laura,” he says. “Come in.”
“It’s Laurel,” she says, “like the wreath.”
“Oh, sure, like the wreath, yeah.” He pulls the door closed behind her. He’s small and bouncy in oversized jersey joggers and a red and white football shirt. His hair is cut very short and has a small line shaved into it from the hairline. He has an appealing face, almost pretty, and very long eyelashes.
“You’ll have to excuse the state of the place,” he says, leading her into the tiny front room. “It’s just me and my brother here and we’re not very domesticated.”
The room is furnished with two brown leather sofas and lots of varnished pine furniture. On the walls are framed prints of modern art. Clothes are hanging to dry by the back door and over the backs of chairs. There are some mugs here and there and piles of what looks like college work. But it’s not so bad, considering.
“So, you’re the sons of Noelle’s . . . ?”
“Younger brother. Yeah. There’s four of them. Four brothers. And there were two girls but one of them died when she was tiny and the other one was Noelle and God knows what happened to her.” He takes some textbooks off a sofa and brushes some crumbs onto the floor with the side of his hand, gesturing to Laurel to take a seat. “Can I get you anything? Tea? A Coke?”
She sits. “No, no, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Are you sure? It’s no bother.”
“Honestly. Thank you.”
He clears space for himself on the other sofa and sits down, his knees spread wide, one leg jigging up and down.
“Did you inherit this place from Noelle?” she asks.
“Well, no, I wouldn’t say inherited. The family just kind of absorbed it, y’know? It’s like our personal little hotel for anyone in the family who needs a place in London. And right now that’s me and Sammy, my kid brother.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since October. I’ve just started on a degree at Goldsmiths. I’ll be here for a few years yet. But there were others here before me. I mean, there are thirteen of us cousins. But we’re not allowed to move anything or touch anything, you know what I mean? We have to keep it as she left it. More or less.”
“In case she comes back?”
“Yeah, sure, in case she comes back. Exactly.”
“And do you think she will?”
“Ah.” He shrugs. “That’s a question. You know, I never met her? None of us did, us cousins. She was like a ghost member of the family. We’d hear things about her, that she was buying herself a house, that she’d got together with a famous writer, that she was expecting a baby, all of that. But we never, ever met her. Isn’t that crazy?”
He blinks at her, his mouth set into a wide smiling circle, and Laurel agrees. “Yes,” she says, “yes, that is crazy.”