Silver said lightly. ‘Need a favour, actually.’ It pained him to even ask.
A sigh. ‘Go on.’
‘I need some details on a missing person. Girl called Misty Jones.’
‘Misty Jones? As in Clint?’
‘Clint?’ Silver switched the kettle that lived on the table in the corner of his room, and wiped the surface down. It was spotless already, but he wiped it anyway.
‘Eastwood. Play Misty For Me.’
‘Oh right.’ He pulled the coffee off the tray. ‘I’m not a big Western fan personally.’
‘Not a Western. More – creepy. About a bunny boiler with big tits, I seem to remember. Anyway,’ Craven ate something noisy down Silver’s ear. Crisps, by the sounds of it. ‘Misty. Kind of a made-up name, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe.’ He didn’t want her to be made-up: she had to be Misty. Flesh and blood and real; nothing to do with Jaime. ‘That’s what I need to find out.’
‘I’ll have a dig around.’ Craven finished whatever he was eating with relish. Was the man actually licking his fingers? ‘Get back to you as-ap.’ He pronounced it as two words. Irritating. He did irritate Silver, a lot. All faux-jollity, resentment and latent bigotry, big belly spilling over a thin crocodile-skin belt.
‘Cheers, pal.’ Silver hung up. His emotional intelligence might be out of kilter, but his gut instinct was working hard now at least. He had tried to convince himself all afternoon that things were all right – but he knew deep down something was definitely wrong.
TUESDAY 18TH JULY CLAUDIE
In the evening, I managed to open the front door to my best friend Zoe. Good old Natalie had rung her, and despite all my best protestations she had been insistent that she’d cook Paella and sit with me tonight. Zoe had a new Spanish boyfriend called Pablo and was learning Spanish cuisine for his benefit, which was infinitely preferable to the toasted cheese sandwiches she normally lived on. She arrived at six in her latest incarnation – Zoe was the eternal chameleon when it came to men – Capri pants immaculate, ingredients spilling out of the wicker basket she lugged up to the flat, neat auburn ponytail and gold hoops swinging from her ears as she unpacked her wares, black eyeliner flicked above her watchful eyes. We drank white Rioja and didn’t talk about the explosion, apart from the plaster on my cheek. We talked about love; she was thinking of moving to Barcelona to be with Pablo.
‘Hmm,’ I mused. ‘It means your babies will play for Barca and not Man U. Your dad will be devastated.’
‘My mum will be relieved, that’s all I know. She knows my clock is ticking.’ She shot me a quick look.
‘It’s fine, Zoe,’ I murmured, staring into my cloudy glass. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘So,’ she said brightly, ‘how’s it going with that nice Rafe guy? Will you be moving into Number 10 together soon?’
‘It’s not going.’
She stared at me.
‘Are you joking?’
‘No.’
‘I thought he was good for you.’ She looked so disappointed, I almost felt guilty. ‘And so bloody successful.’
‘Good for me?’ I drained my drink. ‘Like Vitamin C or broccoli?’ I thought of Francis’s botched attempt earlier at making me feel better. I thought about my new fears that the disassociation I’d experienced after Ned’s death was returning. I wondered whether to mention it to my oldest friend.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Do I?’ I stood to stack the plates.
‘Don’t be difficult, Claudia.’
‘I’m not, really. It’s just – it’s meant to be love, not – not health.’
Zoe gazed at me until I felt uncomfortable. ‘And it’s not love?’
‘No. It was company. And I’m fine on my own.’ Though I had definitely felt a little more protected since I’d met Rafe. I pushed that thought away.
‘Are you?’ She stared at me until I nearly squirmed.
‘Yes. Even though I did quite fancy opening the door in my nightie on Election Day.’ I chucked a prawn shell in the bin. ‘I’d have made sure I got my hair done first though.’
We gazed at each other for a moment and then began to laugh, almost hysterically, so I had to sit down again and catch my breath.
‘It’s not funny,’ I gasped in the end.
‘No, it’s not.’ Zoe wiped her eyes with some kitchen roll. ‘And you could do with a good haircut actually. You do look a bit – dishevelled at the moment. Slightly – Worzel Gummidge.’
‘Oh thanks a lot.’ She was revving up for a lecture, I could tell. I changed the subject. ‘It’s just – it was all wrong. Me and