could have succeeded. Easily. Flora could have brazened it out in the car park in Huntingdon. ‘Lewis and I have split up,’ she could have said. ‘Our kids are with him in Florida, apart from Georgina who died tragically – cot death – and I’m not part of their lives any more. He won’t let me see Thomas and Emily.’ When I asked her, as I certainly would have, why her children with Kevin Cater were also called Thomas and Emily, she could have said, ‘I wanted to annoy Lewis. It was a bit petty, but I didn’t care.’
What could I have done if she’d told me that, even if I didn’t believe her? She and Lewis could have told me that exact story today, instead of telling me the very thing they’ve supposedly gone to all this trouble to stop me finding out.
I go back into my room, unzip my bag and pull out my phone. I press the red button to stop it recording. Whenever I want to, I can listen to all those lies again – lucky me.
I lock the door to my room, slip the key card into my bag and head down to the lobby, telling myself there’s zero chance of me finding Flora still in the building. She’ll be long gone by now.
What should I do next? I can only think of one thing: go back to VersaNova and tell Lewis I’ve seen through his and Flora’s little performance.
And he’ll say you’re deranged and throw you out. He’ll say, ‘Look what happens when I try to talk to you, Beth. You don’t listen. You don’t believe me. Why should I bother wasting any more of my time?’
What will happen if I go back to PC Paul Pollard with Flora’s taped confession that she killed her daughter? Would she be brought in for questioning? What about Lewis, who admitted to misleading the authorities to protect his family? Does my recording count as admissible evidence? I have no idea how these things work.
There are lots of people in the hotel lobby, but Flora isn’t one of them. I approach the concierge, who stands smiling behind his lectern by the entrance doors, unoccupied. I describe Flora to him and he listens attentively. ‘Did you see her leave?’ I ask. ‘It was about ten minutes ago. Did she ask you to get her a taxi, maybe? She didn’t have a car with her. Or maybe her husband came to pick her up?’ I describe Lewis.
The concierge shakes his head. ‘No husband, but I think I know the lady you mean. She asked the quickest way to the beach from here.’
‘The beach?’ I suppose there must be one, though I haven’t seen any sign of it. ‘Delray Beach?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Can you give me whatever directions you gave her?’ I ask him.
Outside the hotel, I cross the busy road. On the pavement opposite, there’s a sign in the shape of an arrow that says, ‘To the beach’. I have a strange feeling: that if I find Flora like this, I’ll have found her too easily.
Except finding her isn’t the challenge. Getting the truth out of her is the hard part.
I follow a roped-off path until I arrive on a long, wide, sandy beach. Stretching out in both directions are two long rows of blue sun umbrellas and wooden recliners with cushions, mainly occupied. The blue-green sea is calm, barely moving apart from where it’s being disturbed by people determined to have fun in it. I take off my shoes and hold them in my hand as I walk between the rows of sun-loungers.
It doesn’t take me long to find her. ‘Flora,’ I say, half expecting her to get up and run away.
She’s sitting on the sand, in a large patch of shade from the umbrella in front. There’s some shade left over, so I sit down next to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and mean it. Provoking her so that she ran away was a bad strategy. ‘I shouldn’t have accused you of lying.’
‘I don’t mind.’ She says it as if there was never a break in our conversation. She looks peaceful; almost content. ‘You don’t see why I’d want to stay in the same house. I understand that.’
‘But you did want to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
She gives a small laugh. ‘It’s funny that I still want to hide things from you even after I’ve told you the worst. Don’t you think that’s funny?’
I wait.
‘Lewis only offered me the house once I was pregnant with