‘Why did you leave Scotland?’ He gave her that look again. As if he was studying her.
‘I moved down to London after graduation with Nick.’
‘Would you ever go home? Skye’s a beautiful part of the world. I went climbing once in the Cuillin – it was incredible.’
‘It doesn’t feel like home any more,’ she said, kicking a pebble with her boot. ‘My dad died in a motorbike accident when I was a baby, and my mum became a very heavy drinker from that point on. That’s how I know a lot about whisky,’ she said with a note of irony. ‘She got cirrhosis of the liver and died the summer of my A levels.’
‘You were brave going to university after that.’
‘There didn’t seem much alternative,’ she shrugged. ‘I went back to Portree in the Christmas holidays of my first year, but it seemed strange. I had no other family in Skye, and with Mum not there, I didn’t feel as if I belonged. I don’t think anywhere feels like home once the people you love have gone.’
They carried on walking in silence. Abby liked the easy companionship between them. It was nice not feeling lonely on a Sunday. The other days she could cope with. Since her separation, she’d worked late at night during the week, and spent her Saturdays shopping, popping into the West End, Westfield or Wimbledon, either on her own or with friends. But Sunday was the day when she felt Nick’s absence most keenly. It was the day people spent with their families and lovers. It was the day she had got used to spending on her own.
She glanced at Elliot and felt sure that he was never lonely on Sundays. She wasn’t entirely convinced that these were the housekeeper’s wellies, and she wondered how many other women had borrowed this cashmere jumper to take a walk along the towpath.
‘Here we are,’ said Elliot finally, stopping outside a double-fronted villa set back from the river. Clive Desmond’s house too reeked of class and money.
‘Have you ever met him before?’
‘A couple of times. He’s a good friend of Dad’s, though,’ replied Elliot as he banged an impressive brass door knocker.
An elderly woman came to the door and greeted them warmly. She introduced herself to Abby as Connie Desmond and led them both through to a large study that overlooked the back garden of the house.
Clive Desmond looked to be in his mid-eighties. He was wearing blue cords and a pinstriped shirt, and half-moon glasses that seemed to have been fixed halfway down his nose. He peered over the top of them and smiled at Elliot.
‘How are you, young man? Heavens, you’re the image of your father when we worked together. How is he?’
‘Hungover, I dare say. He came round last night and liberated the fifty-year-old malt he got me as a thirtieth birthday present.’
‘Ha. That sounds like Andrew,’ laughed Clive, easing himself back into his armchair. ‘Coffee? Tea? Something a bit stronger? It’s the afternoon. Almost.’
They both shook their heads and took a seat on a leather chesterfield opposite.
‘You wanted to see if I could help you with something,’ said Clive, stroking his chin and looking statesmanlike.
‘I’m investigating the death of Dominic Blake.’
‘I remember that,’ nodded Clive.
‘You do?’
‘I was deputy news editor of the Chronicle at the time. I measure my life in news stories. It was around the time that Connie and I got married.’
‘Did you run a story about it?’
‘It was a long time ago, Elliot. But I doubt it. It was ’61, wasn’t it? That was a busy year for news, I can tell you, so smaller items got pushed aside for the big international stories. The Cuban Missile Crisis, Bay of Pigs. I didn’t know whether to edit copy or stay at home and dig a nuclear bunker.’
‘Did you see the photo of him with Rosamund Bailey in last week’s Chronicle?’
‘I did.’
‘I was discussing it with Dad and he said there were rumours that Rosamund was a Soviet asset.’
‘I can guess where that came from,’ smiled Clive, accepting a cup of tea from Connie.
‘Office gossip?’
Clive sat back and crossed one leg over the other so that his slipper dangled off the end of his foot. Abby noticed that the air smelt of Earl Grey.