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It had belonged to her. It was the smallest one from her set of Russian dolls, the one she’d had as a child, and when Ellen’s had gone missing, Layla had carried this one around with her for fear that Ellen would take it and claim it as hers. She called it her talisman, and in times of stress she would hold it between her thumb and index finger and gently rub the smooth surface. She had been doing exactly that on our journey from Megève, huddled against the car door, and the next morning, when the police returned to the picnic area, they’d found it lying on the ground next to where I’d parked the car, by the rubbish bin. They also found scuff marks, which – as my lawyer pointed out – suggested she’d been dragged from the car and had dropped the doll on purpose, as some kind of clue. As there was insufficient evidence to prove this either way, I was finally allowed to leave France, and to keep the Russian doll.

I put it back in its hiding place and go and find Ellen. But later, when we’re lying in bed, our hunger sated by the exquisite dinner we had at The Hideout, our bodies knotted together, I silently curse the little Russian doll she found earlier. It’s another reminder that no matter how many years go by, we will never be completely free of Layla.

Barely a month goes by when we don’t hear her name – someone called out to in the street, a character in a film or book, a newly opened restaurant, a cocktail, a hotel. At least we don’t have to contend with supposed sightings of Layla any more – Thomas’ yesterday was the first in years. There’d been hundreds after she first disappeared; it seemed that anyone who had red hair was put forward as a possible candidate.

I look down at Ellen, snuggled in the crook of my arm, and wonder if she’s thinking of Layla too. But the steady rise and fall of her chest against me tells me she’s already asleep and I’m glad I didn’t tell her about Tony’s phone call. Everything – all this – would be much easier if Ellen and I had fallen in love with other people instead of each other. It shouldn’t matter that Ellen is Layla’s sister, not when twelve years have passed since Layla disappeared.

But, of course, it does.

TWO

Before

It feels a lifetime ago that I first saw you, Layla. I’m not sure if you even know this but at the time I had a girlfriend, someone so unlike you, someone who was as high-flying in the world of advertising as I was in my city job. Time is an oddity when it comes to memories; I always think of you when I remember Harry and the flat in St Katharine Docks, yet you spent much less time in that world than my ex did. You instigated the end of the life I had. Everything became ‘Before Layla’ and ‘After Layla’.

It must have been just after 7 p.m. on New Year’s Eve 2004. You probably don’t remember that but I know, because Harry had insisted we leave too much time to get to the theatre. I’d felt indifferent to it being a big night but I was indifferent to so many things back then. Until I met you.

As Harry and I went down into the underground station at Liverpool Street, I never thought I was about to fall in love. He needed to top up his Oyster card so while he queued at the machine, I watched everybody rushing to get wherever they were going to celebrate the New Year.

After a few minutes my attention was caught by a flash of colour amongst the greys and blacks of the Londoners, the most beautiful red I’d ever seen. And of course it was you – or rather, your hair. Do you remember how you stood with your back against the opposite wall, your eyes watching in alarm at everyone surging around you? You looked scared, but back then the simplest things seemed to scare you; crowds, dogs, the dark. You were so terrified of dogs that if you saw one coming towards you, you would cross over to the other side of the street to avoid it, even if you were with me, even if it was on a lead. And that day in the underground station, as you pushed yourself further into the wall to avoid the crowds, your hair caught under the artificial lighting and it seemed to be on fire. With your tiny purple skirt, lace-up ankle boots and curvy figure, you looked so different to the stick-thin women in their smart suits and dark winter coats. Then you raised your head, and our eyes met. I felt embarrassed to be caught staring at you so intensely and tried to look away. But your eyes pulled me towards you and before I knew it, I was striding across the concourse.

‘Do you need help?’ I asked, looking down into your green-brown eyes. Hazel, I learned later. ‘You seem a little lost.’

‘It’s just that I didn’t expect London to be quite so busy,’ you replied, your voice lilting with a Scottish accent. ‘All these people!’

‘It’s New Year’s Eve,’ I explained. ‘They’re on their way out to celebrate.’

‘So it’s not always like this?’

‘Early morning and late afternoon, usually. Did you want to buy a ticket?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you going?’

Do you remember your reply?

‘To a youth hostel,’ you said.

‘Where is it?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure. Near Piccadilly Circus, I think.’

‘Do you have an address?’ You shook your head. ‘On your reservation?’ I persevered.

And then you admitted that you hadn’t reserved a room.

Your naivety both appalled and charmed me. ‘It might be difficult to find a bed on New Year’s Eve,’ I explained.

Your skin paled, heightening the freckles, and that’s when I fell in love with you.

‘Have you got a mobile?’ I asked.

You shook your head again. ‘No.’

To meet someone so unorganised, so unaffected by modern life and the London rush was like a hit of alcohol. If it had been anybody else, I would have walked away quickly before they could ask me how to find a number for a hostel. But I was already realising that I couldn’t walk away from you.

‘How old are you?’ I asked, because suddenly, I needed to know everything there was to know about you.

‘Eighteen. Almost nineteen.’ You raised your chin defiantly. ‘I’m not a runaway, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

I was saved from answering by Harry appearing at my elbow.

‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Didn’t I leave you standing over there?’

My eyes stayed fixed on you. ‘This young lady is looking for a youth hostel near Piccadilly Circus. Do you know it?’ I asked, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t, because I was already counting on bringing you back to ours.

‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He looked thoughtfully at you. ‘They must have given you the address when you reserved.’

‘She doesn’t have a reservation.’

His eyes widened. ‘I doubt you’ll find a bed on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Then what should I do?’ you asked, a slight panic creeping into your voice.

Harry scratched his head as he always did when faced with a problem. ‘I have no idea.’

‘We’ll have to think of something,’ I said, my voice low.

He turned to me with that ‘it isn’t our problem’ look in his eyes. And he was right, it wasn’t our problem, it was mine. ‘Look, I’ll help her look for a hostel, or a hotel, or something,’ I told him. ‘We can’t just leave her here.’

‘Well, maybe somebody else can help her. We’re going to the theatre,’ he reminded me.

‘Look, don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ you said. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time already. It’s my fault, I should have planned ahead. But I never realised London would be so . . . ’ you searched for a word ‘ . . . crazy.’

I reached into my jacket pocket and took out my wallet. ‘Here,’ I said, fishing out my theatre ticket and handing it to Harry. ‘Take Samantha. She wanted to go, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, but—’

I pressed the ticket into his hand. ‘It’s fine. I’ll see you at the party later.’ He tried to catch my eye but I ignored him. ‘Phone Samantha. She can meet you at the theatre.’ And before he could say another word, I took your bag and set off across the concourse. ‘Follow me.’

I headed for the exit, my heart now hammering as it always did when I was on the verge of doing something exhilarating, or dangerous. Worried I would lose you in the crowds that thronged the streets, I reached for your hand.

‘Stay with me!’ I shouted above the noise of the traffic.

Your hand tightened around mine. ‘Don’t worry, I will!’ you called back.

And I hoped that you would, forever.

THREE

Now

It’s Saturday, so Peggy and I go to get fresh bread for breakfast while Ellen has a lie-in. On Sundays, I usually lie-in while Ellen makes bacon and eggs. Ellen says that one day we’ll be too old to lie-in and will be up at dawn, making porridge, unable to stay in bed any longer after being awake half the night with insomnia. She’s probably right.

It’s a short walk to the village where the bakery stands between the newsagent’s and the butcher’s. I buy a granary loaf and a couple of newspapers, and when I go in to say hello to Rob, the butcher, I see a nice leg of lamb for our lunch tomorrow, a little too big for just me and Ellen, but there’s Peggy too.

I take Peggy for a detour along the river on the way home, hoping I won’t bump into Ruby, the owner of our local pub, The Jackdaw. She often walks her Airedale in the mornings and it’s still a bit awkward when we meet. I first got together with Ruby back in 2014, about a year after a small memorial ceremony we’d had for Layla, where I met Ellen for the first time. Until then, nobody in Simonsbridge knew I was the ex-partner of the young woman who’d gone missing in France. When my true identity was revealed in a newspaper article, not long after the ceremony, it didn’t give anyone cause for concern, as I’d been living peacefully among them for six years. People were interested, rather than frightened, about having a possible murderer in their midst. This gave me the confidence to stop hiding myself away and I began to mix with the locals in a way I hadn’t before. If people asked me about my past, I spoke truthfully – well, with as much truth as I wanted them to know.

In a strange twist of fate, the journalist who traced me to Devon and ‘outed’ me was a cousin of Ruby’s. She felt bad about the role he’d played and made it up to me in more ways than one. I enjoyed being with Ruby; she was vivacious and easy-going. When Harry persuaded me to go back to work, I would stay at the flat in London during the week and return to Simonsbridge at the weekends to see Ruby, and Peggy, who would stay at The Jackdaw while I was away. As far as I was concerned our relationship was a casual thing, something that could be dropped on a Monday morning when I left for London and picked up again when I returned to Simonsbridge on the Friday evening.

I knew from Harry, who had kept in touch with Ellen since the memorial ceremony, that she was trying to make herself a career as an illustrator. When she finally found herself an agent, and had to come to London for meetings, Harry would invite her to stay at the flat. At first, I kept my distance, leaving her and Harry to have dinner together, wondering if there was something between them. As her career took off, she started coming to London more often and I found myself looking forward to her visits. Sometimes our eyes would meet across the table, and I would look away, determined not to get involved. But then I began inviting her to join me in Simonsbridge at weekends. And relaxing in front of a log-fire one evening, she leaned over and kissed me, and we ended up in bed.

It hadn’t been my intention to lie to Ruby when she asked me about Ellen, it was more that I was uncomfortable about who Ellen was. I don’t blame Ruby for feeling sore when Ellen moved in with me last year. Unfairly perhaps, I’ve always suspected Ruby of being behind the ‘Partner of Missing Woman Moves Sister In’ headline which appeared in the paper shortly after. And because Ellen and I are now getting married, I’d like to delay the conversation – the one where Ruby tells me she’s very happy for me while throwing me daggers – until I’ve had time to get used to the idea myself.

We haven’t been to The Jackdaw since the wedding announcement appeared in the local paper a couple of weeks ago. Ellen insisted on placing it because she felt that everyone, especially Ruby, should know that she’s here to stay. I think she was hoping to silence those who whispered that we shouldn’t be in a relationship, as there are some who disapprove that I’m marrying Layla’s sister. They don’t come right out and say it but I can see it in their eyes and hear it in their voices as they congratulate us.

I call Peggy out from the river, and after she’s shaken the water off her and onto me, I take the path back up to the road, glad that I’ve managed to avoid Ruby. As I approach the house, I see something standing on the stone wall that borders the front garden and recognise the little Russian doll that Ellen found last week. The fact that she kept it for so long before putting it back where she found it tells me how much it means to her and I feel guilty all over again for saying she shouldn’t keep it, because I doubt the owner is going to come looking for it. But I also feel guilty for another reason. It’s more proof that Ellen never goes against what I tell her, never disobeys me, and although it makes for a peaceful life, I find it perplexing.

I put the doll into my jeans pocket and go into the house. I expect to find her in the kitchen but she calls down to me from upstairs. I send Peggy to fetch her while I check the markets on my phone. A couple of minutes later Ellen comes into the kitchen, looking so desirable in her skimpy pyjamas that I want to scoop her into my arms and carry her back to bed.

‘I hope you didn’t go outside like that,’ I tease.

‘Outside?’

‘To put the Russian doll back.’ I slip my hand into my pocket, intending to surprise her with it, because why shouldn’t she keep it?

‘I haven’t put it back yet.’

I look at her, thinking that she’s joking. But her cheeks have flushed red.

My fingers, clasped around the Russian doll, freeze. ‘What do you mean, you haven’t put it back yet?’

‘I was going to do it after breakfast,’ she says, mistaking my shock for annoyance. ‘I wasn’t going to keep it.’

‘Where is it?’ I hate that I sound angry because I’m not, I’m rattled.

She hurries out of the room and comes back carrying the large Russian doll that has sat on top of the teak cupboard in our dining room since she moved in with me last year. She unscrews it in the middle, takes out the Russian doll inside, unscrews that one in the middle, takes out the next one, unscrews it, then takes out the next one. As she twists the last one apart, I realise that she’s joking, that there’ll be nothing inside and she’ll smile and tell me that of course she put the doll back outside. I raise an eyebrow and begin to smile.

‘Here it is.’ She takes a little Russian doll out and puts it down on the worktop amid its dissected relatives. ‘I was only going to keep it for a while.’

Keeping the smile on my face, I casually remove my hand from my pocket, leaving the doll I found on the wall where it is. ‘Hey, it’s fine, keep it if you want to.’

She looks at me doubtfully. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, nobody’s going to come looking for it, are they?’

‘No, I suppose not.’ She begins putting the Russian dolls back together but instead of stacking them one inside the other she places them side by side on the kitchen worktop, starting with the biggest and ending with the little one. It matches the rest of her set exactly. ‘There we are, a complete family of five. How strange that after all these years, I’ve finally found what’s been missing.’

I turn away, wondering what she would say if I told her that I just found a second Russian doll. If Layla’s body had been found, she would put it down to a bizarre coincidence. But her body has never been found. And if there’s one thing I don’t want, it’s Ellen thinking that Layla might still be alive.

I’d hate for her to have false hope.

FOUR

Before

That night, it took thirty-six minutes to get from Liverpool Street Station to St Katharine Docks. As we made our way through the crowds standing outside pubs and wine bars, already celebrating the New Year, I told myself it was the atmosphere that made me feel drunk. But I knew it was because of you.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Layla.’

‘I expected something more Scottish,’ I admitted.

‘I was lucky, my mum got to choose my name. My dad chose my sister’s name and she wasn’t so fortunate. He’s originally from Islay so he called her Ellen, after Port Ellen.’

‘It’s still a pretty name.’

‘Yes, it is. What about you? What’s your name?’

‘Finn.’

‘Irish?’

‘Yes. I was born and raised in Ireland,’ I explained.

You couldn’t get over the size of the Tower of London, proudly illuminated against the night sky, or the majesty of Tower Bridge. By the time we reached the docks, where people were partying on the various yachts and boats moored there, you were completely overwhelmed.

‘This is London?’ you asked.

‘It is,’ I said, pleased at your reaction to the city I loved. I stopped in front of my apartment block. ‘And this is where I live.’

‘Where you live?’ You seemed suddenly doubtful and I remembered that I was meant to be finding you a hostel or hotel.

‘Yes. You’ll never find somewhere to stay tonight so you can stay with me and Harry. Tomorrow, we’ll find you a hostel.’ You still weren’t convinced. ‘We have a little study with a sofa-bed, you can sleep there. You’ll be fine, I promise.’

I tapped in the door code and after a moment’s hesitation you followed me inside. In the lift, your unease grew – but of course, I had more or less kidnapped you. I wanted to put your mind at rest, to tell you that I hadn’t been lying, that you would never have found anywhere to stay that night because every hotel, every hostel would have been booked up months ago. But we were already on the third floor and I hoped that once you saw the flat, you’d feel more comfortable.

‘Oh my God, is this really yours?’ you breathed as I showed you around.

‘Mine and Harry’s.’

‘It’s beautiful!’

The next couple of hours passed in a blur. You were hungry, do you remember? So I made an omelette and while we ate, we exchanged information about our lives. You told me you’d lived on Lewis, a remote island in the Outer Hebrides, all your life and had been fairly happy until you were fourteen and your mother died. After, things had become difficult, you said. Your father became an alcoholic and ever since, you’d been counting the days until you could leave.

‘I stayed for Christmas,’ you said. ‘Then I packed up and left. I was determined to be in London for the first of January.’ You paused, and the light from the massive lamp that hung above the dining room table bounced off your hair. ‘A new year, a new life. That’s what I’m hoping for, anyway.’

‘What about your sister?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t she want to leave?’

Your eyes had filled with tears. ‘Yes. But in the end she couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

You took a long time answering. ‘My dad has cancer. He’s also diabetic. Somebody has to look after him.’

‘I’m sorry.’

You laughed suddenly, unnerving me. ‘Can we talk about something else? I don’t want to be sad on New Year’s Eve.’

‘I’m meant to be going to a party tonight.’ I pointed through the window at a building on the opposite side of the dock. ‘My boss lives on the top floor. We should go.’

You looked doubtful. ‘I don’t really have anything to wear to a party.’

‘You’re fine as you are,’ I told you.

I don’t remember much about the party except feeling as if I’d stepped into a parallel universe. You were completely out of place among the women in their dresses, their nails manicured and polished, their hair styled, and I couldn’t believe it was a world I’d inhabited just a few hours before. It felt stifling and dull, and when Caroline slid her arms around my waist and asked me how I’d enjoyed the theatre, I had trouble remembering she was my girlfriend. I introduced her to you and explained something of what had happened. Maybe it was the mention of a youth hostel, but the story amused her and when she turned and raised her eyebrows at me, I knew she was laughing at you. And my fists clenched, hating her for it.

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