Bring Me Back: The gripping Sunday Times bestseller now with an explosive new ending!. B Paris A

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       But I never got the chance.

THIRTEEN

       Now

      I can’t stop analysing the emails. My feet pound the rough river pathway but I can’t lift the pressure I feel, no matter how fast I run. I googled Rudolph Hill earlier; there are hundreds of Rudolph Hills, all of whom seem to live in the US. Not one of them lives in the UK.

      I double back through the wood, and by the time I reach the house, my leg muscles are screaming from the exertion. I have a cold shower and head out to my office. I check how Villiers’ investment funds are doing, then reread the emails from Rudolph Hill. Suddenly impatient, I pull my keyboard towards me.

      Who are you? I type.

      A few seconds later, an email arrives in my inbox, from the Rudolph Hill address.

       Who do you think I am?

      I stare at the message, astounded at the rapidity of the response. It’s as if the sender has been sitting at the computer since yesterday, waiting for me to get back to him.

      Who are you? I ask again.

       You have my email address

      I sit back in my chair, thinking hard. Why ‘you have my email address’, why not, ‘you have my name’? As I suspected, Rudolph Hill is an alias. I stare hard at it, puzzling it out, rearranging the letters, and find myself gasping in shock. If I need proof that Ruby is behind the emails, it’s right here on the screen in front of me, the first two letters of her name followed by ‘dolph’. Dolphin. Ruby has dolphin necklaces, dolphin bracelets, she even has a tattoo of a dolphin on her ribcage. I shake my head in disgust at her weak attempt to disguise her identity, hating that she’s taken me for a fool.

      My fingers slam down on the keys.

       Don’t play games with me, Ruby!

      A reply comes back.

       Who is Ruby?

      I give a harsh laugh. Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she? I drum my fingers on the desktop. What to do? Nothing, reason tells me, do nothing. She obviously didn’t get the message yesterday so I’ll carry on taking Ellen to The Jackdaw until she does.

      ‘Again?’ Ellen asks doubtfully, when I tell her we’re having lunch at The Jackdaw. ‘I know Ruby was happy for us when we saw her yesterday but maybe we shouldn’t rub her nose in it too much.’

      ‘It’ll be fine,’ I reassure her, so at one o’clock we walk to the pub with Peggy and have a repeat of yesterday, except that Ruby doesn’t open champagne and I have the spicy lamb curry instead of the pie. I watch her, waiting for a slip-up. But there’s nothing, nothing at all in Ruby’s behaviour to show that she’s less than pleased to see us, and all I can think is that she’s an exceptional actress.

      ‘I’m glad Harry’s agreed to give me away,’ Ellen is saying as she toys with her salad. ‘I was afraid he might refuse.’

      It takes me a while to realise that she’s talking about our wedding. ‘Why would he?’

      ‘Well, he didn’t like Layla very much.’

      I look at her, perplexed by her logic. ‘No, he didn’t, not really. But he does like you.’

      She raises her green eyes to mine. ‘Do you think so? I mean, I’m never quite sure.’ Her voice trails away. ‘It’s just that when you told him we were getting married, he seemed a bit shocked. I thought maybe he didn’t approve because of who I am.’

      ‘I think he was shocked – in a nice way – at being asked to be best man,’ I say, although I had registered Harry’s momentary shock too. I might not have been married to Layla but in some people’s eyes, the fact that I lived with her amounts to the same thing. Therefore, I shouldn’t be marrying her sister. I hadn’t expected it to bother Harry, though. ‘Harry adores you – maybe a bit too much,’ I go on, reaching for Ellen’s hand across the table. ‘It’s a good job I’m not the jealous kind.’

      ‘He’s coming for lunch on Sunday, isn’t he?’

      ‘Yes,’ I say, because Harry always comes for lunch on the first Sunday of the month.

      ‘Good, I’ll be able to show him my Russian dolls. He’ll be pleased I’ve got a full set at last.’

      ‘Does he know the story then?’ I ask curiously. ‘About how you lost yours as a child?’

      ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I remember telling him. I wonder what he’ll make of it.’

      There’s something about the way she says it that tells me she’s hoping to find an ally in Harry, as if she knows he’ll side with her and for some reason it annoys me. Much as I’d hoped that Harry would like Ellen more than he’d liked Layla, I sometimes wish he didn’t like her quite as much. A thought pops into my head – that if Layla hadn’t disappeared, we might have become a foursome, me and Layla, Harry and Ellen. Mortified, I chase it away.

      ‘I’ll give him a ring when I get back,’ Ellen says. ‘Just to check that he’s coming.’

      We finish our lunch and I ask Ruby for the bill. The pub is busy so it takes her a while to bring it over, presented as usual on a plate, inside a card with a picture of a jackdaw on the front. Ellen goes to the toilet and I watch Ruby as she talks freely with customers. There isn’t any sign of unease or tension in her body. Frustrated, I fish for my wallet and flip open the card to check the amount of the bill – and there, lying inside, is a little Russian doll.

      Shock gives way to anger. But the anger I feel is not straightforward anger at someone having gone a step too far, it’s an anger tinged with hatred, and its intensity shocks me almost more than the little Russian doll staring up at me with its black-painted eyes. Snatching it from the plate, I push through the throng to where Ruby is standing at the end of the bar. The smile on her face freezes when she sees the look on mine.

      ‘That’s enough, Ruby,’ I hiss, leaning in close to her.

      She looks at me in alarm. ‘What do you mean?’

      I reach out and grab her wrist. ‘Enough of the games. You’ve had your fun, now that’s enough.’

      ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘Trying to split up me and Ellen.’

      ‘Look, Finn, I’m genuinely happy for you and Ellen. I wasn’t being funny or anything.’ She tries to draw away but I hold her wrist even tighter, aware of my other hand clenching around the Russian doll. A woman pauses in her conversation and looks over at us. I take a breath, steadying myself.

      ‘You know damn well that’s not what I’m talking about,’ I say, my voice low. ‘Sending me emails, pretending to be someone else, planting little Russian dolls for me to find.’

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