“Who?” The woman turned in the doorway. She seemed genuinely puzzled.
“My daughter,” Amanda elaborated. “Is she here?” In a moment she’d ripped open her bag and tossed the envelope onto the table. “There. Now tell me where my baby is.”
“I was going to make coffee.” The woman came back into the room. “But you seem to be in a hurry. I don’t know anything about Melanie, I’m afraid.”
“Do you live here?” Michael asked.
She shook her head, blonde curls bobbing. “On and off.” Opening the drawer in the sideboard, she pulled out a tablecloth and spread it half-folded across the table. Then she picked up the envelope. “It’s been opened?”
Michael could see dark roots in her hair as she sat down. “I wanted to see what we were carrying. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Depends. Do you know what this is?” She extracted the interior polythene bag. “Of course you do, Michael. After all, you’ve probably used enough of it, haven’t you?”
“Where’s your loo?” interrupted Amanda, making him blink and realise he’d been staring at the drugs. Fixating on the drugs. This isn’t fair.
“By the stairs.” The woman waved in the direction of the other door out of the conservatory. She looked up at Michael. “Have you had any of this?”
“Clean. Yeah, they all say that. Do you want some?” she continued. “Delivery perk. There’s distilled water in the fridge. Mum thinks it’s for my contact lenses.”
This was her parent’s house, then. That made more sense. But did rich daddy know what darling daughter was up to? He wondered whether she was a user herself – what the expensive-looking, low-cut but long-sleeved top was covering up.
The scars on his arms were itching.