RACHEL

SUNDAY, JULY 21, 2013
MORNING
I wake with my head full of him. It doesn’t seemreal, none of it does. My skin prickles. I would dearlylove to have a drink, but I can’t. I need to keep aclear head. For Megan. For Scott.
I made an effort yesterday. I washed my hair andput some makeup on. I wore the only jeans I still fitinto, with a cotton print blouse and sandals with alow heel. I looked OK. I kept telling myself that itwas ridiculous to care about my appearance, becausethe last thing Scott was going to be thinking aboutwas what I looked like, but I couldn’t help myself. Itwas the first time I was ever going to be aroundhim, it mattered to me. Much more than it should.
I took the train, leaving Ashbury around six thirty,and I was in Witney just after seven. I took thatwalk along Roseberry Avenue, past the underpass. Ididn’t look this time, couldn’t bear to. I hurried pastnumber twenty-three, Tom and Anna’s place, chin tochest and sunglasses on, praying they wouldn’t seeme. It was quiet, no one around, a couple of carsdriving carefully down the centre of the road betweenranks of parked vehicles. It’s a sleepy little street, tidyand affluent, with lots of young families; they’re allhaving their dinner around seven o’clock, or sittingon the sofa, mum and dad with the little onessqueezed between them, watching The X Factor.
From number twenty-three to number fifteen can’tbe more than fifty or sixty paces, but that journeystretched out, it seemed to take an age; my legswere leaden, my footing unsteady, as though I weredrunk, as though I might just slip off the pavement.
Scott opened the door almost before I’d finishedknocking, my trembling hand still raised as heappeared in the doorway, looming ahead of me, fillingthe space.
“Rachel?” he asked, looking down at me, unsmiling.
I nodded. He offered his hand and I took it. Hegestured for me to enter the house, but for amoment I didn’t move. I was afraid of him. Up closehe is physically intimidating, tall and broad-shouldered,his arms and chest well defined. His hands are huge.
It crossed my mind that he could crush me—myneck, my rib cage—without much effort.
I moved past him into the hallway, my armbrushing against his as I did, and felt a flush risingto my face. He smelled of old sweat, and his darkhair was matted against his head as though hehadn’t showered in a while.
It was in the living room that the déjà vu hit me,so strong it was almost frightening. I recognized thefireplace flanked by alcoves on the far wall, the waythe light streamed in from the street through slantedblinds; I knew that when I turned to my left therewould be glass and green and beyond that therailway line. I turned and there was the kitchen table,the French doors behind it and the lush patch oflawn. I knew this house. I felt dizzy, I wanted to sitdown; I thought about that black hole last Saturdaynight, all those lost hours.
It didn’t mean anything, of course. I know thathouse, but not because I’ve been there. I know itbecause it’s exactly the same as numbertwenty-three: a hallway leads to the stairs, and onthe right-hand side is the living room, knockedthrough into the kitchen. The patio and the gardenare familiar to me because I’ve seen them from thetrain. I didn’t go upstairs, but I know that if I had,there would have been a landing with a large sashwindow on it, and that if you climbed through thatwindow you would find yourself on the makeshiftroof terrace. I know that there will be two bedrooms,the master with two large windows looking out ontothe street and a smaller room at the back,overlooking the garden. Just because I know thathouse inside and out does not mean that I’ve beenthere before.
Still, I was trembling when Scott showed me intothe kitchen. He offered me a cup of tea. I sat downat the kitchen table while he boiled the kettle,dropped a tea bag into a mug and slopped boilingwater over the counter, muttering to himself underhis breath. There was a sharp smell of antiseptic inthe room, but Scott himself was a mess, a sweatpatch on the back of his T-shirt, his jeans hangingloose on his hips as though they were too big forhim. I wondered when was the last time he hadeaten.
He placed the mug of tea in front of me and saton the opposite side of the kitchen table, his handsfolded in front of him. The silence stretched out,filling the space between us, the whole room; it rangin my ears, and I felt hot and uncomfortable, mymind suddenly blank. I didn’t know what I was doingthere. Why on earth had I come? In the distance, Iheard a low rumbling—the train was coming. It feltcomforting, that old sound.
“You’re a friend of Megan’s?” he said at last.
Hearing her name from his lips brought a lump tomy throat. I stared down at the table, my handswrapped tightly around the mug.
“Yes,” I said. “I know her?.?.?. a little. From thegallery.”
He looked at me, waiting, expectant. I could see themuscle flex in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. Isearched for words that wouldn’t come. I shouldhave prepared better.
“Have you had any news?” I asked. His gaze heldmine, and for a second I felt afraid. I’d said thewrong thing; it was none of my business whetherthere was any news. He would be angry, he’d askme to leave.
“No,” he said. “What was it that you wanted to tellme?”
The train rolled slowly past and I looked outtowards the tracks. I felt dizzy, as though I werehaving an out-of-body experience, as though I werelooking out at myself.
“You said in your email that you wanted to tell mesomething about Megan.” The pitch of his voiceraised a little.
I took a deep breath. I felt awful. I was acutelyaware that what I was about to say was going tomake everything worse, was going to hurt him.
“I saw her with someone,” I said. I just blurted itout, blunt and loud with no buildup, no context.
He stared at me. “When? You saw her on Saturdaynight? Have you told the police?”
“No, it was Friday morning,” I said, and hisshoulders slumped.
“But?.?.?. she was fine on Friday. Why is thatimportant?” That pulse in his jaw went again, he wasbecoming angry. “You saw her with?.?.?. you saw herwith who? With a man?”
“Yes, I—”
“What did he look like?” He got to his feet, hisbody blocking the light. “Have you told the police?”
he asked again.
“I did, but I’m not sure they took me veryseriously,” I said.
“Why?”
“I just?.?.?. I don’t know?.?.?. I thought you shouldknow.”
He leaned forward, his hands on the table, clenchedinto fists. “What are you saying? You saw herwhere? What was she doing?”
Another deep breath. “She was?.?.?. out on yourlawn,” I said. “Just there.” I pointed out to thegarden. “She?.?.?. I saw her from the train.” The lookof incredulity on his face was unmistakable. “I takethe train into London from Ashbury every day. I goright past here. I saw her, she was with someone.
And it?.?.?. it wasn’t you.”
“How do you know??.?.?. Friday morning? Friday—theday before she went missing?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t here,” he said. “I was away. I was at aconference in Birmingham, I got back on Fridayevening.” Spots of colour appeared high on hischeeks, his scepticism giving way to something else.
“So you saw her, on the lawn, with someone?
And?.?.?.”
“She kissed him,” I said. I had to get it outeventually. I had to tell him. “They were kissing.”
He straightened up, his hands, still balled into fists,hanging at his side. The spots of colour on hischeeks grew darker, angrier.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I know this is aterrible thing to hear?.?.?.”
He held up his hand, waved me away.
Contemptuous. He wasn’t interested in my sympathy.
I know how that feels. Sitting there, I rememberedwith almost perfect clarity how it felt when I sat inmy own kitchen, five doors down, while Lara, myformer best friend, sat opposite me, her fat toddlersquirming on her lap. I remember her telling mehow sorry she was that my marriage was over, Iremember losing my temper at her platitudes. Sheknew nothing of my pain. I told her to piss off andshe told me not to speak like that in front of herchild. I haven’t seen her since.
“What did he look like, this man you saw herwith?” Scott asked. He was standing with his back tome, looking out onto the lawn.
“He was tall—taller than you, maybe. Dark-skinned. Ithink he might have been Asian. Indian—somethinglike that.”
“And they were kissing, out here in the garden?”
“Yes.”
He gave a long sigh. “Jesus, I need a drink. Heturned to face me. “Would you like a beer?”
I did, I wanted a drink desperately, but I said no. Iwatched as he fetched himself a bottle from thefridge, opened it, took a long slug. I could almost feelthe cold liquid sliding down my throat as I watchedhim; my hand ached for want of a glass. Scottleaned against the counter, his head bent almost tohis chest.
I felt wretched then. I wasn’t helping, I had justmade him feel worse, increased his pain. I wasintruding on his grief, it was wrong. I should neverhave gone to see him. I should never have lied.
Obviously, I should never have lied.
I was just getting to my feet when he spoke. “Itcould?.?.?. I don’t know. It might be a good thing,mightn’t it? It could mean that she’s all right. She’sjust?.?.?.” He gave a hollow little laugh. “She’s just runoff with someone.” He brushed a tear from his cheekwith the back of his hand and my heart screwed upinto a tight little ball. “But the thing is, I can’t believeshe wouldn’t call.” He looked at me as though I heldthe answers, as though I would know. “Surely shewould call me, wouldn’t she? She would know howpanicked?.?.?. how desperate I would be. She’s notvindictive like that, is she?”
He was talking to me like someone he couldtrust—like Megan’s friend—and I knew that it waswrong, but it felt good. He took another swig of hisbeer and turned towards the garden. I followed hisgaze to a little pile of stones against the fence, arockery long since started and never finished. Heraised the bottle halfway to his lips again, and thenhe stopped. He turned to face me.
“You saw Megan from the train?” he asked. “Soyou were?.?.?. just looking out of the window andthere she was, a woman you happen to know?” Theatmosphere in the room had changed. He wasn’tsure anymore whether I was an ally, whether I wasto be trusted. Doubt passed over his face like ashadow.
“Yes, I?.?.?. I know where she lives,” I said, and Iregretted the words the moment they came out ofmy mouth. “Where you live, I mean. I’ve been herebefore. A long time ago. So sometimes I’d look outfor her when I went past.” He was staring at me; Icould feel the heat rising to my face. “She was oftenout there.”
He placed his empty bottle down on the counter,took a couple of steps towards me and sat down inthe seat nearest to me, at the table.
“So you knew Megan well then? I mean, wellenough to come round to the house?”
I could feel the blood pulsing in my neck, sweat atthe base of my spine, the sickening rush ofadrenaline. I shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t havecomplicated the lie.
“It was just one time, but I?.?.?. I know where thehouse is because I used to live nearby.” He raisedhis eyebrows at me. “Down the road. Numbertwenty-three.”
He nodded slowly. “Watson,” he said. “So you’re,what, Tom’s ex-wife?”
“Yes. I moved out a couple of years ago.”
“But you still visited Megan’s gallery?”
“Sometimes.”
“And when you saw her, what did you?.?.?. Did shetalk about personal things, about me?” His voice washusky. “About anyone else?”
I shook my head. “No, no. It was usually just?.?.?.
passing the time, you know.” There was a longsilence. The heat in the room seemed to buildsuddenly, the smell of antiseptic rising from everysurface. I felt faint. To my right there was a sidetable adorned with photographs in frames. Megansmiled out at me, cheerfully accusing.
“I should go now,” I said. “I’ve taken up enough ofyour time.” I started to get up, but he reached anarm out and placed his hand on my wrist, his eyesnever leaving my face.
“Don’t go just yet,” he said softly. I didn’t stand up,but I withdrew my hand from beneath his; it feltuncomfortably as though I were being restrained.
“This man,” he said. “This man you saw herwith—do you think you’d recognize him again? If yousaw him?”
I couldn’t say that I already had identified the manto the police. My whole rationale for approaching himhad been that the police hadn’t taken my storyseriously. If I admitted the truth, the trust would begone. So I lied again.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I think I might.” Iwaited a moment, and then I went on. “In thenewspapers, there was a quote from a friend ofMegan’s. His name was Rajesh. I was wonderingif—”
Scott was already shaking his head. “Rajesh Gujral?
I can’t see it. He’s one of the artists who used toexhibit at the gallery. He’s a nice enough guy, but?.?.?.
he’s married, he’s got kids.” As if that meantsomething. “Wait a second,” he said, getting to hisfeet. “I think there might be a picture of himsomewhere.”
He disappeared upstairs. I felt my shoulders dropand realized that I’d been sitting rigid with tensionsince I arrived. I looked over at the photographsagain: Megan in a sundress on a beach; a close-upof her face, her eyes a startling blue. Just Megan.
No pictures of the two of them together.
Scott reappeared holding a pamphlet, which hepresented to me. It was a leaflet, advertising a showat the gallery. He turned it over. “There,” he said,“that’s Rajesh.”
The man was standing next to a colourful abstractpainting: he was older, bearded, short, stocky. Itwasn’t the man I had seen, the man I had identifiedto the police. “It’s not him,” I said. Scott stood at myside, staring down at the pamphlet, before abruptlyturning and marching out of the room and up thestairs again. A few moments later, he came back witha laptop and sat down at the kitchen table.
“I think,” he said, opening the machine and turningit on, “I think I might?.?.?.” He fell silent and Iwatched him, his face a picture of concentration, themuscle in his jaw locked. “Megan was seeing atherapist,” he told me. “His name is?.?.?. Abdic. KamalAbdic. He’s not Asian, he’s from Serbia, or Bosnia,somewhere like that. He’s dark-skinned, though. Hecould pass for Indian from a distance.” He tappedaway at the computer. “There’s a website, I think.
I’m sure there is. I think there’s a picture?.?.?.”
He spun the laptop round so that I could see thescreen. I leaned forward to get a closer look. “That’shim,” I said. “That’s definitely him.”
Scott snapped the laptop shut. For a long time, hedidn’t say anything. He sat with his elbows on thetable, his forehead resting on his fingertips, his armstrembling.
“She was having anxiety attacks,” he said at last.
“Trouble sleeping, things like that. It started last yearsome time. I don’t remember when exactly.” Hetalked without looking at me, as though he weretalking to himself, as though he’d forgotten I wasthere at all. “I was the one who suggested she talkto someone. I was the one who encouraged her togo, because I didn’t seem to be able to help her.”
His voice cracked a little then. “I couldn’t help her.
And she told me that she’d had similar problems inthe past and that eventually they’d go away, but Imade her?.?.?. I persuaded her to go to the doctor.
That guy was recommended to her.” He gave a littlecough to clear his throat. “The therapy seemed to behelping. She was happier.” He gave a short, sadlaugh. “Now I know why.”
I reached out my hand to give him a pat on thearm, a gesture of comfort. Abruptly, he drew awayand got to his feet. “You should go,” he saidbrusquely. “My mother will be here soon—she won’tleave me alone for more than an hour or two.” Atthe door, just as I was leaving, he caught hold of myarm.
“Have I seen you somewhere before?” he asked.
For a moment, I thought about saying, You mighthave done. You might have seen me at the policestation, or here on the street. I was here onSaturday night. I shook my head. “No, I don’t thinkso.”
I walked away towards the train station as quicklyas I could. About halfway along the street, I turnedto look back. He was still standing there in thedoorway, watching me.
EVENING
I’ve been checking my email obsessively, but I’veheard nothing from Tom. How much better life musthave been for jealous drunks before emails and textsand mobile phones, before all this electronica and thetraces it leaves.
There was almost nothing in the papers aboutMegan today. They’re moving on already, the frontpages devoted to the political crisis in Turkey, thefour-year-old girl mauled by dogs in Wigan, theEngland football team’s humiliating loss toMontenegro. Megan is being forgotten, and she’s onlybeen gone a week.
Cathy invited me out to lunch. She was at a looseend because Damien has gone to visit his mother inBirmingham. She wasn’t invited. They’ve been seeingeach other for almost two years now, and she stillhasn’t met his mother. We went to Giraffe on theHigh Street, a place I loathe. Seated in the centre ofa room heaving with shrieking under-fives, Cathyquizzed me about what I’d been up to. She wascurious about where I was last night.
“Have you met someone?” she asked me, her eyesalight with hope. It was quite touching, really.
I almost said yes, because it was the truth, but lyingwas easier. I told her I’d been to an AA meeting inWitney.
“Oh,” she said, embarrassed, dipping her eyes toher limp Greek salad. “I thought you’d maybe had alittle slip. On Friday.”
“Yes. It won’t be plain sailing, Cathy,” I said, and Ifelt awful, because I think she really cares whether Iget sober or not. “But I’m doing my best.”
“If you need me to, you know, go with you?.?.?.”
“Not at this stage,” I said. “But thank you.”
“Well, maybe we could do something else together,like go to the gym?” she asked.
I laughed, but when I realized she was beingserious I said I’d think about it.
She’s just left—Damien rang to say he was backfrom his mother’s, so she’s gone round to his place.
I thought about saying something to her—Why doyou go running to him whenever he calls? But I’mreally not in a great position to give relationshipadvice—or any advice, come to that—and in any caseI feel like a drink. (I’ve been thinking about it eversince we sat down in Giraffe and the spotty waiterasked if we’d like a glass of wine and Cathy said“No, thank you” very firmly.) So I wave her off andfeel the little anticipatory tingle run over my skin andI push away the good thoughts (Don’t do this,you’re doing really well). I’m just putting my shoeson to go to the off-licence when my phone rings.
Tom. It’ll be Tom. I grab the phone from my bagand look at the screen and my heart bangs like adrum.
“Hi.” There is silence, so I ask, “Is everything OK?”
After a little pause Scott says, “Yeah, fine. I’m OK. Ijust called to say thank you, for yesterday. For takingthe time to let me know.”
“Oh, that’s all right. You didn’t need—”
“Am I disturbing you?”
“No. It’s fine.” There is silence on the end of theline, so I say again, “It’s fine. Have you?.?.?. hassomething happened? Did you speak to the police?
“The family liaison officer was here this afternoon,”
he says. My heart rate quickens. “Detective Riley. Imentioned Kamal Abdic to her. Told her that hemight be worth speaking to.”
“You said?.?.?. you told her that you’d spoken tome?” My mouth is completely dry.
“No, I didn’t. I thought perhaps?.?.?. I don’t know. Ithought it would be better if I came up with thename myself. I said?.?.?. it’s a lie, I know, but I saidthat I’d been racking my brains to think of anythingsignificant, and that I thought it might be worthspeaking to her therapist. I said that I’d had someconcerns about their relationship in the past.”
I can breathe again. “What did she say?” I ask him.
“She said they had already spoken to him, but thatthey would do again. She asked me lots of questionsabout why I hadn’t mentioned him before. She’s?.?.?. Idon’t know. I don’t trust her. She’s supposed to beon my side, but all the time I feel like she’ssnooping, like she’s trying to trip me up.”
I’m stupidly pleased that he doesn’t like her, either;another thing we have in common, another thread tobind us.
“I just wanted to say thank you, anyway. Forcoming forward. It was actually?.?.?. it sounds odd, butit was good to talk to someone?.?.?. someone I’m notclose to. I felt as though I could think morerationally. After you left, I kept thinking about thefirst time Megan went to see him—Abdic—about theway she was when she came back. There wassomething about her, a lightness.” He exhales loudly.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining it.”
I have the same feeling I did yesterday—that he’sno longer really talking to me, he’s just talking. I’vebecome a sounding board, and I’m glad of it. I’mglad to be of use to him.
“I’ve spent the whole day going through Megan’sthings again,” he says. “I’ve already searched ourroom, the whole house, half a dozen times, lookingfor something, anything that would give me anindication as to where she could be. Something fromhim, perhaps. But there’s nothing. No emails, noletters, nothing. I thought about trying to contact him,but the practice is closed today and I can’t find amobile number.”
“Is that a good idea, do you think?” I ask. “I mean,do you not think you should just leave him to thepolice?” I don’t want to say it out loud, but we mustboth be thinking it: he’s dangerous. Or at least, hecould be dangerous.
“I don’t know, I just don’t know.” There’s adesperate edge to his voice that’s painful to hear, butI have no comfort to offer. I can hear his breathingon the other end of the line; it sounds short,quickened, as though he’s afraid. I want to ask himif he has someone there with him, but I can’t: itwould sound wrong, forward.
“I saw your ex today,” he says, and I can feel thehairs on my arms stand up.
“Oh?”
“Yes, I went out for the papers and saw him in thestreet. He asked me if I was all right, whether therewas any news.”
“Oh,” I repeat, because it’s all I can say, wordswon’t form. I don’t want him to speak to Tom. Tomknows that I don’t know Megan Hipwell. Tom knowsthat I was on Blenheim Road the night shedisappeared.
“I didn’t mention you. I didn’t?.?.?. you know. Iwasn’t sure if I should have mentioned that I’d metyou.”
“No, I don’t think you should have. I don’t know. Itmight be awkward.”
“All right,” he says.
After that, there’s a long silence. I’m waiting for myheartbeat to slow. I think he’s going to ring off, butthen he says, “Did she really never talk about me?”
“Of course?.?.?. of course she did,” I say. “I mean,we didn’t talk all that often, but—”
“But you came to the house. Megan hardly everinvites people round. She’s really private, protective ofher own space.”
I’m searching for a reason. I wish I had never toldhim I’d been to the house.
“I just came round to borrow a book.”
“Really?” He doesn’t believe me. She’s not a reader.
I think of the house—there were no books on theshelves there. “What sort of things did she say?
About me?”
“Well, she was very happy,” I say. “With you, Imean. Your relationship.” As I’m saying this I realizehow odd it sounds, but I can’t be specific, and so Itry to save myself. “To be honest with you, I washaving a really hard time in my marriage, so I thinkit was a kind of compare-and-contrast thing. She litup when she spoke about you.” What an awfulcliché.
“Did she?” He doesn’t seem to notice, there’s anote of wistfulness in his voice. “That’s so good tohear.” He pauses, and I can hear his breathing,quick and shallow, on the other end of the line. “Wehad?.?.?. we had a terrible argument,” he says. “Thenight she left. I hate the idea that she was angrywith me when?.?.?.” He tails off.
“I’m sure she wasn’t angry with you for long,” Isay. “Couples fight. Couples fight all the time.”
“But this was bad, it was terrible, and I can’t?.?.?. Ifeel like I can’t tell anyone, because if I did theywould look at me like I was guilty.”
There’s a different quality to his voice now: haunted,saturated with guilt.
“I don’t remember how it started,” he says, andimmediately I don’t believe him, but then I thinkabout all the arguments I’ve forgotten and I bite mytongue. “It got very heated. I was very?.?.?. I wasunkind to her. I was a bastard. A complete bastard.
She was upset. She went upstairs and put somethings in a bag. I don’t know what exactly, but Inoticed later that her toothbrush was gone, so Iknew she wasn’t planning on coming home. Iassumed?.?.?. I thought she must have gone to Tara’sfor the night. That happened once before. Just onetime. It wasn’t like this happened all the time.
“I didn’t even go after her,” he says, and it hits meyet again that he’s not really talking to me, he’sconfessing. He’s on one side of the confessional andI’m on the other, faceless, unseen. “I just let her go.”
“That was on Saturday night?”
“Yes. That was the last time I saw her.”
There was a witness who saw her—or saw “awoman fitting her description”—walking towardsWitney station at around seven fifteen, I know thatfrom the newspaper reports. That was the finalsighting. No one remembered seeing her on theplatform, or on the train. There is no CCTV atWitney, and she wasn’t picked up on the CCTV atCorly, although the reports said that this didn’t proveshe wasn’t there, because there are “significant blindspots” at that station.
“What time was it when you tried to contact her?” Iask him. Another long silence.
“I?.?.?. I went to the pub. The Rose, you know, justaround the corner, on Kingly Road? I needed to cooldown, to get things straight in my head. I had acouple of pints, then I went back home. That wasjust before ten. I think I was hoping that she’d havehad time to calm down and that she’d be back. Butshe wasn’t.”
“So it was around ten o’clock when you tried to callher?”
“No.” His voice is little more than a whisper now. “Ididn’t. I drank a couple more beers at home, Iwatched some TV. Then I went to bed.”
I think about all the arguments I had with Tom, allthe terrible things I said after I’d had too much, allthe storming out into the street, shouting at him,telling him I never wanted to see him again. Healways rang me, he always talked me down, coaxedme home.
“I just imagined she’d be sitting in Tara’s kitchen,you know, talking about what a shit I am. So I leftit.”
He left it. It sounds callous and uncaring, and I’mnot surprised he hasn’t told this story to anyone else.
I am surprised that he’s telling anyone at all. This isnot the Scott I imagined, the Scott I knew, the onewho stood behind Megan on the terrace, his bighands on her bony shoulders, ready to protect herfrom anything.
I’m ready to hang up the phone, but Scott keepstalking. “I woke up early. There were no messageson my phone. I didn’t panic—I assumed she waswith Tara and that she was still angry with me. Irang her then and got her voice mail, but I stilldidn’t panic. I thought she was probably still asleep,or just ignoring me. I couldn’t find Tara’s number,but I had her address—it was on a business card onMegan’s desk. So I got up and I drove round there.”
I wonder, if he wasn’t worried, why he felt heneeded to go round to Tara’s house, but I don’tinterrupt. I let him talk.
“I got to Tara’s place a little after nine. It took hera while to come to the door, but when she did, shelooked really surprised to see me. It was obvious thatI was the last person she expected to see on herdoorstep at that time of the morning, and that’swhen I knew?.?.?. That’s when I knew that Meganwasn’t there. And I started to think?.?.?. I started?.?.?.”
The words catch, and I feel wretched for doubtinghim.
“She told me the last time she’d seen Megan was attheir Pilates class on Friday night. That’s when Istarted to panic.”
After I hang up the phone, I think about how, ifyou didn’t know him, if you hadn’t seen how he waswith her, as I have, a lot of what he’d said wouldnot ring quite true.
MONDAY, JULY 22, 2013
MORNING
I feel quite befuddled. I slept soundly but dreamilyand this morning I am struggling to wake upproperly. The hot weather has returned and thecarriage is stifling today, despite being only half full. Iwas late getting up this morning and didn’t have timeto pick up a newspaper or to check the news on theInternet before I left the house, so I am trying to getthe BBC site on my phone, but for some reason it istaking forever to load. At Northcote a man with aniPad gets on and takes the seat next to me. He hasno problems at all getting the news up, he goesstraight to the Daily Telegraph site and there it is,in big, bold letters, the third story: MAN ARRESTED INCONNECTION WITH MEGAN HIPWELL DISAPPEARANCE.
I get such a fright that I forget myself and leanright over to get a better look. He looks up at me,affronted, almost startled.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know her. The missingwoman. I know her.”
“Oh, how awful,” he says. He’s a middle-aged man,well-spoken and well-dressed. “Would you like to readthe story?”
“Please. I can’t get anything to come up on myphone.”
He smiles kindly and hands me the tablet. I touchthe headline and the story comes up.
A man in his thirties has beenarrested in connection with thedisappearance of MeganHipwell, twenty-nine, the Witneywoman who has been missingsince Saturday, 13 July. Policewere not able to confirmwhether the man arrested isMegan Hipwell’s husband, ScottHipwell, who was questionedunder caution on Friday. In astatement this morning a policespokesman said: “We canconfirm that we have arrested aman in connection withMegan’s disappearance. He hasnot yet been charged with anoffence. The search for Megancontinues, and we are searchingan address that we believe maybe a crime scene.”
We are passing the house now; for once, the trainhas not stopped at the signal. I whip my headaround, but I’m too late. It’s gone. My hands aretrembling as I hand the iPad back to its owner. Heshakes his head sadly. “I’m very sorry,” he says.
“She isn’t dead,” I say. My voice is a croak andeven I don’t believe me. Tears are stinging the backof my eyes. I was in his house. I was there. I satacross the table from him, I looked into his eyes, Ifelt something. I think about those huge hands andabout how, if he could crush me, he could destroyher—tiny, fragile Megan.
The brakes screech as we approach Witney stationand I leap to my feet.
“I have to go,” I tell the man next to me, wholooks a little surprised but nods sagely.
“Good luck,” he says.
I run along the platform and down the stairs. I’mgoing against the flow of people, and am almost atthe bottom of the stairs when I stumble and a mansays, “Watch it!” I don’t glance up at him becauseI’m looking at the edge of the concrete step, thesecond to last one. There’s a smear of blood on it. Iwonder how long it’s been there. Could it be a weekold? Could it be my blood? Hers? Is her blood inthe house, I wonder, is that why they’ve arrestedhim? I try to picture the kitchen, the living room.
The smell: very clean, antiseptic. Was that bleach? Idon’t know, I can’t remember now, all I canremember clearly is the sweat on his back and thebeer on his breath.
I run past the underpass, stumbling at the corner ofBlenheim Road. I’m holding my breath as I hurryalong the pavement, head down, too afraid to lookup, but when I do there’s nothing to see. There areno vans parked outside Scott’s house, no police cars.
Could they have finished searching the housealready? If they had found something they would stillbe there, surely; it must take hours, going overeverything, processing the evidence. I quicken mypace. When I get to his house I stop, take a deepbreath. The curtains are drawn, upstairs and down.
The curtains in the neighbour’s window twitch. I’mbeing watched. I step into the doorway, my handraised. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t know what I’mdoing here. I just wanted to see. I wanted to know.
I’m caught, for a moment, between going against myevery instinct and knocking on that door, andturning away. I turn to leave, and it’s at thatmoment that the door opens.
Before I have time to move, his hand shoots out,he grabs my forearm and pulls me towards him. Hismouth is a grim line, his eyes wild. He is desperate.
Flooded with dread and adrenaline, I see darknesscoming. I open my mouth to cry out, but I’m toolate, he yanks me into the house and slams the doorbehind me.