Reported Missing: A gripping psychological thriller with a breath-taking twist Page 9

  ‘Well, I am not leaving until she sees me. She will know what it’s about.’

  He raises his eyebrows and puts his hand on the telephone receiver.

  ‘Right. What’s your name again?’

  ‘Pendle. Rebecca Pendle.’

  He nods his head, gesturing for me to sit back on the seats near the door. He picks up the receiver and turns away from the counter, cupping his hand around his mouth when he speaks. Eventually he spins his chair back round and puts the phone down.

  ‘You’re in luck. She’ll be down in a minute. Just hang on there.’

  He turns back towards his computer and starts typing and clicking away.

  Eventually, Detective Fisher comes down, the double doors clattering as she comes through.

  She sits on the seat next to me with a blank notebook and pen in her hand, like a theatre prop. She doesn’t say anything for a while, presumably waiting for me to speak. But then she gives in. ‘Rebecca. Everything... alright?’

  I have started to sober up a bit now; I don’t feel so wired, and the determination I felt has started to diminish. I want to go to bed. But I am here now, I have to go through with it; I’d look foolish otherwise.

  She is wearing the same cheap grey trouser suit she always wears. It’s the only thing I can ever remember seeing her in. Perhaps she just has two or three of them so she never has to think about what to put on in the morning. It clings on her thighs and bunches up around her crotch. Looks like static would crackle off it if you touched it. She brushes her hand back through her cropped hair, grown out, style-less. Her cheeks are ruddy, no make-up.

  She said I could call her Jane a while ago. I was wary at first. Was it a trap? Was she trying to get me onside ‘woman to woman’, trying a new angle on me? But I have nothing to hide so there’s nothing to be afraid of. That’s what I tell myself.

  ‘I’m fine. I just… I just wanted to ask you a few questions, that’s all.’

  ‘Ask me a few questions? She looks at her watch and purses her lips before slapping her hands down onto her thighs. ‘Alright then. Do you want to come through?’

  We go through to one of the interview rooms. I was never arrested before, when this all happened, but I was ‘invited to come in to the station for questioning’. I wasn’t sure what that meant really, but I took it to mean that whatever happened, I was going to the police station.

  She sits heavily on one of the plastic chairs and gestures for me to do the same. All the interview rooms must look identical. Windowless, marine-blue walls, thin, utilitarian carpets and black plastic chairs. A safety thing, probably. I think of all the people who have sat in here – guilty, innocent, bewildered, scared. The beginning of the end for some of them.

  My heart is fluttering. It’s just being in here sets me off. Detective Fisher, Jane, doesn’t turn the tape on or anything. She’s sitting less formally too. This is just a casual chat. I came here of my own accord, I remind myself.

  ‘So…?’ She glances up at the clock again. Perhaps she is due to finish work soon. Her eyes look tired, like she’s been staring at a screen all day. Red-rimmed, the light outline of bags.

  ‘I-I-I just wondered if there is any news at all? Any update?’

  She raises her eyebrows at me. ‘News?’

  ‘About Chris. Or anything.’

  ‘Do you have any news to report, Rebecca?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I would of course be in touch if there was any news to report that is pertinent to yourself.’

  It’s ‘you’ not ‘yourself’, I think but I don’t say anything. I can feel myself hardening again.

  ‘Rebecca, you seem a little… this evening.’ She doesn’t fill in the blank but waves her hands near her head, wiggling her fingers. ‘Are you OK? Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Thanks.’

  ‘Well, I have had a hell of a day and I am dead on my feet. Mind if I get a quick coffee?’

  I just shrug.

  She leaves the room. From the chair, I look around, scanning the corners for cameras. They don’t look as if they are switched on but it’s hard to tell. Could there be other hidden ones too? I wonder if someone is watching me now. If Detective Fisher is recording me, assessing my behaviour, talking about me with colleagues in another room. I don’t know what to do with myself so I just stare at the floor. But I keep noticing that my legs are jiggling.

  A few minutes later she comes back in, pushing the door open with her backside. She has two beige plastic disposable cups in her hands and a packet of crisps in her mouth.

  She puts the cups down and blows on her hands. ‘Bloody hell. Talk about bad design!’

  She pushes one of the cups towards me – it has some sort of creamy vegetable soup in it. I can’t remember the last time I ate powdered soup before all this. Now I can’t seem to move for it.

  She takes a slurp of her coffee and pulls a face. ‘Ugh. Vile stuff. So, what is all this about, Rebecca? Why are you here now?’ She looks at the clock again. ‘We’ve not seen you for a while.’

  ‘I was... I wasn’t well.’

  She raises her eyebrows, waiting for more information, but I hold out. I don’t tell her that I’ve hardly been out of bed for weeks, sleeping away as many hours as possible.

  She tips her head slightly to the side, but I get the impression that maybe it wouldn’t be news to her; that she already knows everything that’s been going on. Would she have access to my doctor’s records? The therapist?

  ‘I wasn’t feeling great, but I’m here now and I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Uh-oh. Here comes trouble.’ Her tone is neutral, lighthearted, and she follows it up with an ‘out with it then’ smile.

  ‘I’d like an update on where things stand with the case; with the search for Chris.’

  ‘Oh, you would, would you?’ A flicker of amusement. She is licking salt from her fingers.

  I take a sip of the soup because I feel nauseous again. My arm is wobbling a little and some of the scalding liquid spills out onto my hand, but I refuse to react. It tastes completely synthetic – savoury, liquid plastic. I think of it coating my insides, setting hard inside me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rebecca, but there are no new developments I can tell you about at the moment. I’m sorry – I can see how difficult this all is for you.’

  I feel a flash of shame at that. That it’s so obvious.

  ‘So does that mean there are no new developments? Or that there are no new developments that you can tell me about?’

  ‘As I say, there are no new developments relevant to you, at the moment.’

  ‘But you don’t tell me anything! Ever!’

  ‘Could you please not shout, Rebecca? There’s really no need.’

  ‘Can I take some of Chris’s things back?’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘His computer. Clothes.’

  ‘Why do you want his computer?’

  ‘It’s got loads of our photos on. From holidays and that,’ I quickly add. ‘Why do you need to keep it?’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Rebecca. No, you absolutely cannot have any of your husband’s “things” returned at this stage. And frankly, I am not sure why you are asking. This is an ongoing investigation.’

  ‘Investigation into what, though?’

  ‘Into the disappearance of Miss Jackson, as you well know.’ Her voice is still even, quite soft. She never shouts – she is completely unreadable. ‘And your husband.’

  ‘You don’t have anything to connect them, though! You should be out looking for Chris in his own right! Not like some sort of criminal. You need to search again. He could be…’

  Like a sharp headache, I picture him dead; skin waxy. Stabbed. Did someone kick him ‘like his head was a football’, like you read in the papers? Left to die? Did he slip and fall on the rocks by the beach? But we’d know by now, wouldn’t we? Someone would have found him by now.

  ‘I just don’t understand wh
y you’re not out there looking.’

  She doesn’t say anything. I drink the rest of the soup, just for something to do to break the silence, and I almost gag when the slime from the bottom of the cup hits my throat.

  ‘We’re doing all we can to find Kayleigh Jackson. And your husband, Rebecca. I have shared with you all the information that is pertinent.’ I hate it when she uses such official language.

  ‘Did you find anything on the laptop? There’s no evidence. None at all. Yet everyone is saying the worst things someone could ever imagine hearing about their husband. I haven’t done anything and I’m tainted. It isn’t fair. Did you find anything then?’

  I always have to keep pushing, don’t I?

  ‘Find anything such as…?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? That’s why I’m asking you. If you didn’t find anything, you should release his stuff.’

  ‘Is there anything in particular you are expecting us to find on the computer, Rebecca? Because if you do know something, it isn’t too late to share it with me. I just want the truth, Rebecca, that’s all. Don’t you?’

  You can’t handle the truth. The line from a film comes into my head.

  Then Detective Fisher’s calm voice again. So deceptively neutral, I was always scared I would miss the details of what she was saying, get lulled into something.

  ‘I think we better get you home, eh? You seem like you’ve had a rough night. Tomorrow’s another day.’

  ‘I know what you’re looking for. I know what everyone is saying and it isn’t true!’

  She sits calmly and waits.

  It bursts out of me. ‘I know you’ll find porn on the laptop but it doesn’t mean anything!’

  I expect Detective Fisher to flinch but she remains impassive.

  Another mental cramp. Before he left. In the spring? I had come down the stairs one night when I couldn’t sleep and he wasn’t there next to me. He hadn’t come to bed yet. The laptop, the glow from the screen on his face, the fist in the groin. He scrambled when he realised I was there, almost dropping the laptop.

  ‘I’m just coming up to bed now.’ The clatter of his belt as he fumbled with it; the forced lightness in his voice. But what was on the screen? I didn’t see the screen, did I?

  I didn’t know how to feel at the time. Should I care? Something in me did care, but lots of people look at porn, don’t they? It depends on what was on the screen, though... I didn’t even really think about that then – it was just the principle. Now I think about it a lot.

  I realise I am pulling at the hair on the sides of my head to try to clear the latest seizure.

  ‘Why do you say that, Rebecca?’

  ‘Because loads of people look at porn! You’ll try to read something into it. Like the photos he took. But it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean what people are saying!’

  I think I detect a look of pity – or is it revulsion? – across Detective Fisher’s face now, but she quickly recovers herself.

  ‘Rebecca, I can assure you we will keep you abreast of any developments that concern you. But I have to be very clear here; this is an ongoing investigation and we have to keep all avenues open at the moment until Kayleigh is found. And that includes the possible connection with your husband’s disappearance. As I have done to date, I will tell you everything I can. I realise this is hard for you. But to be blunt, it’s more important that you share with me anything that you know, rather than the other way around.’

  I can’t meet her eye. I am scratching at a ridge in the table, tiny wood shavings collecting under my nail.

  ‘Rebecca? Is there anything else or…? Can I get one of the lads to take you home?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, thanks. I’m sorry I came. I’m just…’

  ‘It’s fine – really.’ She looks me directly in the eye, leaning forward slightly.

  I’d rather walk home on my own. It’s clear I am on my own, after all. The police won’t share anything with me. And if Julie sees me arriving in a police car, she won’t like it.

  ‘Look, I insist, alright, Rebecca? I’ll ring you a taxi – you can’t go home on your own like this. It’s probably more than my job’s worth.’

  I don’t think that last part is true. But I am tired now, and the foot that I cut earlier at Jeannie’s is throbbing from the walk.

  ‘You still staying at the caravan park?’

  ‘Yes, why?’ I refocus again, a reminder that I shouldn’t let my guard down. I don’t believe that Jane – Detective Fisher – doesn’t know where I am living. But I am a little taken aback that she thinks I am so naïve. Not that I have really given her any reason to think that I’m not. I often wonder if they’re monitoring my phone, my whereabouts, in case Chris contacts me. If I had moved, I am sure she’d know about it.

  ‘So I can ring you a taxi then? I’ll get you some more water before you leave, eh?’

  I take three sleeping pills when I get back to the caravan, the bitter sediment burning the back of my throat. Eventually I feel the pleasing heaviness. Thank God, I am finally going under.

  Ten

  Tuesday, 10 November

  I don’t wake up until 11 a.m. I am relieved that it is so late; that a decent amount of the day is already gone. I can hardly open my eyes, or barely keep them open, they are so heavy. My head is throbbing too and feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool. I lie still for a while, staring at the ceiling in the caravan and enjoying the silence. My nose is freezing and my teeth are chattering.

  Unfortunately, I still have a very clear memory of being at the police station; of confronting Detective Fisher. I don’t know what gets into me sometimes. I feel terrible about Ellen too, what I said to her, how hard I was gripping her arm.

  I search for my phone to text Jeannie.

  The caravan is a mess. Damp, musty-smelling clothes draped over the backs of all the chairs. Cups and used bowls in the sink, dust gathering along the edge of the windows. I need to try to clear it up later on. Julie might not like it if she saw the caravan in this state. She might think I am being ungrateful. It would probably be easier for her not to have me here; I don’t want to give her any reasons to consider that. I’ll wait until it’s warmer in here, though. The duvet feels warm and soft against my bare legs when I jump back under the covers with my phone.

  ‘I’m so sorry about last night. How’s Ellen? Is she OK?’

  I tap and send. I thought Jeannie might make me sweat on it all day like she sometimes does, but it isn’t long before the phone beeps, making me jump.

  ‘It’s OK. Really. How’s your foot?’

  ‘Knacks actually! I deserve it. I know I need to sort myself out – sorry.’

  ‘xxx come over soon.’

  A text isn’t enough, though. I know I’ve gone too far this time. I feel like I am falling again, back into the danger zone of staying in bed all day, my head under the covers, drinking, not answering the phone. Or would I even do worse this time?

  I can’t go back there again so soon. It isn’t fair on Jeannie for one thing. Or Mum. I need to stay busy. I need to find some answers – it’s obvious from speaking to Detective Fisher that no one else is going to give me any.

  I sit upstairs on the bus. There’s no one else up there. My head is still floaty from the sleeping pills, and I rest it against the window. The rain is creating a film across the glass, making the outside a blur, like a watercolour painting. Trees brushing against the window and roof of the bus give me a start.

  When I get to the house, I pause in the entrance again, but not for too long. If I sit down or turn around, I won’t be able to do this. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe. I put my hand on the handle and turn it, pushing the door open in one swift move.

  There are dust particles in the air, zipping around because of the movement from the door.

  I head straight for the stairs, avoiding looking in the front room just yet. I’m not ready. Thinking of our evenings there, the indoor picnic we had
on the rug on Valentine’s Day.

  But there on the step is the letter I left for Chris; I can’t ignore that. It’s in a closed envelope on the second stair. I left it on the day I moved to the caravan; the last thing I did before leaving the house. Inside on a slip of paper, it just says: Dear Chris, I’ve just popped out. Phone me. Becs x.

  A few short lines but it took so long to write. How many kisses? Love Becs or just Becs? Hard to strike the right tone.

  There’s something a bit pathetic about it now, I know. But it felt much more possible then that there would be a simple explanation. That it would be a short-term thing. If you’d have asked me, I’d have said all this would be behind us now. We’d have moved on or we’d be working through the gambling, the job situation, the going AWOL. Kayleigh wouldn’t be part of the equation because he’d be back – and hopefully she would be too. He’d be shocked to know the two things had been linked; full of apologies about the trouble he’d caused.

  I can’t bring myself to move the letter now; afraid of what that would mean. I can’t rewrite it because I don’t know what I would say.

  I take deep breaths again and go straight upstairs. When I pull the loft ladder down, a light shower of dust falls onto my face and mouth, onto the cheap beige carpet. The loft hatch is stuck and suddenly gives way. I never really came up here – even though it’s a new house, I still find it creepy.

  I hated Chris coming up here so much; afraid he’d fall down the stairs. He said he’d started work on the loft, sorting things out. He was up here enough. Whole evenings, long weekend afternoons. He said he was reading, playing video games. There’s even an old sleeping bag strewn across the floor. I played along with the idea of a den. But now I wonder what he did up here.

  His guitar is propped up against the wall. £1,000 and barely played. It taunts me now and I think it taunted him too, that he hadn’t learned how to play it. Ambitions not realised, money wasted. There’s the chip on the base from the Sunday when he dropped it on the ground in frustration.