CHAPTER 8

A few days after the unsettling call from Inspector Manchego, Marlow Craftsman decided that, much to his regret, it was time to tell Moira that their son had been missing for three months. He had put off telling her up until then because he still harbored hope that the issue would be resolved before Christmas. That was looking increasingly unlikely. Whenever Moira asked how Atticus was getting on in Spain, Marlow would reply with something like, “Fine, dear, just fine.” And because he was a man of few words, she would be satisfied, roll over in bed, and fall fast asleep.

Only when November came and she began the torturous preparations for Christmas did Moira become more insistent. She wanted details.

She needed to know how many nights Atticus would be staying in Kent, what day he would arrive, if he would be bringing guests this time, if he was still vegetarian, if he had changed cologne or still liked the one he had used all his life, and, above all, the exact time and date of his departure, because she planned on giving Atticus’s room to Holden’s parents-in-law, who were going to spend New Year’s Eve with the Craftsmans that year.

Moira always wrote everything down in her enormous black planner, from the cards they received to the presents they sent to the amount of beef they should order from the butcher’s in Sevenoaks.

The uncertainty was killing her.

•  •  •

Marlow took a cup of hot Horlicks on a silver tray up to Moira, who was in bed. The maid always prepared it before she went to bed herself, and she tended to dissolve half of one of her own tranquilizers in the drink because she figured that Mrs. Craftsman was partly responsible for her symptoms. That night, Marlow, unaware of any such scheme, added another two tablets of diazepam with the good intention of making it easier for Moira to take the bad news he was about to give her.

The dose proved excessive, of course.

“Moira, dear,” Marlow began softly while he stroked her back. “I’m afraid I have to tell you something about Atticus.”

“Atticus?” she mumbled.

“How to tell you this, my love . . . Don’t be frightened, try to see the bright side of it. For a few days now, well, we haven’t known where he is.” There, he had said it.

Moira made no comment. She remained lying on her side with her face pressed against the pillow.

“He’s probably somewhere without any cell phone reception, you know how Spain’s a mountainous country, with a lot of sea around it, and because he’s an adventurous type he’s probably decided to take a holiday. I can just imagine him, dear, on board a fishing boat, or on a snowy mountaintop, or perhaps on one of those islands that the Spanish still own off the coast of Africa.”

“Africa?”

“Yes, sort of near Mauritania.”

Silence.

“But he’ll be back soon. He would never miss Christmas at home. He’s a good boy, our Atticus. And just in case,” he added very quickly, “I’ve informed the police. They’re busy looking for him, Moira, and they assure me we’ll have news soon.”

More silence.

“For the moment, we know he isn’t in hospital, which is reassuring. He hasn’t been in an accident, thank God. There haven’t been any accusations either, so he hasn’t got into any trouble. He’s simply disappeared. Without a trace. Just like that time, do you remember, when he was twenty and went off on that gap year. We didn’t hear from him for months. We didn’t worry then and we aren’t going to worry now, Moira, because there will be a reasonable explanation for all this. I, for one, am not in the least bit alarmed. He’s a grown man, he can make his own decisions, he doesn’t need to ask our permission. If he wants to climb aboard a tuna-fishing ship, that’s his choice. If he wants to become a hermit and live off insects, then so be it. It’s his life.”

Moira started snoring. The overdose had done its work. In all probability, thought Marlow, she wouldn’t remember anything the next day. Shame, because it had been an excellent speech for a man of so few words.

Calmer and fully convinced by the strength of his own argument that there was no cause for alarm, he got into bed as well, pulled the tartan blanket up to his chin, and fell fast asleep.