DC Clements
Despite the alert that was issued on Thursday, no members of the public have reported a sighting of Leigh Gillingham. Not one. This is unusual. Pre-coronavirus the general public seemed to be much more interested in missing people—whether their concern was genuine or because they are busybodies who believe they can do the job better than the police Clements can’t be sure, but routinely someone—many someones—would have called in a sighting which may or may not have checked out, but would have at least stopped Clements feeling like she was shouting down an empty chasm. Now, everyone up and down the country has problems of their own. Loo-roll-and-pasta-stockpiling has become the national hobby. People, bloated with suspicion, skirt around one another, unwilling to look another being in the eye. Maybe this is the reason no one has seen a forty-three-year-old, five-foot-seven brunette in black jeans and a camel-colored coat, anywhere.
Kylie was last seen on Monday the sixteenth. It is Sunday the twenty-second. A week. Clements feels the pressure of the days dissolving in front of her. She feels cheated that they weren’t alerted to Kylie’s disappearance until four days after she’d vanished. A handicap. Clements and Tanner sit in the almost deserted station, poring over the facts, files, information and hunches; determined to wring every moment out of the time they have left on this investigation.
There isn’t a reward for information, which doesn’t help. Daan Janssen hasn’t offered to fund one, even though he is in a position to do so. Nor has Mark Fletcher, although coming up with the cash would presumably be more of a struggle for him. That said, Clements knows of cases where people have taken loans, mortgaged their houses, sold their cars to be able to offer rewards for information on their loved ones. Not that the police unilaterally encourage this—it can lead to all sorts of confusion and attract the wrong type of person coming forward with inaccurate information. Normally, the police have to spend time discussing the pros and cons of offering a reward. Normally, relatives are desperate and willing to try anything to bring their missing home. Even missing people that left midfight, midcrisis, midtrauma.
Normally.
Neither man has made posters to pin on notice boards of cafés, libraries or community centers. There are no laminated photocopies of a favored photo of Leigh or Kai zip-tied to lampposts. Posters that beg passersby for attention and help. Posters that rip at hearts, and as often as not, fade in the sun or smudge in the rain before they yield results. Neither man has nagged for a press conference, a radio appeal. As far as she is aware, they have not spent hours walking the streets in hope of spotting Kylie. It puzzles and bothers Clements that neither husband seems interested in following the usual patterns or protocols to help find the woman. Clements has known cats that have gone astray to cause more concern. Yes, the circumstances are unusual, and Kylie has clearly fallen from grace in both their eyes, but shouldn’t they care more? Frustrated, Clements voices her thoughts to Tanner. “Shouldn’t what they once had inflame if not concern, then at least curiosity as to her whereabouts? Shouldn’t they want to fight for her, to fight with her? If they loved her a week ago, how could it all have vanished so instantly, so completely?”
“Well, obviously their indifference indicates guilt, an involvement in her disappearance. Maybe they are not niggling for a thorough search because they don’t want it to be fruitful. Maybe they already know what happened to her.”
“What—both of them?”
Tanner shrugs and grins. “You’re the one always saying keep an open mind, boss.”
So far, Clements has considered a number of theories including one or the other husband discovering the truth, perhaps threatening Kylie with exposure, with violence, and her running away afraid. Or, one or the other husband discovering the truth and hurting her, perhaps in a moment of fury, perhaps something planned.
She could have fled.
She could be dead.
It depends on how far either man might be prepared to go. Marital homicide is frighteningly common. Every week, two women in Britain die because of violence in their home. Every week. The person these women presumably loved and trusted most in the world—once upon a time—kills them. It is hard to believe in fairy tales in Clements’s line of work. There ought to be protests, banners, placards, marches, even riots. She’d understand riots, venting anger and frustration at that statistic. There are none of these things; there is silence and sometimes it feels like indifference.
Clements sighs and rubs the back of her neck. Rolls her head from left to right and back again to release tension; her neck cracks out a tune like a glockenspiel. She shouldn’t let herself think this way. She gets carried away. Frustrated by the enormity of the all-pervasive problems when really, she ought to concentrate on the micro level. Finding Kylie Gillingham won’t stop the relentless march of fear, or violence, or misogyny, but she might help one woman see her kids again.
“I suppose, since there have been no sightings, no leads, we have to consider the theory most favored within the station,” says Tanner. He can’t hide his disappointment.
“What—that neither of the husbands has hurt her, that neither of them was aware of her bigamy?”
“Yup, that she has simply run away.”
“Well, the stress and impossibility of carrying on two lives concurrently must be enormous,” Clements admits. “Still, even if that is the case, it doesn’t mean she’s safe,” she adds grimly. “What’s not to say someone else out there might not have brought her to harm? The world is full of violent, unstable, cruel men.” For generations, since time began, men have picked up arms and picked a fight. They’ve chosen land, women, resources and various illusions of power that they’ve deemed excuse enough to savagely battle for. Clements wonders, is it in their DNA or an environment thing that leads to this constant vehement ferocity? And without armored wars, for nebulous kings, that allowed sword wielding on battle fields, there seemed to be a few favored outlets for that pugnacious anger: video games, fascism and hurting women. Considering the options, Clements thought video games provided a national service.
“What if she hasn’t run away? And what if nobody has hurt her? What if it was all too much and she’s taken her own life?”
Clements scowls at Tanner. This thought depresses her the most. She has become hardened to many things, but not suicide. Dealing with suicide wrung her out, mangled her inside. The waste, the hopelessness, the helplessness.
“Well, you can never be 100 percent certain about who might take their own life, who might be so desperate to think that was the only way, but I don’t feel Kylie fits the profile. She was too heretical, too unconventional.”
“But the best mate was right. Leigh Fletcher’s doctor has confirmed she was prescribed antidepressants.”
“Yes, but a while ago and at a very low dose. She hadn’t renewed her prescription in months, which suggests she didn’t feel the need for them anymore.”
“Or maybe she had come off them too suddenly—that could create problems.”
Clements nods; it is a possibility. “But we’ve checked hospitals, refuges and the Jane Does in morgues. No sign.”
Tanner has been surprisingly keen and helpful in continuing to make enquiries for this case. Clements thought his interest might be pulled toward the totally novel prep for the pandemic, that’s where all the buzz is, but he has remained keen to help pursue the matter. Clements wants to think his diligence comes from a good place; she tries not to think that he is hopeful of finding a body. A body that would push this inquiry into something high-profile and macabrely juicy. Still, even with his help, they are no closer to knowing where this woman has vanished to.
“Thing is, Tanner, I’m no quitter, but I’m beginning to wonder, should we simply accept that Kylie Gillingham is a woman who tends to do things in her own inimitable way? Maybe she doesn’t want to be found and maybe she’s right to have come to that decision, considering both men having given up on her so easily. It is unsettling.”
Just as Clements is thinking no one has anything else to add to Kylie Gillingham’s story—that maybe she will have to let it lie as everyone seems to want her to do—there are two phone calls, almost back-to-back, that allow her to keep the lighthouse lamp lit. First, Fiona Phillipson calls to say she has had sex with Daan Janssen. Clements is open-minded, it is helpful in her line of work and as she always doubts the fidelity of incredibly hot men; she isn’t shocked or judgmental when she hears this confession. She is curious, though. When? Where? How often? She doesn’t need to ask why. She’s met him twice.
“Obviously, I didn’t know he was married when I got involved with him,” says Fiona. There’s heat and shame in her tone. Clements thinks she may or may not have known. Most single women like to think they are not the sort to have a crack at a married man. No one believes they have “homewrecker” on the list of their character credentials. But the truth is, it’s lonely out there. Women who should know better do stumble down that path. Clements herself had once snogged a married colleague at a Christmas party. It is embarrassing to think about. So clichéd; a quick grope in a quiet corridor on the way to the cloakroom at the end of the night. Yes, it was after everyone had had a bit too much to drink. She’d been going through a dry patch romantically and working on a depressing human trafficking case; she wanted to grab at any comfort that came her way. His warm lips, solid body that smelled of sweat and a tang of a citrus aftershave was that—momentarily. A comfort. It hadn’t gone far because she was wearing high-waisted, supershaper tummy-control panties and she just didn’t have the energy to crawl out of them, couldn’t face the mortification of being exposed in them. She’d called herself an Uber, left the party alone. But if she’d been wearing better underwear, who knows where it might have gone? She is a policewoman not a saint.
“I should have said something the moment I made the connection,” admits Fiona apologetically. The regret and pain in her voice loud and clear, even though she’s mumbling.
“And when was that?”
“When your colleague—Tanner, is it?—and I were in Mark’s kitchen. He mentioned Daan’s name. You had already said that Leigh was going under the name Kai Janssen but I wasn’t looking for the connection. It didn’t click. I wasn’t even certain you’d said Janssen, I thought most likely Johnson. There was so much to take in. But in the kitchen Officer Tanner said Daan’s name. I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to think it was a horrible, strange coincidence; after all, everything about this is off-the-scale strange, isn’t it? I wanted to think that there might be more than one Daan Janssen.” Clements is all too aware of people’s willingness to kid themselves. “But Mark and I did some digging. We googled. It quickly became apparent that there aren’t many people with the same name, fewer still living in the UK. There was only one contender to be Leigh’s Daan Janssen. It’s not like he’s called John Smith—” She breaks off. “I didn’t want to believe it. But now I’m sure. I have to face facts.”
“And when did you last see Mr. Janssen?” Clements asks.
Fiona hesitates and sighs. “This morning.” Clements allows the pause. Gives it power and space. “I wanted to check it was definitely him and to see how he was doing, I suppose. I certainly wasn’t looking for a hookup. I—I—” Fiona stumbles. Clements waits patiently. “Obviously, I now realize I hardly know the man. I mean, I thought he would be devastated since his wife has gone missing. I thought maybe he’d talk to me about it and I’d glean something because he doesn’t know that I know he’s married, let alone that I’m his wife’s best friend.”
“And was he?”
“Was he what?”
“Devastated.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Fiona admits. The silence sits between them again, this time scratching, burrowing at what needs to be said. “I mean, he seemed pleased to see me.”
“And did you?”
“Did I what? Glean anything?”
“Did you hook up?”
“Is that really a police matter?” Fiona asks indignantly.
“You don’t have to answer. You called me. I’m just trying to understand the man. I want to help your friend. That’s what you care about, right?”
“Of course it is. That’s why I’m calling.”
“You are, I suppose, saying that you don’t trust him now you realize he was not faithful? Is not faithful?”
“I’m not saying anything about anyone. I’m just giving you the facts,” Fiona snaps.
“I’m sorry if this is awkward for you, Fiona, and I’m not taking a formal statement—anything you say is completely voluntary but if you can answer the question it might help me. Did you have sexual relations with Daan Janssen when you last encountered him?”
“Yes,” Fiona whispers. “I went to his place, I stopped over. I know that makes me sound pathetic, or heartless, or just plain stupid, but I did, yes.”
“And yet you are ringing me now to say you don’t trust him?”
“I am.”
“Why? What went wrong?”
“Nothing went wrong as such. I’m just trying to be honest. I’d had a glass or two of wine last night; it’s been a very trying time. I wasn’t thinking straight but now, in the cold light of day, I’m trying to do the right thing. I assume you do meet some people who are still keen to do the right thing, Officer?”
“A few.”
“Well, I’m one of them. Daan and I were—well, it was a casual thing. We had a few dates in London. He once came to my cottage on the coast for a weekend, but I’ve known Leigh for twenty-three years. I love her. I’m furious with her for lying to me but at the same time I’m really sad that she had no one she thought she could confide in. I could have helped her. Or at least comforted her. We’re best friends. I’m scared for her. Why didn’t she turn to me?” Clements doesn’t have an answer to that either. Fiona adds, “I asked Daan if he is married.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he was. Past tense. And, it’s just, well, that building. It’s so quiet and empty, right? Big parts of it are deserted. Someone could be hidden in it relatively easily, don’t you think?”
“We’d need a warrant to search it.”
“Well, get a warrant.” Fiona sounds frustrated, indignant.
She probably thinks the police are working too slowly on the case. It’s a common misconception of the general public that the police can always be doing more and doing it faster. The truth is investigation is a laborious business, all about perspiration and perseverance. Even the rare bright spots of inspiration need to be backed up with evidence which is inevitably slow to surface.
“We need evidence to place Mr. Janssen under suspicion and to justify a search warrant.”
Fiona sighs. “Well, get evidence then.” She hangs up.
Clements relays the call to Tanner; he looks jubilant. Clements reins him in. “Fiona’s information does not place Daan in the frame for Kylie’s disappearance.”
“No, not exactly, but it certainly casts a new light on the situation. Or perhaps more accurately the same light but simply with a higher wattage.”
“I have been wondering about the fact that the texts that were supposed to be from Kai to Daan dried up as soon as the bigamy came to light. This leads me to believe that Kai never sent the texts, just as Daan claimed.”
“Because how would she know the game was up and when to stop pretending she was with her sick mother?”
“Exactly. Why wouldn’t she continue to try to keep up the pretense? It bothers me that the texts stopped at the same time as both men were made aware of her bigamy.”
“So the question is, who had the phone? Was it the hot dad and was he buying time before her absence was revealed by texting the he-man? Or was it the he-man and he was creating an e-trail alibi by pretending to be in touch with her?”
Clements nods. “Stopping the texts was a mistake. Who made the mistake?”
Clements hadn’t liked the way Daan Janssen was able to turn his emotions off like a tap. One minute, he was all passionate concern, demanding they find his beloved wife; the next he was the epitome of icy indifference, as he shrugged off all association. Clements had almost understood the vacillation when she thought he was deeply in love and hurt, but if he is shagging around (and there is no reason to believe Fiona is the only woman he’s having extramarital sex with) then he is not such a clear-cut candidate for husband-of-the-year award. If he isn’t heartbroken, then his plunge from impassioned to indifferent simply seems unstable. Clements needs to unpick this, ponder it. However, she doesn’t have time right away because her phone buzzes again.
“Detective Constable Clements.”
“It’s Paula Cook here. I am Mark Fletcher’s sister-in-law. The sister of his late wife.”
“Hello.”
“My nephew had your card.”
Clements gave her card to both of the Fletcher boys but takes a guess, “Oli?”
“Yes. Look, I don’t know how this can possibly be relevant to you. But I thought I had to mention it.” Her voice is loud but quivering; a contradiction. Almost aggressive with assertion and yet the sort of aggression that comes from a sense of anxiety or apprehension.
“I’m listening.”
“You know my brother-in-law and I are close. He’s a good man. A great father.”
“Okay.” Clements is curious as to where this might be going. It sounds exactly like a sentence leading up to a “but.”
“And you need to know I’m not close or anything with Leigh, or Kai or whatever the hell her name is.”
“Right.”
“But that’s natural, since I’m Frances’s sister, I think. Leigh came along very soon after my sister’s death. I just don’t think I was ready for her.”
“Okay.”
“Oli and Seb are here at mine right now and they’ve been telling me all about you, and the investigation, the things you asked them. Oli mentioned that Mark had told you Frances died of cancer.”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“Well, she didn’t.”
“She isn’t dead?”
“She’s dead but she didn’t die of cancer. She fell down the stairs. She had cancer. She might have died of that eventually or she might have recovered.” Paula says the word with a hint of breathy hope. Then, more staunchly, she adds, “We will never know. She fell down the stairs and broke her neck.”
“But Mark Fletcher said it was cancer.”
“He always says that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask him that. She was very weak. She was undergoing chemo treatment. Apparently, she had tried to get to the bathroom on her own and just wasn’t strong enough. Mark was downstairs making a cup of tea.”
Clements wonders whether her investigative powers are a little off—was it an error to have accepted the first wife’s cause of death at face value? She wonders: Does she need a holiday? A change of diet? Or was questioning the cause of the first wife’s death out of her remit? Should receiving this information now be seen as a win, rather than a few days’ old mistake? She doesn’t know. Sometimes it is hard to know and easy to doubt herself. She is determined to be thorough now, though.
“Who else was at home with them when this happened?”
“They were alone together. I was looking after the boys.”
“Why are you ringing me to tell me this?”
“I don’t know. I hate myself for doing so—I’m not trying to cause trouble for Mark. I really don’t think he is involved in Leigh’s disappearance, but I think you have to know the facts. Oli is messed up. Really not himself at all. So angry. I’m worried about him.”
Of course the boy is messed up—his bigamist stepmother is missing—but Clements asks, “In what way particularly do you think he’s messed up?”
“He told me he knew that his mother was having an affair.”
“He knew?”
“Yes, he’d spotted her with the other man about six months ago. The poor kid has lived with the weight of that secret for all this time. I was just wondering, if a child could discover her secret, maybe one of the husbands could have. Maybe she wasn’t being as clever and careful as she thought she was.” Clements can hear contempt and concern in Paula’s voice.
“What are you saying? Do you think Mark Fletcher is capable of violence?”
“No, no not really. He’s a really good bloke. I don’t know what I’m saying. I shouldn’t have called.” She hangs up abruptly. It doesn’t matter, a statement as such isn’t needed, the lead is enough. Clements updates Tanner and tells him to call up the coroner’s report on Frances Fletcher’s death.
“Thing is, you always wonder, don’t you? Slipped or pushed. You know the pressure of caring for a terminally ill family member is immense,” Tanner says. He is practically rubbing his hands together with undisguised glee.
“Well, even if you are right about that, which I’m not saying you are for a minute, there’s hardly a pattern, is there.”
“Two dead wives.”
Perturbed, Clements says, “We don’t know Kylie is dead.”
“We don’t know she’s alive.”
“There’s no body, no one pushed her down the stairs. Stop it, Tanner, it sounds like wild speculation to me.”
“I’m not speculating. I’m theorizing.”
“Stick with the facts, Tanner.” But even as she delivers her rebuke, Clements tries to recall how big Oli Fletcher is? Is he man or boy? The net—far from drawing in—is widening.
And the clock is ticking.