Jack wakes up grieving, twisting, moaning, banging out a rhythm on his chest. ‘No, no!’ The woman in the coffin – bloated, bruised, her face shiny with broken blood vessels, her nose smashed – can’t be Sarah. Say it isn’t her. ‘It’s not her! Listen to me!’ Why won’t they listen? Where are they? His eyes open slowly, painfully, to take in a bare floor, an open toilet, a heating pipe, a blistered wall. A cell. A door opening.
‘Well then,’ says a tall policeman in the doorway, his muscles stretching the fabric of an open-necked white shirt. ‘You got some sleep. Good. We’re not going to have any more trouble, are we? Tea will be here in a minute. Get yourself together, yeah? Back in a mo.’
The door closes and Jack looks at the ceiling, trying to focus, then uncoils himself from the thin mattress, which might as well have been the floor for all the comfort it gave him. He feels as if he has been beaten all over, but he has a scrambled memory of lashing out, thrashing about, before passing out. His hands are trembling.
‘Tea?’ The policeman offers him a cardboard cup and it shakes as Jack takes it and cradles it close. ‘We’ve got some things to talk about, you and me.’
The giant officer sits down next to him on the bed, which means Jack shifting along. He’s got a long, flat face like an Easter Island statue, but there’s a mark just under his eye that looks fresh.
‘I’m Sergeant Ravi. I’m running the place this morning. I don’t want to charge you for what happened last night, because frankly I don’t need the paperwork any more than I needed a slap from you, but I might have to do that. In the meantime, I have some news for you. They’ve found a wallet and credit cards on the woman who went over last night. How should I put this? The body they found, it’s not your wife.’
Jack shudders. He hugs himself, eyes closing. Seeing her face again, half destroyed. It’s not true, not true. Not real. A dream. A nightmare, in his sleep. She’s not dead. She must be alive.
‘You all right? Did you hear me? It’s not her. They’ve identified the body; it’s someone else. Poor woman. Not your wife. Sir?’
It felt so real. Jack’s body shakes until the sobs burst out.
‘Well. Okay. I’ll leave you be for a moment, yeah? Let you have some privacy.’ The sergeant moves away, not closing the door. Jack hears his voice in the corridor, faintly. ‘Keep an eye on him.’
Jack sobs because he feels guilty, sobs because he’s exhausted, sobs because he sobs and doesn’t know why, and while he sobs they watch him and wait and wait. When they’re sure he has run dry and calmed down, and when the threat of violence towards a serving officer seems to have passed, they let him go. The sergeant gives him a paper to sign at the custody desk. Just a caution. ‘You’re under stress. I get that. Just cool it though, eh? We’re doing our best. As your wife went missing from your home address, we are handing the details over to the Metropolitan Police, who will no doubt investigate and decide whether to take the matter further.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Sir?’
‘You know what I’m asking. Are you giving up on this?’
‘Sir, as I have explained, our colleagues at the Met will take over. They have your details. I’m sure they’ll be in touch. My advice would be to go home. You never know, your wife may have left a message. She may even be there. Let’s hope so.’
‘She came here.’
‘Sir, we have looked for her. We’ll keep looking, I promise you. A patrol has been out that way several times, the Guardians have been informed. They are out there all the time, all the way from Beachy Head along to Belle Tout and down to the Gap. If she is there at all they will see her and let us know.’
‘What about beyond that, the Seven Sisters? There are no roads. You can’t just send a car to have a quick look around. What are you doing there?’
‘We do have a helicopter, sir. We are doing all we can. With respect, if people do have intentions we usually find them at Beachy Head. She came down by train, so there is no vehicle to trace, but we have spoken to the local taxi firms, who have not picked her up. We’re talking to the bus company. We’ve also put the word out to the hotels, and there are no guests of that name.’
‘What about her maiden name: Sarah Jones?’
‘One, at the Grand. But it isn’t her.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Various things,’ says the sergeant, irritated at himself for saying the name of the hotel. Three hundred quid a night for a room. This lad couldn’t afford that. Bit out of their league. ‘For the moment, there is no evidence that she has been in this area at all.’
‘What about the picture on the laptop?’
‘With respect, sir, it’s a picture on a laptop. I’ve got the moon on mine. I’m sorry. She is not answering her mobile phone, as you know. It’s up to the Met now to run a trace, which I am sure they will do. Here, this is who you should talk to.’ He pushes a paper across the desk. ‘Please, ring that number if you have any more information. If it relates to activity in this area they will tell us and we will act.’
‘I’m not giving up. I’m not just walking away.’
‘Sir, you have the freedom to do as you wish,’ says the weary sergeant. Then, under his breath: ‘So does she.’
‘What are you saying?’
Sergeant Ravi answers carefully. ‘We are taking this seriously. You have reported your wife missing. Sir. We are investigating. My colleagues will take you to the Gap, where I believe you have a car.’
‘I won’t go home.’
‘I thought you might say that. There’s a room going at the pub there. They told us to let you know, if you needed it. Ask for Magda. She’s the woman who helped you there.’
Jack takes his things, turns to the officers who are waiting for him, follows them through the door, fingers drumming on a bag strap. He does not hear what the big sergeant says behind him.
‘Good luck, yeah? To the both of you.’