Samantha had been due to call him when she got into Huddersfield. And she did. But Robin didn’t pick up. He was still so absorbed with his stupid article, about planning permission for a new multistory in Camden right next to residential land, which had somehow escalated into the political battle of the century. At least it had seemed at the time. That multistory never got built, and was never talked of again.
He should have picked up the phone.
When a thirty-three-year-old woman, perfectly capable, mobile and mature, goes missing, it takes a lot to get someone to listen. But the moment he called back and she didn’t answer—in fact, the phone didn’t even ring and went straight to voice mail—Robin knew, somehow, that she was in trouble. And having to wait seventy-two hours to report her missing killed him.
At the police station, he was shuffled between four different police officers, each more bored than the last. He repeated the story over and over, and each time he uttered it, it became more real to him. He answered their inane questions—What time was the phone call from the university to say Samantha hadn’t arrived? When did you first realize there was something wrong? Did Samantha act any differently before she left?—even though they had all been addressed already. They wrote notes in countless black notepads. And alluded to things like a secret lover, or the even more heartbreaking prospect that maybe she just ran away?
Their blunt monotone responses were what Robin thought of when he first spoke to Terrance Loamfield, Matthew’s appointed barrister.
“You have been put on Mr. McConnell’s approved visitor list—just give your name and identification at the gates. You will have to complete some paperwork when you arrive at New Hall, but should be good to go from there.”
Robin was on the phone again, in a packed carriage heading for his connection at Leeds Central. He was standing—he had a seat reservation, but the train didn’t happen to have the carriage his seat was in.
“Thank you, Mr. Loamfield.” He wanted to ask Loamfield so many questions, but he didn’t really think he was in the right environment for it.
“Mr. McConnell has not requested my presence at your meetings. May I ask what your relation is to Mr. McConnell?”
Robin didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t really anything to Matthew—hadn’t even known of his existence for a full twenty-four hours yet. And Matthew hadn’t told the lawyer either—meaning he probably didn’t want Loamfield to know. Robin assessed, from the five minutes he had been talking to the man, that Loamfield seemed to be a very closed person, spouting protocol instead of emotion, fact instead of opinion. It was clear he really didn’t have a personal stake in seeing Matthew go free, or indeed be convicted. But in spite of this, Robin thought it wise not to tell Loamfield he was going to be sniffing around. “I’m a...friend.”
“Well, you appear to be the only friend Mr. McConnell has,” said Loamfield, not showing a hint of emotion.
“No one else has visited him?”
“No.”
“Not his parents?”
“Mr. McConnell is an orphan. His parents died in a traffic pileup in 1996. He lived with his aunt, who has since disowned him and left the county. I’m surprised you don’t know this?”
“Ah, yes, quite,” Robin said, squishing himself against the wall of the train as the snacks trolley passed. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget.”
Loamfield paused for a long time. Robin would have thought the call had disconnected, if he didn’t hear the man’s short, sharp breaths. “You know, Mr. Ferringham, if this were any other case, I’d be asking if you were a journalist, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. There’s only a matter of days before McConnell’s court date.”
“And when is that?”
“This Friday. He goes before the court to receive a date for his trial, and to decide conditions, if any, for bail.”
Friday. Today was Sunday. Five days. Five days until what was probably the best chance of helping Matthew. And five days to get answers about Sam.
“And do you think he’s likely to get bail?”
“Not a chance in hell,” Loamfield said, almost like he was smiling on the other end. It was the first time he’d shown anything even vaguely akin to a personality, and Robin far preferred the emotionless android he had been mere seconds ago.
“Thank you, Mr. Loamfield,” Robin said, closing out the conversation.
“Not at all, Mr. Ferringham. And if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call.”
Robin put the phone down. It wasn’t until he changed trains at Leeds and was on his way to Marsden that he realized Mr. Loamfield hadn’t given him his phone number.