Chris emerged from the bathroom deep in thought, vigorously toweling his hair as if to dislodge trouble from his head. When he lowered his arm he saw Vicky in their bedroom, misted by the cloud of steam that had followed him out of the shower. She was wearing one of his old shirts, with jeans and slouchy socks. The shirt dwarfed her—she always hid her body from him these days—but Chris felt pleased to see her in his clothes, like it showed they were still a couple. As if this were a normal lazy Sunday.
Oddly, though, she was standing at the mirror applying bright red lipstick. She rarely wore much makeup, so the slash of scarlet looked surreal. Chris watched as she painted her lips, then pressed them together and inspected her handiwork. He moved closer and saw a shiny gold Chanel logo on the side of the lipstick.
“Bold color,” he said, unable to bring himself to compliment it outright.
She clicked the lid back on. Their gazes met in the mirror, the rest of her face ghostly white. He saw her startle when their doorbell chimed.
“I’ll get it,” she said, slipping away before he could object.
Chris was left staring at his own unhealthy reflection, his damp, patchy chest hair in the V of his dressing gown. There was a smear of lipstick in the corner of the mirror; he licked his finger to rub it off but it only smudged and streaked, like blood.
“There are some police here to see you.”
Chris froze. Vicky had reappeared in the corner of the mirror, blinking worriedly.
“Really? Uh . . . I’ll get dressed.”
His skin was clammy as he wrestled on a T-shirt and jeans. Vicky watched him, her pale gaze asking: What’s going on? Chris pushed past her and stumbled down the hall, his damp feet slipping on the garish carpet they’d deemed so-awful-it’s-awesome when they’d first moved in.
“Hello!” he said to the detectives, who were hovering just inside the flat, peering brazenly into the nearest rooms. He wished now that he’d told Vicky all about their previous inquiries. He could have played it down—of course they’d want to talk to him, the missing girl’s driving instructor.
She had followed him. “What’s this about?”
“Freya, I’d imagine.” Chris tried to strike the right tone: concerned for the girl, not for himself. “Happy to help,” he chirruped to the detectives. “Would you like to do this at the station?”
They left him hanging, all three of them silent. Then Ford said, “That won’t be necessary.” She opened her notebook as Chris caught his breath. “It’s about the route you took with Freya on March the fifteenth.”
“Hang on,” Vicky said. “Was this the day the Harlow girl actually disappeared?”
Chris tried to talk over her. “The route . . . I submitted it . . .”
“You taught her that day, Chris?”
“Vicky.” He glanced toward her, a pulse thumping in his neck. “Can we talk about this later? The detectives must be very busy.” Turning back to them, he spoke in a panic: “It’s a common driving-lesson loop.”
“So you’re certain that’s the way you went?”
“Yes.”
“Would you take another look?” Ford thrust a piece of paper at him. Chris cast his eyes over the street names swimming on the page. He was aware of Vicky peering over his shoulder; he glanced at her and the red lips surprised him again.
“You stand by this?” Detective Johnson asked.
“As far as I remember. I teach a lot of students, so the lessons sometimes blur.”
“Anywhere else you think you might have been?”
They were giving him a chance to save himself from whatever had brought them back here. But Chris couldn’t think clearly enough.
“I . . . really don’t remember.”
Ford snatched back the paper. “We just wanted to confirm.”
They turned to go, and Chris wiped his palms on his jeans. But it was almost like a deliberate feint on the detectives’ part: Ford paused halfway out of the door, swiveling back. “Actually, while we’re here, could we look in your car?”
“My car?”
“If we could do it with your cooperation . . .”
“Why?” Vicky broke in. “What do you need to search his car for?”
“We’re just covering all bases.”
Chris felt Vicky studying his reaction. He shrugged, nodded, made a meal of locating his keys. Following the officers back up to street level, he felt as if he was emerging out of a bunker, squinting and wary. He willed Vicky to stay in the flat but of course she wouldn’t. So much for their unofficial pact to leave one another to their own messy affairs.
He unlocked his car and the detectives shone lights inside. Their beams probed under the seats and into the foot-wells—places even Chris rarely looked. It was as if they were examining him internally. The houses of the street seemed to crane forward to see into the car, too, and Chris’s spine tingled with awareness of the Harlows’ place looming overhead. The police asked him to open the boot, the glove box. He had a sudden fear that a completely empty glove box was abnormal. That his car was too clean. A spotless vehicle is part of my professionalism, he prepared himself to explain. They said nothing, though, and abruptly they were gone, a promise to be “in touch” trailing behind.
Slowly, Chris faced his wife. She was staring at him as if he was a stranger she half recognized and was trying to place. A stranger who made her skin crawl. It was crushing, to have her looking at him that way. Worse than the police interrogations.
“You never said you had a lesson with her that day. Or that you’d been asked to submit your route.”
Chris grabbed her arm. “Can we not talk about this out here?”
“Why?” She pulled out of his grip. “Afraid of people overhearing?”
“Do we really want to be the couple that hollers their private business to the entire street? The neighbors already think we’re a bit rough.”
“It’s not private, it’s the girl who lives right there.”
Still he wouldn’t look up, couldn’t look at Vicky’s face, either, as she seemed unable to tear her eyes from the Harlows’ windows.
At last she shook her head and stalked past him down their steps.
Inside the hall she became subdued. She scratched a dry patch on her hand and he noticed she wasn’t wearing the bracelet.
“You taught Freya”—finally, her gaze returned to him—“on the day she vanished into thin air?”
“She had contact with lots of people that day. I bet their spouses aren’t looking at them like they killed someone.”
“What makes you think she’s dead?”
“It was an expression! Jesus.”
“Are you a suspect?”
“No! Thanks for having faith in me.”
She let out a long sigh. “Honestly, I don’t think I do anymore.”
Chris felt something shift deep inside him. He could sense the conversation inflaming into something much bigger. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to stoke the fire or extinguish it. “That’s rich,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know, Vicky.”
She lifted her chin, her face pink. “Stop deflecting.”
“Weren’t you the one who suggested we don’t ‘nag’ each other about what’s going on in our lives? Our separate lives, where we’re apparently just two miserable people who share a house, and act vaguely like a married couple about once a year . . .”
“Is it that often? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Well, that’s the point!” He spread his arms, aware of trying to make himself larger, wanting to fill the space in front of her. “You barely notice me, except when—”
They were interrupted again by the doorbell. This time it was loud in the hall, making them both jump. Neither moved for a moment, then Vicky went to the door. Chris exhaled when she opened it, never so relieved to see his sister-in-law.
Di looked from one to the other, presumably seeing flushed faces, sensing tension. “Am I interrupting something?” she asked. “I was just passing.”
Vicky smoothed her hair. “No, no, come in, sis.”
Di was still peering questioningly at them as she stepped inside, but Vicky distracted her by asking where she’d been. They began talking about Di’s shopping trip—she always had some story about terrible customer service—and Chris slunk away on the pretext of making coffee. Once he’d delivered their drinks to the living room, he lingered outside the door. Would Vicky tell Di what had happened? He thought back over Ford and Johnson’s questions. It terrified him that he didn’t know what they were thinking, who they were talking to, what they might have been told and how it might seem. Not to mention what they might do next: search his flat, look into his finances?
The idea drove him into the bathroom, where he locked the door and delved into the cabinet. Finding the box right at the back, he emptied it of shaving paraphernalia and out tumbled the notes he’d stashed beneath. It was insane to have kept them. He tore them up, threw them into the bath and turned on the tap. Freya’s words bled in black streams, the paper wilting to mulch as he forced it down the plughole.
Next he rushed across the hall to the glorified cupboard he called his study. He tried to be quiet, but couldn’t help gathering speed as he gutted every box file from this year, scattering tax documents and lesson records across the carpet. Aside from the sorry state his business had been in for longer than he cared to admit, what else might his accounts reveal?
A noise made his head spring up. Di was peeking at him through the slightly ajar study door. How long had she been there? He hadn’t heard her come down the hall. The toilet cistern gurgled in the bathroom behind her.
Chris knelt among the storm of papers and files, wondering how crazed he must look. Di snapped her eyes away when she realized he’d seen her, and disappeared out of sight.