BEFORE I HEAD TO THE POLICE STATION, I CALL PHILLIPA at Financial Logistics. Since Nick is now officially missing, I can’t put it off any longer. She’s sympathetic, but what happens next is not up to her.
‘I’ll need to speak to Angus,’ she says.
Ah, Angus, I think. The man who, unbeknownst to me, has known Nick since he was a teenager. I’d love to know what the policy is for when employees vanish into thin air or if they even have one. I presume this isn’t something they’ve had to deal with before, but you never know.
‘OK.’
She must have heard the tremor in my voice because she offers to wait until Monday.
‘He’s taking a long weekend and he’s already left the office,’ she says. ‘And he hates being disturbed at home.’
‘Thank you.’
‘A lot can happen in three days. Hang on in there.’
After I put the phone down, I feel oddly distant, as though I don’t belong here any more. I’m the woman whose boyfriend has apparently vanished into thin air. My house isn’t empty, but the atmosphere is hollow. Absent, I keep thinking. There’s no smell, no shadow, no noise from the shower, no extravagant sneezes. And in bed at night I’m alone.
Leaving the Vespa in the Asda car park, I walk along the busy high street to the police station for my appointment with DI Marsh. The detective is in his early forties, balding, his head shaved. He has a raised mole at the side of his nose, near his right eye, that I have to keep telling myself not to focus on. He briefly outlines what’s been done so far, warning me not to expect much because it’s too early in the process. He has one of his officers checking local CCTV footage but so far there have been no sightings beyond the Queen’s Arms.
It’s bewilderingly noisy in here; officers on the phone, phones ringing incessantly, conversations and banter. Marsh ignores the cacophony and focuses on me, and soon has me settled in the bubble of his attention.
I tell him everything I know, from the death of Alex Wells’ sister to the business with Nick’s boss. I mention the In-Step app and Anna, even though I’m a little ashamed to, because it makes me feel like a stalker.
‘I’ll make a note,’ he says. ‘But it seems to me that there are good enough reasons for all of this. People do go into therapy years after an event and they do try and track down the other people involved. Something will trigger a need, it may be a decade or even four decades later, but it can be a force that’s too strong to resist.’
‘But what if the trigger for Alex getting in touch was also the trigger for Nick’s disappearance? Alex told me a bit about the dynamics of the three families that summer. There were underlying tensions. And what about Angus Moody’s involvement? He scuppered that restaurant. Nick knew nothing about it until Alex told him. He would have been extremely angry.’
‘Ms Trelawney, what you’re talking about is life. Restaurants go under. Your partner works in banking. I’m sure he has a healthily pragmatic view about the vagaries of any business, and restaurants are particularly risky. I very much doubt he would blame his boss for making what appears to have been a sensible decision. Presumably Moody hasn’t got where he is today without being able to spot a bad bet when he sees it.’
‘I know, but—’
‘I understand that you’re frightened, but try to be rational. Nick has walked out. No one has seen him, as far as we know, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t staying with a friend, trying to get his head straight. Something will have shaken him so badly that he feels he can’t face his family, but that doesn’t mean he’s in any danger. In fact, the most likely scenario is that he’s holed up somewhere. You have to be patient and have faith. From what you tell me, Nick has plenty of common sense. He doesn’t sound like the sort to misjudge a situation.’
‘I know something’s happened to him. You have to believe me.’
In my distress I squeeze my hand round the white plastic beaker I’ve been holding, and it collapses in on itself. Water splashes over my coat, trousers and the back of Marsh’s desk. I leap up and try to mop up the mess with my sleeve, but water trickles around the base of his keyboard and soaks into a pad of paper. Marsh remains calm, moving everything to one side. Another officer hands him a box of tissues. He pulls out a wad and dabs at the mess.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He dries a pen and puts it to one side.
‘Will you speak to Nick’s boss? He’s out of London, but his assistant will have a contact number for him.’
‘Do you think he’ll be able to shed some light on what’s happened?’
‘I have no idea. I thought I knew everything about Nick, but it appears I don’t. For all I know, he’s embezzled the company’s millions.’
Marsh’s eyes show a flicker of interest. ‘Has he been spending large sums of money recently?’
‘I was joking. Nick’s very careful with his money.’
Back at home, I put on one of Nick’s sweaters. It envelops me and I can smell him in the soft wool. Tim and Cora are out, and it’s such a relief to have the house to myself that I feel a surge of physical happiness as I reclaim my space. Armed with a coffee, because I need as much caffeine as I can get to mitigate the effects of a succession of bad nights, I push open the door to Nick’s study, half expecting to find him there. He’s not, of course. I run my fingers along his shelves, pick up the photograph of me and Lottie and set it back down. I take his seat, swivel it round and settle myself at his desk.
I force my mind back to the days before Nick vanished. There were several significant events: he had a nightmare that terrified him; he asked me to marry him; he was contacted by Alex Wells. And one seemingly insignificant event – the one thing that Marsh showed no interest in – he went for a walk and paused at the same time as Anna Foreman. She could have been somewhere else entirely. Kai was at Hannah’s sleepover too, so she may have taken the opportunity to have a night out. It could be nothing, but now that I know Evan saw him with a woman, I don’t think it is; I think it may be everything. My gut feeling is that this has something to do with the part of his past Nick has kept hidden from me. The part that spills over into his dreams from time to time and causes those horrible hallucinatory visitations.
A woman. The thought leaves me breathless with anxiety, it sends heat racing up into my face. It sickens me. I ram my feet into the carpet and stop moving.
Stop it. Stop thinking this way. For heaven’s sake, if it was something like that, I would know by now. Think about practicalities. I cannot afford to let things slide, not with Lottie to consider. And Nick wouldn’t want me to either; he’d tell me to pull myself together. There is a very expensive roof over our heads and it’s up to me to make sure it stays here.
I have a good idea of the general day-to-day stuff, and I know that our mortgage costs us four hundred pounds a month. He has a company car, but my little runabout is on a lease, and he pays that too, with its insurance, MOT and tax. I cover the costs of my Vespa. What I earn from my job pays for our supermarket bills and our immediate needs, but not the Direct Debits or standing orders.
Beside me Toffee gets bored and curls up, makes a soft snuffling noise before burying his muzzle in his paws. I wish I could do the same. Outside a gust of wind sends pink blossom swirling. I lean over the monitor to watch the flurry drift on to the lawn, then sit down again with a thump. Toffee whines, confused.
‘Settle down,’ I say, and go back to my calculations.
Twenty minutes later, I push the chair back and weave my fingers through my hair. Ball park, our joint outgoings add up to a vast two and a half grand a month if I factor in everything I can possibly think of and add a hundred for contingencies. And that’s not counting the money Nick gives his parents. It’s amazing how much we spend without even thinking about it. We’re not extravagant – Lottie’s school is a state primary and we only have one foreign holiday a year – but there’s no way I can support us on my income alone.
‘Nick.’
I mutter his name without thinking, but unfortunately it has a galvanizing effect on Toffee, who jumps up and hurtles downstairs. I run down after him and find him quivering by the front door. I sink down beside him, pulling him into my arms.
‘Sorry, darling.’
I rub my cheek against his knobbly head. I try to picture Nick coming through the door, dropping his keys, calling out, bending to push an ecstatic Toffee out of the way. His image is frustratingly insubstantial. I’m having trouble picturing him without a photograph in front of me. How could that have happened so quickly?
And if he doesn’t come back? If he’s dead, if the police start looking at me? Maybe they are already. I think back to my meeting with Marsh; I didn’t get the sense he knew about my past. Maybe I’m safe, for now. I can imagine his eyebrows hitting the ceiling when he does find out.
I clasp my hands together and mutter into my knuckles, ‘Come home. Please, Nick. Come home.’
If he doesn’t, then they’ll take a closer look at me.