Henry Nelson’s phone rang for the ninth time and he tutted because he was in the middle of a punishing workout. His muscles jumped with tension and he slammed a dumbbell down onto the gym floor to shut up his phone. He would usually ignore calls from No Caller ID because it brought back too many painful memories of the police. However, it could also be some dickhead fooling around, a cold caller, or a wrong number. Or important.
It was the police.
His guts turned over. He cursed himself for answering. His eyes closed in regret and he felt his palms go sweaty as he held the handset tighter. He sat down on a free weights bench, heavily.
‘Nelson’s Bespoke Kitchens?’ the policewoman asked again.
‘Yes, sorry. I’m in the middle of something, can I call you back?’ Henry asked.
‘Is it an emergency, sir? I’d just like to ask a few questions about Monika Thorpe.’
‘Who?’
‘Monika Thorpe. You fitted a new kitchen for Mr and Mrs Thorpe a few weeks ago?’
‘Erm, yes. What’s this about?’
A momentary exhalation of relief escaped him as he realised the call was about his work, rather than his past convictions. However, an uneasy feeling spread throughout his belly. He recalled Monika’s face the last time he’d seen her on Tuesday evening. The pain.
‘I’m just trying to gather some information for an inquiry, sir. Mrs Thorpe was reported missing on Wednesday lunchtime. We’re making routine calls trying to establish her whereabouts. We have in our notes that the Thorpes were expecting you to visit on Wednesday morning to make some minor adjustments to cupboards. When was the last time you visited the house?’
Paranoia gripped Henry. Part of him mistrusted the authenticity of the call: what if it wasn’t the police? What if it was a hoax? He froze. Monika was missing.
‘Sir?’ the voice persisted.
‘Yes,’ he said. He tried to think clearly, lest he make a mistake.
‘I completed the kitchen at the weekend, it was a big job; it’s very grand. It took four weeks.’
‘Right, sir, and Monika? Mrs Thorpe?’
‘Oh, yes. She was there at the weekend, then erm, I popped in on Monday.’
‘And how did she seem on Monday? Her mood?’
Henry thought back to Monika moaning loudly as she was pushed up against the new marble island, her legs around Henry’s back, his work trousers around his ankles.
‘She was happy,’ he said.
‘Over the few weeks you were there, sir, did you spend much time with Mr and Mrs Thorpe? You must have become quite familiar with their routine.’
‘Yes, Mr Thorpe works a lot, sometimes in London, sometimes in his office in the garden. Mrs Thorpe was in and out, I mean, I… She was busy. I don’t know what she did, if she worked. I don’t think she did,’ he said.
‘Right. And did she have visitors?’
A creeping feeling spread up Henry’s spine, and a warning signal alerted him to end the conversation. The question was no longer indicative of an innocent enquiry. The tone of the policewoman’s voice told him otherwise, and to be careful. This was a history-hunting exercise and he knew from experience what the police did when they were desperate to get answers. They came across as friends of the community; caring and sensitive, until they had what they wanted, then you no longer mattered, and their true agenda was revealed. All they wanted was names: poor bastards to send to prison so they could tick off their stats. A rich woman with connections to an ex-con from the wrong side of the tracks was a worthy cliché and something lawyers would cream their pants over.
‘I never saw any visitors.’
A stone settled in the pit of his stomach. It was a slippery slope. He’d just taken a huge step; no, a leap, into an unknown unwelcome in his life, but it was entirely his own fault. He’d made the split-second decision to obfuscate to protect Monika’s privacy, not trusting the process of any police agenda. Now, the lie would get bigger and bigger as they pestered him with more questions, which they surely would, until they finally unearthed some evidence that he’d been in her bed. It was only a matter of time before they found a stranger’s DNA on her sheets and they came looking for a predator. Then a match on the database with a known criminal.
‘And did you ever overhear her making plans to see friends?’
‘I didn’t listen. Part of my job is respecting the client’s privacy,’ he said.
‘Of course.’
Henry knew the policewoman didn’t believe him. What tradesman didn’t listen to everything that happened in the house they were working in? It was what made the stories at the pub on a Friday night so interesting: the sex toys they found in drawers, the loud arguments, the fucked-up kids, and the come-ons from the ladies of the house. It was part and parcel of what he did, and the coppers knew it. They wouldn’t be interested in the fact that, despite what it looked like – a tradesman having a fling with a client – he actually had feelings for her. They wouldn’t care because it wouldn’t fit into their plan. They’d find out soon enough that he had a record, and that he’d enjoyed a stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure, and then he’d be fucked.
The rest of the conversation went by in a blur until he was finally allowed to hang up. Depression came over him in a wave and suddenly the thought of heavy weights burdened him. He gave up on his workout and walked to the changing rooms to get a shower. He dialled Monika’s number five times but each time he got a dead tone. It was stupid, really. He already knew she wouldn’t answer. A few people greeted him, which was normal because he knew a lot of people at the gym, including the trainers, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he walked past in a daze.
‘Henry? Hello.’
A hand waved across his path and he snapped out of his trance momentarily. It was Grace, and he felt bad for ignoring her.
‘Hi,’ he said, and tried to smile.
‘Everything okay?’ she asked.
He came back to his senses. Grace wore her mask of happiness easily, though Henry knew that wasn’t the case inside. He saw the distress behind her eyes because he’d been there: hunted and haunted. He knew what to look for.
He looked at her and wished he was somebody else. Somebody she could really, truly trust. She was so innocent and young and he felt true pain for her, knowing what life had thrown in her path. If there was one thing so sure in this life, it was that happiness was momentary, if it existed at all. One day, he was sure, Grace would walk into the gym without her smile, and then he’d know that she’d finally succumbed to the contaminated misery of real life, blighted by reality, and infected with sorrow, despite her best efforts to fight it.
‘I can see you’ve finished,’ she said. ‘Smashing it as always.’
The realisation that Grace was Monika’s PT jolted him. Perhaps the police had contacted her too? He looked for signs that she knew. He wanted to ask her, but that would seem weird. They barely knew one another – officially – and just exchanged pleasantries at the gym because he was a regular. He never spoke to Monika at the gym either, they made sure to stay away from one another. It was all part of the facade that lovers create to avoid detection. Instead, he said to Grace what he said to everybody to cheer himself up.
‘You’ve just made my day.’