I drive past the house three times before parking outside. There’s a gap on the street where Jake usually leaves his van and Mark’s car isn’t in the driveway. Liz’s driveway is also empty. There are no lights on in our house but I watch the front and back doors for a few minutes anyway, just in case Kira suddenly appears, her hair unbrushed, her top slipping from her shoulder under the weight of her camera equipment, frazzled and running late.
When no one emerges from the house I look at my watch—10:17 a.m.—then open the driver’s-side door.
I’d expected to return home to a tower of plates in the sink, a bin full to overflowing and a pile of pizza boxes stacked up on the table, but the dishwasher is full, a fresh load of washing has been folded and stacked in the basket and there’s food in the fridge. The living room is similarly well kept; the rug has been vacuumed, the blanket on the back of the sofa is straight and neat and there are no mugs or dishes on the side tables.
I’d imagined that my home would fall apart without me in it but somehow they’ve managed without me. It feels like forever since I quizzed Jake in the garage about his relationship with Kira and he called me a control freak. I’ve been in control my whole life: of my family, of the office at work, of my mind. Over the last few months I’ve lost control of everything. There’s only one more decision I have control of—whether or not I tell the police about the knife.
The tote bag is just where I left it, buried in the corner of the wardrobe under a pile of winter sweaters. I peer inside, to check the knife is still there, then snatch up the bag and hurry back down the stairs. My mobile rings as I reach the kitchen but I don’t pause to answer it.
The ringing stops as I hurry out of the back door and sprint across the road to my car. My mobile starts up again as I open my handbag to retrieve the keys and I flip it open, certain I’ll see Mum, Jake or Mark flashing on the screen. Instead it says Withheld number. Probably someone wanting to check if I’ve reclaimed PPI or ever been injured in a road traffic accident. I move my finger toward the end-call button, then change my mind. It could be DS Forbes.
“Hello?”
“Claire, it’s Stephen. Please don’t put the phone down. Please! It’s urgent.”
Irritation rises in my chest. He withheld his number knowing I wouldn’t have answered a call from him. “Sorry. It’s not a good time.”
“Caroline’s left me.”
“What?”
“I just got home and all her stuff is gone.”
“Got home from where?”
“I . . . I went out last night. Slept on a friend’s sofa. Please, Claire, I need your help.”
I stare out of the window, at the traffic rushing past my car and the neighbor three doors down struggling to pull her bin in from the street. I always knew that Stephen and Caroline’s marriage was shaky, what with the stress of IVF and everything, but I’d assumed they’d managed to put all that behind them once they’d decided to stop trying for a baby.
“Please, Claire, she likes you. Would you ring her? Convince her to speak to me.”
“I’m not sure I’m the right person.”
“I can’t ask anyone else. I’m just . . . I can’t . . .” His voice cracks and he bursts into tears.
As he sobs down the phone I look across at the tote bag on the passenger seat beside me. I feel sorry for Stephen, I really do, but I can’t put off going to the police. I’ve left it too long as it is.
“And . . . talked . . . Billy . . .” I can barely make out what Stephen is saying for the sobbing. “It was my fault.”
“Sorry? What was that?”
“Billy told me he was in love with someone but I thought it was just a stupid crush. I told him to man up and move on.”
“Billy was in love with someone? Who?”
“I don’t know,” he sniffs. “Someone he couldn’t be with, that’s all he said, and I changed the subject. And I shouldn’t have because then he disappeared and that fucking pedophile Jason Davies dragged him off the street and killed him.”
“You know about Jason Davies?”
“John told me. I can’t . . . I can’t believe I’m never going to see Billy again.”
His words run together as he speaks and it hits me. He’s drunk. At 11:05 a.m.
“Stephen, Stephen, listen!” I hold up a hand, even though he can’t see it. “Slow down. Firstly, we don’t know that Jason Davies had anything to do with Billy’s disappearance. And secondly, why is it your fault that Billy disappeared?”
“I just said.” He sniffs noisily. “He told me the day before that he was in love with someone and I told him to man up instead of talking to him about it.”
“And you think that’s why he ran away? To be with someone he loved? Or because he couldn’t be with them?”
“I don’t know. Why else would he have disappeared in the middle of the night? I should have talked to him about it. I should have given him advice instead of telling him to—”
“Man up. Yes, you said.” My heart races as I process what he’s just told me. This is new. Billy being in love with someone. This could give us answers. “Stephen, think. Did Billy give you any clues about who this person might be? Did he mention a name? Say how he met her?”
“No. Nothing.” He blows his nose. “And I keep thinking back to that day . . . when we had lunch at the Lodekka. It was my fault Billy got punched. I told him to tell Jake about Mark.”
“Tell Jake what about Mark? What are you talking about, Stephen?”
“I’m in the Ostrich pub. Meet me and call Caroline and then I’ll tell you.”
The line goes dead and I stare at the phone, waiting for him to call me back. Minutes tick by but it continues to lie silently in my palm. When I ring him back it goes straight to voicemail. I try again. Same result. I look back at the bag on the passenger seat. If I take it to the police and they arrest me I’ll never find out what Stephen knows. But what if it’s got nothing to do with Billy’s disappearance? What if he’s just drunk and feeling sorry for himself and he’s using Billy’s memory to manipulate me into calling Caroline for him? I need to get to the police station. Now, while I’m still feeling brave.
I glance into the rearview mirror, spot Jane Hargreaves from three doors down raising a hand in greeting, and make a decision.