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Seven weeks later
Mid-February 2005
As usual, Jonathan was awake. He lifted his head from the pillow and peered at green luminescent numbers. Five. His head flopped back down and he allowed his mind to free-fall.
It was in the early hours when Jonathan scraped through his past. Every morning he tried not to but every morning he failed. His thought processes always took the same path. Beginning with the day the kindly neighbour, who often looked after him when his parents went somewhere without him, came into his bedroom with a lady police officer, to tell him that his mum and dad were never coming home.
The pain dulled over the years but did not leave. Jonathan never got over the cruel loss, and his life never fulfilled the promise hoped for by his doting parents.
He did not dislike the great-aunt and uncle who subsequently took care of him, he just felt little for them. When he eventually moved out, life was supposed to get better. It didn’t, not for a while, not until he applied for the job on Harry’s newspaper. It got better still when he met Michelle. He realised now that although he’d always fancied the pants off her, it was her grief and vulnerability that he really went for. He wanted to look after her as he himself had never been looked after.
Was that why he’d fallen for Rachel? Because she was in need? No. He’d fallen for her years before, before Michelle, before Joe’s murder, when she was strong, confident and happy; but he’d never been able to say a thing. And now he couldn’t stop thinking about her and her ‘holiday’. She was still away and he’d heard nothing.
He’d lived by his instincts since he’d been orphaned and they had only grown stronger over the years. It was what made him a good journalist. He knew something wasn’t right with Rachel. He felt it. She’d never got back to him about coming to London. OK, so his pride was hurt, but it was more than that.
Half an hour later, after too much coffee and not enough food, Jonathan was firmly ensconced in his study dialling Charlotte Gayle’s telephone number.
Gayle didn’t seem too fazed when she opened the door soon after Jonathan had pulled on the antiquated bell. Late thirties, and in great shape, a sarong wrapped stylishly around her lithe, compact, body, Jonathan remembered Rachel talking about her best friend: bohemian, innately kind, unsuspicious.
‘All the things I’m not,’ she had said. ‘That’s why she likes me, I’m sure – I challenge her. She has more in common with Liam.’
‘Jonathan ... long time. How are you?’ Charlotte opened the door wider, offering hospitality. ‘Come in.’
They were soon sitting outside on her overplanted patio, the winter sun invisible behind heavy clouds. Jonathan felt the beginnings of a spring that was still a while away, not due to the temperature, it couldn’t be more than eight degrees, but because of the tranquil Mediterranean-style garden he found himself in. The terrace was full of bright ceramics, wind chimes and burnt-down candles that signified many evenings spent outside. It was welcoming and he did feel very at ease.
She crossed one slim leg over the other. ‘What can I do for you? I take it this isn’t a social visit?’ She leant forwards. ‘You’re not here to ask about Jacob? I don’t talk about my son. Ever.’
Jonathan sat down in a pretty but uncomfortable chair. ‘No, I’m not here to talk about Jacob, although I hear he’s been offered a very prestigious part. So, although I don’t want to talk about him, give him my congratulations.’ He noticed her clear and smooth skin. No wrinkles at all and no sign of surgery. He saw where Jacob got his looks. They both had skin that a camera loved, a translucency that reflected the light, contours that translated well in a photograph.
‘Have you seen Rachel recently?’ he asked.
‘At Christmas.’ She watched him. ‘And you, have you seen her?’ She wavered, her smile dimmed. ‘You’re not writing anything about Rachel, are you?’
‘No, I’m not. This isn’t work, and I can’t believe you’d even think that.’ Jonathan fixed his stare on her. ‘I’m a bit concerned about her.’
‘Are you? I’m not. She’s on holiday.’ Her face softened. ‘I’m sorry she didn’t let you know ... I know you have a soft spot for her.’
‘It’s not about me having any spot for her. She’s my friend, as she’s yours, and she’s been “gone” for over a month. Nearly two.’
‘Look, Jonathan, she’s fine.’ She stood and wiped the table with a multi-coloured cloth. ‘I know you’re looking into what’s happening at Littleworth. Are you sure you’re not here for that? Finding out everything you can, because I can assure you, there’s nothing I can tell you.’
‘I’m worried about her.’
She smiled again, showing even white teeth. ‘Rachel’s very independent, as you know. She spent Christmas here, she’s OK. I like to think it was good for her, this is a nice spot.’
‘It is.’ And it was. ‘Did she tell you where she was going? Tell you anything?’
‘No, she didn’t say.’
‘But she told you she’d only be gone for a couple of weeks? That’s what she told me.’
‘She’s a big girl.’
‘Did she mention anything else, her plans ... anything?’
‘She seemed more together, doing things for herself. She’s taken up karate again. We spoke about a course that Jacob did recently in London – some voice-coaching – to get the part he wanted. Rachel seemed very interested to get the details of the school. They teach method acting, too. Maybe she’ll put herself on a course there? She loved acting at university. So, you see, she is improving, forming some outside interests.’
‘What’s the name of the school?’ he asked.
‘Cambri. The Cambri School of Voice Coaching and Acting.’
He nodded, storing the information. ‘You’ve known her for a long time.’
‘Uni. Best friends since. She stayed with my family a lot in the holidays. Margaret, you know? She wanted to get away from her.’ Her gaze moved towards the Bonsai tree that sat on the table. ‘But I think the problem she has with her mother has got worse after what happened. I’m not surprised, though. She never really talks about Margaret. But that’s families for you, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed it is,’ he said. ‘Do you know Liam well?’
Charlotte’s expression changed. ‘Quite well. He’s my best friend’s husband. He and Rachel have been good to me.’
‘Ex-husband. Have you spoken with him recently?’
Charlotte hesitated. ‘I saw him soon after Christmas, when Rachel left.’
‘And neither of you know where she’s gone?’
‘No, I’ve told you.’
‘Can you, or Liam, contact her?’
She looked Jonathan directly in the face. ‘No.’
He sighed. ‘Is Liam concerned?’
Again, he sensed hesitation. ‘A little, but ... he has his own problems.’
‘Has he shared those problems with you?’ he asked, seeing a tinge of redness on her high cheekbones and being unable to decide if it was anger or embarrassment.
‘A little. Look, I can’t help you.’ She watched him. ‘She mentioned Marek Gorski a couple of times. Maybe she plans to go and visit him in Poland; I know he had a nice place in Warsaw.’
Jonathan leant back in the uncomfortable chair. Marek. He could imagine Rachel seeking out Marek’s company. A silent and solid bloke; he felt a gentle movement of air waft around his face.
‘I really don’t know where she is, nor does Liam,’ she carried on. ‘But she’s OK.’
Jonathan moved his chair backwards a fraction. Was he overreacting? His answer to himself was swift no.
Charlotte smiled. ‘Maybe you should go and see Alan: he might know more.’
‘Maybe I should. Listen, thanks for your time.’ Jonathan extracted himself from the chair. ‘And thanks for talking to me. If you remember anything else give me a buzz.’ He handed her his card.
‘I’m off to LA tomorrow, but will do.’
Jonathan left.
He remembered seeing a nice pub on the corner of the park. He really fancied a pint, and a think.
Jonathan’s bitter sat in front of him, centred perfectly on the beer mat, untouched. He’d plucked his notebook from inside his bag, half full of the information about Margaret Hemmings. He’d been in touch with Barry Haslop, who’d promised to investigate Margaret Hemmings for him. That had been a while ago, and he hadn’t yet got back. As he himself often did, Barry needed a prod, but all in good time. He glanced at his mobile that perched on the wooden bench. He looked at the telephone number printed neatly on the notepad’s unlined page.
Give it go, he said to himself. He pushed the relevant numbers and waited.
‘Hi, is that Alan Hemmings?’
Rachel’s dad agreed to meet with him later that day at a pub near his home.
He picked up his pencil and wrote down an ordered list of his thoughts, neatly underlining the ones he thought most salient with his new highlighter pen. Seeing Alan. Calling Marek Gorski. Chasing up info on Margaret.