Land of the Living (24 page)

‘Nearly a year ago now, she fell in love with someone else and left me.’

‘Stupid woman,’ I said. ‘Who could ever leave you?’ I stroked his soft hair. It was still only afternoon, and here we were, lying under the duvet as if we were in a small cave, while outside the world closed in. ‘Were you very hurt?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose I was.’

‘But you’re all right now? Are you?’

‘Now I am.’

‘We need to talk about Jo,’ I said, after a bit.

‘I know. I feel I shouldn’t be so happy.’ He leant across, switched on the bedside lamp and we both blinked in the sudden dazzle. ‘So she was looking for a cat on Wednesday afternoon, and you were looking for her on Thursday.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re following yourself.’

‘Like that mad cat woman said — round and round in circles.’

Twenty-three

Ben went out to buy food for supper, and on a sudden impulse I rang Sadie.

‘Hi there,’ I said. ‘Guess who?’

‘Abbie? God, Abbie, where’ve you disappeared to? Do you realize I don’t even have a phone number for you? I was at Sam’s yesterday evening; he was having a little birthday get-together, and we all said how odd it was you weren’t with us. We even toasted you. Well, we toasted absent friends, and that was mainly you. But nobody knew how to get hold of you. It’s as if you’ve fallen off the face of the earth.’

‘I know, I know. And I’m sorry. I miss all of you, but, well — I can’t explain now. I should have remembered his birthday; I’ve never forgotten it before. But things are, well, rather dramatic.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Kind of. In a way yes and in a way no.’

‘Very mysterious. When can I see you? Where are you staying?’

‘At a friend’s,’ I said vaguely. ‘And we’ll meet soon. I just need to sort things out first. You know.’ What I wanted to say was: I just need to save my life first. But that sounded insane. It even felt insane, here in Ben’s house, with the lights on and the radiators humming and from the kitchen the sound of the dishwasher.

‘Yes, but listen, Abbie, I’ve talked to Terry.’

‘Have you? Is he all right? Have the police let him go yet?’

‘Yup, finally. I think they kept him as long as they were legally entitled to, though.’

‘Thank God for that. Is he all over the place?’

‘You could say that. He’s been trying to get hold of you.’

‘I’ll call him. At once. But is he still under suspicion, or what?’

‘I don’t know. He wasn’t being exactly rational when I talked to him. I think he was a bit pissed.’

‘Sadie, I’ll go now. I’ll call Terry at once. And I’ll come and see you soon, very soon.’

‘Do that.’

‘Is Pippa well?’

‘She’s gorgeous.’

‘Well, I know that. You are too, Sadie.’

‘What?’

‘Gorgeous. You’re gorgeous. I’m lucky to have friends like you. Tell everyone I love them.’

‘Abbie?’

‘Everyone. Tell Sheila and Guy and Sam and Robin and — well, everyone. When you see them, tell them I…’ I suddenly caught sight of myself in the mirror over the fireplace. I was waving my hand around hysterically, like an opera singer. ‘Well, you know. Send my love, at least.’

‘You’re sure you’re all right?’

‘It’s all so weird, Sadie.’

‘Listen —’

‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call you.’

I called Terry. The phone rang and rang, and just as I was about to give up, he answered.

‘Hello.’ His voice was slurred.

‘Terry? It’s me, Abbie.’

‘Abbie,’ he said. ‘Oh, Abbie.’

‘They’ve let you go.’

‘Abbie,’ he repeated.

‘I’m so sorry, Terry. I told them it couldn’t be you. Did your dad tell you I rang? And I’m so sorry about Sally. I can’t tell you how sorry.’

‘Sally,’ he said. ‘They thought I killed Sally.’

‘I know.’

‘Please,’ he said.

‘What? What can I do?’

‘I need to see you. Please, Abbie.’

‘Well, it’s difficult right now.’ I couldn’t go to his house — he might be waiting there for me.

The front door opened and Ben came in, with two carrier-bags.

‘I’ll call you back,’ I said. ‘In a few minutes. Don’t go away.’ Putting the phone down, I turned to Ben and said, ‘I have to see Terry. He sounds terrible and it’s because of me, all of this. I owe him.’

He sighed and put his bags on the floor. ‘There was I, planning a romantic dinner for two. Stupid.’

‘I have to, don’t I? You do see?’

‘Where?’

‘Where what?’

‘Where do you want to meet him?’

‘Not at his place, that’s for sure.’

‘No. Here?’

‘That would be too odd.’

‘Odd? Well, we can’t have odd, can we?’

‘Maybe a café or something is better. Not a pub — he sounded as if he’d drunk quite enough already. Tell me somewhere near here.’

‘There’s one on Belmont Avenue, at the park end of the road. The something Diner.’

‘Ben?’

‘What?’

‘Will you come with me?’

‘I’ll drive you there and wait outside in the car.’

‘Ben?’

‘Yes, Abbie.’

‘I appreciate it.’

‘Then that makes it all worthwhile,’ he said drily.

Forty-five minutes later I was sitting in the Diner (it was just called the Diner), drinking cappuccino and watching the door. Terry arrived ten minutes later, muffled up in an old greatcoat and a woollen hat. He was slightly unsteady on his feet and his face had a wild look about it.

He came over to my table and sat down too noisily. He pulled off his hat. His hair was a bit greasy and his cheeks, red with cold or drink, had a new gaunt look to them.

‘Hello, Terry,’ I said, and put my hands over his.

‘Your hair is growing back.’

‘Is it?’

‘Oh, God.’ He closed his eyes and leant back in his chair. ‘Oh, God, I’m knackered. I could sleep for a hundred hours.’

‘What can I get you?’

‘Coffee.’

I gestured to the waitress. ‘A double espresso, please, and another cappuccino.’

Terry took out his cigarette packet and shook one out. His hands were trembling. He lit it and sucked ferociously, making his face look even more hollow.

‘I told the police you didn’t do it, Terry. And if you need me to, I’ll talk to your solicitor. It’s all a mistake.’

‘They went on and on about me being a violent man.’ The waitress put the coffee down on the table, but he took no notice. ‘It was like my head filling up with blood. I never would have hurt you. They made it sound as if I was an evil fucker. They said I’d sent you over the edge…’

‘Did they now?’

‘And Sally… Sally… Oh, shit.’

‘Terry. Don’t.’

He started crying. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks and into his mouth. He tried to pick up his coffee but his hands were shaking so much that he spilt great splashes of it over the table.

‘I don’t know what’s happened,’ he said, mopping ineffectually at the puddle with a napkin. ‘Everything was going along normally, and then it all went to hell. I kept thinking I’d wake up and it would be a bad dream and you’d be there, or Sally would be there. Someone, anyway. Someone would be there. But instead you’re here and Sally’s dead and the police still think it was me. I know they do.’

‘The main thing is that they’ve let you go,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t you and they can’t say it was. You’ll be all right now.’

But he wasn’t listening. ‘I feel so fucking lonely,’ he said. ‘Why me?’

I felt a spasm of irritation at his self-pity. ‘Or why Sally?’ I said.

The next morning Ben phoned Jo’s parents. They were back from holiday and I could hear the mother’s voice. No, they hadn’t seen Jo since before their holiday; she hadn’t come with them. And, yes, they’d be delighted to see Ben if he was in the area and of course it was fine if he brought a friend with him. Ben’s face was tight, his mouth drawn down as if he’d eaten something sour. He said we’d be there by eleven.

We drove in silence through north London, to their house in Hertfordshire. It was foggy and damp; the shapes of trees and houses loomed up at us as we passed. They lived just outside a village, in a low white house at the end of a gravelled drive. Ben stopped at the top of it for a few seconds. ‘I feel completely sick,’ he said angrily, as if it was my fault. Then he drove on.

Jo’s mother was called Pam, and she was a handsome, robust woman with a firm handshake. Her father, though, was skeletally thin and his face was etched with lines. He looked decades older than his wife and when I shook his hand it was like grasping a bundle of bones. We sat in the kitchen and Pam poured us tea and produced some biscuits. ‘So tell me, Ben, how’s everything going? It’s been ages since Jo brought you over to see us.’

‘I’ve come for a reason,’ he said abruptly.

She put down her mug and looked at him. ‘Jo?’ she said.

‘Yes. I’m worried about her.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘We don’t know where she is. She’s disappeared. You’ve heard nothing at all?’

‘No,’ she said in a whisper. Then, louder, ‘But you know how it is with her, she’s always gadding off without telling us. She can go weeks without getting in touch.’

‘I know. But Abbie was sharing her flat and Jo just went missing one day.’

‘Missing,’ she repeated.

‘You have no idea where she might be?’

‘The cottage?’ she said, and her face brightened with hope. ‘She sometimes goes and camps out there.’

‘We went there.’

‘Or that boyfriend of hers?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Jo’s father. ‘How long has she been missing?’

‘Since about January the sixteenth,’ I said. ‘We think.’

‘And today’s what? February the sixth? That’s three weeks!’

Pam stood up. She stared down at us and said, ‘But we must start looking! At once!’

‘I’m going to the police now,’ said Ben, rising too. ‘As soon as we leave here. We’ve already talked to them about this — well, Abbie has anyway, but they don’t take it seriously for the first week or so. Unless it’s a child.’

‘What shall I do? I can’t just sit here. I’ll ring round everyone. There’ll be a simple explanation. Who have you talked to?’

‘It might mean nothing,’ said Ben helplessly. ‘She might be fine. People are always going missing then turning up.’

‘Yes. Of course,’ said Pam. ‘Of course that’s true. The thing is not to panic.’

‘We’ll go straight to the police now,’ said Ben. ‘I’ll ring you later. All right?’ He put his hands on Pam’s shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. She clutched at him briefly then let him go. Jo’s father was still sitting at the table. I looked at his parchment skin, the liver spots on his brittle hands.

‘Goodbye,’ I said. I didn’t know what else to say. There wasn’t anything.

∗

‘Ben, this is Detective Inspector Jack Cross. This is Ben Brody. He’s a friend of Josephine Hooper, who I told you about last—’

‘I know. I visited her flat, remember? And you told me about wearing her clothes, and you told me her name’s Lauren.’

‘I’m glad you let Terry go,’ I said. ‘Now you know he’s not guilty, you must realize there’s someone out there who is, and maybe Jo…’

‘I can’t comment on that,’ Cross said warily.

‘Shall we begin by telling Detective Inspector Cross what we actually know for certain, Abbie?’

Cross looked at him with faint surprise. Perhaps he had thought that anyone connected with me was bound to be mad: contamination by association.

Much of it I had told him before, of course, but then the words had sounded like yet more confirmation of my paranoia. They sounded more plausible when it wasn’t me saying them.

We went over everything, several times. It was very technical, like filling in a complicated tax return. I wrote down the times and dates that I’d worked out for the missing week, both for myself and for Jo. I handed over Jo’s photograph. Ben gave him the telephone numbers for her parents and her ex-boyfriend and told him which companies she regularly worked for.

‘What do you think?’ I asked.

‘I’ll consider this,’ Cross replied. ‘But I’m not—’

‘The thing is…’ I stopped and looked at Ben, then resumed. ‘The thing is, I’m very scared that if I’m right about Jo being grabbed by the same man as me, then, well, she’s very likely, she’s probably, you know…’ I couldn’t say the word, not with Ben sitting beside me. I couldn’t even remember meeting Jo; he’d known her half his life.

A series of expressions chased across Cross’s face. When he had first met me, he had believed my story without hesitation. I was a victim. Then he had been persuaded not to believe me at all, and I had become a victim of my own delusions; an object of pity. Now he was filled with shifting doubts.

‘We’ll just take it bit by bit,’ he said. ‘We’ll contact Ms Hooper’s parents. Where are you staying?’

‘With me,’ said Ben.

Cross looked at him for a few seconds, then nodded. ‘All right,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

‘He’s beginning to believe me, isn’t he?’

Ben picked up my hand and twisted the ring on my little finger round. ‘Do you mean about you or about Jo?’

‘Is there a difference?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘I’m so sorry about Jo, Ben. I’m really, really sorry. I don’t know how to say it.’

‘Sorry?’ he said. ‘I still hope the phone will ring and it will be her.’

‘That would be nice,’ I said.

He poured us both some more wine. ‘Do you think a lot about the days when you were his prisoner?’

‘Sometimes it just feels like a terrible nightmare and then I even think, Maybe I did dream it, after all. But then other times — usually in the night, or when I’m on my own and feel especially vulnerable — it comes back to me as if I was actually reliving it. As if I was actually
in
it again, and had never escaped, and all this’ — I waved my hand around the brightly lit kitchen, the plates and wine glasses on the table — ‘was the dream. Everything’s jumbled up, what I remember and what I imagine and what I fear. You know when I wake in the early hours, when everything seems grim and sad, what I sometimes think? I think that I’m on a wheel, going round and round. And that I’ve done all this before — because in a way I have, haven’t I, searching for Jo, falling in love with you? —and I’m about to disappear into the darkness again.’

‘It’ll soon be over now.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes. The police will deal with it — and, God, they’ll want to get it right this time. You can just lie low for a few days, here with me, and then the nightmare will be over. I’m sure of it. You’ll be off your wheel.’