The Couple: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist

by Sarah Mitchell

  I glance at Angus whose face is impassive, inscrutable. Eventually, as it must, the insect dies. Neither Angus nor I speak, although the air is so thick with questions I think there ought to be a chemical symbol for them, like oxygen or carbon dioxide. I wait for him to ask the obvious one:

  Who was it, Claire? Why didn’t you pick up?

  Instead he drains his wine. ‘Are you ready?’ he says and turns on his heel. ‘I’ll fetch your coat.’

  An hour later, Angus and I are seated side by side in the cinema. Angus takes my hand into his lap; his grip is gentle but firm, as if he is holding a small furry creature such as a hamster or a guinea pig that might escape at any moment. He has picked a supernatural thriller, which strikes me as the kind of choice a teenager might make on a first date, an excuse to huddle close in the dark. I find it hard to believe that Angus shares this motivation, although during the last sixty minutes he has been unusually attentive, particularly affectionate, complimenting my hair and offering profuse and grateful thanks for my early return from Ipswich. I wonder if now that I have discovered the grubby nature of the MPC offering he feels his cover has been blown. To be honest I don’t think it has been – not completely, not just yet.

  Although quite recent, the film is actually a rerun of pretty much all the supernatural thrillers in the history of the world; a house built on a burial site and lots of angry dead people overreacting. There is scary music to hype up the tension and careful camera action to keep the real source of danger just out of sight. I am probably too distracted, too busy with the implications of the MPC website and my earlier arithmetic, to appreciate the subtleties of the film, the plot twists and the special effects, but the result appears to be crass and rather childish. It seems to me that the only ghosts worth worrying about are those who distort the view of the present; the ones who just like the clever cameraman prevent you from noticing the menace sitting right under your nose.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I expect Mark to phone again during the weekend and am careful to keep my mobile switched off whenever I am with Angus. However, when I check at surreptitious moments there are no missed calls or texts.

  By Sunday evening I am considering my next move, whether to contact Mark myself. I am even creating an absurd kind of ‘for and against’ list in my head, as though contemplating a strategic career change. This particular inventory of pros and cons involves weighing up the considerable attraction of not disclosing my immigration information against the questionable disadvantage of never – and I presume this would be the case – seeing Mark again. Even now, when my only interest should be getting to the truth behind his sleazy line of work, I am shocked to realise that I am not entirely immune, not completely invulnerable, to the recollection of his fingers on my skin, the sensation of his mouth inches from my own.

  My deliberations are a complete waste of time. When I approach the departmental building on Monday morning, Mark is standing on the left-hand side of the glass-plate door. He is glancing between his wristwatch and the tide of office workers sweeping from the tube station to their high-rise desks, creating a convincing impression of someone with a pre-arranged meeting, a good reason to be there. He only fixes on the crowd – on me – as I draw near.

  I half expect him to tell me I’m late, to complain that I’ve kept him waiting, but instead he takes hold of my elbow. ‘We have to talk.’ Close up his features are bruised with fatigue, his eyes threaded with spider veins.

  ‘What about?’ I say.

  He steers me along the pavement and into a side alley where there is an old inn with black timbers and hanging baskets. Naturally the pub is closed, the passageway empty, the baskets devoid of flowers.

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Claire. You know what about. Have you managed to get the information I asked for?’

  The pressure on my arm reminds me of coming home to find him in my kitchen, the shock of finding the white-haired man and his mate on the front step, the slam of the door. The way Mark looked at me, like Daniel used to do, before he led me upstairs.

  I nod, briefly, let his grip relax, before I add, ‘But I don’t have it with me.’

  ‘Where is it then?’

  ‘At home,’ I lie. ‘How was I to know,’ I say, watching his face tighten, ‘that you would come here today?’

  ‘I need those names. I need them very quickly.’ His voice is a mixture of distinct emotions. I can hear fear, desperation and menace – there is definitely the sense of threat a fraction below the surface.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  The question must catch him off guard because he retracts very slightly.

  ‘Why,’ I persist, ‘is it so important to have them right now?’

  ‘I told you before, it’s how I earn my living.’

  ‘Recruiting website designers? These placements you need to make must be very urgent—’

  ‘You saw the letter from the bank.’ His gaze has drifted to the wall behind my shoulder.

  For a moment neither of us speak, then I say, ‘Did you send me a WhatsApp message?’

  Mark’s attention snaps back to me. ‘What kind of message?’

  ‘An unpleasant one,’ I say curtly.

  He shakes his head slowly. ‘Nothing to do with me.’ He looks at me curiously, eyes narrowed. ‘Poking around in matters that don’t concern you can be dangerous, Claire. Best to steer clear.’

  I jiggle my elbow loose, wait for him to release it completely, before saying, ‘I’ll let you know a time and place to meet.’

  ‘When?’

  Already, I can tell he is anxious to reinstate his grip, to resort to a physical form of power. His signet ring is practically twitching with impatience.

  ‘Soon.’ I start to walk briskly towards the normality of the main road.

  The game – his game – is becoming clearer. A skilled job – in website design, to take a random example – can get you a UK visa. And if you have the right to stay and want to bring your family here too, all you have to demonstrate is a high enough salary. So if you’re not actually a website designer what you need is somebody to give you a nice pretend job, along with some convincing fake pay slips and bank details. Who would take such a risk? Probably quite a lot of people, particularly someone who has lost their case and is desperate to make another application to the Home Office, to have a second bite at the cherry. They would probably pay every penny they could lay their hands on for one last chance to stay in the grey, rainy UK. The question is, what happens to them after the lies have been told, after they’ve used the false documents in their applications, or in court? When the fraud being found out would mean them losing absolutely everything.

  At the corner I stop and gaze back over my shoulder. Mark is slumped against the facade of the old pub, texting fiercely. ‘By the way…’

  His head lifts; face open with surprise.

  I pause, arch my brows. ‘Nice choice of slippers.’

  * * *

  I can tell something is up the moment the lift opens. The door to Maggie’s office is closed and instead of sitting at their desks or gathering in the kitchen my colleagues are cloistered in groups of three or four and whispering urgently. Only Agatha is sitting down, alone, and she gets up as soon as she sees me, beckoning me across the room with all the subtlety of a newly promoted traffic cop.

  ‘Claire, come here! Something awful has happened!’ she says as soon as I reach the vicinity of her desk.

  ‘Really?’ I say warily. Agatha’s cheeks are blotched pink and she is clutching a balled-up tissue. My first thought is that Maggie or Katy has had some horrible accident and then the obvious occurs to me, that the individual most likely to elicit Agatha’s tears is the very same person who has not been at work during the last week. As Agatha opens her mouth to reply, I say, ‘Is it Nigel?’

  She nods vigorously. ‘How did you know?’

  Ignoring the question, I start to unfasten my mac. ‘What’s happened?’ I say matter-of-factly. ‘Is he dead
?’

  Agatha’s cheeks drain white like a plug has been pulled. ‘What?’ she says in shocked tones. ‘No, he’s not dead!’ She pauses and plucks my sleeve, as if to reboot the dramatic narrative. ‘He’s been suspended!’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Actually, it’s worse than that! Apparently the police want to question him but they can’t find him and he’s not returning anyone’s calls!’

  ‘Didn’t Maggie have a meeting with him? When she suspended him?’

  ‘No! She sent him a letter. Although his desk has been cleared of personal stuff he hasn’t been in work at all. Not since the Friday of my birthday.’ Agatha stops suddenly and blushes at the memory.

  I think about the evening at Kelly’s too, but not for the same reasons. I’m recalling Nigel’s odd comment when I was dousing him with vodka. How glad he was that he wouldn’t see me again. He must have known then that he wasn’t coming back. At least not during office hours.

  ‘What do the police want to ask him about?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Agatha draws a jagged breath. After a second, she says in a quiet voice, even though Nigel is all anyone is talking about, ‘I think Jane has an idea. She said that when Maggie was searching for the report Nigel was supposed to have done for the team meeting last week she found something in one of his desk drawers.’

  ‘What kind of thing? Do you mean a weapon?’ I imagine Maggie opening Nigel’s bottom drawer and discovering a Glock 17 nestling amongst the printouts of case reports from the Upper Tribunal.

  Agatha shakes her head. ‘No, it was nothing like that. Apparently, Maggie found these strange lists.’

  Like a slamming door I remember that it was Nigel who introduced me to Angus at the immigration conference. ‘Lists of what?’ I say carefully. My fingers have come to a halt on my final coat button.

  ‘Names. Names and addresses. And you’ll never guess the weirdest thing—’

  Actually, I think I might.

  ‘… Jane says they all seem to be connected with people who have lost their appeals in the tribunal.’

  For the next hour or two I make sure to appear absorbed by the preparation for my next batch of cases. Every so often I am aware of Agatha lifting her gaze, watching, waiting to see if I do the same, before returning to her own work with a sigh. Eventually, at about eleven o’clock, she pushes back her chair.

  ‘I’m going to get a coffee. Do you want one?’

  Before I can reply she hurries towards the kitchen and I see that the timing is deliberate, to coincide with Jane, who appears to be taking roughly her eleventh break of the morning, each time accompanied by a different collection of groupies.

  I could tell them they are focusing on the wrong person, that I very much doubt Nigel will ever read Maggie’s suspension letter or answer the police’s questions. My guess is that he has already left the country. I suspect I could also provide Jane’s eager entourage with a much fuller account of Nigel’s transgressions than she can, set them in their proper context. Not that I could yet quite provide chapter and verse, but like one of those quiz games in which the image fills in progressively, telltale pixel by telltale pixel, little by little the picture is coming into view.

  While Agatha is hovering around Jane, I reflect on the contents of my own desk drawer, the lists of names and addresses for Mark that, unlike Nigel, I have had the sense to keep safely under lock and key. If I were determined to maximise the commercial potential of that material, to exploit its revenue-making capacity, I consider where a suitable location might be to make that happen, to put the show on the road – so to speak.

  And then I text Mark.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The young woman in my case the following day comes from China. Slight and dark, she is in her twenties and was recently arrested for being an illegal immigrant. However, oddly, she now appears to be saying that in fact she arrived in the UK more than six years ago.

  ‘What have you been doing since then?’ I ask.

  ‘Working,’ she replies. She is giving her evidence in Cantonese with the aid of an interpreter since she doesn’t appear to have picked up any English during her extended stay.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I lived with a family. I looked after the children and the house.’

  ‘How did you find the job?’

  She blinks at me as if she doesn’t understand the question.

  ‘Did you have to apply for it? Was it advertised?’

  ‘I had a telephone number.’

  ‘Who gave you that number?’

  ‘The people who brought me to the UK, they gave me the number and told me to call it.’

  ‘How much did you pay these people?’

  There is more blinking. I repeat the question. ‘How much did your family pay the people who brought you to this country?’

  The young woman says something to the interpreter who replies in Cantonese.

  ‘Don’t talk amongst yourselves,’ the judge says, sounding slightly tetchy. ‘If you’ve something to say you must tell the court.’

  She speaks again, looking at the interpreter throughout. ‘My family didn’t pay anything. The people took me because my uncle owed them money.’

  Nobody says a word. Outside, surly grey rain is dripping down the windows, and the courtroom lights are blazing although it is 11.00 a.m.

  After a second or two the judge clears his throat. ‘Do you mean,’ he says, ‘that your uncle gave you to these people instead of money, as a way to settle his debt?’

  There is a fractional pause.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did the family you worked for in this country pay you anything?’ the judge asks, rather pointlessly, because now we all see the nature of the beast that has entered the courtroom.

  The young woman naturally shakes her head.

  ‘You must talk out loud,’ the judge says, although his voice is much gentler, ‘for the court record.’

  ‘I didn’t get paid any money, but I was given food.’

  The judge sighs sadly, and nods at me to continue my interrogation.

  ‘Why didn’t you leave or call the police?’

  The woman answers rapidly, her intonation rising, as if she can’t believe the stupidity of my questions. ‘The family had my passport and I couldn’t call the police because I was not allowed to be in this country.’

  ‘So how did you come to leave the family?’

  ‘One day they asked me to go to the shop. Instead of going to the shop I kept walking.’

  ‘Without your passport?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There is another small silence while, I think, we are all imagining walking into a foreign, friendless town, probably with no more money in our pocket than the cost of a pint of milk or a loaf of bread.

  The judge leans forwards. ‘Where did you live? What did you do?’

  ‘I earned money from different jobs. They weren’t very nice.’

  We wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. Instead her eyes fog as if she is no longer seeing us or the courtroom, but a more horrific scene altogether. Whatever line of work she was driven to pursue I suspect it was not an improvement on her years of domestic servitude.

  Clearly troubled, the judge turns to me in exasperation. ‘Why hasn’t there been a referral in this case?’ He means a referral under the national mechanism for identifying victims of modern-day slavery. The answer is because as far as I know this is the first time the background to the case has ever been revealed. I glare at the young woman’s representative who really should have found this out, but strangely he has become too preoccupied with his files to notice.

  I tell the judge I need to call the office, knowing full well what Maggie will say and sure enough within ten minutes the case has been adjourned so that the proper procedures can be followed. When the judge explains what is happening the young woman barely reacts. Although she must be relieved that the day of reckoning has been postponed, that finally she might get som
e sort of help, her expression is blank. Years of practice, I suspect.

  * * *

  The weather doesn’t let up all day and by 7.00 p.m. a steady downpour is hammering the outside of my raincoat, pinpointing the gap between collar and neck with the accuracy of miniature Exocet missiles. I could pull up my hood, but I’m rather enjoying the sensation of rain on my face, turning my hair into slick, dark ropes. It suits my mood.

  At the top end of Oxford Street the retail carnival of Christmas is fully underway, lights and lanterns strung high across the traffic and the pavements packed with shoppers clamouring for cabs. However, as I venture further north the roads soon become quiet, with firmly closed doors and drawn curtains. According to the reservation website, The Grange is supposed to be a ten-minute stroll from Marble Arch, however it takes at least twenty minutes of fast walking before the building finally emerges out of the gloom close to the Marylebone Flyover.

  I spot Mark before he sees me. He is waiting, shoulders hunched, staring directly into the rain from the protection of a small, dimly lit porch. As I approach he straightens and takes his hands from his pocket.

  ‘Why the hell did you want to meet me here?’

  I shrug and step into the entrance. ‘It seemed as good a place as any.’

  Mark blinks. For a second, I think he is about to ask me something searching, but all he says is, ‘Have you got the lists?’

  The doorway is so small we are standing close together, the rain inches from our faces, smacking into the tarmac with a hypnotic rattle. It is almost like being beside a waterfall, in other circumstances it might be quite romantic.

  ‘Do you want to go inside?’ I say.

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’ He looks at me quizzically. The shadows gouging the hollows of his eyes and cheeks seem further pronounced than before, the whites of his eyes more compromised, the face of someone on the run, or at least with his back to the wall.

  I touch his shoulder through the sodden fabric of his mac. ‘It’s a hotel. There must be rooms. I thought you might, you know’ – I gesture with my head towards the interior – ‘want to find somewhere?’