by Paula Daly
If it wasn’t one of the brothers, Noel would find a crying spouse in his kitchen, Jennifer shaking her head and dishing out cigarettes to the wounded party, saying that her brothers were always the same – terrible Casanovas – and she wished she could promise they would be better behaved in the future, but it was unlikely.
Noel hadn’t set out to marry into a Catholic family. He had been brought up a Catholic, his mother dutifully attending Mass each week, but he had the sense that church was something that gave their weekends some structure rather than giving them anything spiritual. By the time he was a teenager and playing rugby most Sundays, his mother had stopped going altogether, and it wasn’t until he began dating Jennifer that he found himself back inside a church.
It was hard to explain what it gave him, since he was a firm non-believer, but the sense of family, the sense of belonging he felt there among Jennifer’s many brothers and cousins and uncles and nieces, was something that drew him to Jennifer in a way he’d not felt with other women. Well, that and the fact that he wanted her. Wanted her badly. She was wild and funny and warm and unpredictable. She was fiercely loyal and terribly irrational. He’d never met anyone like her. After all the affected, wishy-washy girls he’d dated, Jennifer was a force of nature. He had to marry her. He simply had no choice.
Shame he fucked it up.
Sometimes he wondered how it had happened. How he went from being married to one perfectly decent woman to being married to someone else. It all seemed to happen so fast, as if it had its own special kind of momentum. As if once Karen had given him that look, lying on the treatment couch in the surgery that day, a sultry look that said I’m game if you are, he was thrust on to a moving walkway. A walkway which, even when he tried to get off it, even when he tried to put a halt to things, he moved ever closer towards Karen and Ewan and further away from Jennifer and Verity and the happy life he’d once had.
He should have got off. If he’d had the guts, he would have got off.
Sleeping with Karen was supposed to be a one-time thing. He wasn’t making excuses – it was, he knew, a disastrous moment of weakness, one which he regretted the second it was over. What he hadn’t expected was that Karen would become pregnant as a result of this one encounter. Stupid, but had he even asked if she was on the pill? He couldn’t remember. And so, when she had presented herself at the surgery a few weeks later and said that she intended to keep the baby and that she wanted him, Noel panicked.
He called Jennifer immediately, thinking: Damage limitation, face the thing head on, admit the mistake. And of course Jennifer did the only thing she could do, which was to throw him out.
He set up home with Karen almost immediately, everything a kind of blur, and it was only later, after Brontë was born, that he thought to question his decision. He would find himself daydreaming, fantasizing about a little flat, a place he’d rented instead of shacking up with Karen, a place from which, if he resided there long enough, and said sorry enough times, Jennifer might allow him to return home.
But men like Noel didn’t do that. They didn’t turn their backs on their illegitimate children and fund them from afar. Not like the men of old. Modern men like Noel left their wives, and they started again. They forged ahead and tried not to think too much about the past.
And to be fair, he’d made the best of it. It hadn’t been awful. In the beginning, it was actually pretty good. He grew to love Karen and Ewan. Brontë, naturally, he loved at first sight. They’d not made a bad stab at a new family, he thought, all things considered.
Noel drained his glass.
‘Time to go, kiddo?’ he said to Brontë, and she pleaded for more ice cream. What the hell, he thought. ‘Vanilla this time?’ he asked.
‘Vanilla,’ she said assuredly.
Ordering the ice cream and another Scotch, Noel decided they could walk home. The night was clear, he could leave the car, it was only a twenty-minute walk at the most, and with Karen not about, there was no real reason to hurry back straight away.
Karen.
She’d tried to befriend Verity back at the beginning. Verity was like a pet project of hers, and he’d catch Karen looking at him as if to say, Look! Look at me bond! He tried telling her to ease up a little, as it could be painful to watch. Verity would be scowling, mortified. But Karen seemed to think it was the one thing she could do that would make Noel feel good about the situation. So she’d set to with gusto, always asking Verity about her day, her friends, occasionally even about her mother. And Verity, being so conflicted and not wanting to betray Jennifer in any way, would respond with things like ‘Fine’. Or ‘Okay’. Or sometimes with nothing at all.
Once Brontë was born, Karen had given up pretending to be interested in his daughter, and she, Noel, Ewan, Verity and Brontë began to function a little better as a unit when they were together. Karen complained about Verity’s weekend visits. Verity complained about the weekend visits. And every fortnight they would fumble along, Noel suspected, as many a fractured family does: with lots of underlying tension and many things left unsaid.
From around the age of twelve Ewan hadn’t been around much. He would leave the house early, carrying either a skateboard or a football, and return home as it went dark. This relationship seemed to suit both Noel and Ewan, as neither wanted anything more from the other than for things to be as easy as they could be, and Noel was keen not to mess up the arrangement.
‘When will Mummy be back?’ Brontë asked now, as they made their way up the hill, hand in hand, Noel staggering a little.
‘Soon,’ he said mildly.
‘But when?’
‘In the morning, I guess.’
‘Oh,’ said Brontë. And she seemed immediately deflated by the thought of Karen returning.
Noel gave her small hand a squeeze.
He’d never asked her where she had gone when she went missing. Everyone else had, of course. Over and over. No one really bought the falling-asleep-in-the-shed story, least of all Karen. Karen had gone so far as to view the said shed and was having none of it. But Noel thought that it could be possible, so he’d decided he wouldn’t ask Brontë about it. Not until enough time had passed that it wasn’t a big deal any more. Not until he found the moment. The right moment, in which she might tell him the truth.
A moment such as this, perhaps?
He stopped walking and turned to face her. Taking both her hands in his, he said, ‘You know, Brontë, there’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask.’
Her face was open and trusting, and he felt himself sway slightly to one side. Really, this ought to be done when he was sober.
‘That day that you left us,’ he went on. ‘Well, we were really worried, and I wondered if—’
‘Daddy?’
‘What is it, love?’
And gently, she removed her small hands from his before looking over her shoulder. ‘Can I tell you at home instead?’ she whispered. And he said, ‘Okay.’ Okay, that was fine by him. Then she linked her elbow into his and they set off at a faster pace than before.
‘Daddy,’ she said as they reached the brow of the hill, Noel panting a little from the exertion, ‘do you think, if Mummy doesn’t come home, that we could go to that restaurant again tomorrow?’
26
‘MY WIFE IS missing.’
DS Joanne Aspinall was at the hairdresser’s when she got the call. It was 7.45 p.m. and she had the last appointment with Marc ‘with a “c” ’ Finch. Marc stayed late one night a week, on Tuesdays, to allow his clients who worked full-time the chance of an appointment. He’d quit working Saturdays when he’d turned fifty; ‘I’ve given my life for this bloody job,’ he liked to say, rather dramatically. Marc Finch’s salon used to be called Mark David’s, back when it was fashionable for every male hairdresser to have two Christian names above the door, and he had cut Joanne’s hair for ever. Not that she came in regularly. She didn’t have the time. Sometimes she could go a year without a haircut, and she’d sit, sh
eepish and apologetic, as Marc huffed and sighed, holding up the ends of her hair between his fingers, shaking his head, telling her what a disaster it all was.
Today he’d persuaded her to have a fringe.
‘So you don’t have to Botox your forehead,’ he said.
Joanne was unoffended and let him chop away, Marc telling her that she was going to have to let him colour it sooner or later, or else people would realize just how old she really was.
‘My wife is missing,’ Noel Bloom said again. The call had come through with ‘unknown number’ on the display, and when Joanne learned it was Noel, she was momentarily thrown. She was taken back to the morning after they’d had sex, watching as Noel punched her number into his phone. Later, when he hadn’t called, she assumed he’d deleted it. Or else never really put it in there to begin with.
‘Missing how long?’ she asked.
‘Since around three this afternoon.’
Joanne checked her watch. Almost five hours. No big deal.
‘She didn’t pick up Brontë after school and I don’t know where she is. I’m not sure what to do.’
Joanne mouthed to Marc to give her a moment, and he put two fingers to his lips, signalling that he was off for a smoke. ‘You’ve tried calling her?’ she asked Noel.
‘Repeatedly. And I’ve tried locating her iPhone but I can’t seem to for whatever reason. I’m worried.’
Joanne thought that Noel sounded a little drunk. ‘Did you argue?’ she asked.
‘Not really.’
‘Not really?’ she mirrored. Then she paused. ‘It’s just that, sometimes, we get women taking off after an argument to teach their spouse a lesson. It’s not uncommon. They often stay away for the night. Usually, they go to their mother.’
Joanne could hear Noel tapping something against his desk, a pen maybe. ‘I really don’t think she’d do that,’ he said. ‘She’d know Brontë would be distressed at not being collected, and Brontë had dance lessons booked for this evening. Karen’s not the type to let people down; it goes against her nature.’
Joanne thought about the aftermath of Brontë’s return. She hadn’t been able to get the girl to talk to her. Brontë was adamant that she’d fallen asleep in her friend’s dad’s shed and pretty much slept the day away. If it had been another child, Joanne would have dismissed it as complete nonsense and interrogated her until she caved in. Problem was, Brontë did look absolutely exhausted. In fact, Joanne was hard pressed to imagine a more wan-looking creature. And so, after another couple of attempts, she gave up and let Brontë go to her bedroom while she returned to the station to deal with the paperwork.
‘You’ve called Karen’s parents?’ she asked.
‘I didn’t want to worry them.’
‘Her friends?’
Noel sighed. ‘Not really sure where to start there, to be honest.’
‘You don’t know their numbers?’
‘I don’t know their names.’
‘Ah. I see. Well, I would certainly give her parents a call in the first instance, and see if she’s turned up there. Aside from that, there’s not a lot we can do, since she’s only been missing for a few hours. See if you can find out where she was today, see if anyone saw her this afternoon.’
‘Okay. Will do.’
‘Anything I can help with, just call. And if she doesn’t come home tonight, call me first thing.’
‘Okay, but…Joanne?’
‘Yes?’
‘You don’t think anything’s happened…I mean, you heard about the trouble she was having with the death threats and so on?’
‘I’d say it’s unlikely.’
‘Right.’ He sounded unconvinced.
‘People make a lot of noise on the internet, but they very rarely follow up on it in the real world.’
‘Right,’ he said again. ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. It’s just…it really isn’t like her not to come home. And Karen is…well, Karen’s a lot of things, but she doesn’t tend to behave irrationally.’
Joanne wasn’t quite sure what she was supposed to say to that.
‘I’m thinking maybe there could have been an accident,’ he said.
‘A car accident?’
‘That’s what I was thinking,’ he said. ‘Yes.’
‘You’d have heard something.’
‘But what if I was on the line? What if the police couldn’t get through?’
‘They don’t use the telephone for that, Noel. They come to your door.’
‘Ah, yes, of course.’
‘Listen, do what I said: call around. See if you can find out where she is. If she doesn’t turn up, get back in touch. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation. Sometimes people just want to be alone for a while and they drop off the radar.’
‘But—’
‘Happens more often than you’d think,’ she said.
She ended the call and stared at herself in the mirror. Marc had cut half a fringe and the rest of her hair hung long over her left eye. A cheesecloth scarf and some eyeliner, and she could join the New Romantics.
Curious that Karen had done a bunk, she thought.
Noel Bloom was right when he said that she didn’t fit the usual criteria. Pushy mothers tended to pick up their kids at the school gates, whatever was happening; she wouldn’t abandon that responsibility just to prove a point. Pushy mothers didn’t get hysterical and move back in with their mother. They needed to show the world their family was watertight. Unshakable.
So where was she?
Where was Karen Bloom?
27
Wednesday, 21 October
Joanne reached across to her bedside cabinet and checked her mobile phone. She set it to silent each night, as her mother, who lived in Tenerife, was in the habit of sending sentimental texts and photographs of Laddy, her aged, wire-haired Jack Russell. Last week her mother had sent a video of the dog scampering about at Playa de las Américas; she feared he might not make it through to Christmas. She wanted Joanne to have a record of him still enjoying life.
As far as Joanne could tell, the dog looked fine, and she was more interested in the beach itself, which was a lovely creamy-white colour, and no longer had the black volcanic sand that was there when Joanne last visited. Winter sun was all very well but there was something not quite right about returning to the hotel room with black grit wedged between your toes, loaded inside your bikini bottoms.
She hadn’t missed any calls. Joanne switched on her lamp. The room was still in complete darkness, even though it was getting close to 7 a.m. The clocks would go back on Sunday, it was the end of British Summer Time, and though Joanne didn’t much care for the dark evenings, she cared for the dark mornings even less. Going to work in the pitch black depressed her.
She swung her legs out of bed. Downstairs, she could hear Jackie moving around the kitchen. She opened her bedroom door and could instantly smell sausages. Jackie, after giving up on Weightwatchers, Slimfast, Herbalife, Slimming World and the 5:2, was back on the Atkins Diet. And she’d lost nearly a stone. Joanne had also lost weight – eight pounds, without even trying – which she was quietly pleased about, though the lack of carbs in the house was beginning to get to her. She’d returned home with a poppy-seed loaf the other day and when she’d gone to make some toast and marmalade before bedtime, she had found it gone. Confiscated by Jackie.
‘You want a sausage? Cumberland or Lincolnshire?’ said Jackie, as Joanne flicked on the kettle. ‘And you’ll need to put some more water in that.’
‘Cumberland,’ Joanne answered. She could find the sage overpowering in the Lincolnshires.
‘You’ll tell me if my breath’s disgusting, won’t you? What with all this meat,’ Jackie said.
‘Sure.’
‘I flossed last night, and it smelled like roadkill.’
Joanne dropped a teabag into an oversized mug. ‘What shift are you on?’
‘Two–ten,’ replied Jackie.
‘Then why are you up at t
his time?’
‘Couldn’t sleep. And I thought I might nip to Kendal and have a breeze round the shops. You need anything?’
Joanne shook her head.
‘I could do with some new shoes for work,’ Jackie went on. ‘Maybe treat myself to a handbag.’ She rattled the frying pan backwards and forwards so the sausages span around, mostly settling brown side up.
‘Do you ever see Dr Bloom around your place?’ she asked Jackie.
‘At Applemead?’ Jackie replied. Joanne nodded. ‘Yeah, every week or so,’ she said. ‘About half the inmates are his patients. Why d’you ask?’
‘No particular reason.’
Jackie put the lid on the frying pan and turned to Joanne, hands on hips.
‘Don’t tell me he’s caught your eye.’
‘What? No. Nothing like that.’
‘You’re sure? Because he has most of the staff falling over themselves to be in the same room as him when he visits. Good-looking fella.’
Jackie was off men. After suffering a major heartbreak the previous year, she now declared she was on the lookout only for ‘a rich old man with a heart condition and a limp penis’.
Joanne said, ‘Noel Bloom called me last night.’
‘Called you for what?’
‘His wife hadn’t come home.’
‘Well, what’s that got to do with you?’ Jackie asked.
‘I worked on the case when his daughter went missing.’
‘So, can’t he keep track of anyone round his house now?’
Joanne steeped her teabag until the water was a dark mahogany. Then she added the milk. Jackie always added the milk first, which drove Joanne to distraction. George Orwell had written an entire essay on the proper way to make tea, and he maintained that if you added the milk first you were liable to put too much in. Which is exactly what Jackie did. Every time. They could argue for days over the point so had come to this agreement: neither would make the other a cup. From then on, they would make their own. Unless they had company, that is, and then the argument would continue once again where they’d left off.