by Paul Torday
‘In a way, yes, Mrs Gascoigne. I’m here to help my colleagues in the Tayside Police. They’ve faxed down this form they want you to sign, as soon as possible. I’d better explain.’
I took him into the kitchen and, in order to get some semblance of mental balance back, fussed about making two mugs of Nescafé, which I don’t think either of us wanted.
‘It’s a consent form, Mrs Gascoigne, to say you consent to the police applying to the court to get possession of your husband’s medical records.’
My heart almost stopped and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. Then I managed to ask, ‘Why do you need to see those? What have they got to do with Dr Grant?’
‘Because we’re led to believe,’ said DS Henshaw, ‘that Dr Grant was going to meet you to discuss the contents of those records. We wondered if there was any material in there that might ...’ He paused, searching for the right phrase, ‘... shed any light on Dr Grant’s disappearance.’
‘Why don’t you just ask my husband?’ I said. ‘I can tell you where he is, and has been for the last three days. He’s staying at the Marine Hotel in North Berwick, playing golf.’
‘We don’t think that it would be appropriate to interview your husband at the moment, Mrs Gascoigne. It would be very helpful if you could just sign the consent form. The longer Dr Grant is missing, the more concerned we become, and my colleagues in Perth believe access to the documents in question may be helpful. I really can’t tell you any more at the moment.’
‘Is my husband a suspect?’
DS Henshaw looked at me for a moment, and then said, ‘We’re not aware that any crime has been committed at present. This is a missing person enquiry, and we are exploring any and every line of enquiry that might help us find him.’
He pushed the consent form across and finally I signed it.
‘Won’t this take days, if you’ve got to go to court?’
The detective smiled. ‘No, it will be done as soon as the fax gets to Perth. There is a judge standing by and they’ll have the order by noon today.’
After the policeman left I sat staring at nothing for a while. The sick feeling didn’t go away. I stood up and walked around the flat, picking up bits of paper from Mikey’s desk, not exactly snooping, just picking them up and putting them down again. I laid out his post for him. I looked at the books on his bookshelf, which had titles such as: Improve Your Golf in Six Easy Lessons, Make Your Tricks - Some Hints for Contract Bridge Players and, a more scholarly work, A History of Emmanuel Groucher’s Club for Gentlemen by Alwyn Verey-Jones. This last was a slim, privately printed volume, with gold lettering on a dark blue binding. There were no books about genes, or DNA, or schizophrenia, or Serendipozan. This was the minimalist collection of a man with few interests outside golf, fishing or card games.
I checked the bathroom cabinet: there were no more packets of Serendipozan hidden in there, just lots of Nurofen. I was about to start going through Mikey’s suit pockets when I managed to stop myself. This was becoming ridiculous. I had to do something, but I wanted to be on my own. In the end I went and wandered around Harvey Nichols for two or three hours, without actually buying anything. If nothing else, it tired me out. I made myself some soup for an early supper, watched TV and was in bed by nine.
In my sleep I dreamed of Mikey. He was walking along a beach. Small waves subsided gently on the sand. There was a full moon, almost as bright as daylight. Out to sea were three small rocky islands. I followed Mikey’s footprints, which were so fresh that they were still filling with seawater as I passed. Then I noticed he was not alone. A dark-haired girl in a long green dress walked beside him. She was not touching him or holding his arm, but their heads were close together, as if they must be talking, in a way that somehow told me their relationship was of long standing, even intimate. As I followed them I saw that the dark-haired girl was so light she left no footprints in the sand, not even the slightest indentation. I opened my mouth to say something but she must have heard my thoughts before I could even speak. She turned and stared at me and her black gaze made me shudder in my sleep. Then the sound of the telephone awoke me.
I rolled over in bed, and managed to find the light switch without quite knocking the bedside lamp over. I saw that it was half past three in the morning. I picked up the phone and said, ‘Hello?’
There was no answer, not even the sound of breathing.
‘Hello?’ I said again, then, ‘Mikey, is that you?’, for I imagined that in the background I could hear the sound of waves rolling gently on to a beach. Perhaps it was just static.
‘Mikey, if that’s you, please speak to me. Please.’
There was still no reply. Then, just when I had persuaded myself that it must have been a misdial, or a false call generated by some computer in Bangalore, I heard the unmistakable click of the phone at the other end being put down.
After that, there was no further possibility of sleep. I got out of bed, put my dressing gown on, and switched on all the lights in the flat. I made myself a cup of tea, and then listened to a fascinating programme on the BBC World Service about female circumcision among certain Congolese tribes; and then to a very interesting item on Farming Today about biofuel farming. I kept my mobile beside me in case somebody broke down the front door with an axe. Only when daylight came did I feel it was safe to fall asleep, and I dozed on the sitting-room sofa for three or four hours.
I awoke again, unrefreshed, at about ten in the morning. I felt rather ashamed I had been so upset by a silent phone call. Lots of people got them, and didn’t make a fuss. But it had not been just the phone call; that awful, vivid dream had disturbed me as well. I ran a hot bath and lay in it for a while until I began to feel human again. Then I dressed, and had some coffee and toast. Gradually the unease that lingered in me began to fade. I checked my watch. It was about seven hours’ drive down from North Berwick, and if Mikey left about nine or ten he should be home by five at the latest.
For a few minutes I thought again about Mikey’s return. Why should I be fearful of it? He was my husband. I either believed in him or I did not. All he had been doing for three days was playing golf at North Berwick. Now it was time to welcome him home.
I decided I would make a fuss of him, and went out and bought armloads of food with which I restocked the fridge. I started leafing through recipe books until I found something I thought he would like. The distraction kept me from thinking about Mikey, at least not at every moment.
Then, because it wasn’t Magda the cleaner’s day, I did a bit of hoovering and dusted my way around the sitting room. Anything to keep busy. When I had finished cleaning I went and sat in the study, switched on the laptop and Googled. I consulted various sites on schizophrenia. It was a mistake. Either I couldn’t understand a word on the web page, or they were simply too depressing. I found one site called ‘Schizophrenia.com’ which appeared to be used by sufferers. On one page I read a text about how schizophrenics used to be thought of as possessed. The article concluded: ‘There may be cases of divine chastisement or demonic influence, but most of the time demons can be ruled out.’
Well, that was good news, anyway.
At six I tried Mikey’s mobile, which was probably turned off. It was. He had never discovered voicemail. At a quarter to seven I realised he would probably have looked in at Grouchers on the way home so I rang Nigel, the night porter. No, Mr Gascoigne wasn’t in, and wasn’t expected, as far as he knew. At 7.30 it suddenly occurred to me that the Marine Hotel might remember when he had left. He had checked out at 6.30 a.m., I was told, before the other gentlemen were up, because they had all asked where he was, and seemed a bit put out to find he had gone. I took dinner out of the oven and put it in the warmer. At eight o’clock I rang the Robinsons.
‘Peter’s in the bath,’ said Mary, when I rang. Her voice sounded guarded, almost defensive. ‘Can I get him to ring you?’
‘Michael isn’t back,’ I explained. ‘I just wondered if Peter might know where he is, o
r when he will be home.’
‘It’s best if Peter speaks to you himself,’ said Mary. I couldn’t understand why she was being so cold. Then she asked, ‘Has there been any news about Dr Grant?’
‘Not so far,’ I said.
‘Well, let me know if you hear anything.’
I sat by the phone and waited for half an hour, and at last it rang again. When Peter spoke, he too sounded guarded.
‘Yes, Elizabeth, how are you? What can I do for you?’
‘I just wondered if you knew where Mikey ... where Michael might be. He hasn’t turned up here and I haven’t heard from him. I’m just a bit worried.’
‘Well, I don’t know. He left the hotel very early, without saying a word to anyone.’
I digested this.
‘Well, he’s not here, Peter,’ I said. ‘I’m not really sure what to do. It seems a bit dramatic to ring the police.’
There was another silence and then Peter said, ‘Elizabeth, Mary has told me about your trip to Beinn Caorrun. I must say, I find myself wishing you had not involved Mary in this. I don’t know what’s going on, exactly, but there is something you ought to know. The first day’s golf match ... Michael wasn’t there. He made some excuse to David about an urgent meeting in Edinburgh and then took off. No one saw him again until that evening.’
‘The first day - you mean the day before yesterday?’
‘That’s right,’ said Peter. ‘The day the two of you were in Glen Gala.’
Somehow I managed to bring the conversation to an end and then sat down, my legs almost folding underneath me.
Mikey had not been in North Berwick the day we were supposed to meet Alex Grant.
Mikey could have been anywhere. Peter said he had been away the whole day.
Mikey could have been in Glen Gala. It was only two hours’ drive from there.
Mikey could have—
I tried to pull myself together but it was difficult. I kept feeling as if I had fallen into a parallel world where everything was the opposite of what it should be. I went and opened the wine I had put in the fridge, poured a glass and took a deep gulp. It tasted of nothing. If only Mikey would ring.
I checked my watch. It was just past nine. The phone rang.
‘Darling,’ said my mother, ‘I suppose at this time of night you might have five minutes to spare for me? Or is that too much to ask?’
‘Mikey’s disappeared,’ I said.
‘Mikey? Oh, Michael. Well, that’s exactly what Charlie Summers has done, as I was trying to tell you the other day. Do you know, he told me he was off to collect a delivery of dog food from Southampton, then simply walked out of my life.’
My mother began to weep. I had never seen her shed a tear, since my father had left her; after that it had been all stiff upper lip, and not showing any emotion in front of the children or what she called ‘the servants’ (our housekeeper, who got the sack the same week).
‘Why Southampton?’ I said, because I couldn’t bear the anguish in my mother’s voice. I realised she was crying for a wasted, loveless life, abandoned by her husband, preyed on by a series of middle-aged charmers of varying ability and moderate personal qualities. Despite my own predicament, I suddenly felt very sorry for her. At least it took my mind away from the growing nightmare in my own life.
‘Because it’s shipped in from Japan,’ she said, recovering herself. ‘I thought I had told you that. It’s specially made up in Osaka to an old Japanese formula. That’s why it’s been such a huge success.’
She started to sniff again. I could just picture Charlie Summers buying the cheapest mass-produced dog food that he could find at the local cash-and-carry, and then relabelling it at dead of night in his workshop. Japanese dog food, indeed!
‘He owes so much money,’ she said. ‘He even borrowed two hundred pounds from me. Poor Mrs Johnson at the shop is owed God knows how much. I don’t know how she’ll cope. Do you think I should pay Charlie’s debts? I feel responsible in some way. People might not have given him so much credit if they hadn’t known I had taken him under my wing, so to speak.’
My mother could barely afford to keep a roof over her own head, let alone pay some conman’s debts.
‘Well, he is Henry Newark’s cousin,’ ‘I said carefully. ‘Perhaps Henry might feel he has to do something about it?’
My mother was pleased with this suggestion. Undoubtedly she had thought of it herself, but she wanted someone else to say it.
‘You’re right. I believe Charlie was a second cousin of Henry’s, but it’s still family, isn’t it? I shouldn’t interfere, really.’ Then my mother asked, ‘What did you mean, Michael’s disappeared?’
I told her Mikey had failed to appear after leaving North Berwick.
‘Well, darling, men are like that. They never tell you what they’re doing. Your father never did. I expect you had supper waiting as well?’
I admitted that I had.
‘He’ll turn up tomorrow with some feeble excuse, don’t you worry. At least Michael would never run away.’
Then we were back to Charlie. It was half an hour before I put the phone down. I was still debating whether to phone the police when the police rang me.
It was DS Henshaw. He sounded tired. Could he have a word with Mr Gascoigne, please?
‘He’s not here,’ I said. I heard a rustle as the detective looked at his notes. ‘But you were expecting him?’
‘Yes, hours ago. Should I be telling someone about this?’
‘Well, you’ve just told me,’ said DS Henshaw, reasonably. ‘We’re looking for him anyway. So if we find him, you’ll be the first to know. I just want to say one thing, Mrs Gascoigne, and I want you to pay very close attention. Have you got your mobile handy?’
I told him to hang on while I went and got it.
‘What’s the number?’ he asked, so I gave it to him. Then he told me to key in the number he read out to me.
‘If Mr Gascoigne should turn up,’ said DS Henshaw, ‘no matter what time, no matter where you are when you see him, call this number. Don’t stop to say “Hello”. Don’t make him a sandwich, or pour him a drink, at least not until you’ve called this number. When the call is picked up, it will show it’s connected on the screen. Then hang up. You don’t need to say a thing. We’ll know he’s with you, and we’ll know where you are, whether you are in your flat or in the middle of Scotland. We’re tracking the number on a computer and will be able to pinpoint your location to within a few metres at any time.’
He cleared his throat. ‘That’s all you have to do. Have you got that, Mrs Gascoigne? Can you promise me you’ll dial that number when you next see Mr Gascoigne, and as soon as you see him?’
I didn’t understand, and said so.
‘It’s best if we keep this simple, Mrs Gascoigne,’ said DS Henshaw. ‘We believe Mr Gascoigne may be a risk to you, to himself, or to others. This is simply a sensible precaution. Please do one last thing for me, Mrs Gascoigne?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
‘Make sure your mobile is fully charged.’
There were no phone calls, no disturbances of any sort during the night, but I slept little. I was grieving for Mikey. I lay awake for hours reviewing our life together, and reproaching myself. How could I have been so blind, so unsympathetic? How could I not have understood what had been going on? The moment I discovered that Michael had once been treated for a mental illness was the worst in my life. My own husband, whom I had promised to love and cherish (I don’t think I ever said obey), had been shrouded in the mists of some powerful drug, and I didn’t know anything about it.
Of course I had noticed something; I had just decided that that was what Michael was like, and I had to put up with it. It had never been a passionate romance. It was what it was.
I hated myself now as I thought about my complacency. I might have helped, if I had known. Even if I hadn’t helped, I might have understood, and with understanding there might have been more affection, mor
e closeness. Now, all too briefly, we had known and loved each other as we should always have done. I was trapped in my own unforgiving and new-found perception. The fault was all mine, the self-centred, ignorant, oh well, let’s just make the most of what we’ve got attitude: that was all me.
Michael had loved me, just as Mikey now did, only Michel hadn’t known how to show it. He hadn’t been able to show it. The drugs had masked so much of Michael’s true self that little was visible to the casual observer of the real person underneath.
That was what I had been: the casual observer.
A week ago I would have said we had the perfect marriage, reinvented out of nowhere, rescued by Mikey, free from the cobwebs of his medication. Now I was being warned that, when I saw Mikey, I had to call for help. What would happen when I did? Black-clad men swinging through the windows on ropes? What the hell was going on? I had to find someone who could tell me, and I thought I knew who that might be.