Both of You

by Adele Parks

  ‘She didn’t show up to work?’ asks DC Clements.

  ‘I don’t know whether she did, or she didn’t. I don’t know who to call. I don’t have a telephone number for her colleagues or her boss.’ Mark feels awkward admitting this. He wasn’t actually aware this was the case until he needed to call them this morning. But Leigh is an independent sort, they don’t live in one another’s pockets. If he needed to call her at work, he’d call her mobile, why would he have ever needed her boss’s number?

  ‘There isn’t a head office you can reach?’ Again, a statement dressed up as a question. Mark bites back his irritation at the young constable’s lazy grammar.

  ‘It’s different with management consultants. Once they’re assigned to a job, they’re not contactable through the usual switchboard. If you think about it, people only ever call in management consultants when things are going wrong in their company, they don’t really want to shout about it. The process is shrouded in secrecy. I’m not even sure which energy company she’s working for.’

  The police officers exchange a look. Mark is concerned that they are judging him, that they think he has failed as a husband, that he is uninterested in his wife’s career, not enlightened enough. That will work against him. He tries to claw back. ‘I’ve never needed to know the details. Normally we are in touch via phone a lot.’

  ‘You do know the name of her company though, sir?’ It is impossible to ignore the note of sarcasm.

  ‘Yes. Peterson Windlooper. She’s worked for them for about eight years.’

  ‘We’ll look into it,’ says DC Clements. Mark smiles at her, gratefully. She doesn’t smile back.

  Constable Tanner carries on. ‘So, you said normally you’re in touch via phone a lot. Do I take it that hasn’t been the case this week?’ he asks.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to her.’

  ‘Text? WhatsApp? Email? Anything?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  Their eyes are now bolted on Mark. He can feel the power of their gazes although he’s not looking at them but instead staring at the spot above their heads. ‘Nothing? No word. And that’s unusual?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Of course it is,’ Mark snaps. ‘Like most couples we normally speak on the phone every day while she’s away. She usually rings to say goodnight to the boys, and yes, we message regularly as well.’

  ‘But you waited until now to report her missing?’

  He sighs. It’s going to come out. It might be important when and how it comes out; he thinks he should tell them straight away. It’s never going to look good. ‘We’d had a row. I thought she was sulking.’ Mark still doesn’t look at the police officers’ faces. He would like to see their expressions, to judge what they are thinking but he decides he can’t risk trading that gain against them reading him and knowing what he’s thinking. He imagines the police are trained in that sort of thing. Understanding what is said. Hearing what is left unsaid.

  The policewoman nods to the younger officer. He takes out a notebook. It’s incongruously old-fashioned, Mark thought they might have electronic notebooks nowadays. ‘Constable Tanner is going to take some notes. So, let’s rewind, shall we? The last time you saw your wife was when?’

  ‘I said, Monday breakfast.’

  ‘And that’s when you had your row?’

  ‘No, we rowed Sunday night.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘It was silly. Nothing at all.’ The officers wait. ‘The boys and I had laughed at her dancing.’ Tanner snorts and pulls Mark’s attention. Mark stares at him resentfully. DC Clements also shoots him a hard look. He straightens his face.

  ‘That doesn’t seem like too big a deal, wasn’t the air cleared by Monday morning?’ asks Clements.

  ‘It wasn’t a big deal but, well, one thing led to another. It got out of hand. You know how rows do.’

  ‘Enlighten me?’

  ‘We ended up sleeping separately. Look, is this relevant?’ Mark runs his hands through his hair, scratches hard at his scalp. It is a habit he’s had since he was a kid; when he is stressed, he scratches his head. There was a time, just after Frances died, when he scratched his head so hard and frequently that he ripped at the skin; his scalp actually bled.

  ‘We’re just trying to establish your wife’s state of mind.’

  ‘Her state of mind?’ Mark doesn’t know. ‘Leigh is not easy to read. She’s usually very calm.’ Almost cool. It’s one of the things that attracted him to her in the first place, to be frank. She’s not hysterical in any way. Not overly emotional. Well, not usually. When they met, Mark had had enough going on, enough emotions to handle – his and the boys’ – he wouldn’t have been able to cope with a sensitive, overly excitable woman. He needed a clear-sighted, dry-eyed, composed wife. ‘That’s why the row was so unusual. It wasn’t like her to overreact the way she had. Yelling at me, at the boys.’

  Then at bedtime she wouldn’t just climb into bed and let the matter drop.

  ‘I can’t. I just can’t,’ she muttered as she dug out the spare duvet from the airing cupboard. ‘I can’t sleep in the same room as you.’

  Mark didn’t offer to take the sofa. Fuck her. She was being a cow.

  They hardly spoke a word at breakfast. Just enough to convince Seb that everything was all right. You can still do that with twelve-year-olds, trick them into thinking you are the adult and you are steering the ship. Oli was less convinced; he has worked out that adults are just as lost as everyone else. She made Mark toast as usual, he didn’t eat it. He was being a twat, making a point, rejecting her in a tiny pathetic way. He hadn’t slept well. He kept thinking she would come upstairs and gently slip between the sheets. That they’d smudge into one another, no need for words, they’d both know it had been a daft row, blown out of all proportion. But she didn’t.

  At three in the morning, he got fed up of staring at the ceiling. He threw back the duvet and sneaked downstairs to her. Ready to swallow his pride, make the first move. He fully expected her to be wide awake, perhaps reading, perhaps just staring into the darkness as he had been. She was asleep. Her breathing deep and steady. He didn’t know why, but her ability to sleep after everything that had been said annoyed him more than if he’d found her crying.

  A wave of guilt sloshes into the room. It nearly drags him under. He takes a deep breath. ‘She’s missing. You should be looking for her, not wasting time sat here with me.’

  ‘In most cases, after a domestic, there’s a cooling-off period and then the wife comes home,’ says the policeman. He sounds almost bored by this fact.

  ‘It wasn’t a domestic.’ Mark doesn’t like the choice of word, doesn’t like where Tanner’s mind has gone. You read it in the papers, don’t you? Police called to a domestic disturbance. ‘I didn’t hit her or anything,’ Mark insists.

  ‘Have you? Ever?’ This sharper question comes from the woman officer.

  ‘No!’ Mark realises he ought to stop talking. He’s conscious that he may very well be making things worse. He’s not thinking clearly. He feels like he’s thirty seconds behind reality, like when you watch someone Skype on a news report and there’s a time delay; they don’t seem quite present, quite real. What they say isn’t believable.

  Mark can’t catch up. He can’t react quickly enough to save anything. His thoughts are disjointed, severed. It is to be expected considering the trauma and lack of sleep over the past few days. He feels as though he’s dragging his body through someone else’s life. Thank God he didn’t say that out loud. No one should be talking about dragging bodies. He doesn’t feel fully conscious, but it isn’t like dreaming or even having a night terror; the comfort of those is – however weird or disturbing – you eventually wake up. Mark knows he is not going to suddenly wake up and have his old life back. ‘It was just a matter of hurt feelings,’ he mutters defensively.

  ‘I presume you’ve tried to call your wife? Sent her messages?’

  ‘Yes, I called her on Tuesday.’

  ‘Not
Monday?’

  ‘Yes but…’ The policeman holds his pen over his notebook. Poised, ready to write down whatever Mark says. Mark has to be careful. Exact. ‘I called, she didn’t pick up, so I left her a voice message, apologising. When she didn’t get back to me, I just thought she was being overly sensitive. A bit, you know, difficult. Making a point. I’ve sent a couple of WhatsApp messages since, but she hasn’t read them. Again, I thought she was making a point.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I’m worried.’

  They ask more questions, quickfire, alternating between them. Mark’s head swivels left to right as he responds and tries to keep up. Tries to be clear. Careful.

  ‘Is anything missing?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Anything: clothes, shoes, bag, her passport.’

  ‘No, nothing. I don’t think. I haven’t checked everything. How would I know? She has a lot of clothes.’

  ‘Have you contacted any of her friends?’

  ‘I called her best friend, Fiona. She saw her on Monday morning. Sometimes if Leigh is getting the later train up to Scotland, they meet up for a quick coffee before she sets off. Fiona says that happened but she hasn’t seen or heard from Leigh since.’

  ‘Is that usual?’

  ‘They’re very close. They’re on the phone to each other all the time. So no, it’s not usual. You should probably talk to Fiona.’

  ‘And family members? We’ll need a list of names and numbers of anyone she might have contacted.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Can we just have a look around?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘You mentioned the boys. You have children?’

  ‘Yes, Oli and Sebastian.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Oli is sixteen next month and Sebastian is twelve.’

  ‘Has she been in touch with either of them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. They would have told me.’

  ‘Can we talk to the boys all the same?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want them worried.’

  ‘But you do want their mother found?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then it would be best if we talked to the boys. See if they have anything to add.’

  Mark follows the officers into Seb’s room. He’s on his phone. Mark feels a flash of embarrassment, believing his parenting is under scrutiny when Clements comments, ‘Oh, what are you playing?’

  ‘Brawls Stars.’

  ‘My nephew likes Subway Surfers, have you tried that?’ Seb nods. He isn’t fazed by the police; he has been brought up to trust and respect them. ‘Are you looking for my mum?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, we are. You could help with that.’ Seb’s face lights up. He is a big fan of Sherlock Holmes. More the TV series than the books, much to Leigh’s disappointment. She is always trying to get the boys to read more. Mark thinks Seb is most likely imagining working with the detectives following them around, dusting for fingerprints, putting taps on lines.

  ‘Can you tell us when you last saw your mum?’

  ‘Monday morning, she dropped me off at school. She doesn’t need to, no one else is dropped off at my age. It’s embarrassing.’ He blushes. The ongoing family discussion about whether he needs picking up or dropping off is a constant in the house. Mark doesn’t believe Seb needs the parental drop-offs and pick-up, Seb can more than manage the tube himself. Mark believes Leigh insists on doing them because she needs it. She misses the boys and feels guilty about the fact she is away half the week. She tries to suck up as much of them as she can when she’s at home. ‘She even picks me up on the days she’s not working.’

  ‘Does your dad pick you up when your mum is working?’

  The Fletchers have taught their boys not to lie. Specifically, not to lie to people in authority. ‘No. Mum thinks he does but I just get the tube home. Dad’s always here waiting. It’s our secret.’

  DC Clements looks at Seb for a long time. Mark can see she wants to ask if they have any more secrets, but she is aware that he’s a young boy, worried about his mother. ‘Has she sent you any messages while she’s been away?’ Seb shakes his head, his eyes fill up with tears. He blinks hard. ‘Well, here is my card. It has my telephone number on it. Be sure to tell me if your mum does get in touch, won’t you? Don’t feel you need to have secrets from me.’

  Oli is more concerned when the policewoman knocks on his bedroom door and asks if she can come in. ‘Hide the skunk,’ she jokes. Oli blushes. Both boys inherited the habit of blushing from Mark. They all three turn pink if they are angry, embarrassed or even sometimes simply happy. Mark thinks it’s frustrating. It isn’t a very manly habit.

  Oli isn’t blushing because he smokes joints, it’s just he finds adults embarrassing.

  Clements takes a different approach with Oli than the one she used with Seb. She doesn’t chatter about gaming or try to ingratiate herself. She gets straight to the point; she knows how to talk to teens with limited concentration levels or interest. ‘Have you seen your mum since Monday? Heard from her at all?’

  ‘Leigh’s not my mum,’ mutters Oli sulkily.

  ‘Oli, stop it,’ Mark warns. DC Clements looks quizzical. ‘Technically, Leigh is Oli and Seb’s stepmother but she’s the only mother they’ve ever known,’ Mark explains.

  ‘That’s not true. I remember my real mum,’ mutters Oli. There is a darkness in the room. You can almost taste it.

  ‘My first wife died of cancer when Oli was five years old. I suppose he remembers Frances a bit. But Leigh has been his mother since he was not quite seven.’ Mark hated this conversation. It made him feel awkward and disloyal, to his first wife, to his second, to his son. Oli and Seb belonged to Frances but they belong to Leigh too. Also, he never knew how old to say Oli was when he and Leigh married. Today he has gone for ‘nearly seven’ because then the mourning period sounded a little more respectful. Other times he’s admitted to six to show that Leigh had picked up the reins a long time ago. It’s complicated.

  Initially Oli and Seb had known Leigh as Aunty Leigh. Then she became Mummy. She didn’t push the title on them. They elected for it soon after the wedding. And for years Oli had referred to Leigh as Mummy, then Mum, but recently he’d started to call her Leigh and insist she wasn’t his real mum. It had come up when they were rowing on Sunday. Mark knew this was just a phase his oldest son was going through, he was simply testing boundaries, like teens do. And yes, boundary testing could seem cruel, wounding.

  ‘You should just ignore it. He’s doing it for attention,’ Mark had said to Leigh.

  ‘I give him a lot of attention,’ she pointed out.

  ‘I know you do. Look, it’s just a stage.’

  Leigh – in a rare moment of showing her emotional vulnerability – had turned to Mark and said, ‘It’s not fair though, is it? Because being a mum isn’t a stage. It’s a constant. I’m not allowed to throw my toys out of the cot and say I’ve had enough.’

  Had she? Had she had enough?

  Mark is brought back to the here and now as Clements asks, ‘Have you heard anything from your stepmum over the past few days, since Monday?’ She is precise, persistent. Oli shakes his head. Mark sighs and thinks you would have to know the boy well to see his sadness, to the untrained eye he just looks bolshie, inaccessible. The detective leaves her card with him too.

  The officers nose around the house a bit. Clements asks to see Leigh’s laptop. ‘She has it with her.’

  ‘And phone.’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘We’ll need to see Leigh’s social media accounts.’

  ‘She doesn’t do that stuff.’

  ‘She’s not on Facebook or Insta? Twitter? None of them?’

  ‘No.’ Mark looks proud. ‘Old-fashioned, huh? But also, really admirable. She always says if anyone wants to reach her, they can pick up the phone. She really values a chat.’

  ‘Have you g
ot a photo?’

  Mark shows her one on his phone. ‘It was only taken on Saturday night.’ Less than a week ago but also a time that is firmly in their history. Gone. The family were heading out for a meal. Nothing fancy, just the four of them going out for burgers. Seb had said his mum looked pretty. He insisted on taking the shot. Five days ago, a lifetime ago. Clements uses her phone to take a photo of the photo.

  ‘Can we see the messages you sent Leigh over these past few days?’

  Mark willingly gives up his phone. The messages are there, just as he described. There are no blue ticks indicating that they have been read. Just grey ones, saying they have been sent and delivered.

  Sweetheart, I’m sorry about the other night. If you call me, I promise I’ll be suitably contrite

  Then…

  Actually, it was seriously cool twerking

  Mark had added that because he was trying to lighten the mood. He didn’t mean it. His wife really can’t dance.

  It doesn’t matter anyway because she hasn’t read them. The messages are lingering in the ether somewhere. That black hole of miscommunications, broken promises and lies. The messages are languishing where betrayal can hide.

  7

  DC Clements

  The minute the door to the Fletcher home bangs behind the police officers, Tanner asks, ‘So, what do you think? Has she done a runner?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Or is she already dead?’

  Clements shoots Tanner a filthy look. He doesn’t notice or if he does, he doesn’t care. ‘Let’s hope not,’ she replies stiffly.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s always the husband that’s done it. Isn’t it? Statistically.’

  ‘You are getting ahead of yourself, Tanner. Let’s keep an open mind, shall we? At the moment we just need to file a missing persons report. And statistically it isn’t always the husband – that would make our jobs too easy.’

  Someone is reported missing every ninety seconds in the UK; 180,000 people are reported missing every year. A whole lot more go unreported. Clements knows the statistics. Around 97 per cent of missing people either come home, or are found dead, within a week. And around 99 per cent have come home or been found dead within a year. The numbers sound OK. You’d bet on them, maybe. Except that a year is a long time. Found dead is a bad result.