by Adele Parks
It’s been a good day for hot husbands who have lost their wives because Mark Fletcher is also an attractive man. He has brown eyes, dark, almost blue-black hair with only a whisper of grey at the temples. He has a strong, muscular, almost stocky build that makes him appear quite the force. Clements had him down as someone who always enjoyed sport and has never allowed the habit of staying fit to slip. Probably he cycles, runs, possibly lifts weights now, as a boy he will have played rugby and football, possibly captained the teams. There would have been women throwing themselves at Mark Fletcher too, before Leigh. But not women who are seduced by credit cards – women who wanted to have families and to see their husband carry their kids on his shoulders, kick a football with them, pitch a tent. If Clements had to make snap judgements – and she did sometimes – she’d say Mark Fletcher is a family man, whereas Daan Janssen is a ladies’ man.
She puts the attractiveness of these men out of her mind and gets back to the job in hand. That is perhaps where she differs from other women, and possibly the reason she has never maintained any long-term relationships, she’s never yet met a man who is attractive enough to completely distract her from her work. Family men, ladies’ men, none of them can provide a high that equals the one she gets when cracking a case. ‘You called about your wife,’ she says.
‘I should have called you sooner.’
Clements pulls out her notebook. ‘Well, I’m here now.’ She starts with the standard things: name, age, then, ‘So, when did you last see your wife?’
‘Last Thursday morning.’
Inwardly she takes a breath. ‘A week ago?’ She tries not to allow any judgement to leak into the tone of her voice.
‘Yes.’
‘But you’ve waited until now to report her missing?’ It is impossible not to hear the echo of the same question that was asked of Mark Fletcher earlier today. What the fuck is it with these men who lose their wives? Why are they so slow to become alarmed? Clements thinks that the next time she’s romanticising the great institution of marriage, she’ll remind herself of these conversations.
‘Oh, but she hasn’t been missing all that time,’ Daan interjects. ‘No, of course not. She has been at her mother’s. Her mother is very ill. Kai devotes a lot of time to her care. Kai’s mother – Pamela, Pam – is in a home, in the north of England. Kai is staying there with her.’
‘I see. So, when did you last hear from your wife? Have you spoken on the phone whilst she has been visiting her mother?’
‘Yes, we have. We last spoke on Sunday afternoon.’
‘But not since then?’
‘We swapped WhatsApp messages. I received one at lunchtime.’
‘So, you are in contact with your wife? She’s simply not at home. That’s not missing.’ Clements was too eager to come here. She should have called him first, established some facts. She’d jumped the gun on the back of coming straight from Leigh Fletcher’s house, thought there was a pattern, a connection. She should be moving on that case, not wasting time here.
Daan puts up a hand to stop her leaving, to hold her attention. ‘Only, I don’t think it is my wife I am messaging. That’s why I came home and decided to call you.’
‘What?’
‘I think someone is impersonating my wife.’ Involuntarily Clements glances at his whisky glass. Is the man drunk? Is he worth listening to at all? ‘She called me on Sunday, Pamela had developed an infection, Kai was worried about her. Pam has Alzheimer’s. She gets vicious UTIs from time to time.’
There is something about how he explains his mother-in-law’s health issues that makes Clements warm to him. She settles down on the breakfast bar stool and gives him time to finish. ‘Then on Monday, when I was expecting her home, she sent a message and it just said, Can’t come home right now. Very brief. I called her straight away; you know, to see if she was OK. She’s an only child. She takes a lot on. But she didn’t pick up. I just assumed she’d had to switch her phone off.’
‘That happens in hospitals.’
‘Yes, but not often in care homes. Never before. I left a message asking if the UTI had got worse. She sent just a one-word response. Yes. Again, I called her, again she didn’t pick up. Anyway, over the next few days there was some messaging between us. It was a bit off. Not like herself, you know?’
‘Her mother is very ill,’ Clements says by way of explanation.
‘Yes. That’s what I told myself too. I called her a number of times, normally we speak every day if she is away, but every time I went through to voicemail and she never rang back. She would just send a message saying things were too difficult, that she was too busy, that she couldn’t talk. She didn’t give me any detail on what was going on with the prognosis or treatment. She was vague and brief. That’s not like her. She likes to talk.’ He throws out a smile at his own joke, maybe at the thought of his chatty wife. ‘We had a supper party arranged for Tuesday. She never referenced it. I expected her to say whether she’d prefer me to cancel or go ahead without her.’
‘With all that she has on her plate, might she have forgotten about it?’
‘Maybe. Yesterday, I decided she shouldn’t be dealing with this all on her own; she likes to be independent, but we all need some help sometimes, right?’ Clements nods. It is true. ‘So, I decided to go and see her and Pam. I texted and asked for the address because I have never visited the place. I realised I didn’t know exactly where it was. Somewhere in Newcastle but Newcastle is a big place. No response from her.’
Daan stares at Clements, his piercing eyes expectant of a reaction. Outrage, suspicion? She doesn’t know what to tell him. His wife has priorities other than him right now. He has to suck it up. ‘Did you call the care home and ask for their address?’
Daan shakes his head impatiently when he gathers that the police officer has not climbed on board with his belief that his wife is missing. ‘I don’t have the number.’
‘You could look it up.’
‘I don’t know the name of the place.’
‘I see.’
‘Then I thought perhaps I could find it by going through her stuff. Maybe there’s an invoice or some correspondence from the home.’
Clements glances about. ‘There doesn’t look like there is much stuff.’
‘No, we both like a minimalist home so it wasn’t really surprising when I couldn’t find a paper bill. We are environmentalists. We keep as much as we can online.’ Clements suppresses a sigh; he sounds like he is expecting to be congratulated on this very usual practice. Clements tries to be as environmentally friendly as the next person, so she doesn’t know why she finds people who declare they are environmentalists so irritating, but she does. ‘I logged into her email account, had a poke around there.’ Clements raises her eyebrows. It’s technically an offence to read someone else’s email – admittedly, one that’s unlikely to lead to prosecution but it’s an invasion. He shrugs, unperturbed. Entitled. ‘We have each other’s passwords. We’re not the sort of couple to keep secrets. I couldn’t find any correspondence from the home, or even a file on her mother. I logged into her phone provider and looked up her last phone bill. I thought there would be the number of the home on that. When she is here with me, she calls first thing in the morning to see how Pamela has slept and then in the evening to see that Pam has had a comfortable day.’
‘You’d make a good detective.’
He shrugs. He’s a man used to being told he’s good at things. It doesn’t matter to him. He doesn’t need to be told; he knows it.
‘But here is the thing, on her phone records there are no outgoing calls to any number other than mine.’
‘What?’
‘Well, no personal ones. No care home, no friends, just a couple of restaurants that we’ve visited, and her hair salon, decorators, that sort of thing. I went through every one of her phone calls – line by line – for the past six months but there are no calls to people she actually knows. Here, look.’ He reaches for his laptop, types at th
e speed of light and pulls up a phone statement. He has all the enthusiasm and urgency of a member of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five. Clements is always sceptical of amateur sleuths. She also is starting to doubt his assertion that they are not the sort of couple to keep secrets.
‘This doesn’t mean much in isolation. I need to check the numbers myself.’ Clements’ first thought is that Kai Janssen has two phones. ‘Does your wife work, Daan?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have children?’
‘No.’
‘What did her last message say? The one you received today?’ ‘I’m fine, no need for you to visit.’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Three years, last December.’ Clements’ longest relationship was eight months. She shakes her head, an almost imperceptible motion. She doesn’t know how people do it. Live with each other, day in day out, without getting bored or driving each other mad. Without killing each other. But then, she thinks, maybe they don’t manage it. Some do kill each other. Daan Janssen continues, desperate to impart his concerns. ‘I decided to make a list of the care homes in Newcastle. I collated the information online. I was very thorough. I called them all, one by one. I can give you that list too. I can’t find a place with a woman resident by the name of Pamela Gillingham. No one has ever heard of Kai Janssen. I tried all the private ones and the council ones. Nothing. And there is another thing. The Find iPhone app has been turned off.’
‘Have you called any of her friends?’
‘Without her phone I don’t know how to get hold of her friends.’
‘You don’t have the number of any of them in your phone? Not one?’
‘There aren’t many. There is someone from her pottery class that she mentions a lot, Sunara. Sunara Begum, I think, but I don’t have her number. There are a few friends from her college days – Ginny, Emma, Alex – but they don’t live in London. She sometimes takes spa weekends with them, that sort of thing. They are not my friends. You know? I don’t mean I don’t like them. I just don’t know them. Kai is very busy with her mother. She’s devoted and that takes up most of her time. She also supports me in my role. We have a full social life through my work and through the friends I’ve introduced her to.’
‘Have you called them?’
‘I don’t want to make a fuss.’
Clements nods, trying to appear sympathetic. She doesn’t know what to tell him. If Kai Janssen was employed, Clements might assume that there is a second phone for work and that perhaps Kai Janssen isn’t as honest as she should be about making private calls on her work phone to the care home but that isn’t the case. Daan is right, something is off, but Clements doesn’t believe this woman is missing, she is most likely having a cosy weekend away with her lover and it’s been eked out longer than she was expecting. Adulterers often have two phones. It’s standard practice. Clements suddenly hates her job. In this exact moment it feels like a babysitting service. Women leaving their handsome but self-involved husbands is not police work. She decides the best thing she can do is draw the conversation to a close with promises to make the appropriate enquiries. Sooner rather than later, Daan will receive word from his wife. Maybe a tearful confession that she has met someone else or a hard-nosed ‘see ya, don’t wanna be with ya’. Either way, this isn’t Clements’ business. It isn’t police business.
‘Well, I’ll write this up,’ she says. ‘Check the phone records. Circulate a missing persons report.’
‘Do you need a photo?’
‘Oh, yes of course.’
Daan immediately pulls one up on his phone, thrusts it under Clements’ nose.
‘This is your wife?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
Clements was expecting someone tall, blonde androgynous but Kai Janssen isn’t anything like she imagined. She is a smiley brunette with brown eyes. She is familiar.
Clements is looking at a photograph of Leigh Fletcher.
16
Fiona
Thursday 19th March
When the bell rings, both Mark and Fiona leap off the kitchen stools and speed towards the front door, racehorses out of the gate. Fiona thinks that Mark must be desperately hoping that the police officers were right, that Leigh has come home. Mark called Fiona after the police left earlier, to update her. Not that there was anything solid to report. He told her that the police seem to think Leigh will be home soon. That they are not too concerned. That women – presumably men too – sometimes do take a few days’ sabbatical from their families, following a row. They were reasonably reassuring; confident she’ll return safe and well. ‘Well, that’s what everyone is praying for,’ commented Fiona, gently. Then she quietly offered, ‘Would you like me to come round? We could wait for news together?’ She was finding it unbearable sitting alone in her kitchen. But she knew that however terrible she was feeling, however anxious, Mark would be a hundred times more so. The boys would be fretful, lost. She wanted to soothe them if she could.
Fiona loves Oliver and Sebastian; they are almost like family to her. They’ve been in her life for as long as Leigh has been in theirs. When they were younger, they called the two women Aunty Leigh and Aunty Fi. When Leigh became Mummy, Fiona hung on to Aunty Fi for a few years, but they’ve grown out of that now. Still, however much Fiona loves the boys she has to admit they were a challenge this evening. It was clearly a good thing that she had come over. There was no doubt that her presence defused things.
The boys seemed pleased to see her, relieved. Seb, the less complicated of the two, hugged her tightly but then chatted about his day in a relatively usual way. He’s naively hopeful that his mum will tumble through the door any moment. Oli’s reaction is more nuanced. He’s sulky around his father, almost accusatory.
‘I’m sure everything is OK,’ Fiona said repeatedly because that’s what people say at times like this. She wants to appear positive but she’s lying to protect the boys. It’s obvious something bad has happened to Leigh. Leigh is not the irresponsible sort. She would be here if she could be. If she had a choice in the matter. She hasn’t checked in with the boys for days. Fiona suggested to Mark that they call hospitals. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but we have to face the facts. It’s just not something she’d do. I still can’t take it in.’
Mark is in the hallway ahead of Fiona, she looks over his shoulders and sees the silhouettes of a hatted policeman and woman at the door.
‘Have you found her?’ Mark demands as he swings open the door.
The female officer shakes her head, apologetically. ‘Can we come in?’
They all automatically traipse through to their small sitting room. It’s a mess but the kitchen is more so. To his credit Mark managed to make the boys a spag bol for supper; however, he clearly didn’t have the energy to wash up, so the kitchen isn’t the right place to talk. Fiona is torn, itching to restore order but also not wanting to look like she is interfering. Instead, she’s cracked open the bottle of Bordeaux that she brought with her. She thought it was more urgently needed, more supportive. She will wash up before she leaves tonight, though. She might suggest to Mark that she have a bit of a tidy around tomorrow. Everyone always feels better after a tidy around. Well, Fiona certainly does. Leigh is always teasing her about that, saying Fiona is a bit OCD. Fiona suddenly feels an intense pain in her gut thinking about Leigh. It’s too awful.
‘You have some news?’ Mark asks. His face stretched, like his nerves, with anticipation. ‘Should we have called the hospitals? Have you?’
They don’t answer directly but they obviously do have news, why else would they be here at this late hour? Besides, Fiona notices that there is an energy about them, they seem almost excited. What does that mean?
‘What is your wife’s full name?’ asks the female officer.
‘Leigh Anne Fletcher. I told you before.’
‘She never goes by any other name?’ Mark shakes his head. He looks mystified.
The male officer clarifies, ‘No
nicknames? No—’
‘Well, actually her real name is Kylie. Or it was,’ Fiona interjects helpfully. Mark and the police officers quickly turn to her. Fiona doesn’t know what to do by way of introduction. She’s never had any dealings with the police. She throws out a small, slightly pathetic wave and almost instantly regrets it. She doesn’t want to look silly, frivolous, since the situation is obviously anything other. She quickly pulls her hand to her side. ‘I’m Fiona Phillipson, Leigh’s best friend. We’ve been best friends for over twenty years.’
Fiona has known Leigh longer than Mark has. She doesn’t explicitly add that, she doesn’t have to, she knows that the policewoman will understand her claim, her loyalty. Fiona’s love came first. The policewoman will get it. Men don’t get female friendship. Not really. The exquisite depth of a non-sexual relationship is too much for them to comprehend.
‘Kylie?’ Mark says, unable to hide his shock. Another hit to his body, his ego. Fiona nods and smiles at him apologetically. She wouldn’t like anyone to get her wrong, she thinks Mark is a brilliant guy, a great husband but – well, Fiona is the best friend. She knows Leigh best. Fact. As she has just proven.
The two women have shared flats and been there for one another as they scrambled up career ladders, slid down snakes. Here they are twenty-plus years later – Leigh a respected senior management consultant at an enormous global company and Fiona working for a highly prestigious interior design company that counts amongst its clients many people who appear in HELLO! magazine.
‘Yeah. She was Kylie, she didn’t like it at all. There were too many occasions when we were young and we’d be out, and some random – usually a bloke thinking he was clever and more original than was the case – on hearing her name, would burst into a chorus of “I Should Be So Lucky”.’ Fiona sings the song, in case they need reminding. But then she stops singing abruptly, aware that nobody needs reminding of a Kylie song, ever, and this obviously isn’t the place or the time to be singing. ‘Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Stress, I guess.’ Everyone nods. They understand. Fiona continues, ‘Her mum’s Australian and it’s a pretty popular name out there but not here. It just bothered Leigh to be noticed that way. She’s quite a shy person, when it comes down to it. She had it changed by deed poll. About a year before she met you, Mark. Hasn’t she ever mentioned that?’