by Rosie Fiore
‘I wanted a baby. She didn’t,’ I said baldly. ‘For the first few years of our relationship, she kept saying she didn’t want to think about it until the girls were absolutely settled and our family was on an even keel. But when I finally begged her to make a decision, she said no. Non-negotiable. Not now, not ever. She doesn’t want one of her own.’
‘Wow,’ said Tim again.
‘I asked her to go to couples counselling, asked her if she’d consider talking to someone on her own even, but she refused, point-blank.’
‘Have you told the police any of this?’
‘Any of what?’
‘That you’ve been having. . . problems.’
‘We’ve not been having problems,’ I said stubbornly. ‘We’re happy. Things have been fine. We’ll resolve the baby thing, one way or the other.’
I could have said more. I could have said that I hadn’t had sex for six months – with Helen. And that, deep down, one of my darkest fears was that she might have found out about my occasional out-of-town. . . indiscretions. They meant nothing, of course. They’re par for the course in my line of work. But I suspected that if Helen knew, she might not see it that way. I can’t see how she could have found out, though. I was always so careful. No full name, no contact details. Just the occasional fumble on a business trip. It’s something everybody does. What happens out of town stays out of town.
I was aware that Tim was staring at me and that I’d been quiet for a long time. I spoke briskly. ‘But she’ll come back soon, and everything will be all right.’
He was kind, my brother. He didn’t respond, or tell me I was talking bullshit. He topped up my Jack Daniels, encouraged me to drink the special milk before it got cold, and moved us to the sofa. He found us a mindless film to watch, one that involved men growling at one another and a lot of car chases. I let it wash over me, and Tim sat beside me until we both dozed off.
I woke up at dawn, cold, with a stiff neck and a foul taste in my mouth. Tim had stretched out on the sofa opposite and was snoring softly. I got up quietly, went to the kitchen for a drink of water and watched the light creep over the trees. Another day. Nearly forty-eight hours since Helen had been seen.
Once again, I found myself wandering around the silent house. I returned to Helen’s desk and opened the drawer with all her paperwork in it. I drew out a recent bank statement from her current account and ran an eye down the list of debits – new school shoes for the kids, a trip to the hairdresser’s, books on Amazon, visits to coffee shops, supermarket shopping. I looked carefully at those transactions. Helen did all the shopping, and we ate well – organic fruit, vegetables and meat. She shopped several times a week and often at different supermarkets. She was fussy about ingredients and had never been happy with getting groceries online. Did the costs seem particularly high? I had no idea. It was quite possible that she’d added on twenty or thirty pounds each time, in cashback transactions; I would never have noticed. But why? She had access to the joint account my salary was paid into, and she had a credit card too. If she’d wanted more money, she only had to ask. It made no sense.
I decided to switch her computer on again. Perhaps an email had come in, or there was a document I’d missed which might contain some clue to her whereabouts. I bent over and hit the power switch.
The tower whirred but the screen remained blank. Was it not plugged in? I looked behind and, sure enough, one of the cables had become disconnected. It had fallen down behind the desk. As I pulled the desk away from the wall, I heard an odd thump. A bulky object which had been wedged between the desk and the wall had slipped down and dropped to the floor. I wriggled my hand in to draw it out. It was one of Helen’s satchels – a lemon yellow one of which she was particularly fond. It felt heavy, as if there was something in it. I undid the buckles and opened it.
The satchel had different compartments. Helen liked a bag like that – it allowed her to keep everything she needed to hand. She liked a bag to have a pocket for her phone, a space for a notebook and pen, one for her purse and diary and so on. Every compartment in this satchel was full. I drew out Helen’s purse and opened it. It contained a picture of me and the girls, and all her cards – debit and credit cards and loyalty cards for a number of stores – but no cash. In the slot next to the purse was her Filofax. I opened the front pocket, and there was her mobile phone. The screen was dark, and when I pressed the power button, nothing happened. Clearly the battery was flat. Other compartments held her make-up bag, a sheaf of notes about an upcoming quiz night at the school, a few tampons, some change, and her keys. Every object I would have expected her to be carrying in her blue handbag was there, in that satchel wedged behind her desk. Why had she left everything behind? And if all of those things were there, what was she carrying in the bag she’d taken with her? Gym things, maybe? Swimming things? If she were headed for the gym or the pool, it was possible she might have left her purse, phone and make-up behind, but her keys? Had she locked herself out accidentally, and had something unspeakable then happened to her? If she’d had no phone, she couldn’t have called me, or anyone else. It made no sense though – she knew everyone in our road, and in the wider neighbourhood. If she had been locked out, she could have gone to a friend’s and called me from there.
I knew I had to let the police know. There was no point in them continuing to try to track her phone if it was there, or to track her financial transactions when all her cards were on the desk in front of me.
I felt a wave of terror the like of which I had never experienced. Imagining Helen alone, out there in the night, was bad enough, but Helen with no money, no means of contacting us, nothing – it felt as if she was adrift in a sea of blackness and there was nothing I could do to reach her. I hugged the satchel to my chest and tried to get my rasping breathing under control. I had to calm down, somehow. I had to ring PC Shah and let her know what I had found.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sam
PC Shah came up the path to the house a little after seven in the morning. She looked neat and tidy, her hair drawn back under her hat. She can’t have had much sleep over the last two days, but she looked okay on it. I, on the other hand, was in dire need of a shower and a change of clothes. I was conscious that my breath must smell awful, and I hadn’t shaved. I let her in and we went into the kitchen. The kids and my dad were still asleep upstairs, and my mum was pottering around, making a pot of tea. I looked into the living room, but Tim was still stretched out on the sofa in there. I hesitated for a moment, and then Mum said, ‘I’ll take your dad’s tea upstairs. You two sit in here. There’s plenty in the pot.’
She walked out of the kitchen quickly and I was about to turn to PC Shah and offer her tea, when she gestured to the chairs and nodded that we should sit down. I obeyed, and she glanced behind her at the open doors leading into the hallway and the living room. She walked over and closed them both before coming to sit down opposite me.
I was confused. I had rung her and told her about finding the satchel. ‘I was on my way over to see you anyway,’ she said. I had imagined she would ask to see the satchel straight away, but so far she hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps she needed to wait for forensic officers? I looked at her enquiringly.
‘Mr Cooper,’ she said, and her face and voice were so serious, I knew instantly that she hadn’t come for the satchel. She’d come with news. And it didn’t look like it was going to be good news. Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed with great effort. There was nothing in my stomach but Jack Daniels and curdled milk, and I didn’t want to vomit that up. I gripped the edge of the table hard.
‘I’ve come to tell you that Mrs Cooper is safe and well.’
I burst into tears like a child and sobbed loudly and uncontrollably, my mouth open. I couldn’t stop. The noise woke Tim, who flung open the door and rushed into the kitchen. He stared from me to PC Shah, his eyes wild.
‘What’s happened?’ he demanded. ‘Sam?’
‘They’ve found her,’ I managed to say. �
�And she’s okay.’
‘Where?’ Tim said to PC Shah. ‘Where is she? Why haven’t you brought her home? Is she hurt?’ He was being forceful, and I wanted to tell him to calm down, to be polite to this woman, my saviour.
But PC Shah didn’t seem offended. She held up a hand to Tim to slow his flow of words. ‘And you are?’ she asked.
‘My brother, Tim,’ I said, finally managing to get my breathing under control.
‘Could you sit down?’ she said to Tim, firmly.
He obeyed, pulling out the chair beside mine and leaning forward on his elbows towards her. ‘Where did you find her?’ he asked insistently.
‘We didn’t find her,’ said PC Shah carefully. ‘Mrs Cooper became aware of the media campaign surrounding her disappearance. She attended a police station and supplied them with identification. The officers performed a safe-and-well check.’
‘A. . . I’m sorry. . . A what?’ said Tim sharply.
‘It’s standard procedure when someone has been reported as missing. We ascertain that they are safe and well, and that they are not in any danger.’
‘What police station? Where?’ I asked, standing up. ‘Tim, can you drive me?’
‘Mr Cooper, can you sit down, please?’ said PC Shah.
‘Why?’ I said. ‘I want to go and get her. Can’t we talk in the car?’
PC Shah didn’t say anything. She continued to sit at the table and look at me. Tim had obviously seen something in her expression because he put a hand on my arm and drew me back down into my seat. When I was sitting down, PC Shah spoke quietly.
‘Mrs Cooper doesn’t want to return home. She made it clear to the officer she spoke to that she left of her own free will, and she doesn’t want her whereabouts to be revealed.’
‘What the fuck. . .?’ I said. ‘What? That’s not true. There’s something very wrong here. Someone’s made her say that. Or the officer got it wrong, or it wasn’t her.’ I stood up again, knocking my chair down. ‘It wasn’t her. Of course it wasn’t her. How could the person prove it was her? All her ID is here. Look, I’ll show you.’
PC Shah started to protest, but I beckoned her and went into the conservatory, where the contents of the satchel were strewn all over the desk. ‘See? Look. Her driver’s licence, her cards, everything’s here.’
‘Where’s her passport, Mr Cooper?’ asked PC Shah quietly.
‘I showed it to you guys before,’ I said, feverishly yanking open the desk drawer. I pulled out all four of our passports and handed her Helen’s green passport holder. She opened it and leafed through it, before taking the passport out of the holder and handing it to me.
The top right-hand corner of the passport had been cut, and every page had the word ‘Cancelled’ stamped on it. It wasn’t even a British passport – it was Helen’s original Australian passport, in her maiden name.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘She took her current passport with her,’ said PC Shah. ‘That was the identification she showed at the police station. I’ve seen a copy of it. I’m so sorry, Mr Cooper.’
We must have been making an almighty racket because the noise had brought Mum, Dad and the girls downstairs. Tim looked up and saw them all standing in the living room, looking in on us. He stepped past me and began to walk towards them, heading them off before they came in.
‘Tim!’ I called after him. ‘The girls. . . don’t. Not yet. I’ll talk to them.’
He turned to face me, his back to the others. ‘I’m going to say she’s alive and that we don’t know any more than that. Is that all right? Just so they don’t think. . . you know.’
I nodded. He went into the living room, pulling the door closed behind him.
I turned to PC Shah. ‘I need to talk to her,’ I said. ‘Please. You know where she is.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘There is nothing I can do.’
‘But this is a police matter,’ I said angrily. ‘She went missing.’
‘And she’s been found. No crime has been committed. I’m afraid it’s no longer a police matter. We’ve informed you that she’s safe and well, and the case will now be closed.’
‘No crime has been committed?’
‘It’s not illegal to go missing. If a person over eighteen wants to leave their home and move on, they’re within their legal rights to do so.’
I stared at her, quite unable to form words.
‘Again, I’m so sorry,’ said PC Shah. ‘This must be very hard.’
There was a blankness to her expression. She’d been kind and sympathetic through the whole process of searching for Helen, but something had shifted. She was there to convey the news and to protect Helen’s privacy. All her sympathy for me had evaporated. What had Helen said to the police officers? Or was this merely PC Shah making assumptions? If a well-to-do woman walks away from her home, there must be a reason why. Maybe that nice husband is secretly a violent psychopath? Was that what she was thinking? Was that what everyone would think?
I sat down heavily in the chair at Helen’s desk.
‘So what happens now?’ I said quietly.
‘We’ll issue a statement to the press saying Mrs Cooper has been found safe and well. That’ll run in the papers and on all the media sites.’
‘And that’s it. My wife has gone.’
On Helen’s desk there was a small misshapen clay bowl which Marguerite had made in nursery. Helen had filled it with paper clips. I turned it slowly. ‘Just gone. What about us? Our lives? What about everything she’s left behind? And what do I tell my kids?’
‘Mr Cooper, I’d strongly suggest you seek counselling for you and your daughters,’ said PC Shah. ‘And I’d contact the Missing People organization if I were you.’
‘Why? Will they be able to find her for me?’ I grasped at this tiny glimmer of hope.
‘No. They’ll tell you what I’ve just told you, that she has a right to go missing, and they’ll protect her right to anonymity. But there are a lot of people there who’ll understand what you’re going through. There are support groups. . .’
‘Support groups?’
‘And legal advice. You may have some. . . challenges, if you had joint finances and so on.’
I knew people went missing, but they were people with mental-health problems. Addicts. People who were being abused. Not people like Helen. Not middle-class women with good marriages, homes, busy lives, families and friends. Something somewhere was very wrong and I was going to have to work out what. However, it was clear that PC Shah, and most likely the Metropolitan Police, were going to be no help at all. I stood up.
‘Thank you,’ I said, offering her my hand. ‘I. . . I need time to get my head around this.’
‘This is an. . . unusual case.’ PC Shah hesitated and then added carefully, ‘I do urge you to seek help. I’ve made a list of useful numbers for you.’
She took out a notebook and tore out a page, which she handed to me. I took it. Her handwriting was neat and rounded, like that of a good child. Not unlike Helen’s, as it happens. She shook my hand then, and I saw her out.
Mum and Dad had put a film on the television for the girls, and we met in the kitchen. I told them what PC Shah had said. Dad blustered and asked a lot of questions. Once I’d explained it to him twice over, he stood up and paced up and down the kitchen.
‘This is mad,’ he said finally. ‘It’s got to be a mistake. Maybe we could do our own media appeal. Exclude the police. They’re clearly useless.’
‘Alan. . .’ said Mum. ‘Helen is a grown woman, of sound mind. The police will have done all the necessary checks. This is what it is.’
‘It is what it is?’ Tim turned on Mum furiously. ‘You can’t say that. This is Sam’s life.’
‘Keep your voice down, Timothy,’ Dad said, and the three of them rounded on each other, bickering viciously in muted tones.
I sat down at the table and rested my head on my folded arms. I felt my brain closing down, and the pain
and panic of the past two days began to recede. I felt, curiously, nothing. Nothing at all.
It took them all a few minutes to realize I was not participating in the conversation. Mum was the first to catch on, and she broke off what she was saying and came to sit beside me at the table.
‘You must be exhausted,’ she said, stroking my hair. ‘Listen, this is what I suggest. We tell the girls that Helen is safe and unhurt but we aren’t sure when she’ll be back. But mainly, we reassure them that there’s nothing to worry about. Then Alan and I will take them home with us for the weekend. We’ll plan lots of fun activities and keep them busy. It’s Friday, so they can skip school today and go back on Monday. And Tim will stay here with you.’
I wasn’t looking at her, but from the firmness of her tone I was sure she was giving Tim The Look – something we both remembered well from childhood. He wouldn’t dare argue with The Look.
‘You need time, Sam. Time to think about this, time to sleep and recover. And then we can all get together on Sunday afternoon and make some practical plans. How does that sound?’
‘Fine, Mum,’ I said. ‘That sounds fine.’ I had no idea if it was fine. All I knew was that, more than anything in the world, I wanted everyone to stop talking and go away and leave me alone.
Miranda
Helen’s gone away. She hasn’t been killed by a bad man. She’s just gone, and Granny says she probably isn’t going to come back. I understand that. It’s like when Mummy died, I knew she wasn’t coming back. I was only three, but I knew. People used to say, ‘Miranda is so little, she won’t understand,’ and I would say, ‘I do understand. Dead is dead.’ People didn’t know what to say then.
This is different, because Helen definitely isn’t dead. Granny promised me that and she doesn’t lie. She’s just gone. Marguerite is quite confused about it all. She keeps saying, ‘When will Mummy be back?’ That’s annoying, but then she’s such a baby, what can you expect? Granny has asked me to try and be patient with her, so I haven’t yelled at her or anything, but I wish she’d stop asking. I believe Granny when she says ‘probably never’. What scares me the most is that I think soon Marguerite will start asking ‘Why?’ and then I will have to tell everyone why and they are all going to hate me.