Missing - Dead or Alive

by Peter Martin

  ‘Does a Mrs Debra Blake live here?’ One of the men asked.

  ‘Er… yes she does. Why, has something happened?’ Bob asked.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but we have some bad news for her.’

  ‘What sort of bad news?’

  ‘If we could come in, sir, and speak to Mrs Blake?’ The policeman insisted.

  ‘Of course, come on through.’

  They followed Bob into the kitchen where Debra was finishing her breakfast.

  ‘These two policemen want to speak to you, love.’

  ‘Mrs Blake,’ one of the men began. ‘Are you the wife of Mr Alan David Blake?’

  ‘Yes… but we’re separated.’

  ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news for you. I’ve come to inform you he’s been found dead. Suicide by the looks of it, late last night.’

  Debra gasped, the colour drained from her face, as the enormity of the situation hit her. Trust Alan to throw a spanner in the works, even in death, Bob thought.

  Chapter 33

  The police had gone, and now Bob and Debra sat back in shocked silence. Apparently Alan had lived with his parents for the past couple of years, and his father had found him with a rope around his neck suspended through the loft hatch. The rope had been attached to one of the rafters in the roof space. What a gruesome sight for anyone to find.

  Alan’s parents claimed their son had been depressed for some time, and had shown little interest in anything, even his painting had dwindled to nothing. But despite this, he’d never displayed any signs of wanting to take his own life.

  ‘You know what people will say, don’t you Bob?’

  ‘What!’

  ‘That sending him that letter asking for a divorce sent him over the edge.’

  ‘Well, let them say it, we know it’s not your fault. You can’t be held responsible for what he did – you haven’t seen him for nigh on five years.’

  ‘That’s not all. They’ll accuse me of treating him badly when our daughter died. Well, I admit I did, but no one has any idea how losing your own child affects you - especially when he caused the accident by driving so recklessly. It’s the worst thing that can happen to any parent. And, it’ll haunt me till the day I die. No wonder I could never forgive him – he killed our daughter.’

  ‘You’re right he did, but don’t go blaming yourself over his death. What he did was his decision alone. He should have accepted the divorce and moved on – after all that’s what you’ve done.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to the police station in the morning and I don’t understand why they want to talk to me again - I know nothing about the suicide note he’s supposed to have left. So what’s the point? I haven’t seen or spoken to him since the day he left.’

  Bob looked at her, instantly concerned for her. ‘You be careful what you say to the police. I can tell you from experience, they have a knack of twisting whatever you say. Why not let me go with you?’

  Debra wiped the corners of her mouth with her fingers, contemplating. ‘No Bob, I must do this on my own. Alan was my husband, and all right, so we’d been separated for some time, but it’s my place to sort out the mess he’s left.’

  Bob shook his head, still feeling he should go with her, but in the end agreed with her saying, ‘That’s fine love – it’s not as though they’ll charge you with anything. Just get it out of the way as soon as possible and then try to forget about it.’

  She squeezed his hand in response.

  Later that night when they were in bed, Bob noticed she was strangely quiet and subdued, as if Alan’s death had affected her more than she admitted. He held her tightly but found her unresponsive.

  ‘Is this upsetting you more than you’re letting on?’

  ‘A bit. What a waste of a life. He could have found someone else if he’d wanted to. And then there was his talent for painting. All down the drain for nothing. I’m so angry with him, I keep thinking he was trying to get back at me, because I’ve met someone, and he hadn’t. But I can’t help it if he felt that way. What a selfish thing to do.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well I won’t cry for him. I’ve done nothing wrong – have I Bob?’

  ‘Of course not love.’

  However Debra still looked pale the next morning. She picked at her breakfast, obviously not wanting to go to the police station. No specific time had been mentioned, as long as it was in the morning, so she dragged her feet until midday.

  ‘You’d better get a move on Deb, you told those two police men you’d go this morning. They’ll be wondering where you are?’ Bob said.

  She nodded. ‘I’m not sure I can face this. But I’ve got to.’

  Walking to the hall, she took her coat from the hook, saying over her shoulder, ‘I’ll be going now. Don’t know when I’ll be back, so make yourself something to eat if you get hungry.’

  ‘Ok, no problem.’

  Bob felt really sorry for her. What a tragedy, and the fact that Alan’s death had been self-inflicted somehow made it worse. Still, that chapter of her life was almost at an end and soon she would embark on her new life with him. Now it was more important to make some headway with his own divorce once the dust of Alan’s death had settled.

  He’d taken the day off work on the pretence of being sick just in case Debra needed him, but when she insisted on going alone he made himself useful by doing the housework; perhaps he might even start dinner if she wasn’t back by late afternoon.

  He’d made sandwiches from the leftover beef from yesterday, and had just finished eating, when there was a knock at the door. He wondered why they hadn’t rung the bell and not being in the mood for visitors, decided to get rid of them as quickly as possible.

  Ambling over he opened the front door to see an elderly couple standing in front of him, the man tubby with glasses, moustache and hat, the woman thin with white grey hair and a heavily wrinkled face. For a moment Bob thought they were Jehovah’s Witnesses, come to convert him, and was about to shut the door in their faces when the old man spoke.

  ‘Is Debra Blake in? We’ve been next door, but they say she doesn’t live there anymore and that she now lives here.’

  ‘Yes, she does, but she’s not in right now. I’m Bob, her partner. Can I help you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure you can. You see we’re her parents-in-law, Alan’s mum and dad,’ the old man said.

  ‘Oh yes, I was here when the police came round yesterday.’ Bob’s heart suddenly quickened, but he continued, ‘Sorry to hear about your son – you must be devastated.’

  ‘We wanted to talk to her,’ the old woman said in a thin frail voice.

  ‘She won’t be long, she’s down at the police station talking to them about Alan. But if you don’t mind waiting, you’re more than welcome to come in.’

  The elderly couple looked at each other trying to make up their minds. Finally they nodded before following Bob into the house.

  Having sat them down in the living room Bob made them a cup of coffee.

  ‘He left a note you know,’ the old man said. ‘Addressed to Debra. I’m sorry but the police insisted on opening it. They took it away as evidence, but they left us a copy. She has a right to read the note seeing as it’s addressed to her.’

  Then the man reached for an envelope out of the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to Bob. The envelope was sealed with Debra’s name printed on the front. And as Bob put it on the mantelpiece he said, ‘You must have been heartbroken to find him the way you did.’

  ‘Yes… we were,’ the old woman said, a sad tremor in her voice.

  ‘He was a good son,’ the old man insisted. ‘Perhaps a little misguided at times, but a genius when it came to painting.’ After pausing for a few moments to compose himself he continued in short bursts, ‘He never was the same after our granddaughter died. He tormented himself constantly; even though it was a complete accident. It’s so very sad.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Bob agreed.

  ‘You
should have seen his paintings; they were exhibited all over the country, and even in a few galleries in America,’ The old woman said nodding her head as if to add credence, and continued, ‘And he won lots of awards. Portraits were his speciality. He painted so wonderfully, you almost felt the people in them would come alive when you looked at them. His paintings will live on forever.’

  Bob smiled.

  They waited patiently for Debra to return, but forty-five minutes later there was still no sign of her. And with such a dismal atmosphere, and little left to talk about Bob finally said, ‘Look, you can wait if you wish but I have no idea how long she’ll be. It might be ten minutes, or it could even be an hour, I just can’t say.’

  The old couple looked at one another again, as if each could read the other’s thoughts, and the woman finally voiced them, ‘Albert tires easily; I think we’d better leave before he falls asleep. Please tell Debra there are no ill feelings on our part. We know how hard it must have been for her as well as him. We wish her every happiness for the future, and if she wants anything of Alan’s, one of his paintings for instance, she’s more than welcome.’

  ‘And we’d be very pleased to see her at the funeral,’ the old man added.

  ‘Of course, I’ll tell her,’ Bob agreed. ‘I’ll just let you out then.’

  ‘And tell her we’re sorry for how we behaved after our granddaughter died, we really are,’ old man said, sniffing and then blowing his nose.

  Bob couldn’t help feeling sorry for them. They seemed a nice couple despite what he’d been led to believe.

  Alone again in the house Bob was intrigued by the letter and what it might contain. As he sat waiting for Debra’s return the urge to open the letter grew stronger. He felt compelled to open it, but not wanting Debra to find out, decided to steam it open.

  To his surprise the envelope peeled open within seconds. Inside was a photocopy of a hastily scribbled note on one piece of paper. Bob unfolded the paper and began to read.

  Dear Debra,

  By the time you read this I’ll be dead as I can no longer live with myself and what I’ve done to you my love.

  The torment I feel over what happened to our daughter is too much for me to bear. I killed her through my own carelessness, I didn’t mean to but I don’t deserve to live. I wish you could have forgiven me.

  If only you hadn’t suggested I paint Maria into their son’s picture.

  Then after all I’d done, I tried to get back at you by saying I was having an affair.

  The worst thing about that was, as I told you before we split up, there never was any affair. Although I begged her she said she would always be faithful to Bob. Out of spite I said otherwise because I was determined to wreak our neighbours’ marriage. I’d seen the way you looked at him. And now you’re with him.

  I don’t think I could have coped with it a second time. After your ‘Blackpool affair’.

  Please remember that if nothing else I have always loved you in my own way.

  Alan.

  The letter shook in his hand as he finally took in the implications of what it contained. It wasn’t worded well, but what an eye opener - and the last thing he expected.

  Chapter 34

  Bob shook his head with a mixture of disbelief and anger. He sat down by the side of the kitchen table as he tried to take it all in. It sounded as if Debra knew Maria hadn’t cheated all along, but chose to say nothing. And what about ‘the Blackpool affair’ – hadn’t she just spent a night or two in Blackpool recently? He wanted to throttle her - surely Alan wouldn’t lie in his suicide note? So where did this leave him now?

  He remembered back to how dreadfully he’d treated Maria and now it seemed she had been completely vindicated. To believe someone else’s word over his wife’s was wrong. Now sitting quietly, he tried to think back to when they first moved to the north-east, and the nights they spent with Alan and Debra. He recalled not wanting Alan to paint Maria’s portrait, and his concern over the amount of time they were in each other’s company. He also remembered feeling uneasy and dismissing out of hand the idea that Maria might be unfaithful.

  This had always led him to wonder why he’d so readily believed what Alan had said and had never listened when Maria denied the allegation. But perhaps it was that Alan was so convincing. Then there was the time she’d wanted to try again, once Tim had returned. But he’d been too blinkered to listen.

  Suddenly the fog started to clear in his mind. Perhaps the note could be the key to it all. Folding the paper up, he put it back into its original envelope, went into the living room to the bureau for a pot of glue, and sealed it back down. When he’d finished, there was no sign of the envelope having been tampered with. He then placed it on the coffee table for her to see when she came back.

  Sitting down again, he switched on television. An old film was on, Suspicion, a Hitchcock thriller, which he watched to try to take his mind off his dilemma for a while.

  At around three-thirty the front door opened, and within a few seconds there she was, looking pale and tired. Now for the charade he thought.

  ‘You’ve been a long time, haven’t you love?’

  As she flopped down on the sofa she said. ‘Oh Bob, that was an absolute nightmare. So many questions, I almost felt like they were putting me on trial for his murder. It was awful. And then they showed me the suicide note he left. That wasn’t very nice either.’

  ‘So what did the note say?’

  ‘Just what I expected, he put all the blame on me. Explaining he couldn’t live without me. He said the letter asking for a divorce was the last straw for him. God, can you believe the cheek of the man?’

  She’s not going to tell me the truth, Bob realised. So he replied, ‘Want a drink love? – I bet you’re parched.’

  ‘Thanks Bob, a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss.’

  He got up from his seat, aware that she hadn’t seen the envelope addressed to her - or maybe she had but didn’t want to say anything yet.

  So on his return with the drinks, he decided to mention it in passing.

  ‘Oh by the way, I had some visitors while you were out. Mr and Mrs Blake. They wanted to talk to you about Alan.’

  ‘Well, I can’t say I’m sorry I missed out on that. I can do without them running me down rotten over their precious son. You sent them away, I take it.’ Her face showing a touch of apprehension.

  ‘No I didn’t, they looked so distraught I had to ask them in. They must have stayed over an hour. Actually, neither of them ran you down at all, just the opposite, and were very complimentary. Whether it was because they were talking to me, I don’t know. They said you were welcome to any of his possessions, his paintings in particular, and left you that letter on the table. Apparently it’s a copy of his suicide note, which you’ve already seen. They thought you might wish to keep it.’

  Debra laughed nervously. He watched her pick up the letter; look at the front with her name on it, then at the back which was sealed. She must have been relieved about that.

  ‘I can’t imagine why they should think that. God, why would I want to keep this? He says some horrible things about me in it which I find upsetting. In fact I’m not even going to open it. There’s only one place for this and that’s the waste paper bin.’ She hurriedly ripped it in half and then in half again and again until it was in such tiny pieces it would be impossible for anybody to read.

  He watched her get up and go into the kitchen and heard the outside door open. She must have thrown the bits of paper in the dustbin, she certainly doesn’t want me to read it, he surmised.

  When she returned, Bob continued, ‘They’ve invited you to the funeral.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking, - after all the mud they’ve flung at me. Thanks but no thanks. I wash my hands of him and his family, and as for his paintings, they can keep them, nice as they are. I don’t want anything that reminds me of him.’

  ‘It’s up to you love.’

  ‘Let’s forget about it, shal
l we – it’s making me depressed. And as I can see you haven’t put the tea on yet as I asked, why don’t we go out for a meal?’

  ‘Good idea love. I’m not in the mood for cooking the dinner after the day I’ve had.’

  They went to their favourite Italian restaurant situated close to the main shopping centre, Luigi’s.

  As the evening wore on, Debra seemed in much better spirits, almost back to her normal self after her ordeal.

  Despite his mounting anger, Bob put on a good act, he didn’t mention the suicide note and kept his temper, he needed to bide his time while he decided what to do.

  But when they got back home, even though she’d loosened up a little with the amount of wine she’d consumed, still nothing was forthcoming. In fact once they were in bed she fell asleep almost at once. And as he lay beside her he knew in his heart she wouldn’t come clean about the contents of the letter.

  At work the next day he thought of nothing else. It was strange, he’d readily believed Maria had been unfaithful, even though there was no real evidence. Now she had been totally exonerated by the note, which in turn had served to prove Debra’s infidelity and dishonesty. There was only one option left open to him – she would have to leave, and when he got home he’d have it out with her.

  On his drive back home, he mulled over what to say to her, and opening the front door to the aroma of bacon cooking, he guessed she was making his favourite pasta dish. But needing to deal with this predicament at once he had very little appetite. Having taken off his coat, and put down his briefcase, he breathed in deeply, and walked into the kitchen.

  She turned from the cooker and smiled. He couldn’t bear to look at her and after a few seconds finally said, ‘I’d like a word, Debra. Mind sitting down for a minute?’

  She looked bewildered and puzzled. And then before he could say any more the phone rang.

  ‘Hello!’ It was Bob who answered.

  ‘Dad, is that you?’

  ‘Of course it is. Who else would it be?’