‘Coupled with the resignation letter, it does point towards a specific decision by your wife.’ The garda’s voice had been full of sympathy. ‘Did you argue about anything before she left?’
Vince had said the same to her as he’d said to Shona. That they never rowed. That they had a perfect marriage. That he loved Imogen and she loved him.
The garda asked him if Imogen was on medication or if he had any reason to think that her life was in danger, and he’d been honest with her and said no to the medication but that her life could easily be in danger because she was the sort of person who couldn’t cope on her own. The garda asked why that was, and he’d replied that she needed him, and then the garda had looked at him with a curious expression in her eyes and asked why it was he thought she couldn’t cope when she was apparently holding down the sort of job that required her to go to Paris with her boss.
‘That’s the point!’ he’d cried. ‘The job is very basic really, anyone could do it. The reason she went to Paris was because her boss had injured his wrist and needed some help. She’s not some kind of high-flying businesswoman. She’s an ordinary person and she needs me to look after her.’
‘Of course, we’ll make enquiries,’ the garda said. ‘But going missing isn’t a crime, even though it’s very distressing for everyone left behind. If it’s any comfort to you, Mr Naughton, nearly eight thousand people are reported missing every year, and most of them come home. I’m sure your wife will be in touch very soon. Sometimes people need a bit of space, that’s all.’
‘… and so,’ he told Shona, ‘she said they’d make enquiries, but they’re definitely not taking it seriously.’
‘Maybe they’re right,’ she said. ‘Maybe she’ll be home tomorrow.’
‘Oh great.’ He looked at her in disgust. ‘Now you’re on their side.’
‘No I’m not!’ cried Shona. ‘I completely understand how worried you are. But taking the money, sending the letter – it does sound like she planned it, doesn’t it? Could she have decided to revisit her home in France?’
‘She would have said something to me first,’ said Vince. ‘I can’t believe she planned anything. She’s crap at planning, you know that.’
‘What if the idea just came to her?’
‘On the way to the bloody airport!’ Vince snorted.
‘She could have decided at the last minute and …’ Shona’s voice trailed off. She knew that Imogen’s disappearance wasn’t the result of a sudden impulse. Her friend had known what she was doing.
‘What I’m thinking,’ said Vince, his voice taut, ‘is that there might be someone in France.’
‘A man, you mean?’ Shona’s eyes widened. ‘Oh Vince, I really don’t think so. She never seemed anything but totally devoted to you.’
‘That’s what I thought too,’ said Vince. ‘But …’
‘I’m sure there’s no one.’ Shona’s voice was firm, although she wasn’t sure of anything any more. After all, she never would have expected Imogen to run away in the first place. So perhaps there was someone she was running to. In which case, as soon as she heard anything at all from her friend, she’d give her a piece of her mind. She wasn’t going to be judgemental about Imogen’s relationships, but she sure as hell was regarding how she’d gone about things.
‘I find it hard to imagine there was anyone either,’ said Vince. ‘Besides, we’d been trying for a baby.’
‘Oh.’ Shona was surprised. Imogen had never said anything to her about starting a family. Not that she had to, of course, but they talked about things like that, and, if anything, her friend had seemed against the idea. In fact she’d said a number of times that she didn’t think she’d ever have kids. Too much responsibility, she’d said. To easy to fuck them up, like it says in the poem. Shona hadn’t been able to help wondering if Imogen was thinking of her own experiences, for all that she rarely talked about them.
‘The thing is,’ said Vince, ‘she thought she might be pregnant, but she wasn’t. That could be what’s upset her.’
‘Oh Lord. Did you say this to the gardai?’
Vince nodded. ‘But again, they were sort of dismissive.’
‘Aren’t they going to do anything at all?’
‘They said they’d make some investigations. I don’t know what that really means.’
‘We’d do better to investigate ourselves,’ said Shona. ‘And the most likely people she would have gone to if she was feeling upset would be her family.’
‘I’m her family,’ said Vince. ‘That’s the thing, Shona. We’re a team, Imogen and me. There is no one else.’
‘Her stepfather? Maybe she didn’t get on a flight at all. She could have taken the train to London and gone to see him.’
‘Her boss caught the Eurostar. She wasn’t with him.’
‘There’s more than one train,’ Shona pointed out.
‘I don’t have any contact details for her stepfather,’ said Vince. ‘I’m not entirely sure where he lives.’
‘I expect you’ll find something somewhere. Do you have an address book?’
‘Does anyone these days? I have contacts on my phone. So does Imogen.’
‘Did she back it up on to her computer? You might be able to find it that way.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Or Facebook?’ suggested Shona.
‘That’s a thought.’ Vince took out his phone and accessed the app. After a moment, he looked up at Shona and frowned. ‘It’s not there,’ he said. ‘Her account is gone.’
Shona took out her own phone and started tapping. ‘You’re right. Jeez, Vince, she must have deactivated it.’
‘She’s deranged!’ he cried. ‘She deserves to be locked up! I don’t know what the hell …’ He stopped as he saw the look on Shona’s face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m stressed.’
‘I understand,’ said Shona. ‘All this, and the baby stuff too – it must be doing your head in.’
‘I’ll keep looking,’ he said, suddenly calm again. ‘There must be details of other friends, other people …’
‘I’ll ask at the gym,’ said Shona. ‘She may have said something to someone there. But I’m her best friend. It’s me she should have confided in.’
‘I’ll email her.’ Vince opened his email and began to type rapidly. ‘All I want is for her to be OK,’ he said when he’d sent it. ‘Whatever’s happened. Whatever’s the matter. We can fix it.’
‘Oh Vince.’ Shona got up and stood behind him. She put her arms around his shoulders and gave him a hug. ‘I’m sure it’ll sort itself out. She’ll be in touch soon.’
‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I really do.’
Shona picked up her bag and walked out of the house. How could Imogen have done this to Vince? she asked herself as she got into her car. No matter what was wrong, he deserved more than this. And so did she. She was supposed to be Imogen’s best friend. But Imogen clearly had other ideas. And Shona was beginning to think that she knew her a lot less well than she’d originally thought.
Chapter 8
Tired from travelling, but more than that, exhausted from the stress of the last few days, Imogen went to bed early. She hadn’t expected to sleep very well, but she fell into oblivion within a few minutes of her head hitting the pillow and didn’t wake until the rising sun flooded the bedroom with warm light. She stepped on to the narrow balcony and gazed out over the deserted hotel garden and tranquil pool. The serenity of the scene was instantly calming and she felt herself relax a little. It would have been lovely to go for a swim in that pool, she thought, the lack of a swimsuit niggling at her again. She shook her head. If a swimsuit was the only thing she had to worry about, she was doing all right.
It wasn’t, though. There was still Vince. She wondered what he was doing and how he was taking it. He would have called Chandon Leclerc by now and learned about her resignation from the company. He’d have called Shona too. Imogen felt bad about having kept the Plan a secret from the woman who was su
pposed to be her friend, but she couldn’t have trusted Shona to keep silent. She knew Shona. She’d have wanted to help, and Imogen had needed to do this on her own.
She looked at her watch. She had to make a phone call. But not yet. Right now, she wanted to stay out of touch, in her own bubble. No internet, no mobile phone. Totally alone and uncontactable. Answering to nobody but herself. There was an intense freedom in it. A freedom too in not having to listen to him saying how much he worried about her. He’d made her feel afraid, even though she used to consider herself fearless.
But she didn’t feel afraid today. She felt good. Anxious. But good.
She showered, dressed and went downstairs. There was one free table in the small breakfast room and Imogen sat at it. A young waitress asked if she’d like coffee; when Imogen said yes, she told her that she’d bring it shortly and invited her to help herself to the buffet in the meantime.
In Imogen’s view, nobody did breakfast better than the French. She loaded her plate with ham and cheese, as well as some freshly baked bread, which she slathered with a pat of dewy butter. Then, while she waited for her coffee to arrive, she took a local paper from the bundle on the side table and began to flick through it. As she’d hoped, it was mainly filled with ads for rental property. She studied them carefully, uncomfortably aware that the start of summer probably wasn’t the best time to be looking for a cheap rental. Property owners were looking to get profitable short-term holidaymakers rather than people who wanted to commit at a lower price for a few months. It would have been better to initiate the Plan during the winter. But there hadn’t been any opportunities in the winter. The exhibition had been her first chance, and she’d jumped at it. So despite the season, she’d go looking for a rental property, and she’d also see what job opportunities were out there. There were plenty of bars and restaurants in Hendaye where she might have a chance of something temporary. And she did have some experience – she’d waitressed in her student years, after all.
She was conscious of a tremor of excitement running through her. A sense that for the first time in a long time she was taking control of her own destiny. Followed by a shudder of fear that she wasn’t up to it, that she’d fall flat on her face and then … and then what? she asked herself. I haven’t made a fall-back plan. Because there’s nothing and nobody to fall back on.
She looked up as Samantha and her family came into the breakfast room. Samantha stopped to recommend the restaurant where she and Gerry had eaten the night before, while Joel pulled the petals off the pretty pink daisy in the small flower-holder on the table.
‘We’re driving to Hondarribia, just across the border, after breakfast,’ said Samantha. ‘Everyone says it’s gorgeous. Would you like to join us?’
Another invitation. But this time she had a genuine excuse to turn it down.
‘I’ve plans for today,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘We might see you back here later, in that case,’ said Samantha. ‘What about joining us for a drink?’
‘That’d be lovely,’ Imogen said.
She meant it.
She gathered up her things and left the hotel. She’d seen an advertisement for an estate agency in the paper that looked interesting, but as she approached the coast, she stopped outside a different agency, attracted by a photograph in the window. She looked at it closely, but it wasn’t, as she’d first thought, the Villa Martine. This house was bigger and grander, although like the Villa Martine it was bordered by trees and with a view to the sea. The house was for sale and the price was high. Once again, Imogen wondered if the Delissandes had sold their home.
She was about to move on, but stopped again as she caught sight of the sign on the agency’s wall proclaiming that Bastarache Immobilier provided a complete range of property services as well as financial advice. I could probably do with financial advice, Imogen thought. And maybe a lot of other advice too. But not right now. Right now, it’s all about getting somewhere to live. And as Bastarache Immobilier had apartments to rent, she supposed it would do no harm to check it out.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside.
There was nobody behind the desk, and so she looked at more photos of houses while she waited. She was so engrossed in reading a description of an apartment overlooking the sea that she didn’t notice the tall, dark-haired man coming into the office.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said in English at her startled exclamation as she realised he was behind her. ‘I was on the phone.’ He held up his mobile, which started to buzz. ‘Sorry,’ he repeated as he rejected the call. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, also in English. ‘I’m interested in renting an apartment.’
‘I’m sure I can help you with that. What are you looking for?’
‘I won’t be your best client,’ she told him. ‘I want something small, just for me. Not too expensive. And for about three months.’
His phone rang again, and this time he held up his hand to her and answered it. She listened while someone ranted at him from the other end and he made placating comments in French about getting someone soon and doing his best and being with a client right now.
‘So,’ he said, reverting to English when he’d finished. ‘A single apartment for the summer at a good price. That’ll be difficult, to be honest. I certainly don’t have anything near the sea.’
‘I don’t mind,’ she said.
‘Most people want a sea view.’
‘The view doesn’t matter to me.’
‘Normally it does,’ he said. ‘If you’re flexible, that will make things easier. But it’s difficult to find something for three months.’
‘I can be flexible about the time, too,’ she said.
He shot her an inquisitive glance, but when she didn’t say anything else, he returned to scrolling through the computer screen. ‘Will you need a guest bedroom?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Her response was so quick and so emphatic he looked startled.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m here for some peace and quiet. No guests. So even a studio would be fine.’
‘Ah, the get-away-from-it-all.’ He nodded. ‘Are you a writer looking for inspiration? Or an artist here to paint our beautiful countryside?’
She smiled. ‘Nothing as exciting as that.’
He didn’t say anything else but continued his search, tutting from time to time as he clicked on the images in front of him. Eventually he sat back and sighed.
‘I have one suitable proposal for you,’ he said. ‘Normally apartments in this building are rented out to students or young people on adventure holidays. But it is what you’re looking for, and at a good price.’
Imogen winced. A student let wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind, but she couldn’t afford to be picky. So she said it sounded fine and asked if she could see it.
‘If you like, we can go now,’ he said. ‘Where are you parked?’
‘I don’t have a car,’ she said.
‘It’s a short drive,’ he told her. ‘I’ll take you.’
He selected a bunch of keys from the drawer in his desk and then led her out of the office and across the road to where a small silver Citroën was parked.
‘Alors,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
He drove along the Boulevard de la Mer before turning inland again. For a moment the road seemed vaguely familiar, but then the estate agent took a sharp turn and continued on until he stopped at yet another whitewashed house with red shutters and balconies. It wasn’t a figment of my imagination, Imogen thought, when all I could remember of Hendaye was red and white.
She got out of the car and followed him to the building.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said as they walked up the pathway together. ‘I didn’t introduce myself earlier. René Bastarache.’
‘Imogen Weir.’ It was good to use her own name again.
‘Well, Madame Weir,’ he said, ‘I hope this is what you’re looking for.’ He opened the main door. ‘This was a family
house that has been converted into six apartments. As I already told you, they’re usually rented to students and younger people because it’s such simple accommodation.’
Imogen followed him inside. The hallway was mainly taken up by the wide stairway, but was also cluttered thanks to the bicycles against the walls.
‘Residents are supposed to leave their bikes outside,’ said René. He started up the stairs and she followed him.
‘Et voilà,’ he said, opening the first door they came to.
Imogen had braced herself for the worst, so she was pleasantly surprised to find herself in a bright, sunny room. The furnishing was basic and the small galley kitchen even more so, but there was a separate bedroom along with the tiniest bathroom she’d ever seen. The bedroom had a very small window high up in the wall, and the conversion meant that the bathroom’s natural light was limited to a skylight in the ceiling. There was nothing especially quirky or beautiful about the apartment, and the balcony was only wide enough to hold a few potted plants, but it was clean and liveable in. She couldn’t help comparing it to her home in Dublin, with its blue and white kitchen, spacious living room and well-tended garden. It should have been hard to leave all that behind. She felt the throb of her pulse at the base of her throat.
‘As you can see, there is also a small garden with a communal pool,’ added René as she gazed out of the window without speaking.
‘How much?’ She turned to him, her voice cracking on the question, which she had to ask again.
The amount that René mentioned made her gasp.
‘For pity’s sake, this isn’t Paris,’ she said in French.
‘You speak French?’ He looked at her in astonishment.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘And it sounds like the French of France, too! Why didn’t you say before?’
‘Your English was so good,’ she made a face at him, ‘I didn’t see the point.’
‘But you are not French, are you?’
‘I …’ She was going to tell him that she’d lived here, in Hendaye, but she remembered the Plan and told him that she’d lived in Provence when she was very small.
The Missing Wife Page 6