I feel suddenly completely alone.
I search for something to watch on TV that will hold my attention, dismissing episode after episode of dramas that any other week of my life I’d have found perfectly gripping. Finally, I settle on the old movie Plein Soleil, the French version of The Talented Mr Ripley, with Alain Delon and Maurice Ronet. Clare and I saw it years ago at the NFT and had disagreed about the ending: the body is thrown overboard and gets tangled up in the boat’s propeller, only to be discovered when the yacht is inspected by a new buyer. While Clare was outraged that they’d changed the book’s denouement, I hadn’t read the book and pronounced the twist perfect.
But as I watch it a second time, in less settled waters of my own, it strikes me as the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever seen.
32
29 December 2019
Sunday. Kit has been missing now for six days and I honestly don’t know how much longer I can live with this strain. Suspense is fine in a novel or a movie – just a few hours and then you can decompress – but in real life it’s corrosive, cumulative; I swear it shaves time off your life expectancy.
I try to get to grips with my financial position, but am immediately fearful of the string of notifications I’ve received from the bank confirming the cancelling of direct debits from our joint account. Clare must have switched them to her individual account and I can safely assume no longer intends paying a penny of her salary into the joint account.
I log into my individual account and see it for what it’s been this last year: pin money. There are not enough funds even to cover the river bus season ticket due to be renewed in a few weeks’ time. If and when I set up domestic life alone, I will be in the same predicament as Regan and millions of other residents of this brutal city: sleeping under faulty boilers, sharing a bed with shift workers, eating customers’ leftovers. Reading avidly of victims of violent crime, perhaps because it feels as if they’re the only ones left who have even less than you do.
*
It is exactly three o’clock when I stroll up to the high street and catch sight of a visibly tearful Melia in the window of Rosie’s Café. She’s with a friend, a half-familiar face, and by the time I’m through the door I’ve remembered her square jaw and overgroomed eyebrows from the wedding party – she’s the girl who was dancing with Melia on the river path. Her head is bent towards Melia’s in earnest attention. No need to ask why Melia is upset, but is she close enough to this friend to have confided the complication of her affair with me? Have I been naïve to trust that no one else knows? No one besides Clare, of course – and the police.
It’s loud inside, the acoustics crashing, but I weave through the tightly packed tables to reach her. ‘Melia, do you have a second?’
‘Jamie!’ She cringes, as if I’m going to whip out a baseball bat and start beating her. Recovering quickly, she motions to the other woman. ‘You remember Elodie from the wedding?’
‘Nice to see you again,’ Elodie says, but her automatic smile has already frozen: she senses Melia’s fear and my instability. She notices the scratches on my face from Clare’s attack and no doubt forms her own opinions as to how I came by them.
‘I want to talk to you about Kit,’ I say grimly. ‘On your own.’
Elodie shoots Melia an uncertain look and the edges of her eyebrows draw closer together, a bulge of pale skin forming between them. ‘Should I leave you two . . . ?’
‘No,’ Melia tells her. ‘Please stay. I don’t want to talk to him about Kit. Have you been following me, Jamie?’
‘Of course not!’ My protest is animated to the point of parody: ‘I saw you in the window and I just wanted to find out what the situation is. Have you heard from him? Is he still AWOL?’
‘I said I don’t want to talk about him. Please leave!’
‘I think you should do what she says,’ Elodie tells me, fierce with disapproval.
‘But if there’s any news, I have a right to hear it. I’m being hassled by—’
But Melia interrupts me with a sudden escalation of emotion: ‘Why won’t you just leave me alone?’ She begins weeping noisily and Elodie is on her feet, trying to edge past me. Anyone would think we were shooting a movie, the actorly way people pretend not to be listening, but I know they are. I certainly would be.
‘Melia? Are you okay?’ Elodie asks, an arm around her friend’s shoulders. She regards me with indignation. ‘Don’t you think she needs some privacy at a time like this? If you don’t go right now, I’m dialling nine-nine-nine.’
At this, the other customers fall silent and several faces turn in our direction, with varying expressions of inquisitiveness and alarm.
‘It’s all right, El, really.’ Melia wipes away her tears with the backs of her hands, before noticing the paper napkins and taking a handful. ‘He’s going, aren’t you, Jamie?’
‘Fine. If I’m not allowed to be concerned for a friend.’ I leave with a bodily impression of the fear I’ve left in my wake, fear I don’t fully understand until I see my face in the mirrored glass of the doorway.
There are the scratches, yes, but that’s not nearly the most disturbing thing. It’s the look in my eyes: wild, guilty, almost depraved. I may not have killed a man, but I look exactly like someone who has.
*
It fills me with both terror and relief when Clare returns late the same evening. She will, of course, have appointments tomorrow, a business to run. As her overnight bag drops heavily onto the tiles and her keys clunk into the dish on the hall table, I emerge from the depths like a house cat overdue its feeding time.
‘Oh. You’re here,’ she says, scarcely glancing. She’s kicking off her boots, straightening them on the shoe rack. I’m lucky she hasn’t yet purged it of my footwear. ‘I thought you might have gone to shack up with her by now.’
This was not a suggestion made before she left and so must have struck her while she was away. I fear she’s in a mood to withdraw her offer of accommodation, the last thing I need, and I must do as little to provoke her as possible.
‘Of course I haven’t. We’re not together. You saw yourself how she feels about me now. You heard her say she hates me.’
An inadvertent reminder that she repeated the sentiment.
‘On Friday, yes.’ Still she won’t look at me. ‘Who knows what might have happened since then? I think we’ve established that whatever it is I’ll be the last to know.’
It’s true that Friday feels prehistoric. If this is how time is going to be now, every beat slower and stickier than it should be, I don’t know if I can bear it. I think of that anguished little foray to the river yesterday, how I looked for Melia and thought I’d found Kit. Then, earlier today but already feeling surreal and distant, that ugly altercation in the café. ‘How are your parents?’
‘How do you think?’ She shoots me a ferocious arrow of a look, and I answer for myself: deeply upset to be having to console their only daughter, her faithless cunt of a partner having destroyed the holidays for everyone. They must be regretting every last drop of fine wine they served me when I was their guest for Christmas.
‘I take it Kit hasn’t turned up?’ She stands in front of me, hands on hips. Her sweater – ivy green, with a gold thread running through it – is new, one of the presents we opened together under Rod and Audrey’s tree, Nutcracker decorations rocking above our heads. A week ago, I would have said how beautiful it is, how well it suits her, especially with the ruby-red lipstick, which has bled into the lines around her mouth.
I half-shake my head. ‘Not that I know of, no.’
‘It’s genuinely bizarre, isn’t it?’
I think ‘bizarre’ is maybe a bizarre word to describe a man’s disappearing without trace, but I know better than to voice this. Those slaps and punches she inflicted on me, I deserved them, yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m looking to repeat the punishment.
‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I want to talk to you for a minute.’
‘Of cours
e.’ It isn’t so much a request as an order and I follow her to the kitchen table for our meeting. She pours herself a glass of wine and takes her customary chair with the sheepskin. Resisting the urge to fetch alcohol for myself, I crumple into the seat opposite. ‘Is it about the bank account? I saw you’ve switched the direct debits.’
‘Yes, the paperwork will arrive in the next few days to close that account. I have no intention of being liable for any overdraft you decide to run up funding her.’
I swallow my exasperation. ‘I’ve just told you we’re not together.’
‘It’s none of my business,’ Clare says, curtly. ‘This isn’t about that.’
‘Okay.’ It must be about who gets what, then. Furniture, books, coffee cups: which provenance can be proved, whose claim is greater. Exhausted doesn’t begin to describe how I feel at the prospect of negotiating this. Just keep everything, I think. When it comes down to it, it’s mostly all hers anyway.
‘When I was home, I talked to Piers about all this and he had some interesting thoughts,’ she says, her tone warming a degree or two.
Well, I wasn’t expecting that. Piers is her cousin, a twice-divorced accountant who is not noted for his interesting thoughts about anything, least of all male-female relationships. ‘You mean about us?’ I say, doubtfully.
‘No, not about us. There is no us.’ She lifts her glass and the veins on the back of her hand glow blue on pale skin, river lines painted on old wood. I think of Melia’s skin, so fresh and youthful, and feel a surge of conviction that the choice I’ve made is predestined. However magical I imagine my affinity with Melia to be, I’m hardwired to prefer youth, it’s as simple as that. An old goat like me might still procreate with her, but not with Clare. (For the record, I don’t have plans to procreate, full stop.)
For just a moment, I think I hate myself as much as the woman watching me does.
‘I mean about Kit,’ she says. ‘I know you think drugs might be a factor in this vanishing act of his, but we think maybe there’s something else going on.’
‘Like what?’ My eyes narrow. Vanishing act? Instantly, I’m alert.
‘I don’t know yet, but Piers thinks it might be financial and knows someone who can help. One of those forensic accountants who can reach out to people better placed to find out stuff that’s supposed to be, you know, protected.’
‘You mean a hacker?’ I feel my breathing alter. ‘You want to “reach out” to a hacker to dig some dirt on Kit? Are you serious?’
She taps her nails on the wineglass. ‘I don’t mean invade his privacy for the sake of it, just get a picture of what’s been going on. Piers says money is the number one reason why people go missing, behind crime generally.’
Nerves make me scoff at this. ‘Well, he’s an accountant, so that’s the only perspective he has on human nature. What about crimes of passion?’
‘Isn’t that what we’re trying to disprove, for your benefit?’ she says, and I recoil from the sudden arctic chill in her tone. ‘Maybe this will unearth something that supports your drugs theory. Big cash withdrawals, say, activity that shows he was trying to get money, but couldn’t, leaving him exposed to criminals. I don’t know what this person will uncover, but it would be good to set the police off in a new direction – away from you.’
I’m nodding now, vigorously, demonstrating my gratitude. ‘That’s true, but shouldn’t we let them do that through their own legal means?’
‘We should, but we can’t be sure it will actually happen. They’re gathering evidence to prove the hypothesis they’re pursuing, not the one we are.’
The one in which I’m the suspect. I get it. ‘How long will it take?’
‘Piers said his guy should have something for us within forty-eight hours.’
‘Forty-eight hours?’ They’ve already set this in motion, I realize, shocked. And, unless this shady character owes Piers a favour, they must be paying through the nose for him to work so quickly at this time of year. It strikes me that she might in fact be scheming with Piers and his associates to incriminate me, not Kit. But then she’d hardly be briefing me on it now, would she?
Unless this is a more elaborate sting of some sort? All that stuff about clearing my name in order to save her reputation: for all I know, she could be working with the police and feeding me lines scripted by them. At the edge of my paranoia lurks that name again, Sarah Miller, and I extinguish it. Focus. ‘How much is all this costing?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says. ‘We’ll call it a goodbye gift.’
Sensing sincerity, I reach for an expression of grateful humility. ‘Thank you. If it turns something up that might help me . . .’ I falter. Everything I say now has the uncomfortable ring of testimony – to be quoted back to me at a later date. ‘I mean, if it helps us find Kit, then wow, okay. Thank you, Clare.’
She says nothing, just peers at me with cold curiosity, as if she doesn’t recognize me anymore. ‘He’s not on any missing persons sites yet, I checked them all earlier. Any idea why?’
‘The police said they weren’t issuing any details yet.’ It seems to me she’s doing more detecting than the detectives are. And there I was imagining her this weekend in a Scottish slough of despond, weeping and inhaling whisky.
‘Why on earth not? Shouldn’t they be appealing for witnesses?’
‘You would have thought so, but they specifically asked me not to talk about it with anyone while they updated their bosses. I think it’s because of the possible drugs connection. And that’s a point, Clare: if this involves their organized crime unit, say, then we should be very, very discreet about these enquiries we’re making.’
Two words stand out there: organized crime. She hears them, all right, but she doesn’t back off. ‘I’ll pass that on.’
As she leaves the kitchen, wineglass replenished, I say, very casually, ‘Can I just ask, do you have plans for Tuesday evening? New Year’s Eve?’
She rotates, glowering. ‘Are you serious? What d’you have in mind? Dinner and a romantic stroll along the river to watch the fireworks? Or do you mean you want me out of the way so you can party with your new love?’
I aim for an expression of polite neutrality. ‘I just told Dad I might be free.’
In her face there is dismay, then righteous satisfaction. ‘You’ll have to go to him, then, because I’m staying in and I can’t face socializing. I’m sure you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.’
‘Of course. Sorry.’ But my apology, like all the others, is profitless. Too little too late.
33
30 December 2019
Monday morning arrives as a blessed fucking relief, frankly, with Clare and me both due at work and indecently keen to get there. She leaves just before seven and her mug is still warm from her coffee when the doorbell rings.
To my great consternation, DC Merchison stands on the step, legs planted apart, ID brandished, as if I don’t already know who he is. He’s clean-shaven, smart in a blazer and what looks like a cashmere sweater. A Christmas present, no doubt.
‘Another early start,’ I observe, concealing my unease. ‘I hope you’re getting overtime for all this.’
‘Do you have a minute, Mr Buckby?’
The formality is a bad sign, but the fact that he’s alone is a good one. This time, I’m not considered a physical risk to anyone. Grateful it’s him and not Parry, I draw back the door in welcome. ‘Yes, a quick one. I’m about to leave for work.’
‘What happened to your face?’ he asks.
‘Nothing. An accident.’
No doubt he’s questioning whether the marks might be linked to my scuffle with Kit on the boat and I let him remind himself that they’d have been evident on Friday if they were. Clearly, I’m just a very unpopular guy.
In the kitchen, I offer him tea and dig out some posh biscuits (lemon, dipped in white chocolate: Clare’s favourite). I recognize a pride in myself, one of the last times I’ll be able to play host in this house. Prete
nd all this is mine to share.
On the other hand, when the police visit a beautiful house, do they feel more or less inclined to nail the owner-occupier? More, I’m guessing. He’ll probably see the luxury snacks as bribery.
That doesn’t stop him from tucking in.
‘You must see a big improvement in refreshments at this time of year,’ I remark inanely. ‘All those mince pies and leftover chocolates.’
I glance at the time on my phone; I’m not going to let myself be detained a second time in lengthy conference. I need my job, minimum wage or no. ‘I take it you haven’t found him yet?’
‘How would you know that?’ he asks.
‘Well, if this was one of those calls, you wouldn’t be eating biscuits before you break the news, I’m guessing.’
‘No, I’m afraid we haven’t,’ he concedes, and takes his time crunching. ‘Did you forget what I said about leaving Mrs Roper alone? We asked you very clearly to keep away from her and yet you’ve approached her twice over the weekend.’
Jesus, she really has got his ear. He’s like her personal security detail. I feel myself twitch, imagining her waking up alone in that icy flat, warming her hands on a mug of tea, the police, not me, her first point of contact. She’s why he’s pestering me at this ungodly hour, not because he has any new evidence to act on. ‘You’re here because I happened to bump into her in a café yesterday? What, am I being charged with harassment?’
He snaps a second biscuit with his front teeth. ‘You’re not being charged with anything yet.’
Yet. There’s always a yet with this man. On my lap, my hand aches. The bandage is off, scar tissue hardening on the wound; I put it to my mouth and worry it with my tongue.
‘You came all the way to my home to tell me that? Is that an efficient use of taxpayer’s money?’ I remember Clare’s comment about the police pursuing their agenda, not ours, and it couldn’t be clearer that she’s right.
‘If it pre-empts further misguided actions on your part, yes, I’d say it is.’
The Other Passenger Page 19