Misty
Outside Gwen’s art gallery, too weary to negotiate the underground, I hailed a taxi to take me home.
Gwen was right, of course. I should do what she was doing, put Toby out of my head and concentrate on getting back to normal. Business as usual. I needed to meet that deadline and keep my publisher happy.
Back home, I looked warily up and down the street before clambering out of the taxi and hurrying the few feet to my front door, the key ready in my hand to stab into the keyhole. Then I was inside. I slid the safety chain in place and locked the catch.
Determined on that return to some semblance of normality, I changed into a clean kaftan. This one a swirl of turquoise and yellow silk that normally brought a smile to my face. But it was hard to find anything to smile about that day.
I sat at my desk, switched on my computer and opened the book I was working on. It was the tale of two women who shared a secret and were being stalked by a man from their past. It was a common trope in psychological thrillers but I was hoping my spin on it would be something new.
I reread what I’d written the last time, getting back into the story and the characters. The stalker was a suitably creepy middle-aged man that I hoped would make readers look around fearfully. I stopped with my hands on the keyboard as I read over his description and laughed uncertainly. I’d thought Gwen had been spouting psychobabble with her idea that I was projecting my characters into reality but maybe she was right. Had I planned for the stalker to wear a raincoat and flat cap? I rifled through the sheaf of handwritten notes for his character profile. Middle-aged, grey-haired. Neat dresser. Suits and ties. No mention of a raincoat or any kind of hat.
Had I seen Toby outside and subconsciously written aspects of him into my character or had I written memories of Toby into my character’s profile, then allowed my imagination to take over, picturing him where he wouldn’t be?
I stared at the screen, the words blurring. Had Toby’s desertion affected me that badly? I felt lost… fearful for my sanity. Did I really miss him that much?
He was a lying, cheating bastard. I dug deep for the anger that seemed to be a healthier reaction. Anger at him, at my foolishness. I hit the keys with more vigour than was required and deleted any reference to a flat cap and raincoat from my work, doing a word search to make sure. Simmering emotions kept me focused and that afternoon I wrote more than I’d written for over a week. Enough to bring me back on schedule. It was late before I saved my work and switched off with a sense of satisfaction that succeeded in washing the last of the anger away.
For the first time in days, I felt hungry. A quick search of the cupboards and I found enough packets and jars to put together a pasta dish. Pasta carbonara and a glass of white wine. Couldn’t get much better than that. I took them through to the living room, curled up on the sofa and switched on the TV.
There was a movie I’d not seen before. It was good enough to take my mind off things for a while but not good enough to prevent thoughts of Toby from edging their way back in when I dropped my guard.
I looked back on our time together as if it were a dream. Or maybe, more honestly, a fantasy. And it had been that, hadn’t it? My sisters had been right, I’d changed and not for the better. The expensive clothes, the ridiculously expensive handbags and shoes, weekends away, dinners, wine. I’d been so stupid. What had I been trying to prove?
That I was successful both professionally and personally. Was that it?
I loved my sisters, their husbands and children and their comfortable lives, and it used to annoy me when they’d enquire about my moribund love life, but hadn’t it been even more depressing when they’d stopped asking as if they’d given up hope for me.
Was that why I’d foolishly rushed into a relationship with Toby, ignoring the truth that he wasn’t suitable at all. And all the money I threw at him was never going to change that.
I’d been almost blinded by his superficial attractions but only almost – deep down, I’d known we weren’t suited. Was that why it had come as such a shock that he was dumping me? Had I expected to be the one to do the dumping?
I remember the tide of anger that had swept over me making me scream a litany of abuse at him.
Then he was gone.
I remember slipping the headphones back in place and increasing the volume of the music to the maximum so I couldn’t hear myself continue to scream obscenities.
I’d lied to the detectives; I hadn’t watched him walk out of my house and down the street with a holdall hanging from each hand.
No, I’d deleted and rewritten the script to make myself out to have been less distraught, less maniacal, than I had been.
It didn’t matter whether I had calmly watched as Toby walked away from me, and from the life I’d fantasised we’d live, or screamed my disbelief in words only the most odious of the characters I’d ever written would have used… the truth was he had left.
He had left.
30
Dee
There was no point in wasting time. Despite her reluctance to speak to Babs, Dee knew that it was the fastest way to find out the name of the woman who had lured Toby away from Streatham.
Thanks to Toby’s consideration, Dee had Babs’ phone number. ‘In case of emergencies,’ he’d said when he’d scribbled it under the address. ‘No other reason, okay?’
What other reason would there be? To ring and beg Babs to leave Toby alone. Or perhaps to ring and sing ‘Jolene’ down the line. To be utterly pathetic.
Dee dialled the number, hoping Babs would be there, relieved when the phone was answered on the first ring with a bored, ‘Hello.’
It would have been satisfying to have spit anger down the line, but she drew a steadying breath instead. Playing nice would get her the information she wanted. ‘It’s Toby’s wife, Dee,’ she said, placing heavy emphasis on the word wife. ‘You know Toby is missing. The police were here. I know they’ve spoken to you and they said you don’t know where he is.’ Dee took a deep breath. ‘Will you tell me the name of the woman he went to after he left you?’
She hoped Babs wouldn’t ask her why she wanted to know, unwilling to put the truth she knew in her heart into words. To take that final step and say aloud, Toby is dead. She recognised her reluctance as being a foolish glimmer of hope that she was wrong. But she knew she wasn’t wrong about those women… they had to know something. She held the phone tightly to her ear and waited for an answer.
The cackle that came down the line was what she’d expected from the plump woman with the dyed blonde hair who had lured Toby away.
‘You mean the women he went to after me,’ Babs said. ‘His boredom threshold is getting lower, he’s moving on quickly now.’
Dee’s hand tightened on the phone. Babs was one in a long line of women Toby had strayed with. She was nothing special. But how did she know so much? ‘Do you know their names?’
The cackle sounded again. ‘Oh yes, I do. The next was a crazy writer woman called Misty Eastwood. And after her there was a rather glamorous woman, Gwen Marsham.’
‘Misty Eastwood and Gwen Marsham,’ Dee repeated. ‘Okay.’ Then, reluctantly, she added, ‘Thank you.’
‘Wait, I have more. Since you’re interested, you might like to know where they live.’
Of course, Dee did, but her unwillingness to be under a compliment to the woman made her curt yes simmer with hostility.
‘Since you ask so nicely,’ Babs said with heavy sarcasm. ‘The Eastwood woman lives in Hanwell, Myrtle Road. And glamourpuss lives in Knightsbridge. Beaufort Gardens. Very upmarket. Our Toby was going places.’
Our Toby. It was the final nail in the coffin of Dee’s patience. ‘He was never your Toby.’ She cut the connection and threw her mobile across the room.
But she’d got what she needed. Misty Eastwood and Gwen Marsham.
One of them knew what happened to Toby.
Dee was sure of it.
31
Gwen
; Gwen shut the gallery a little before five. It had been a quiet day with only one sale among the several browsers who had asked questions, one of them humming and hawing about the colour and size of a painting as if the subject itself held no weight.
Some days, and that day was one of them, Gwen wondered if she should sell the gallery and retire. Maybe rent out her apartment and live abroad for a while. She thought about it as she walked, weighing up Italy versus the south of France, the only two countries she’d seriously consider.
Or perhaps, she should get a manager for the gallery, do a trip across Europe by car and seek out some new and exciting artists. It was something to think about.
There was an exhibition she’d promised a friend to attend that evening but she couldn’t find sufficient interest to drag herself out and rang her friend with a vague but suitably impressive excuse that she knew wasn’t believed.
‘You owe me,’ the friend said, ringing off.
Gwen ordered food from a local restaurant and poured a glass of wine while she waited for it to come. She opened the door of the balcony, stopping with a tsk of annoyance when she saw the glass she’d dropped still strewn in shards across it. It would have taken a moment to clear away but she couldn’t rustle up any enthusiasm for the job. She shut the door and was twisting the lock when her eye was caught by a figure at the corner of the road. The street was well lit, the figure standing in a ring of light.
Gwen gasped and pulled back. Toby!
Impossible. Misty’s nonsense had remained in Gwen’s head. That was all it was. Opening the door again, she avoided the glass and stepped out onto the balcony. With her chin in the air, she turned to face the direction she imagined she’d seen her erstwhile lover. Of course, there was nobody there. Of course, she couldn’t have seen Toby.
He was dead.
32
Misty
My fingers were flying across the keyboard, my forehead furrowed in concentration as the headphones played a classical music selection that helped without distracting. I’d tried country music but so many songs had stories worth listening to – stories that distracted me from the one I was writing – that I’d given up and switched to music without words.
Only very loud repetitive noises made it through the music to disturb me. Noises like someone hammering on the front door.
I unhooked the headphones to listen. Then it came again, someone slamming the knocker down, metal hitting metal.
With a grunt of annoyance, I saved my work, rolled my chair back and got to my feet. With my arms stretched over my head to release the knots that were an occupational hazard, I peered out the window and felt the instant acid burn of anxiety in my belly when I recognised the two women outside.
It was tempting to stay hidden, to ignore their knocking. But they’d be back.
I gathered the folds of the kaftan I was wearing that day – the dark floral pattern suiting my mood – and went slowly down the stairs, one step at a time, half-hoping they’d give up and leave before I got there.
I guessed my hopes were in vain when they hammered again, ringing the bell simultaneously. The resultant cacophony was jarring enough to wake the dead.
The safety chain was in place, I took my time unhooking it and pulled the door open. ‘Hi,’ I said with what I hoped sounded like casual coolness mixed with surprise. ‘Have you been knocking long? I’m afraid once I have my headphones on, it takes a lot to get through to me.’ I made no move to invite them in, I didn’t want them inside. They could say what they wanted on the step.
But it seemed the detectives had other ideas. ‘Is it okay if we come in?’
I wanted to tell them I was too busy, had deadlines to meet, had nothing more to tell them in any case. Instead, I raised my eyes to the ceiling and huffed a sigh of impatience. ‘I suppose so.’ I stood back and waved them into the living room.
The heavily made-up detective whose name I couldn’t remember, sat without invitation.
‘Do you mind if we sit?’
I thought I saw sympathy in the older detective’s eyes and wondered why. ‘No, of course, please sit. Can I get you something to drink?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘What can I do for you, detective…?’ I shrugged, sending a ripple down the silk of my kaftan. ‘Sorry, I’ve forgotten your names.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Hopper.’ A jerk of her thumb indicated her partner. ‘And DS Collins.’
‘Thank you.’ I stayed on my feet. This wasn’t a social occasion, I wanted them gone. ‘So what can I do for you today?’
‘You haven’t heard from Mr Carter, I assume?’
‘Had I done so I’d have contacted you.’ I resisted the temptation to fold my arms across my chest. It was a classic defensive movement. I had my fictional characters do it often enough and the fictional police officers always commented on it afterwards. Instead, I tucked my hands into the deep pockets of the kaftan.
‘And you haven’t seen him hanging around outside again?’
‘No.’ There was no point in telling them that I’d been mistaken, that I no longer believed I’d seen Toby. Certainly, I wasn’t going to offer Gwen’s theory that I was projecting characters from the book I was writing into my reality, nor was I going to admit that the fictional stalker in the book I was working on, despite everything, still bore an uncanny resemblance to Toby. I wasn’t going to admit any of that… it made me sound crazy.
I made an issue out of plumping up a cushion on the sofa before sitting. It gave me time to rearrange my features into a carefully benign expression. ‘Was that all you wanted to ask me?’
‘You mentioned that Barbara Sanderson told you that she’d been with Mr Carter for four years. It was, you’d said, one of the reasons you didn’t report her attack on you. You said you felt sorry for her having been with him for that long.’
I wondered where she was going with this. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
Hopper tilted her head. ‘That’s where there’s a problem. Ms Sanderson, you see, laughed when we mentioned her being with him for four years. She said she couldn’t have afforded to have been with him that long. The six months she was with him, she says, has left her pretty much broke.’
‘I’m sure…’ I shook my head and frowned.
‘She had attacked you; you were probably in shock.’
‘Probably.’ I agreed for convenience but I clearly remembered Babs mentioning she’d been with Toby for four years. Four years, not six months. At that stage, I had been with him for only two weeks… still in the honeymoon phase of our relationship.
Wondering why Babs had lied, it was a few seconds before I realised the detective was speaking and I held my hand up. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
‘I was asking why you switched from writing romance to the rather dark novels you write now.’
I looked from one detective to the other. Was this a trick question? ‘What has that to do with your investigation into Toby’s disappearance?’
DI Hopper smiled slightly. ‘I like to build a rounded picture of all the characters involved in a case. I haven’t read your books–’ She indicated her partner with a wave of her hand. ‘–Collins here has. She says they’re quite dark.’
‘I said very dark actually,’ Collins corrected her, her sharp eyes never leaving my face.
‘Very dark then,’ Hopper said. ‘I wondered if maybe something had happened two years ago to make you change direction.’
My clenched hands relaxed. Some questions were easily answered. ‘Writing is a business like any other. I love what I do but I have to be mindful of the market, what’s hot and what’s not. Sales of my romances were dropping so when I sent a proposal for a psychological novel to my agent, she jumped at it. The market for this genre is huge and the move has been professionally and financially successful for me.’
‘Interesting,’ Hopper said. ‘Thank you.’ She jigged a knee, her heel tapping the wooden floor underneath with a rhythmic thud. ‘Getting back to Mr Car
ter. You said he left, taking everything.’
Deep breath in, let it out slowly before answering. ‘That’s right.’
‘Everything he owned in two holdalls.’ Hopper felt in her handbag for her notebook and pulled it out.
I stared as the detective flicked through the pages. It was an affectation. She knew exactly what she was going to ask and I waited, my breath catching.
‘You mentioned going clothes shopping with Mr Carter. So, in fact, did Ms Sanderson. Mr Carter, it appears, liked to look well.’
‘Yes.’ One word: don’t elaborate. Listen carefully.
Hopper flicked to a page and peered at what was written on it before looking up to catch my fixed gaze. ‘This is where I have a slight problem. It took two holdalls and two large cardboard boxes to move his belongings from Ms Sanderson’s home in Streatham to here. She remembers clearly because he had to make three trips to the lift with his belongings.’ Hopper flicked the notebook shut and put it back into her pocket with unhurried actions. ‘Yet, although he bought more clothes when he was living with you, he managed to fit all his belongings, according to you, into only two bags.’
33
Misty
I kept my eyes on the detective as I searched my brain for a reasonable explanation and couldn’t think of one. With all that had happened, I’d never given Toby’s belongings any thought. He’d had the bags with him. But what had happened to the boxes?
When Toby had moved in, I remember him unpacking his clothes into the drawers and wardrobe I’d readied for him. The empty boxes had been folded flat. I’d suggested putting them into the recycling bin but he’d demurred, saying they might come in handy someday. Someday. I almost laughed aloud at how foolish I’d been, I was thinking of forever when he’d obviously been thinking of for the time being or possibly until someone richer comes along.
The Lies He Told: a gripping psychological suspense thriller Page 12