by Emma Rowley
The kick of adrenaline was already subsiding as I took in his gangly build, his diffidence.
“Can I help you?” I said briskly.
“Uh, yeah. I’m looking for Nicky?” His voice was a question, asking permission.
“And you are?” A friend from London? I’d have to play this right.
“A friend—but I don’t know where she is.”
“Well, you and me both.” I was pleased with the mix of exasperation, tinged with concern, that I could hear in my voice.
“You mean—she’s not here?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know where she is.”
“But her car’s here.”
“And hopefully she’ll rouse herself to come and get it soon.”
“You mean she’s . . . gone?” Finally he got it. Was he stupid?
He just stood there, his arms by his side. He looked odd—stunned, though nothing I’d said was that shocking.
And then the last drifts of sleep vanished and I realized I’d seen him before: cycling that bike around the village. Not a stranger from London, some friend or contact who’d come to see Nicky; but a local. The Crompton boy, and older than he looked—back from college now, Annie had told me.
“We were supposed to meet today,” he said slowly, as I remembered his name: Joe. Sometimes Joey. The same name that we had seen on Nicky’s phone. This was who’d been calling her earlier. “But she didn’t turn up.”
I could feel my heart start to pulse in my chest. What had Nicky told him about me? What did he know? But I held his gaze evenly.
“Look, I’m afraid I really don’t know where she’s got to today. But I’ll certainly let her know you were looking for her. Now, it’s late,” I said, starting to close the door slowly, “but when she turns up, as I’m sure she will”—now he’d back off, slope away to his stupid bicycle—“I will of course ask her to call you back.”
He stuck a foot in the door, stopping it from closing.
“Call me back? But I didn’t say I’d been calling her.”
Anger flooded through me: but I refused to act as if this situation were in any way alarming, even as I kept the pressure up against the door.
“So you know she’s left her phone, too,” he said. “Her stuff’s still here? And you haven’t called the police, have you?”
He sounded bewildered, like he couldn’t quite believe it, as if doing so would confirm something for him. I was doing this all wrong, and maybe I should have blustered through regardless.
But as I sensed the pressure lessen against the door in his shock, I gave a sharp hard shove to catch him off guard. His foot slipped away and I slammed the door shut, twisting the key in the lock.
I couldn’t hear anything; I was expecting to hear the rattle of the door handle or shouting through it. But I didn’t; he stayed there, spotlit behind the frosted glass, and said something muffled by the wood between us. I backed away, still watching from the darkness as the figure started to move, and heard the jangle of gears as he got on his bicycle.
Then I turned and ran through the kitchen and the hall, right up to the window at the turn of the stairs—wanting, animal-like, to get to higher, safer ground—and watched through the glass as the figure on the bike rolled onto the gravel, standing on the pedals to build up traction. And then a turn of the driveway took him out of sight.
I leaned against the wall, suddenly breathless. Of all the people, Joey Crompton.
He’d been inside this house when it was still a wreck; exposed it all on that website, with the floor plan and everything, for everyone to see. And still he was sniffing around, years later, far too interested in what happened here—a threat, even now.
Because his voice had been muffled, through the door, but I heard it all the same, what he said. He didn’t sound angry, so much as horrified. That was the worst thing of all.
What have you done to her?
Chapter 46
I am good at compartmentalizing, I always have been. I do what needs to be done, and I don’t worry about the things that are out of my control. Face each problem as it presents itself.
So I did what I always did: I got on with things. And I called the police first thing on Sunday morning. I could have done it the night before perhaps, but the timing felt reasonable—Nicky had her own key, we weren’t her keepers, it was a very safe area.... Really, though, I needed time to gather myself after Joe Crompton’s visit.
Josh had come home late the night before; I pretended I was asleep when I heard him crashing around. He showered before he got into bed though; as if that wouldn’t wake me. I knew what that meant, where he had probably been—but I would have to think about that later, I told myself as I padded downstairs with my phone.
I went through the kitchen doors onto the terrace, warmed by the morning sun. 101? No—999. Show them I was taking it seriously.
* * *
The operator, a woman, kept me on the phone for a long time as she took all sorts of details: when I’d last seen Nicky; what she looked like (middling height, brown hair, I couldn’t remember her eye color). No, no distinguishing marks. No, I had no reason to think she was in immediate danger. Yes, she had a car—but it was still here. I could hear the pause at the end of the phone. Perhaps I should have called them earlier.
A lot of things, I couldn’t answer: her address, who her nearest contacts might be—and any inquiries that had been made to establish her whereabouts.
“Well,” I said vaguely, “I don’t really know who to contact.”
This time the disapproval down the phone was palpable.
But I knew how to handle this, how to explain away my lack of urgency.
“Do you think I should be, well, concerned? I do hope nothing—I mean, she seemed very sensible.” I trailed off doubtfully, my eyes on the horizon, letting myself take in the serenity of the lawn and the trees and the water at the bottom of the garden. “But I don’t really know much about her . . .”
Yes, all I had to do was hide behind my money and vagueness and the assumption you’d expect from a woman like me: that nothing really could go wrong in a place like this; nothing really bad could happen.
Of course, I knew different.
They would send a patrol car over, they told me.
* * *
Soon, I heard the sounds that signaled Bea had woken up, so I went and brought her down and did breakfast, letting her eat in front of her favorite cartoon: I could not face a battle with a toddler right then.
When Josh appeared, rumpled with sleep, I said he had to look after her while I showered and threw on clothes myself, then went to my study at the top of the house.
Because I could not stop at calling the police. That was just the first step, to keep them from looking too closely at me.
This morning’s phone call had demonstrated—if it wasn’t obvious—that they would want to know Nicky’s address, the names of her family and friends, any boyfriends.
I didn’t have any of those details. I couldn’t even say for certain that she had those people in her life, not really. She was a stranger to me. But what would a normal person do in a situation like this? She would want to help.
As my laptop powered up, I felt a surge of frustration at what I was having to do. How had I let this happen? I pushed my anger away: no point in reacting, not now.
I had to find out all I could about Nicky Wilson.
* * *
But it was harder than I expected, digging into someone’s life. I googled Nicky Wilson. There were a lot of them. I went on Facebook, hoping to narrow it down, but there were countless Nicky Wilsons from London, and I gave up on that. She didn’t seem to be on Instagram. Eventually I found some old articles with her byline, but they were news stories from grim court cases that had nothing of her in them.
And then I remembered something. Nicky had been speaking to her agent earlier in the week. I had interrupted when she was on the phone, when I knocked on her door to apologize for my reaction to
her questions.
I felt a leap of satisfaction at the idea it gave me: I would get hold of her agent’s details, so I could pass them to the police. Then I would call her agent, too, to check in with her. I would ask her if she had heard from Nicky.
That would be the most helpful—and natural—thing to do. I just had to track her down.
* * *
I had already seen Nicky’s professional profile on her agency’s website, of course; I had checked all that out, after I was approached about the book idea. I wasn’t sure about it, at first, but the money was tempting. It would require a minimum amount of work from me for what I knew could be substantial returns. So I looked into her.
I had read the bit on the site about her time as a journalist and the Sunday Times best sellers she had written, albeit under other people’s names. I understood she couldn’t advertise openly the titles she had ghostwritten, but the literary agency’s name was familiar. And I had browsed through their other clients; some of them were household names. But now I couldn’t remember what the agency was called.
I propped my head on one hand. I wasn’t sure, actually, that I’d spoken with anyone there—it was Nicky, wasn’t it, who had approached me with the idea of doing a book? It was a while ago, but now I came to think of it . . . Yes, it was Nicky who initiated it all. Not her agent or any other go-between; it was her e-mail, via my website, that had first raised the prospect of us working on a ghostwritten book.
I had replied as “my PA Julia,” as I always did with business propositions. I didn’t like assistants and managers and other people trying to run me. I could do it myself. But it could be handy to have that extra buffer.
After that, we had gone back and forth over e-mail for a while, her setting out her credentials, explaining why a book was the logical next step for my brand . . . until there was a break in my schedule, and “Julia” finally invited her up.
Nicky, in a funny way, must have been the same as me: working alone. Still, the agency must have drawn up the contract, mustn’t they? That NDA, the nondisclosure agreement that Nicky signed and sent over ages ago . . .
Bingo. I sat up and pulled the contract up on the screen from the folder where I filed them all: agreements for sponsored posts and the rest. I scanned it again, noting the initials of the agency set out in reassuringly ornate lettering. This was the one.
* * *
The switchboard number on the agency’s website just rang out. But eventually, trawling through the site led me to the cell-phone number of an agent’s assistant who made clear, through his exaggerated politeness, just quite how affronted he was to be contacted on a Sunday.
I could be just as icily polite, however. He didn’t soften when I said who was calling, but finally agreed to give me the number for a Barbara Macmillan, Nicky’s agent, after I told him it was an emergency.
It went through to voice mail, so I left a message: “Hello, this is Olivia Hayes, have you heard from Nicky—Nicky Wilson? I’m trying to reach her. We don’t quite know where she has gone. Perhaps you could give me a call when you get this.”
Worried, but not too worried. Responsible. I gave my cell number then hung up.
Then I sat there for a second, not moving. The light through the study window was tinted green by the boughs of the shifting trees outside; I could hear the rustle of wind through their limbs. Everything was beautiful and serene except me. I was still riled by the assistant’s attitude, and more than that, oddly unsettled, in a way I hadn’t been so far.
I frowned. I was being ridiculous. So one bitchy assistant didn’t seem to recognize my name. That didn’t mean anything. There was no reason everyone who worked at the agency would know about me or the book—
The study door swung open. I smiled as I saw who it was: Bea, wearing the remains of the lunch Josh must have given her. She smiled back at me, happy and excited about what she had to tell me. “Mummy. They here, Mummy. Police!”
Chapter 47
I found them in the kitchen, with Josh. I had got Bea settled down for her nap as quickly as I could—once I’d explained that they had no police dog with them, she was much less interested.
As I looked at them at my table, real police officers in their dark uniforms, I felt a wave of unreality wash over me: I couldn’t quite believe they were here. They introduced themselves as PC Coben and PC Berry, who looked even younger than his colleague.
I hadn’t known they would come so soon, and I said as much to them.
“We take all missing persons seriously,” said Berry.
* * *
They were polite, formal. Josh did most of the talking, as they took us through all I had expected: why we were worried, when we had seen Nicky last, why she was here.
She had left the party early, we told them, going up to her room at about midnight, as we finished watching the fireworks. The rest of us had gone into the living room and drunk Irish coffees that our friend Leo made.
Nicky had seemed a bit tipsy, yes. Everyone had been drinking. No, not out of control. But definitely, well, drunk.
And how was her mood? That was Coben, the older one, with a long mournful face. That question seemed directed at me. Women were supposed to be more in touch with emotions, after all.
I thought for a second. The others might have noted her abrupt departure, too.
“I don’t really know, she seemed a little withdrawn. But that was how she was. Is.”
“And do you have any ideas as to what could have happened?”
I felt myself shrug, then regretted the gesture: too casual. Josh didn’t say anything.
“No, I mean, I have no idea.” And I repeated again what I had told them already: “We just woke up and she’d gone. Only all her stuff was here, we realized later. But, really, I’m sure she’s fine,” I added.
“I see you have a lake out there,” said PC Coben.
“It’s more of a pond,” I said.
“A pond then. Did you see her anywhere near it on Friday night, Mrs. Hayes?”
“Near the water? No, there would be no reason for her to go near there. No, I definitely didn’t.”
“We might have to check that,” he said, more to his colleague than to me.
“Check the pond?” said Josh.
“Well, yes,” said Coben. He didn’t need to spell out why.
* * *
I showed them up to the guest room Nicky had stayed in. They made it look very small, in their boots and uniforms. I saw them take in the suitcase on the floor. They put her phone, still on the side table, in a neat little plastic bag,
“What about a handbag?” That was Berry, stocky, with a very pink neck: sunburn from the long summer.
“I don’t know . . .” I gestured to the room. “I think she had one—a tote bag.” It wasn’t there now.
Coben was still looking around. “And her computer?”
“A computer?”
“She didn’t bring a computer? You said she was a writer.”
“She did . . .” I said slowly. “A laptop. I haven’t seen it. I mean, I haven’t properly looked . . .”
“Anything else electronic? Did she record your conversations?”
You’re sharp, I thought. “Uh, yes. A little black thing . . .” I looked around vaguely.
They didn’t find that, either.
* * *
They had us show them the rest of the house, after that.
I was reminded, as I led them through my home, of the tour I had given Nicky, just days before. We took them all over, although I explained that she wouldn’t have had any reason to go up to the attic floor, or down into the cellar.
They pulled open cupboards and wardrobe doors without asking—as if she might just be curled up inside, fast asleep—and trod heavily past Bea’s door, left ajar as she napped.
Eventually it was done, and we led them back into the kitchen. I didn’t offer them a seat again, in case it would encourage them to linger, but they didn’t go quite yet.
She hadn’t mentioned anyone by name. I didn’t know her home address. But there would be a photo of her on her agent’s website. I remembered seeing it.
Then they wanted us to tell them all about Nicky’s movements over the week, who else she had spoken to, where she had planned to go when she left.
Josh took over: she did go into the village a bit; who she had spoken to, we didn’t know. But she was going to drive back to London, her apartment was there; in fact, she had mentioned an ex-boyfriend, come to think of it . . .
I felt myself relax a little. Once, when Josh and I had just started going out, we were pulled over in the BMW he roared around in then. He had been speeding, and I watched as he employed just the right amount of respectful chumminess to get away without a ticket. I had been impressed by him, how he had handled the situation.
Surely, I thought, they would go soon. Maybe it was a slow Sunday, I should have called on a Saturday when they would be rushed off their feet . . .
“And where were you on Friday night, Mrs. Hayes?” said Coben. “After you last saw Nicky.”
The question seemed to come out of nowhere, and for a moment I couldn’t speak.
“In bed, of course,” said Josh. I felt my husband shift a tiny bit closer to my side. “Where else would she be?” He gave a little laugh—not rude exactly, but just to make clear what he thought of the question, the situation. “We both went up once everyone had left, but I imagine it was about two, two thirty.”
Then, under their prompting, he explained patiently how the evening had ended.
“Leo drove off first, I think, he was blocking Harry’s car in, and then Harry followed. Oh, but his wife Lucy was driving their car. And then it was just Olivia and me. Of course we were with each other all night.”
“Is that right, Mrs. Hayes?” said Coben.
“That’s right,” I said, finding my voice. “We were with each other all night.”