You Can Trust Me

by Emma Rowley

  “One of you could have woken up,” he said, his tone neutral.

  “We could,” Josh replied, just as easily. “But Liv isn’t a deep sleeper, so if I had got up she would have heard me. And vice versa.”

  I nodded.

  Coben kept going a bit longer. “And what time did you say your housekeeper took the tea up yesterday morning?”

  “We didn’t,” I said. “But about nine.”

  “And Nicky had left by then, you believe.”

  “Well,” Josh said thoughtfully. “We couldn’t be totally sure. But I think before seven.”

  “Seven? And how would you know that?”

  “Well, that’s when our daughter, Bea, tends to be up,” he said smoothly. “I got up with her, to give Olivia a break. And our housekeeper, Annie, was also up and about. Weekends are her time off, usually, but she was helping with the party aftermath. So one of us would have heard Nicky leave, surely.”

  “So she left the house sometime between midnight and seven. You believe.”

  “That’s right.” Josh smiled blandly. “I assume you are planning to speak to Annie?”

  “Yes, we will. Thanks.”

  Josh was trying to put them on the back foot, I could tell. But he kept making the right concerned-sounding noises for a few minutes more, politely signaling that we were prepared to assist in any way we could, at the same time sorry we couldn’t be more use, we had no idea where Nicky Wilson could be . . .

  “So, is there anything else we can help you with?” Josh said finally, putting his arm around me. “This is very distressing, you must understand, for my wife. For us both.”

  “We appreciate that,” said Coben glibly. “We appreciate you putting yourselves out.” Something dry in his voice sounded like a rebuke.

  * * *

  To my relief, they left after that. Josh and I showed them out together, taking their numbers, giving them ours, promising we would be in touch if we thought of anything else; it was fine, really, routine, but in those last moments, at we stood at the front door, I could barely speak, my chest tight, I just needed them to go, now.

  As I shut the door behind them, I felt my husband’s arm drop from my waist.

  “Josh,” I said, and then didn’t know what to say next.

  “There was no need to complicate things,” he said, his face cold even in the dimness of the entranceway. Then he turned and walked away from me.

  Because, as he and I both knew, we weren’t with each other all Friday night.

  Chapter 48

  I was still staring after him when my phone rang. I’d left it on the hall table after I’d come downstairs.

  I snatched it up: I didn’t know the number. Face each problem as it presents itself. “Hello?”

  “Hello? It’s Barbara Macmillan.” The voice was full, theatrical.

  It took me a second to place her, my head still full of the police visit.

  “Barbara, of course. Hi.” Nicky’s agent. I sounded hoarse, and swallowed. “Thanks for calling me—I’m trying to get hold of Nicky Wilson.”

  This was what I had to do—keep doing. The right thing.

  “Nicky Wilson,” she repeated.

  “Yes, would you have another number for her, maybe? I’ve just got her cell phone.”

  “Goodness, no, I don’t think I do. Sorry.” She sounded slightly confused.

  “You are her agent?” I asked sharply. “She’s on your books?”

  “Nicky? Oh yes.” I breathed out. “And what was your name, sorry? It’s a bit noisy here, I’m just in a café.”

  “Olivia. Olivia Hayes.” I waited a beat, to see if that landed. “I’m an influencer.” I had always hated that word. Right then I didn’t care.

  “Ah yes,” she said slowly. “You know, I have been trying to get hold of Nicky myself. I had a new project in mind for her, really quite a good one—do you know the Coupon Queen?—but she hasn’t got back to me about it.”

  I felt myself go very still.

  “I presume she’s been getting on with some of her own writing, she said she had something in mind. So, anyway—flat white please, oat milk—you’re Olivia Hayes? That Olivia Hayes?” She had recognized my name now. “I’m so sorry, engaging brain now! I’d love to talk to you about a book, if you’re thinking of one.”

  “No, no,” I interrupted, my voice hollow. “My mistake. Got my wires crossed.”

  “I follow you on Instagram myself, actually.” She was sounding a lot warmer. “With your sort of following, that really could be very interesting—”

  “Really,” I said. “I must let you go.” Maybe I should have told her about Nicky going missing, and the police, but I couldn’t; I needed to get off the phone.

  “Well”—she sounded reluctant—“why don’t I give you a call tomorrow, and you’ve got my number . . .”

  “Thanks so much,” I said firmly. “So sorry to disturb you on the weekend.”

  Then I hung up and stood still for a second, staring straight ahead.

  * * *

  Don’t panic, I told myself, don’t panic.

  Because I was absolutely sure that Nicky’s agent had no idea that Nicky was supposed to be writing a book about me, or that her agency’s details were being used on the contract that Nicky had given me.

  But so what? So Nicky hadn’t mentioned it to her. She wouldn’t be the first writer to moonlight, or to not keep her agent totally in the loop.

  She was legit, I told myself, I am not an idiot. I read the small print, I do my checks.

  And that contract was watertight, recognizing that the copyright was all mine, that it was my story, that she couldn’t do a thing without my consent. The risk was all hers.

  I wasn’t even committed to producing a book. I could pull out at any time. That was why I had agreed to it in the first place.

  Although I suppose if her agent didn’t know about it, no one had spoken to any publishers yet, either . . .

  Really, it was a big investment of Nicky’s time, without a guarantee she would have anything to show for it. Almost as if it was designed to put me at my ease.

  Well, that didn’t matter now. It’s OK, I told myself. People do it all the time, don’t they, talk up their contacts, their prospects, to make things happen? So maybe Nicky blagged her way into my life, that’s not the worst thing a person could do . . .

  I didn’t want to think about that.

  Instead I thought back to what had made me call her agent in the first place: the afternoon I had knocked on Nicky’s door, left ajar, and heard them on the phone.

  “. . . do you think publishers will still go for it, if she doesn’t seem to want to talk about anything personal?”

  I had knocked again, catching her next comment—“OK, I won’t do anything for the mo—hold on one sec”—before she opened the door to me, still on the phone.

  “Let me call you back, Barbara . . . I was just on the phone to my agent,” she told me then.

  I already knew she wanted me to open up, to get a good story; that call made it even more clear that it could be crucial to the book’s success, piling on the pressure.

  That all stood, even if I had been mistaken about one thing: they couldn’t have been talking about my book, like I’d thought. Because Barbara didn’t know anything about me.

  * * *

  Bea woke up after that, so I was busy until her bedtime. Josh had gone out somewhere; for a drink, to the site, I hadn’t seen him to get his latest excuse. But I wasn’t going to force a confrontation. That was not how we operated. I made sure of that, keeping things polite, civil. As if that could make us polite, civil people at heart.

  Later, I went through my usual Sunday night routine, going to my office to check traffic to my site and social feeds. It was doing well, given that it had not had my undivided attention. I tried not to think about what exactly was keeping the engagement so high, that post on the forums a few days earlier . . .

  And so the evening progressed, me kee
ping busy, my mind occupied, until I felt it was late enough that I would go to sleep quickly, without dwelling on anything.

  So of course, it was only as I was dropping off that the truth presented itself to me, in all its simplicity. That if Nicky wanted to cut her agent out of her latest project, but convince me of her bona fides, even as she piled on the pressure for me to give her a juicy story, turning the screw, there was an easy way . . .

  There was no one at the other end of that phone call at all.

  Chapter 49

  The police came back the next day, half a dozen of them in their dark blue uniforms, tripping back into my beautiful house in their ugly shoes. Maybe I could ask them to take them off, I thought, hilarity bubbling up. I was starting to feel very odd.

  Annie let them in, tight-lipped as they followed her into the kitchen. She had started work early that morning, punctual as ever. As Mondays went, it wasn’t a good start to her week—or mine. I recognized two of the officers from last time and wondered why they hadn’t asked me in advance. They were here to search again, they said.

  Josh offered to accompany them around this time. I wasn’t about to insist I did. That would look like I was worried. So I left them to it, heading up to my study, Annie following with Bea. They had said the rest of us had to be in the same room—“Standard procedure,” according to the officer supervising us from a seat in the corner.

  He said this new search was standard, too, “in case someone’s fallen or got stuck somewhere.” With his open freckled face, he looked like someone’s dad; but when I asked how long his colleagues might take, or why there were so many of them here, he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say.

  So I stopped asking questions and from the study window at the top of the house watched the small dark figures fanning out across the yard. Later, I would discover they had taken away Nicky’s little lemon car on a low-loader trailer, despite it being on private property, behind our gate. Even now, I find that faintly ridiculous.

  * * *

  When Bea started fretting, bored of the small room, the officer said it was OK if she and Annie played with her toys on the attic landing, so long as the study door stayed open. I wasn’t sure the invitation extended to me.

  In the background I could hear the noises from the rest of the house: doors opening, cupboards slamming, the officers searching the premises, methodically.

  So, I got down to work, as Annie kept Bea entertained. It would not help anything to abandon my routine; the last week had been disruptive enough already.

  I had photos to finish editing from the last shoot and a sponsored blog post to sort out after the client had sent me the wrong links, then I checked the comments under the Instagram photos that had gone up over the weekend.

  Among the usual messages, there were some expressions of sympathy in relation to my childhood tragedy, heartfelt messages of congratulations at the life I had created for myself (#phoenixfromtheashes was the tag on one of the more lurid ones).

  I read them through carefully. They were OK, so far. Of course, I couldn’t articulate to Josh, or anyone, why I feared the exposure of my past. He couldn’t understand it. He thought it was all to do with me having to appear together, perfect. He was wrong.

  I checked the comments one last time. People were definitely not yet aware a woman was missing from my house, but perhaps the police would not need to publicize my involvement . . . perhaps it need never get out.

  And then I focused on the next jobs at hand, putting everything else in a separate compartment of my mind, as I have done with so many other things. I let myself be soothed by the succession of tasks: sometimes challenging, but always, eventually, solvable. Work has always been a refuge for me, and I could almost pretend things were back to normal, that Annie would soon be by with a cup of tea.

  When I heard someone coming up the stairs, it took a second to register the hushed conversation on the landing, before another uniformed figure filled the study doorway. “Mrs. Hayes, could you come with me,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  * * *

  I followed downstairs, running through my head as to what they might need; the key to the garage? I hadn’t had a chance to let Cav know they might be looking around, I hoped he had not been difficult or obstructive in any way; he could be quite grumpy.

  But it wasn’t that. There were two new people with my husband in the main hall, all three looking up at me as I went down the main stairs.

  I took the newcomers in: she had neat brown hair and too-pink lipstick; he the bulky arms of a gym-goer under his gray suit. They were not uniformed, but somehow matching: something in their expressions, the way they stood together. They were a team.

  Under Josh’s worried gaze they introduced themselves to me as DC Kate Barnett and DS Neil Moran. Detectives.

  * * *

  The four of us sat in the living room off the kitchen, on the L-shaped sofa. The officers were on one leg of the sofa; Josh next to me on mine; an arrangement that now felt incongruously pally.

  For a moment there was a silence, before I filled it: had they heard from Nicky, had they got in touch with anyone who had? Friends, family?

  They hadn’t heard from her, no. There had been no sign of her at her London apartment. They were making the appropriate inquiries. They didn’t offer any more.

  “Did you try her ex?”

  They had. He had still been on the electoral register for her current address.

  “And he can’t think of anywhere she might go,” said the man, Moran. “In fact, no one in Nicky’s life has heard from her. And everyone we speak to says it’s out of character for her to just pick up and go. They are getting very concerned.”

  His tone was even, but his words seemed to hang in the air, almost accusatory.

  “What about her agent, Barbara something?” I jumped in. Oh so helpful. “I’ve found her number actually, if that would be any use . . .”

  “Olivia,” said the woman then—Barnett. “May I call you Olivia? A young man called Joe Crompton has also been in touch with us. He’s very worried about what could have happened to Nicky.”

  “Oh?” I was expecting this, in a way; but I couldn’t think of what else to say. “Of course, call me Olivia.”

  “He says he was supposed to see her on Saturday.”

  I shook my head. “Nicky hadn’t said anything about that to me.” That was true, technically.

  Barnett continued: “And he says that he’s never known her to do this before; that it’s out of character for her to go AWOL.”

  “Out of character?” I couldn’t just let that pass. “He’s known her a week, if that.”

  They couldn’t even get the basic facts right. I wasn’t surprised. I knew how useless the police could be.

  “Actually—” started Moran; but his partner carried on as if neither of us had spoken.

  “Now, Joe Crompton says Nicky left a message with his grandmother on Friday, to say she’d be round to say bye to him the following day. And he says that if she wasn’t going to turn up on Saturday morning, she would have let him know; that she’s reliable.” There was no mistaking who was in charge here. Not such a team after all.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” I said in response, registering that Nicky must have gone to Marie Crompton’s when she went out on Friday. “Nicky did seem reliable,” I added then, sensing more was expected from me. “That’s why I was happy to work with her.”

  But Barnett didn’t want to talk about working together: she stayed on topic.

  “Joe Crompton also says that he knows you, too. Is that right?”

  “We live in the same village,” I said, “we know of each other, it’s not quite the same thing . . .”

  “Until he came to your house on . . .” she pulled out a notepad and flicked to a page. “On Saturday night, telling you that she hadn’t turned up to meet him.” I knew she had no need to check that.

  “That’s right,” I said after a pause. Next to me I felt Josh shift a little
on the sofa.

  I’d known Joe Crompton would contact the police—that was what had prompted me to call them myself. But I hadn’t mentioned his visit to the officers who arrived yesterday, or to my husband. My instinct is not to volunteer information.

  “Joe says the two of you had a bit of a run-in over some photos he took a while back,” she continued, sounding casual, light almost, but her eyes never left my face.

  “Well, I don’t think I’d say that,” I gave a small laugh, “It just seemed a little . . . bad taste at the time. I don’t think I was directly in touch with him over that,” I added. “I believe it was my housekeeper, Annie Robson, who handled it.”

  She ignored that. “And he says Nicky Wilson was very interested in what had happened in this house when you lived here before. Would you agree, Olivia?”

  “I don’t think I would, particularly,” I said. “Of course we touched on my past, in our sessions.”

  I could feel Josh turn his head a little, to look at me. I stayed composed: I did not get flustered, or blush, or cry. Perhaps that was a mistake, too.

  “We talked about it a little,” I said evenly. “I didn’t want to go into detail.”

  “Are you quite . . . protective over your past, Olivia?” asked the woman, Barnett.

  I shook my head. “No more than most people would be, given the circumstances. I’m a fairly private person, I suppose, but I share a lot of my life online. For my work.”

  “OK,” she nodded.

  I could feel it coming, perhaps with less fanfare than I expected, after all these years. The question I think I had always been waiting to hear from the police.

  “Is there anything you haven’t told us, Olivia? Anything we ought to know?”

  Chapter 50

  “Look,” I said, calculating quickly. I had to head them off. “There is something you should know about Nicky Wilson.” I sighed heavily, like I was troubled to share it. “She did seem reliable, steady. But how can I put it? I’m not sure that was the full story.”

  Of course I wouldn’t tell them everything. But I could tell them some of what I knew about her, so that if they were thinking—well, anything I didn’t want them to think—I could get ahead of the momentum that this whole affair was taking on.