A Wayward Game

by Pandora Witzmann

  “You’re a journalist, and I’m a police officer. A good part of our work involves keeping a sharp eye on people. We shouldn’t be surprised if people retaliate in kind.” He shrugs. “We make enemies, people like you and I. Part of our job descriptions.”

  “I write about fashion shows and celebrity diets these days. I’m not likely to make too many enemies.”

  “It wasn’t always like that, though, was it? My God, Katherine, you once wrote for a national broadsheet, and you tackled some pretty weighty issues. People have long memories when it comes to that sort of thing. And besides, the very fact that you and I are seeing each other might raise some eyebrows. An officer of the Metropolitan Police and a journalist – can you imagine what we might be talking about together, what secrets we might let slip?”

  I try to repress a shudder, because of course I have always thought something similar myself. It’s not that I allowed the fact of Neil’s job to influence my feelings for him. It’s just that I’ve never been quite able to forget it, either. I’ve often tried – mostly unsuccessfully – to steer our conversations in certain directions, to gain a greater understanding of police procedures, or to find out things that generally remain hidden to the public at large. But I smile dismissively as I flop down onto the bed beside him, and take a carefree gulp of wine.

  “I can’t imagine anyone cares whether we’re involved or not,” I say. “We’re really not that important.”

  “Not in the great scheme of things, perhaps, but we’re not entirely irrelevant either. Besides, there are a lot of eyes and ears in a city like London. You never know what people might notice.” He thinks for a moment, his eyes slightly narrowed. “Look, have you noticed anything unusual recently? Any other occasions when someone’s been hanging around outside? Any times when you thought somebody might be following you?”

  “God, no. If anything like that had ever happened, I’d have told you.”

  We fall silent for a moment. Outside, the scream of a distant siren cuts through the night. The wind picks up, and sighs around the eaves. I think of the vast sprawl of the city, and the miles of countryside beyond: fields, meadows, woods, moors. Suburbs, and industrial estates. Diane is out there somewhere, I think, her body slowly being reclaimed by the earth. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes. That’s all any of us are: a collection of atoms, held together in a certain configuration for a certain length of time. I shiver, and move closer to Neil.

  “I don’t want to worry you,” he says quietly. “Perhaps it’s nothing.”

  “You think it is, though.”

  “I’ve stood around watching places like that myself, many times. I know what it looks like.” He remains silent for a moment, thinking, and then gets up, puts his glass down on the bedside table, and pulls on his boxer shorts. “Wait here for a moment. I want to see how secure this place is.”

  He pads out of the bedroom and into the hallway, and I hear him moving around the flat, checking the windows and doors. After five minutes or so, he returns, and sits down at the end of the bed.

  “You should be fine when you’re here, anyway,” he says. “The place seems pretty safe. Nobody could get in – not without making a great deal of noise, at least. Be careful, though. Keep everything locked. Don’t answer your door to strangers. Stick to busy, well-lit streets when you go out, and don’t leave the flat after dark if you can help it.”

  “You’re really spooked, aren’t you?” I say. I try to sound amused; indeed, part of me wonders if this isn’t just a little flight of the imagination, the whim of a man whose job involves envisaging different scenarios and seeing potential crimes and criminals everywhere. But Neil’s troubled expression tells me that this is not simply a fantasy, or play-acting. He means it.

  “I’ve become used to people taking an interest in my business,” he says gloomily. “People like to know what police officers get up to. And why shouldn’t they? Why shouldn’t the watchers be watched? The point is, I usually assume that I’m being subjected to a degree of observation. What worries me, frankly, is that someone might be watching you.”

  “I can look after myself.”

  “Can you?” He looks across at me. “That’s the impression you give, certainly. Hard as nails, like you don’t give a damn. I don’t think it’s really true, though, is it?”

  I shrug, slightly embarrassed. He moves closer to me, and puts his hand on my knee.

  “You know,” he says, a little awkwardly, “if anything happens, or you’re worried about something, you can call me. Day or night, it doesn’t matter. Don’t hesitate.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. His kindness and concern affect me far more than any amount of indifference could, and to my mortification I feel my throat constricting, and a tear seeping out of my eye. Why am I crying, damn it? I’m not frightened of people who stand in shop doorways and stare into windows. But I’m frightened of something, and I’m not even sure what it is. Death, perhaps. Or life. Loneliness. I don’t know.

  I glance at Neil, and fear that I’ll see disillusionment in his face. Some men want Dominas to be impervious; they lose interest when the mask slips, and they see the fragile human beneath the facade. In Neil’s face, though, I see only concern, and something that looks almost like love. He leans over and kisses me gently on the lips. And before I know what is happening, we’re in each other’s arms and kissing each other deeply, hungrily. I slip further down onto the bed, and he shifts on top of me. We begin to caress each other’s bodies, and in spite of my tears and the tight ache of grief in my body, I feel a surge of excitement. I tug at his boxers, and push them down over his hips. And then, quite suddenly, he’s inside me. No questions, no games, no submission or dominance – and, I think, no condom. But the thought comes to me vaguely, from a thousand miles away it seems, and is so remote that I barely even register it. All I can think is that we are here, making love, simply and passionately, like any man and woman might. And this, I know, is the most wayward game we could possibly play.

  ~

  Martin Stevenson, I remind myself as I approach his house, did not ask for his five minutes of fame – or notoriety, if you prefer. He once seemed quite content to be living in obscurity, or so his circumstances would suggest. He has been married to the same woman for almost twenty years, and they live together in one of the quieter, more select corners of London. Since leaving school, Stevenson has worked as a chef. He started his career in the kitchen of a rather upmarket pub in Hampstead, and then worked his way up through some of the most fashionable restaurants in the capital. Now, he owns and manages a restaurant in Richmond, and – one might hope – is enjoying the fruits of years of hard work.

  Eight years ago, this life of apparent industry and contentment was interrupted when Stevenson, according to his testimony, was the last person to see Diane. As a result, both the police and media spotlights caught him in their glare, and though the light may be less blinding than it once was, he could be forgiven for being a little dazzled by it still. And, I remind myself, he is unlikely to respond well to yet another journalistic intrusion, another request for information that she has shared a hundred times already.

  On the other hand, he might almost be accustomed to going over the same ground – so accustomed to it, in fact, that one more request to tell his story might not represent too weighty a burden. He has, after all, spoken to police, private investigators, reporters and camera crews in the past eight years, and perhaps even enjoys the attention. So, at least, I hope; but as I open the small wrought iron gate and walk down the neat garden path, I can’t help but feel that this is a terrible intrusion. A necessary one, as Frieda would no doubt tell me, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.

  I ring the doorbell, and straight away hear yapping, and see the vague shape of a dog bounding along the hallway behind the frosted glass of the door. A few moments later I hear footsteps, and catch sight of someone – a man, I think – ambling up to the door. A hand fumbles with a lock, and the door op
ens to reveal a man of average height and rather stocky build, with short hair that might once have been blond but is now white. He is one of those adults who seem never to have left their infancy entirely behind, and his bland, chubby face is that of a contented, overgrown baby. He looks mild, and rather complacent. I smile as he gives me a questioning glance.

  “Mr Stevenson?” I ask. The dog – an Old English Sheepdog, as it turns out – jumps up and paws at me, and I reach down and stroke its head.

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder if I might have a word. Lucy Lowry, South West London Gazette.” I hand over my filched work ID (forgive me, Lucy) and hope that Stevenson will be taken in. He squints down at the card, and then back at me, and I see that he suddenly looks nervous and guarded.

  “You’ve come about Diane Meath-Jones, I suppose,” he says, and his voice is slightly peevish. “It couldn’t possibly be about anything else.”

  “Yes. Could I talk to you for a few minutes?”

  “Wait a minute. How on earth did you find out where I live?”

  “The electoral roll,” I say, with an apologetic smile.

  “Oh.” Mr Stevenson frowns. “Well, I’m acquainted with the tricks you journalists sometimes play, of course. Frankly, though, I’m amazed that you’re bothering, after all this time. The poor girl’s been gone for eight years now, more or less. Why on earth do you want to keep digging over the past like this?”

  “I’m putting together a report about the case. It may be old news, but it still arouses a great deal of interest.”

  “I suppose the vultures will keep circling,” Stevenson grumbles. “I can only tell you what I’ve told others a thousand times before.”

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr Stevenson, but really—” A sudden flicker of inspiration dawns in my brain, and I add: “I understand it’s an imposition, but I might be able to help you in return. I understand you own a restaurant near here.”

  “Yes, the Vine Tree. Richmond.” A greedy look clouds his features. “Are you offering something in the way of publicity? A feature, perhaps?”

  “We could certainly arrange something like that, yes. Our restaurant critic is very well respected, and his views tend to carry a great deal of weight locally. If I were to have a word in his ear—”

  “Oh. Oh well, in that case you’d better come in. I can only spare you five minutes or so, mind; there are some errands I need to run.”

  Stevenson leads me into a chintzy, decidedly feminine living room, the dog trotting at our heels. Mrs Stevenson may not be at home – so far there’s been neither sight nor sound of her – but she is very much in evidence. I’m struck by the over-the-top opulence of this suburban house. There’s an antique grandfather clock at the far end of the room, with the words TEMPUS FUGIT carved into the wooden casing in elaborate script. An old painting, dark and dirty with age, hangs on the wall; it depicts a stormy sea, and a cargo ship ploughing through the waves towards the distant shore. There’s a display case filled with antique vases, a porcelain dinner set, and various items of gold- and silverware that gleam in the morning light. The Stevensons are clearly wealthy – the Vine Tree must be doing very good business – and yet there’s very little here to indicate any great good taste. They seem to have bought whatever took their fancy, with little regard to its merit, and have furnished and decorated their house piecemeal. There’s no overarching design plan, no dominant theme or effect, and no harmony. In some houses this would indicate chaotic contentment; here, it suggests only jangling, lavish discord.

  “You’re something of a collector, I see,” I say cautiously, sitting down on the lumpy, rather hard sofa – another antique piece, I suppose. I take out a notepad and pen, and the dog slumps down at my feet.

  “I’m not, but my wife is. I spend most of my time at work.” His accent is Essex, I think, softened by years of living in these genteel suburbs and working for the privileged and wealthy. “I’m not much of a homebody, to tell you the truth. I prefer to be out doing things. Some people said I was taking a risk when I opened my own restaurant, but the prospect was to me invigorating rather than alarming. I saw it as a calculated gamble.”

  “It paid off, obviously,” I say, hoping that if I discuss matters close to Stevenson’s heart I might win his trust and get him to open up to me.

  Stevenson smiles, a little complacently. “A little luck, and a great deal of hard work. The Vine Tree has been my life for the past seven years.”

  “You must have bought it the year after Diane Meath-Jones’s disappearance, then.”

  “Oh. I wondered when you’d get down to the nitty-gritty.” Stevenson’s voice, which had softened when he talked about his restaurant, hardens a touch. “Yes, I bought the place in the spring of the following year, I believe. It was a little rundown when I first acquired it, but the potential of the place – oh, it was unmistakeable. I spent most of the summer renovating it, and then opened in October. It gave me something to focus on other than Diane Meath-Jones, which was most welcome.”

  “I suppose being involved in such a case must have been a rather trying experience.”

  “Very much so.” Stevenson’s grim tone of voice, and grimmer expression, suggest that in this, at least, he is telling the truth. “Of course, having been the last person to have seen Miss Meath-Jones put me in an unenviable position, legally. I always felt, in the early days, that I myself fell under a certain cloud of suspicion. And that, of course, is before you consider the press and public interest that the case engendered. Yes, it was a miserable experience.”

  “I’m very sorry for reminding you of it.”

  “I remember it all the time anyway. Let’s not beat around the bush here, Miss Lowry; ask what you came to ask.”

  “Well, I wondered if you could tell me about the day you saw Diane.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, I took the dog out to Bucklock that morning – we lived out on the eastern fringes of London at the time, and I often went out there for a few hours, just to get away from the city. It must have been shortly before ten when I arrived there, though I’m not entirely sure. I was working at another restaurant back then, in Central London – I mostly worked evenings, you know – and my shift didn’t start until later that day. I had occasionally seen Miss Meath-Jones walking her dog there, and I knew her by sight. She seemed to be a creature of habit, as I was; she tended to go there at certain times, and our paths often crossed. I didn’t know her name at this stage, but I often glimpsed her out there.”

  “Did you ever talk to her?”

  “No. I occasionally nodded at her or smiled at her, but we never spoke. Anyway, I noticed her that day, just for a second or two. She was turning onto the path that leads to Waken Mere, and her dog was running in front of her. I thought nothing of it at the time, of course; it wasn’t until later that I realised that my sighting of her might be significant.”

  “I have to ask this, Mr Stevenson: are you really sure it was Diane you saw? You said your sighting lasted only a few seconds.”

  “It was her, all right. I’m quite certain on that point.”

  “Are you sure it was the 16th June when you saw her? Might you have mistaken the date?”

  “I really don’t think that is possible,” Stevenson says, a little coldly. “I heard about her disappearance the very next day; I remember that distinctly.”

  “But – forgive me, Mr Stevenson – you didn’t go to the police until June 21st, four days later. Why the delay, if you heard about her disappearance on the 17th?”

  For a moment – the barest, briefest moment – a faint look of panic flits across Stevenson’s face. Perhaps he simply gets flustered when he is challenged, as people sometimes do. Or perhaps – just perhaps – he has something to hide.

  “Well,” he says, “for one thing, I couldn’t know that I had actually seen Diane Meath-Jones. I mean, I didn’t know her name. It wasn’t until I saw her photograph on the evening news that I realised, and even then I wasn’t entirely sure . . . I
mean, I did wonder whether I’d be wasting police time if I came forward.”

  “But, Mr Stevenson, you said earlier that you were quite certain that the woman you saw was Diane.”

  “Yes. On reflection I was, and am, certain. But at the outset I had some doubts . . .”

  Stevenson’s voice trails off, and a slight blush creeps over his pale face. A witness whose testimony becomes more, rather than less, certain and detailed as time progresses might just be a suspect witness. Did Neil tell me that, or did I read it somewhere? Or is it something that I imagined myself? Be aware of your own tendency to be biased, an inner voice whispers, and try to counter it. The more the evidence seems to support your favoured theory, the more rigorous you should be in testing it. All the old lessons that I learned in my former career as a serious journalist, and which I have never quite forgotten.

  For a moment we sit in silence, listening to the sullen tick of the grandfather clock. Silence, I have found, can be a powerful tool. A deliberate silence, with its myriad possible interpretations, can disturb people, betray them, or lead them to betray themselves. Unfortunately, Stevenson is made of sturdier stuff; he recovers quickly, and adds:—

  “I will admit, you know, that I had little wish to become involved in the matter. I imagined that I would be treated with a degree of suspicion myself, as indeed I was. And miscarriages of justice are, sadly, not unheard-of. With all these thoughts running through my mind, it took me several days to pluck up the courage to come forward. Besides, the mind can be wonderfully persuasive sometimes; I’d almost managed to convince myself that I was mistaken.”

  “I see.” I make a show of scribbling something into my notepad, and again allow the silence to extend for a moment or two – just long enough, I think, to discomfit Stevenson, but not enough to offend him. “Tell me, when you saw Diane, did she seem well? Unharmed, unthreatened?”