Every Missing Thing

by Martyn Ford

  ‘Did you?’ he said, with a blank face.

  Anna closed her eyes. ‘No. I didn’t.’

  They left this in the air for a few seconds. It was the truth.

  ‘The appeal website, the emails . . . I . . . I have an open inbox – anyone can contact me. It’s anonymous,’ Anna said.

  ‘Why?’ Isabelle wondered.

  ‘In case there’s any information – in case someone sees . . . or hears something. I will be the first to know. This morning, there was a message. From a person called JJ.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘“Robin is safe, please don’t cry.”’ She tried a smile. ‘Occasionally the crackpots are quite sweet.’

  ‘Can we read these?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll give you the login. But it’s not a nice place to be.’

  She scribbled on a loose piece of paper from her bedside cabinet.

  ‘How has your relationship with Francis been recently?’ Isabelle asked, pocketing the details.

  Lifting her eyebrows, Anna shrugged, as if this line of questioning couldn’t possibly matter. But, still, she played along. ‘Well . . . fine, I guess. Normal, for us.’

  ‘What is normal for you?’

  ‘Are you asking how often we have sex?’

  There was no response.

  ‘Rarely,’ she said. ‘Happy? Believe it or not, the past few years have put a bit of a strain on things.’

  ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘I know. . . I’m . . . I’m sorry.’

  Isabelle held her notebook and moved back a couple of pages. ‘In your first statement, after Ethan was declared missing, you said he’d been “unsettled” for many months. You thought there was, maybe, trouble at school? Had you noticed any similar behaviour from Robin?’

  ‘She . . . no. She was fine. Perfect. Herself. We . . . we kept her sheltered. We kept her away from it all. We kept her . . . safe.’ Anna cried that last word.

  After a few moments, she composed herself, then looked up and breathed. Remarkable recovery, Sam thought – she was well-versed in this. Her eyes were still glassy, but her body had stabilised. Staring out of the window, she took another breath, which juddered once.

  ‘There was a story online about me not crying enough at a press conference. Another about me crying too much. Do you count your tears?’

  ‘Best to avoid the news,’ Isabelle suggested. ‘If you can.’

  ‘The truth is, I’m numb. I remember thinking they’d find Ethan’s body. I pictured police at my door, asking to come in, holding their hats. Back then, I thought it’d be the worst thing that could happen. I never even considered how much more it would hurt to not know. How can that be possible? How can there be something worse than a dead child?’

  ‘It must—’

  ‘I had an awful dream, last night. I dreamed that . . .’ Anna covered her mouth and paused, then placed her hands on her knees and took another unsteady breath. ‘I imagined that Robin was dead. And I felt better. Lighter. If I had to pick, between a coffin or another eight years of silence? Another decade of this? A cold-hearted monster – that’s what they say I am. I think I’ve spent it all – I just have no more pain left.’

  Sam and Isabelle listened. She spoke for another five minutes about Robin, about the normality they had almost perfected. Things had finally been getting better. After a while, a bolt of hope arrived from somewhere, and Anna turned to Sam. ‘You said, years ago, do you remember, do you remember what you said? You said you’d find Ethan. You said it. In my kitchen. Do you remember that?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. I remember.’

  ‘You were the only person to say it.’

  ‘We’re doing everything—’

  ‘Will you find her? Sam. Sam, look at me. Will you find Robin?’

  Still standing in the corner by the television, Isabelle folded her arms and gave him that uncomfortable stare. She didn’t shake her head as such, but moved it in a way that warned, No, don’t.

  Sam never lied. He couldn’t lie. He believed every lie, even a small one, would pollute the water, corrupt it. Push us a millimetre in the wrong direction. As far as he knew, unless for humour, the deception of an agreed game, or some unlikely life-or-death scenario (is Anne Frank in your attic?), he could only speak the truth. Even a momentary lapse during an interrogation irked him and he’d always straighten the record before it was over – as he’d done with Francis. In all his years on earth he was yet to encounter, first-hand, a situation in which deception yielded a moral net gain over honesty, no matter how raw, no matter how much it might hurt.

  So, then, what must he believe, he wondered, as he nodded, looked Anna in the eye and said: ‘Yes. I will find Robin.’

  A slow blink from Isabelle. He could have stayed within the realms of truth. He could have answered, ‘I would rather not say.’ But he didn’t. Instead, he promised a desperate mother that he would find her lost child for the second time in a decade.

  Isabelle turned her hands over and mouthed the word, ‘Why?’

  But Anna, whose eyes were fixed on the floor between her feet, didn’t even flicker. What he’d said hadn’t comforted her. Not in any detectable way at least. Of course, he had a pretty poor track score – maybe these pledges had lost their edge.

  Still, Isabelle’s question was an interesting one. Why had he said that? Did he think he was the author, commander of the future? Could an affirmation really pave the way? Could he say something, believe it, and watch as the universe unfolds and grants him the reality he so wishes to be waiting over the hazy horizon? No. He did not believe that. Stuck, then, he knew, on this path.

  ‘Maybe we should go.’ Isabelle gestured for Sam to stand up.

  ‘I also dream about what I’d do to the person responsible,’ Anna whispered. ‘If I ever got the chance . . .’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Sam.’

  This topic did offer comfort. ‘It involves a sharp knife and would take about five seconds. I have almost fifteen years’ experience in spinal surgery, I know exactly which bits to cut.’ Anna closed her eyes. ‘Pop, pop, pop,’ she said. ‘They would survive.’ Then she held her hand out in front of her face and tilted her gaze to look at it. ‘See, it’s always steady.’

  A professional photograph of them at the front of the hotel, with a uniformed officer, then another of them on the pavement, the man holding his phone. In the next they’re mid-stride on the way to the car park.

  Sam noticed photographers and an unmarked van. The press were here. Lots of them. Another two vehicles pulled in and parked beneath the swaying elm trees that lined the turf along the car park’s borders. They opened fire on arrival.

  As he approached, a few questions were yelled out, but Sam and Isabelle blanked them. A photographer stepped close, took a picture, checked it, then crouched lower and took three more. He didn’t make eye contact.

  ‘This is our fault,’ Sam said.

  Isabelle ignored their new company. ‘What was all that about?’ she asked.

  They arrived at the car and stood for a moment, talking over the roof as a nearby camera crew prepared itself.

  ‘Oh, I think we can grant her some violence. Don’t you ever fantasise, Isabelle?’

  ‘No, not that. Look. Let’s go.’ She struck the metal with her palm. ‘Grown-up time. What do you, in all your professional wisdom, think is most likely? Just on maths, what do you think would get the best odds?’

  Sam sighed. ‘Lower your voice.’

  ‘Come on. What’s happened to those kids? Say it.’

  A long breath. ‘Ethan probably died within twenty-four hours of disappearing. Whoever killed him did so quickly and disposed of his body. I would imagine a similar thing has happened to Robin. That would get the best odds. I’m hard-working Isabelle, but I’m not delusional.’

  ‘Then why do you keep promising to find them?’

  Silence.

  She gave him one of those vacant pauses. This wasn’t th
inking time – this was disapproval. ‘Fucking hell, Sam.’ For the briefest of moments, she seemed almost unbalanced. But it was all back now. Her perfect posture, her calm, calculated mannerisms. ‘You need to think about other people before you speak,’ she said, opening the driver’s door. ‘If you want to be honest, that’s fine. But understand you are causing harm.’

  A van door slammed nearby. Isabelle looked down and pulled her vibrating phone from her pocket. As she spoke, she kept her eyes locked on him.

  ‘OK . . . yeah . . .’

  The crowd of men and women filling the car park and pavement were all on the move, cameras lifted on to shoulders, boom mics carried quickly into place. Turning, blinking, full circle, Sam saw a man in a suit, also talking on his mobile, holding a finger up to a colleague – excitement on both their faces.

  Isabelle was hanging up when Sam looked back at her. ‘They’ve found a screwdriver, hidden in the garage – blood and prints.’

  He waited.

  ‘Formally arrested on suspicion of murder.’

  Word spreads fast, Sam thought, as he lowered himself to the ground and sat on the kerb. He listened to the traffic, the bustle and all the silence in the sky.

  ‘That’s it then,’ he said.

  Sam felt his doubt seeping in, filling him, drowning him. It happened almost immediately and he was quick to identify the sensation. His mind was changing. An arrest, a weapon, they brought validity to Phil’s suspicions – they cemented what everyone already believed. A final piece of the puzzle, fitting in place to finish an ugly picture – a picture that was, no matter where Sam stood, somehow wrong. All these people, heads and shoulders, microphones held to their chests, they were now free to stand in front of the house, in front of the hotel, and say it – announce to the world that, yes, yes it was Francis Clarke.

  Just look. Why else would they arrest him? What possible explanation could there be? If not him then who – who had done this? This. This being what?

  One thing felt almost impossible to deny.

  The officers traipsing methodically through woodland, in rows, through fields, the soil probes pressed into the earth, the divers out there in the deep quarry water – they had all been implicit. Subtext. Tacit whispers. But now? Now it was definitive. Now it was true.

  Now, Robin Clarke was dead.

  Chapter 9

  Francis Clarke was exhausted – as tired as he’d ever been. When the metal door made that awful noise, which clattered off the cell walls like steel on teeth, he flinched as though waking from a nightmare, to no avail.

  This officer’s name was Darrel. A large, middle-aged man with a thick grey moustache and a beer belly. Generally, he was stationed at the front desk, and Francis guessed he was well beyond passing any physical exam. But he was kind. Strange how comforting a smile can be at a time like this. Earlier, when bringing in a bowl of microwaved porridge, Darrel asked how he was doing. Francis had said he was scared – and the words sounded all wrong. For a few seconds, standing there in his dingy cell, he felt tempted to hug the large officer. It wouldn’t have been appropriate, so he stopped himself. Darrel. Kind Darrel.

  ‘Mr Payne is here,’ he said, walking the metal door open until it was against the wall.

  It hurt to stand, but Francis placed his hands on his knees and drove himself upright. He rubbed his eyes and pushed a fist into his cheek, moving the flesh around his back teeth.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘It’s a . . . uh,’ Francis said, pointing to his face, rolling his chin. ‘Ongoing thing.’

  The tooth ached every second of the day, apart from when he clenched his jaw. However, like scratching a mosquito bite, the pain that blossomed right after was, without fail, far worse. A dull, constant throb may have been tolerable, but momentary relief was impossible to resist. He bit down as he followed Darrel the full length of the custody corridor and didn’t let go until he was shown the open interview-room door. Unbearable, dizzy agony as he relaxed his jaw and stepped inside.

  Sweating, wincing, Francis nodded at Jeremy, who stood and thanked Darrel. They remained on their feet until the door closed.

  ‘Tooth again?’ Jeremy said.

  He sat at the empty table, and Francis took the seat opposite.

  ‘Among other things.’

  Jeremy’s clothes were always tailored and elegant – today he was wearing a navy blazer and slim-fit trousers, with thick rimmed glasses and a staunch professionalism that made him all the more handsome. It was an undeniable fact that his lawyer was an attractive man. He’d heard a female officer comment to this effect and was relieved Jeremy hadn’t been in earshot – he already thought plenty of himself.

  Unclipping a leather briefcase, he leaned down and pulled out two brown folders. He opened one of them, removed a sheet of A4 paper from a clip and slid it over the wood towards Francis. Then, back down to his briefcase.

  ‘Take these,’ Jeremy said, thumbing a couple of strong painkillers from a blister pack.

  Francis threw them into his mouth and took a sip of water.

  ‘Don’t focus too much on the clock – they’ll extend as long as they can.’ Jeremy liked to cover all the formalities first – it sounded like he was reading straight from legal text but, occasionally, he would slip into human mode.

  But Francis didn’t even listen to the majority of this precision. He spent most of this time holding his back teeth together, pressing them down into the sweet spot – just light enough to cut the pain by about 50 per cent, without aggravating it further. Really, there was only one thing he wanted to hear.

  ‘You need to read that,’ Jeremy said, pointing to another piece of paper on the desk. Although he’d paid enough to fool a cursory audience, his tan was sprayed on. Pale palms tell tales. ‘We need to start thinking long term, start framing these transcripts as sound bites read out in open court.’

  Clutching his hair, Francis was becoming impatient. He was past crying now. Just a hopeless passenger, accepting his fate – whatever it may be. This feeling of being a prisoner – it scared him more than anything else. Life without control was, by quite a margin, worse than death. The tooth only added to it. In his cell, alone at the razor edge of anxiety, he sometimes kicked his legs out and slapped himself on the cheek. But he was resilient and forced himself to stay strong. Strong Francis.

  ‘Look, listen.’ Jeremy set his pen on the table. ‘Can I speak openly . . . ?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘The number of people convicted of murder without a body? It’s rare.’

  ‘Jeremy.’ Francis’s eyes closed – saw Robin’s face, sweet Robin’s smile. ‘Don’t . . .’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. But it’s positive.’ His lawyer lowered his head, and his voice. ‘They want nothing more than to find Robin dead – they are searching for a body. And they’re searching hard. The timing – it’s no accident. They think they’re on course to find her soon. They probably expected to have it wrapped up by now.’

  ‘This isn’t making me feel better.’

  ‘The reality is they haven’t found a body.’ Jeremy stared at the door. ‘They will lay it on thick. These people believe you’re to blame.’ He looked back. ‘What you’ve told them already, it’s all—’

  ‘The truth,’ Francis said.

  ‘Yes, but now ease off the gas. We don’t want to do their job for them. They will pick your story apart. You’ll tie yourself in knots. You just will.’

  ‘Sam said I should be honest.’

  ‘And whose side is he on?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘It’s up to you. I’m here to advise. When these sails are up, you point them wherever you want.’

  ‘And when time runs out . . . if they haven’t found her?’

  Jeremy exhaled. ‘As I say, a charge without a body is difficult . . . but it’s not impossible.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I can’t see them releasing you. Put yourself in their shoes . . .
There’s blood, Francis. Blood . . .’

  ‘They’re asking about Ethan too. Retreading everything.’

  ‘Good. Honestly, I think that helps us. A lot of room for doubt.’

  There was a quiet moment and Francis looked at his lap. ‘When I was a kid, at school, I used to get picked on.’ He didn’t know why he was saying this – just thinking out loud. ‘Didn’t have many friends. Used to sit alone, every day. I’d have my lunchbox on my lap and the moment I started eating my sandwich, someone would snatch it. Or kick it out of my hands. Every day. And it wasn’t just the bullies – that’s the point. It seemed everyone would have a go. Like I was just . . . fair game. Social proof at my expense. And now, this morning, one of the officers – she looked at me like I’m a piece of shit. It’s a look I’ve seen before. From strangers. People who don’t even know me. It’s strange, isn’t it. You can keep doing the right thing, and still end up in the wrong place.’

  ‘Yeah, life’s fucking . . .’ Jeremy opened his hands – what could he say?

  ‘If everyone believes something, does it make it true?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Deny something once. Twice? Hmm? A thousand times? What then? Sorry . . . I . . . I’m tired.’

  ‘You had any further ideas – anyone who . . . ?’

  Francis shrugged, shook his head.

  ‘They will be trawling through everything. Including the Clarke Foundation.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The money. They’ll use anything they can to chip away at you. Your reputation might be what swings it, if it goes all the way.’

  ‘But that . . . that money has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Yes, but who knows what’ll come crawling out of the woodwork. I just think we need to plan for all eventualities. Get one step ahead.’ Jeremy pressed his glasses higher with two fingers. This was a habit Francis had noticed. One he didn’t like. Every time Jeremy did it, he touched not just the frame but the lens too. Francis imagined the fingerprints, greasy little spiral smears in the right-hand side of his vision. The urge to snatch those glasses from Jeremy’s face and wipe them with his sleeve was like a sudden abstract itch – the kind that appears on your scalp or somewhere around your ear. Instead, he just treated himself to a brief bite. He grimaced as the pain shot through his skull, fading out behind his eye.