Foreign Bodies
Copyright © 2020 Colin A. Millar
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information and rights requests email: [email protected]
Cover art © 2020 Rosalind White Photography
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.colinamillar.com
For Roz, Caitlin and Bryony.
Thanks really need to go to too many to mention. Suffice to say that you know who you all are.
Special thanks to Tracy Starreveld for her excellent copy-editing, Rosalind White for the cover art and website, Lyndsey Chivers for her typesetting skills and Scott and Jenna for their input and advice during the writing of this novel.
‘00
She sighed as he withdrew for the final time – a juddering, sibilant exhalation of release and relief. She looked beautiful to him then, her features serene and relaxed, a marked contrast to the primal contortions, animal grunts and – finally – screams of the last hour. No longer was her back arched, her neck straining as she writhed, or her head thrown back; legs that a moment ago were constantly moving, sometimes thrown rigidly upwards, other times pulled in, almost foetal, were now still. Her arms were now dropped by her sides, hands open, turned towards the ceiling, no longer clawing at him, pushing and pulling, or pawing his face, chest and back. Sliding his hand down her thigh and under her knee, he gently straightened her leg, which had relaxed into what looked like an uncomfortable position, her knee pointed at the window.
This was when he loved them most, all of 'his' women – at the end, after all the frantic, exhausting, life-affirming and exhilarating action was over. Looking now, as her eyes slowly closed, he compared her to the others, to all those women who had fallen under his spell over the last three or four years. She was one of the best he had ever had, he realised, with a tingle of joy that ran down his spine. He would remember her like this forever.
Their meeting, like many before, had been a chance one. The usual bar room pick-up routine, a long-practised skill he had honed to a fine art over the years. She was Morag or Margaret or was it Marie? It didn't matter, he was extremely adept at maintaining a conversation and ignoring trivial details like names, ages and whatever other inanities women cared to share. As they had talked, he realised there was something different about her. She was erudite, funny and clearly very smart, which he liked – but these were not what he found most alluring. It was her underlying vulnerability, hidden under the layers of confidence, which he had picked up on and was immediately drawn to. There was something almost childlike in her psyche, a need to be led and guided, a desire to feel wanted that sang to his soul, made him want her more than anything, anyone, at any time. Within five minutes of their meeting he knew, he was not letting this one go.
The chat and laughter had continued for some time, she becoming more flirtatious, he more attentive. He began to notice the little signs – the flicks of her long brown hair, the looks through slightly lidded eyes, the touches to his forearm that became longer and more sensuous as the afternoon wore on. Robson and Jerome crooning Unchained Melody coming softly and gently through the bar’s speakers seemed to highlight and intensify their burgeoning interest in each other.
Eventually it was she who had suggested they go to her place. He had smiled to himself then, had expected to have to make the running, but this time she had walked straight into his open arms.
Straight into a taxi, along North Bridge and South Bridge, after which the road became Nicolson Street, he’d found himself looking back to his youth and recalling the succession of road names that followed until it became Minto Street. Her house, a fine large Georgian one, typical of that part of Edinburgh, was off a side road on the left. The driver had droned on about that week’s news and sport for the entire journey, which accounted for him not seeing the name of the road they had turned into. Who cared whether Steve Redgrave had won his fifth gold medal? It was, he conceded, more important to him to know whether Greece would be granted entry into the Euro, but even this was a small concern right now. There were far more important things on his mind, the beauty beside him being uppermost. Once inside it was straight to business, clothes discarded on the stairs and landing, and into the bedroom. Then the real fun had begun.
Now in the warm, late summer afternoon, a gentle breeze ruffled the curtains through the slightly open window. They lay naked, side by side, her face turned towards him, he on his side, one hand cupping his chin as he propped up his head. He looked intently at her features – beautiful, he thought, her lips slightly parted, eyes closed. This was how he would remember her. Lifting his free hand, he gently stroked her cheek, running it slowly over her chin and then on down her neck, across the smooth curve of her breast until he brought it to rest on her stomach, still damp and sticky from their acts of love. Rubbing thumb and forefinger together, he smiled before licking the salty, sweet taste from his finger. She hadn't moved – a good thing, it would've spoiled a perfect moment. I shall remember you with love always, my dear, he thought as he rose from the bed.
It was time to go – flight to catch in two hours, back to the office tomorrow – but he was finding it hard to tear himself away, to leave such an intoxicating scene. He forced himself to move, staying longer could be trouble. She was married, of course. There had been no need to ask – the photos in the hall, the untanned circle on her left ring finger, oh so obvious in the bar, both testified to that. He didn't know if hubby (poor, hard-working, faithful and trusting idiot) was away on business or due home anytime soon. Whichever it was, the best course of action was to be long gone from there.
He strode across the room into the very luxurious ensuite, showered quickly but thoroughly. Walking onto the landing whilst drying himself, he collected his clothes, tossed seemingly casually on the stairs and landing but very deliberately kept out of the bedroom, and placed them carefully on the floor by the front door, ready to put on before he finally left.
Still naked, he turned and walked back up to the bedroom.
Savouring the sight of her one last time, he inhaled the bittersweet smell that lingered in the warm air. With a final glance at her naked body he stooped to retrieve the eight-inch kitchen knife from the floor. Rising, he nonchalantly wiped it clean on the blood-soaked duvet cover and threw it casually onto the bed, where it gently bounced once, coming to rest near her torn and lifeless body.
He left, then, straightening his tie and whistling quietly to himself.
Chapter One
Anxiety clicked on, as the kettle clicked off, as it had every morning for the last three months. It manifested as a tight, closed feeling in her chest making her feel breathless, joined with the intolerable stomach twisting that was telling her to run and keep running or fight or prowl the rooms of the house. It was this directionless physical reaction of her body to the psychological processes whirring uncontrolledly in her brain that she hated the most. No matter that she knew the cause or the process creating it, it was a wild, untamed gut reaction which left her wanting to scream and tear down the walls with clawed animal hands.
Anxiety soon coupled with the daily stresses of living: getting the kids ready for school, lists upon lists of things to remember, things to do, things to control, and other things to leave to run their course. She could hear Melissa already moving around, heading for the bathroom; she was a good girl and rarely troubled her. Callum, on the other hand, would need waking soon; he was a nightmare to wake and get moving, always grumpy and argumentative in the morning.
A juddering sigh escaped her
lips as she lifted the mug of tea to her mouth, reciting her daily mantra: ‘You are Charlotte Travers, you are in control and you will manage to survive today.’ Repeated three times to the kitchen wall, she always felt stupid after saying it but somehow it helped. It calmed and eased the fear and allowed the feeling of lonely, helpless loss and confusion to dissipate into the general background chatter of her mind.
The morning went like many before over the last three months, with the kids quiet and subdued over breakfast, Melissa looking forlornly around the kitchen for something she knew she wouldn’t find, and Callum concentrating on his cereal – trying unsuccessfully to avoid spilling milk on the table. A clunk from the front door made him start and then stare intensely towards the hall, his little body tense, ready to run towards the noise should it prove to be the answer to his recent dreams.
‘It’s just junk mail, Cally. You know it always comes when you’re having breakfast,’ Charlotte said gently, stroking the boy’s hair softly to calm the growing disappointment and sadness threatening to bring a tear to his eyes. He calmed with her touch and looked at her with a resigned yet hopeful expression on his young face.
‘It might’ve been daddy,’ he said sullenly.
‘You say that almost every morning Cal and it’s really starting to bug me. It’s been like months now – when are you gonna put a sock in it!’ Melissa, though older, wiser and more cynical than Callum, was still young enough to be affected by his open, unshakable hope. Her eyes welled and her lower lip began to tremble.
‘Melissa, please …’ Charlotte’s voice remained soft and calm, knowing that her daughter was doing her best to appear able to cope with the events of her recent life while desperately wanting to understand what had happened, was happening, in the way she thought her mother did. To her 10-year-old mind adults had an all-encompassing knowledge of what was happening and why. It was a state of mind she desperately wanted to achieve herself, but as yet it evaded her.
Charlotte wished she could explain everything to her daughter, wished she could give them both the answers they craved, to be able to provide a reasoned explanation for their father’s disappearance. She desperately wished for those answers herself, for someone somewhere to explain the unexplainable, to provide clarity or at least a theory as to where her husband had gone, and how and why. Then she wished, as she often did with a guilty, sick feeling since Marcus had disappeared, that she would hear that he was truly gone, found somewhere – cold and lifeless. At least this would be an ending and a chance at a beginning. Instead they were left with nothing, no explanation, no finality or any idea of how to deal with their loss, if it were indeed a loss.
Then the day kicked in: the fifteen requests for teeth to be cleaned, shoes put on, school bags and lunch boxes picked up; the rat race of the school run; the feigned happy chatty of the other parents in the school playground waiting for the kids to be let in; the ritual trip to the supermarket for bits and pieces neither entirely necessary nor particularly wanted; then back home, shopping put away, surfaces cleaned, discarded pyjamas collected and put back in bedrooms, all in time for her to get to work.
Work over and with her mother collecting and feeding the kids today, Charlotte was sitting in her car outside the police station, wondering yet again if it was worth going in. There had been no contact from them for over five days, but then that was nothing new, and as Helen, her family liaison officer, constantly explained – they wouldn’t ‘bother’ her with needless ‘nothing to report’ updates. It only left families feeling hopeless and depressed, she had said. But Charlotte hated the days with no contact, hated marking time until the by now predictable call came through, telling her that they were no further forward, that there were no new clues to her husband’s whereabouts or any new leads to follow, and – was there anything additional she had remembered, that she had perhaps dismissed as trivial but that might just prove to be important? The answer was always no, and the calls always dwindled into the uncomfortable platitudes of ‘we are doing all we can.’
But she lived for those calls. They meant that the police were still doing something – even if that was simply remembering to call her once a week – and that there was still hope, a movement towards finding what had happened to Marcus that morning three months ago when, adhering to a routine that had changed little in 10 years, he had kissed them all goodbye, wished her a good day, told Melissa to enjoy school whilst giving her a little hug and ruffled Callum’s hair whilst telling him to be good, picked up his briefcase, pulled his tie up and walked out the door to work…
… except he never made it to the office.
They had called around midday, concerned at his absence – he so rarely missed a day of work and never without calling in. She had called his mobile over and over that afternoon to no response, had called hospitals and then their doctor. And finally, at around seven that evening, after bathing the children and getting them ready for bed, when it had reached the time he was always home, every evening for 10 years, regardless of the pressures of work or an impromptu after-work social, she had called the police.
The police had been sympathetic but initially sluggish in their response, although they would consider Marcus missing since it had been reported and they would ask all their officers in and around the town to keep an eye out for him. But people often disappeared for short periods of time, they reasoned, perhaps to think through a personal crisis or just from stress, and it was likely her husband would be home before they could begin to find him. But Marcus hadn’t come home. She had continued calling his phone through the night and the next morning until she knew it had either been switched off or the battery had died. She had waited until nearly midday, giving him every chance to come back or contact her, but her phone and the door had remained silent and closed. She contacted the police again and this time they took a more proactive approach.
Three months passed and there was never any news, nothing to tell her or the police where her husband had gone. The story ended more or less where it had begun: he had got ready for work one Tuesday morning, as routinely and unremarkably as any other of the hundreds of previous mornings, said goodbye to his family, walked out the door and simply, completely disappeared. The investigation stalled immediately, descending into a round robin of the same questions met with the same answers.
She changed her mind three times between going into the station or driving home. The need for contact with the investigation and a chance at hope won her over in the end. Exiting the car, she took a deep, calming breath and entered the building. The officer on the desk, who knew her by sight now, simply nodded towards the hard seats against the wall and picked up the phone to call upstairs.
About 10 minutes later DC Tony Handley came through the security door to one side of the front desk. Charlotte was mildly surprised to see him, although he was the investigating officer for her husband’s case. She rarely had contact with him and usually saw Helen, the liaison officer. He was a large man with a look that Charlotte could only describe as ‘policeman’ with no clear idea why that should be. His height and width probably had a lot to do with it. He was well over six feet, towering over Charlotte’s petite stature, his frame was heavy and strong-looking without appearing toned or particularly muscular. With a large head on a bull of a neck, with his hair closely cropped almost to the skin, he had the look of a rugby forward or, well, a policeman.
‘Mrs Travers, good afternoon,’ he said – his deep, almost monotone, yet surprisingly quiet voice sounding slightly weary and a little exasperated, his words accompanied by a slight exhalation of breath that spoke of overwork and an annoyance at being interrupted. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. Has Helen not organised when she’ll call you again?’
‘Hello DC Handley – yes she has but not until next week. I was passing and thought I might get an update? I got the impression from Helen that there was something you were working on, a new development or whatever you call it?’ A fiction she had just invented, it sounded
weak and pathetic even to her, pleading almost, but there was no helping that now. She wanted contact with the investigation and this was the only way to ensure she got it. If she phoned she would be palmed off with promises of call-backs or updates when they were available.
‘Mrs Travers, you know by now we will call you if anything relevant comes along, but,’ he stopped there and sighed, rubbing his forehead with a meaty finger then running his hand over the top of his stubbled head, a second sigh escaping as he looked at her. ‘Ok, why don’t you come up to my office and have a coffee? We can have a chat about the investigation and so on. Let’s try and get some things straight for you, eh? Put your mind at rest a little?’
She simply nodded and stood to follow him back through the same door he had entered from. She didn’t like the sound of his offer. It sounded like he actually intended to lecture her on interrupting his and his colleagues’ work when she knew they would call if they had anything. But again, the need for some hope, some forward movement, forced an optimistic thought into her mind. Maybe he did have something new and had been holding back until he had firmed things up a little? Maybe, just maybe.
His office was in fact a desk to one side of a large open-plan space, full of desks creaking under computers and paperwork. A few officers at their own desks looked up disinterestedly as Handley led her first to his desk to pick up a file and secondly to the coffee machine in the far corner. After selecting and paying for their coffees he led her back past the desks and white boards to a small side office. This looked unused and obviously kept for these sorts of informal ‘chats’ and for private conversations between officers. It was tiny and cramped with only a desk and two chairs, DC Handley’s size seeming to shrink the room further, making the space appear to turn in on itself.
After opening the file and taking a sip of his coffee Handley looked straight at her. He looked hard and uncompromising for a moment and then his expression softened, as though he had just remembered that he was dealing with a victim and not a suspect.
Foreign Bodies Page 1