His evasion techniques had evolved further recently, as CCTV had become ever more present and pervasive throughout society. His use of wigs, hats and other props, as he’d used on this particular occasion, had very likely hampered any efforts to identify him.
He did not fear capture or its consequences but he did fear the ending of his Quest. He knew he would never be released if they caught him – he would die in prison or in a secure hospital and never see the end, never have the relief of finally Delivering the perfect woman, the perfect facsimile of her.
Yes, he thought, more restraint needed in the future, old chap. In the UK at any rate. He was pleased with himself for turning his attention to Belgium. It hadn’t happened every time he had visited Brussels but a number of times now – was it two or three? Yes, three Belgian women had now been Delivered. Very satisfying. The chances of those particular Events being linked to any in the UK were remote indeed. The downside, of course, was that although his trips to the home of the European Union were viewed as a natural part of his work, they were not always frequent enough to sate The Urge.
He sighed as he took a last look at the lovely on the bed, the crimson blood covering her almost completely. Beautiful, at peace, fulfilled … she would never savour an experience so enlightening again.
But still she wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t The One.
‘This might have to be the last for a while,’ he said quietly to himself, trying to force his mind away from the Quest.
The Urge would have to wait.
Feeling a little melancholic as he left the flat she had so obligingly let him into, he raised his spirits by whistling quietly to himself.
Chapter Four
‘OK’, was all Charlotte could think of to say. DC Handley had asked the same questions in different ways over and over again across the course of the last three months. She could think of nothing else she could add and was not sure she wanted to go through that round of questions again. As much as she wanted answers she was, quite frankly, bored with repeating herself.
‘I don’t really want to wind up repeating myself, Mrs Travers,’ Handley said, apparently reading her mind. ‘So, on the way over here it occurred to me that the questions we should explore on the surface of it may seem …’ He paused, looking at the ceiling, obviously trying to find the right words. ‘… irrelevant, or maybe that we should look at the little things, the things you took for granted in your day to day life with Mr Travers?’
Charlotte remained silent, clearly waiting for Handley to elaborate or at least ask a question she could begin to formulate an answer to. Little things? Irrelevant? If they were little and irrelevant then how the hell was she to recall them off the top of her head?
Handley took the cue and continued, ‘So, as you’ve told me, Mr Travers was an open and – as far as you are concerned – an honest man. Hard working and caring. We don’t need to go through all of that again. Let’s simply chat about day-to-day life here in the house. When Mr Travers was home from work in the evening or at the weekend, what kind of things would you do together? What would he do on his own?’
Still Charlotte remained quiet – her mind, for some reason, had gone completely blank. What did Marcus do on his own? They spent much of their time together with the children when he was home, and then very often the evening would be spent with a bottle of wine and the TV, whilst chatting about their respective days. All very normal. They had what they rather laughingly called an office in the small box room at the back of the house. Marcus would occasionally disappear up there to, as he said it, ‘pootle on the net’ or idly play a game. The police had of course already gone through the computer, to no avail. There was nothing really in the room except that and a desk; there was a cupboard which contained mostly junk and old, generally-defunct CDs of software.
Suddenly her eyes widened, ‘His box!’
Handley looked at her and blinked, ‘Pardon? His what?’
‘His keepsake box. It’s an old wooden box, you know with a clasped lid. He kept old photos, his degree certificate and that sort of thing in it. He’s always had it – I rarely, if ever, saw him look at it. It’s in the back bedroom. We call it the office as we have the computer in there. It’s one of the few places Marcus would be that I wasn’t … maybe he has something in there that would help?’
‘Well,’ said Handley in an even tone, ‘at the very least it’s something we haven’t looked at before so let’s fetch it down and have a sift through it.’
Charlotte rose quickly – at last something new she could pin a little hope on. She virtually ran up the stairs and along the landing. Once in the office, she reached to the top of the cupboard where Marcus’ box always sat. It was not particularly large, maybe 50 by 50 centimetres wide and 30 or so deep. It wasn’t particularly heavy either, containing mostly paperwork. Before returning back downstairs she had a look around the little room. There was nothing else that might prove useful. Clutching the box to her chest she headed down the stairs.
Whilst Charlotte was upstairs, Handley took the opportunity to take a look around the room which, contrary to popular crime fiction, he hadn’t managed to achieve on his arrival. The room would have probably been described as well-appointed – neat and tidy with good-quality furniture, but otherwise unremarkable. His eyes fell on the family photograph hanging on one wall, a well-taken portrait, clearly done by a decent professional photographer. It showed the Travers and their two children, obviously taken a few years ago gauging by the age of the children. Marcus Travers was standing behind the rest of his family: tall and darkly handsome, smiling proudly at the camera. His face was as familiar to Handley now as his own face in the mirror. He had spent many a time over the last few months studying the picture Charlotte had brought in for him at the time of Marcus’ disappearance, never gleaning any more information than the first time he had looked at it.
Handley looked up expectantly as Charlotte re-entered the living room, and watched her carefully place the wooden box on the coffee table, hooking a strand of her shoulder-length, very light brown, almost-blonde hair behind her ear. Handley had seen her do this on a number of occasions but still couldn’t decide if it was an unconscious habit or a sign of irritation or nervousness.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t looked through this already,’ he said mildly. ‘It’s a common response to losing or missing someone, you know, using old photos or possessions to try and get a sense of them or some sort of reconnection?’
‘To be honest,’ Charlotte replied, ‘I’d forgotten all about it and had never really felt inclined to look through it even when Marcus was here. He rarely seemed to bother with it so it’s just sitting gathering dust.’
As she finished speaking, Charlotte reached over to the box and quickly opened the clasp, while Handley shifted over on the couch to gain a better view.
The lid swung back easily enough on old but little-used hinges. Looking inside, they could see more or less what they’d expected – a jumble of pictures and certificates.
Slowly they began sifting through the pieces of paper, taking each one out, glancing at it and placing it carefully onto the coffee table.
‘Hm, a degree in Politics from Edinburgh and then an MA in International Political Economics from Manchester University,’ Handley noted, impressed, as he placed the two ornate certificates on the table.
‘Yes, he was, is a smart man … that’s why he was so respected at the Foreign Office,’ Charlotte said distractedly as she looked at an old photo dulled by age, the colours now washed out, although she suspected they were never very good in the first place. It showed Marcus aged about 10, standing a little awkwardly next to his father. They were standing slightly apart, neither of them looking like there was much of a bond between them. Marcus was clearly not enjoying having his photo taken and his father was standing straight-backed and stern-looking, almost Victorian in his demeanour and dress.
She had never met his parents – both were dead before they had mar
ried and Marcus rarely, if ever, talked about them. She always had the feeling his childhood had not been a happy one.
She placed the photo on the growing pile of life’s little mementos with a sense of sadness that Marcus had not experienced the affection he so readily gave his own children.
They were almost finished, Charlotte realised with a sinking feeling. This was going nowhere.
Handley lifted another much older and plainer certificate from the box, this one for swimming 50 yards. Mr Travers had obviously been very pleased about that little achievement, Handley thought, with a small smirk.
Then his eye caught some newer-looking pieces of paper at the very bottom of the box. He grunted and reached for them. His experience told him that newer-looking paper would, logically, only be found at the bottom of a pile like this if it had been deliberately placed there – in other words, hidden. Perhaps old Marcus was not quite the paragon of decency and uprightness that his wife thought and he had been led to believe?
‘These might be of more interest,’ he said quietly as he lifted what he could now see were notes of some sort, four of them, all handwritten and on reasonably good paper.
Charlotte, who until that point had been staring blankly at the pile of paperwork on the coffee table, now whipped her head up and looked intently at Handley. He read the first couple of pieces of paper in his hands and then quietly handed them over with pursed lips that Charlotte took to be a rueful expression.
Unsure what to make of his reaction she took the notes, hands shaking slightly and read the top one:
Marcus,
I must see you again, today or tomorrow, as soon as possible. Leave a message in the usual place and let me know when you can make it. I’ll book the same place as last time when I know.
Julia
Charlotte’s eyes were already welling up as she turned to the second note Handley had given her:
Marcus,
I thought the last time was really good. We seem to be thinking the same things and seeing ‘it’ for what it is. I will be out of the country for a few days but we must catch up again after that.
Julia
Her tears were flowing freely now as she looked up at Handley who had clearly been watching her intently as she read the notes. As he spoke it seemed to her that he had somehow become very far away. She could barely hear him as he let out a long breath through his nose and began to speak.
‘I am sorry Mrs Travers, I really am, but it does appear that your husband was having an affair or at least some sort of relationship with this Julia. Do you know anyone of that name?’
She couldn’t bring herself to speak – so simply, slowly, shook her head.
‘Do you recognise the handwriting? Maybe from the letter your husband received before he disappeared?’
She would be forced to answer now, she realised, and yet was still not sure she could speak. How could this be right? She had been sure, no, certain, that Marcus was not involved with another woman. She was sure that she would have known, spotted little changes in his behaviour that over time would become significant and lead to her suspecting something. And Marcus was just not that opaque. He was incapable of hiding even simple, innocent truths. She always wound up knowing what he had bought for her birthday and Christmas and for their anniversary – always found out that he had a surprise planned or had done something stupid and wanted to hide it. She thought of the time he had ruined several expensive dresses in the wash; he had simply binned them and hoped she wouldn’t notice. She had realised within a few days that something was up and with very little prodding he had confessed. So, how could she have missed an affair?
Handley had kept his eyes down as she cried. She was clearly in a world of her own. He was surprised himself, but the notes did seem to point in the direction of an affair. He decided it would be best to leave and began thinking of a suitably mollifying exit line when his eyes fell on the two notes still in his hand. He had been shuffling these nervously from hand to hand for the last few minutes and now the bottom one was on top.
His brow creased as he read it and re-read it.
Before coming to any conclusions, he decided to quickly scan the other one. It was much the same as the first two – ‘must see you’, ‘we need to talk’ etc, etc. Of course, he had no idea what order any of these notes were written in; there was no date on any of them, but he felt sure this one could be placed alongside the two that Charlotte Travers still held loosely in her hand. But the fourth and final note, and he was sure it was number four in the sequence, that one was different.
‘Hmmmm,’ he murmured. ‘Mrs Travers I have to go back to the station now – may I have those notes? They’re needed for my report.’
‘What? Oh yes of course, er, what will be in your report DC Handley?’ Charlotte asked quietly as she meekly handed over the two notes she held.
‘I’m not entirely sure right now, Mrs Travers, but I will be in touch again soon.’
With that he rose, accepting the proffered notes, putting them together with the two he now held firmly in his hand, and headed for the door.
Charlotte could think of nothing to say so simply returned his departing nod and closed the front door.
‘18
Recollections
She recalled one of their earliest dates. A picnic in Hyde Park, followed by the tube down to Westminster and a gentle stroll along Victoria Embankment, and finally into a cosy little bar somewhere behind Embankment station. It had been a glorious summer’s day, clear skies with wispy, cotton-wool cirrus wafting lazily here and there, hot but tempered with a cooling light breeze.
They had talked almost constantly throughout the afternoon and into the evening. She remembered finding it amazing that a man with a lot to boast about – a very good job, his own flat and car, a good education – could be so self-effacing and modest. She was especially taken by his ability to listen, never interrupting, allowing her to tell him as much, if not more, about herself than he told her about himself.
He was also handsome, with dark brows framing brown eyes that twinkled with humour; too gentle in nature to be seen as rugged, but with strong features – jaw not quite square but still strong and proud. She remembered being impressed by his large strong hands, which somehow seemed at odds with the cerebral nature of his work at the Foreign Office. She had fallen for his sing-song Scots burr from the moment they’d met, so by the time they were sitting sipping wine, close together on a comfy bench, she felt she would melt every time he said her name.
It was strange, she thought now. She had heard him say her name a million times since that day and yet the way he had said it back then was still so fresh in her mind; it brought a smile to her lips even now, the rolling R and strong T at the end – she had never heard Charlotte pronounced so beautifully, or sexily.
That had been the date they had first slept together. Had that been the third or fourth one? – she now wondered. It had been quick by both their standards; they had admitted that not long after, but it had seemed so completely right and natural that neither had felt any angst or guilt. It had in fact cemented something they had both realised would last, in all likelihood, forever.
She remembered how gentle he had been, and how she couldn’t decide whether he was a very attentive lover or simply very nervous that his inexperience would show. Either way it was apparent he hadn’t exactly been a gigolo, and sometimes she wondered if she hadn’t been his first one. It had been something in the way he had appeared so keen and looked at all times for reassurance that he was doing everything right. And as a result, she fell in love with him there and then.
Recalling the look on his face during that first night’s lovemaking made her think of a different aspect to his nature. It brought to mind the times, even back then, when he would go distant and quiet. He would be staring into space, not seeing anything other than the inside of his own head; his jaw would clench and relax in a rhythmic, almost metronomic way, and his hands would curl, not quite cle
nching into fists but clearly under the same sort of tension. At the time she thought it kind of endearing, that he was obviously wrestling with a knotty problem from work or some such and needed to disappear into his own mind in order to work through it. She had consequently come to admire, as she saw it, his quiet determination and will to succeed.
She had seen that look many times since then, that faraway-ness that sometimes seemed to come from nowhere. She had always put it down to an intensity of thought and a deep caring for his work, for her and for their family’s well-being.
A thought brought her flying back from the past to the present. She wondered, now, whether those moments had indeed been the way she had always interpreted them, or were they symptoms of something else, something he had never told her? Were they his escape from her and their world, taking him away to the life he would rather be living? Or, taking him to the life he was already living part-time and wished to have all of the time?
She might never find that answer out now and wasn’t sure that she really wanted to.
Chapter Five
Handley rushed back to the office. He had to see his boss – that last note was, he knew, an important clue to the reasons behind Marcus Travers’ disappearance. He had felt all along this wasn’t a simple ‘mis per’, and here at last was some evidence to justify that feeling. Handley liked days like these.
As soon as he was spotted by his boss, Tanner nodded towards the ‘private office’ where only a day or so before Handley had told Charlotte Travers that the search for her husband was being wound down. Maybe now he would be able to phone her and say it was back on. It all hinged on whether his boss accepted the last of the notes as a lead worth following up.
As soon as he started shutting the door Tanner began speaking, ‘What do you remember of The Charmer investigation, Tony? You would have been pretty young when it was at its height.’
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