Dark Place to Hide (10 page)

I want to cry. ‘That’s nice.’

‘What I mean to say is – she isn’t…cheating on you. I just know it.’

I snap back to the phone call I received from the laboratory yesterday. Tara’s words are groundless. I start to wonder what you’ve told her. How much does she know? I decide to tell her the truth. There’s no point in keeping up the pretence.

‘Did Dee tell you I’m infertile?’

‘She mentioned something on the phone, just after the miscarriage.’ Her voice is neutral, without Alexa’s barbs. ‘She said an illness had made things more difficult – not that it was impossible.’

‘She was underplaying it. It’s more clear-cut than that.’ Tara says nothing, staying close. ‘I had a DNA test done on the foetus,’ I say, without looking at her. ‘The baby wasn’t mine.’

Tara’s reaction is immediate and packs a punch. ‘No! – I don’t believe that. She wouldn’t. She just…wouldn’t.’

I shrug and draw my hands together. ‘They are the facts of the matter.’

‘It doesn’t make sense. There must be a mistake…’

‘It makes it look more and more likely that she went off with someone else…except the manner of it, the way she left…’

Tara is definitive. ‘She wouldn’t do that.’

‘Last night, I went through every inch of the cottage with my Dictaphone.’ I tell her. ‘She didn’t take her toothbrush.’ It might sound a small thing, but it carries a lot of weight for me. ‘You know Diane – she’s so particular about cleanliness.’

Tara looks thoughtful. ‘That’s true. She’s the only person I know who flosses morning and night.’

‘It looks like she must have come back for a few clothes, but not the toothbrush – or the floss for that matter. That doesn’t ring true to me.’

Tara tips her head on one side. ‘She was upset…perhaps she wasn’t thinking straight…’

I don’t buy it.

‘Can we get some air?’ I say. I’m feeling uptight and restless, wanting to move my limbs. She locks up and we take off across the playing field. A workman is trundling around with a white box, re-marking the lines of the running track.

Tara is surprisingly easy to talk to and before I know it, it all comes tumbling out. ‘We never discussed infertility,’ I admit. ‘Well, neither of us ever used that word. She asked me once, about six months ago, how we’d know if one of us couldn’t have children, but that was as far as it went.’

‘What did you say?’

‘That we’d deal with it – if it happened.’

Your question had snagged at me at the time, but it wasn’t an accusation – just a mild speculation that these things happened. ‘Maybe she didn’t dare bring it up again,’ I say.

Tara reacted immediately with a shake of her head. ‘Dee isn’t like that. She comes out with what she’s thinking. She doesn’t hold on to things, harbour things – certainly not if they’re as important as that.’

‘Of course. I know. You’re right.’ Why do I feel like I don’t know you at all, Dee? ‘When she told you about the miscarriage…how did she sound? Did she seem guilty?’

It’s as though everything left unsaid in your absence has been piling up in a box, like Lego, and finally I tip it onto the grass at Tara’s feet. It is too late to consider whether Tara is the best person to be spilling everything to. I seem to have lost all sense of perspective regarding what is appropriate and what’s not. Come what may, I’m disclosing everything to her – like I should have done to you, Dee, weeks ago.

‘She certainly didn’t sound guilty. Not at all. She was a bit woozy because of the medication – and she was upset about the baby, she was devastated that she didn’t know. We had a long chat – she rang me when you were out with the dog.’ Tara stops and turns to me to make sure I hear this part. ‘She did say she thought she’d let you down.’

‘Let me down?’

‘Yeah.’ She moves on, more purpose in her step. ‘About losing the baby – she said she’d let you down, because her body couldn’t keep hold of the child. She didn’t sound guilty about anything else. It doesn’t sound like someone about to do a runner from her husband, does it?’

‘I don’t know any longer. The DNA tests
prove
she was with someone else.’

We walk in silence for a while. The man with the white box has finished another circuit and starts again on the next lane, working his way inwards.

‘What do you think?’ I stop and look at her. I want to see her face.

She responds with another question. ‘Did Diane know the DNA results before she left?’

‘No. She was still talking about a medical fluke.’

‘Mmm…’ Tara is best friends with the truth and I can tell from her wandering gaze that she’s reluctant to say what she’s thinking. ‘I don’t know – honestly. But something isn’t right.’ Her voice cracks. ‘We need to find her.’

When I get back I look for the one item I haven’t dared think about so far. But I need to know. It isn’t the kind of thing you would normally have in your handbag, Dee, so under normal circumstances there’s no way you should have it with you. I try to think where we keep them. They used to be in the bureau in the alcove, then we moved them to the filing cabinet upstairs. I go into the study, pull out the top drawer and flick through the file labels; our wills, paperwork
about the cottage, phone bills, gas and electricity bills, banks statements, all in separate folders. I slide out the next folder and tip the contents onto the spare bed.

That’s when I know.

3 August – Fourth day missing

‘Thanks for seeing me,’ I say. ‘First day back and all.’

‘No problem, mate,’ says Neil Fry, my detective friend. He’s just come back from ten days in Spain and agreed to drive over to The Eagle as soon as he came off duty. He’s highly tanned, like polished leather, and has the appearance of someone who still thinks he’s in another climate. It’s 9pm and he’s wearing knee-length shorts and a Hawaiian shirt in orange and lemon with sunglasses poking out of the pocket.

‘Pina colada – or the usual pint of Black Sheep?’ I suggest.

He groans and hangs out his tongue. ‘My usual pint – if you don’t mind. A man can only knock back so many glasses with pink parasols in them.’

‘You and Debbie have a good time?’ I say when I return.

‘A bit too good.’ He takes the pint and hoists himself onto a tall stool by the window. ‘She wants to move there now. She thinks it would be one long stroll along the beach at sunset.’ He scratches his bare knee where a red insect bite is swelling to the size of a five-pence piece. ‘I’m glad to be back, to be honest.’ A waft of holiday-strength aftershave hits me, as I think about how to tell him what has happened without getting emotional. I manage to start somewhere and fill him in with the details.

‘And she called her sister on the day after she left?’ he queries.

‘It was a text.’

‘And she put up posts on social media up until Friday. Nothing since?’

‘No. And the posts don’t feel like her – for a start it’s such a flippant way to keep in touch. She’s hurting too much to be that blasé.’ I get out my phone and show Neil the post on Facebook with the photo of Frank. ‘
Love life
– I mean…she would never say anything trivial and offhand like that.’ It’s often the little things that don’t ring true. I show him earlier posts where you’ve added names and places to photos of friends at festivals and sporting events. There are no throw-away comments.

He nods. ‘Unless she’s putting on a brave face – so you don’t worry.’

I throw my hands up. ‘Why not just call me?’

‘Maybe she’s not ready to talk to you yet. Perhaps she’s got stuff to work out first. Maybe she’ll get back in touch when she’s ready.’

‘That’s what her sister says.’ I start peeling the top layer off the beer mat. Alexa thinks you’re communicating, Dee, but I know you better. These posts aren’t from you.

‘Perhaps she did it this way to let you know she was fine, but she couldn’t manage anything more personal right now…because it’s too upsetting.’

‘Yeah – maybe…’ I don’t believe a word of it.

Neil gets up to get another round and in an instant, I go back to the beginning, when I first met you. We were two faces in a crowd at Trafalgar Square in 2009. I was twenty-five and just finishing my PhD in Criminology at Liverpool University. I was feeling bold and full of myself, because I was about to be called
Dr
Penn. I was in London for the Amnesty rally and to catch up with a couple of friends. Back then I was entrenched in my bachelor status, but dating a lot and I’d inadvertently broken a few hearts along the way – usually as soon as the word ‘commitment’ cropped up. I’d moved in with Irene during my PhD and moved out about two
months later. I’d been crystal clear that I didn’t want to take it further, but what I said and what she heard were in entirely different languages.

It was a grey September afternoon and I turned up to the demo on my own. It was hard not to notice you straight away – you looked strong, earnest and downright gorgeous. Your long dark hair was thick and rich with overtones of russet and chestnut. I watched the way you were standing; self-assured and defiant, with a placard that read
End all Racist Attacks
.

We were there following the stabbing of two Muslim students in central London the week before. Speakers and film footage kept everyone involved, but I found myself searching the crowd every few minutes so I could stay near enough to watch you. You seemed to be with two others – two guys, and I wondered if one of them was your boyfriend. It’s silly, I know, but I was looking for signs straight away that you were already ‘taken’ – I couldn’t believe you wouldn’t be. You held yourself so well, seemed so full of conviction for the cause. I like a person with backbone. I saw the way other strangers looked at you too – their eyes lingering on you – intrigued, captivated, a little entranced by your good looks and poise. One of the guys you were with brought you a burger from the veggie van parked illegally on the kerb by the fourth plinth. I shuffled through the crowd to get closer. I wanted an excuse to speak to you, but I didn’t know how to make it happen without sounding crass.

The clouds folded in and it started to rain. I had an idea. I wove further to my right and pulled out my umbrella. I held it up then pretended I’d just spotted you. The rain was gathering momentum and people were pulling on their hoods and looking for cover. You did neither, simply stood in the downpour as though you hadn’t noticed. Your hair soaked up the rain and I wanted to touch it. I took a risk and held the umbrella over you and said something cheesy like;
There’s room for two
. I hated myself as soon as it came out and thought I’d blown it.

‘Sorry – that was dreadful. You’d probably prefer to get wet…’ I was on the verge of pulling away, when you took hold of the metal spine of the umbrella to keep it where it was.

‘It was a nice gesture,’ you said. Your voice was soft, but firm – like the rest of you – curvy, but solid; feminine, but tough. An irresistible combination.

I had a soggy bag of cherries in my pocket and I held it open for you. You took one and I was ridiculously pleased. It was at this point that I got the feeling we’d met before, but I couldn’t remember where or when or even whether to mention it.

Neil comes back from the bar bringing the present moment with him. ‘She came back and took stuff from the cottage, you said?’ he queries. He sounds tired, but is doing his best to be engaged.

‘I think so. Some clothes are gone – just a few casual items. Her appointment diary is missing and her medication; she had her phone and purse in her handbag – and now I’ve discovered her passport’s gone.’

‘Really?’ He’s a bit more interested now. ‘Any signs of forced entry?’

I slowly shake my head.

‘Has she used a bank?’

I’d thought of this and contacted her local branch, but they wouldn’t give out any information. We still have separate accounts. It was one of the things we said we’d change – to a joint one – when we had a child. ‘I’m hoping she’ll get her statement next week. She certainly had all her bank cards with her.’

‘Let me know, eh? If she has or hasn’t used her bank – either way, okay?’

‘Thanks, Neil. I know this is difficult.’ The strain around his eyes tells me he wants to help, but he has his job to think about. He can’t afford to offer much or use police resources when there is no investigation.

‘Is there a way we can trace the car?’ I ask. ‘It’s disappeared.’

Where are you, Dee? I don’t know what this silence means.

‘You know I can’t authorise that. There’s no crime, Harper. Diane’s not even regarded as missing.’

‘Can we check to see whether her passport has been used?’ I can’t believe you’ve left the country – you wouldn’t do that, but I have to start eliminating possibilities.

He laughs but it sounds sad. ‘No way.’ He’s not being unhelpful, I know. ‘Where would we start? Gatwick? Heathrow? Eurostar? The ferries?’ I understand. Without an obvious crime our hands are tied. You’re not
missing
in the eyes of the police. There’s nothing to raise any suspicions. Life goes on as normal.

I spread out my fingers. ‘I come back to three possibilities: she’s taking
time out
and will be back when she’s ready.’ This is the one everyone seems to think I should believe. ‘The second is that she’s leaving me and this is some kind of prelude to a big announcement. The third is that something bad has happened and she’s in trouble and can’t reach me.’

‘How was the situation between you before she drove away?’

I tell him about my infertility tests and the miscarriage. I know I have to come clean and tell people like Neil everything, if I’m going to put my all into finding you. It breaks my heart to do it. I lean forward, still looking at him. ‘The baby wasn’t mine. I had tests done after the miscarriage.’

Neil nods in a contemplative manner, but doesn’t say anything.

My thoughts won’t go in a straight line anymore. I stroke my forehead and my elbow catches my glass and knocks it over. The beer pools on the table and starts to drip onto the floor. For a moment I stay exactly where I am and follow the trail of liquid with interest, like a detached observer. It’s Neil who gets to his feet and goes to the bar for a cloth. I try to take it from him, but he insists on mopping up the mess, then gets us both another half.