The Missing Marriage (13 page)

He waited by the car as she wheeled her bike over, unsure whether she was pleased to see him or not, but smiling anyway – a small, defeated smile.

‘She's not in,' he said.

‘I know – I just tried. She's not picking up her phone either.'

They looked up at the windows to Anna's apartment then Laviolette said suddenly, ‘Was she expecting you?'

Martha shook her head. ‘How long have you been waiting here for?'

He seemed surprised at the question then smiled at her again. ‘Only about ten minutes or so.'

Martha didn't believe him. She didn't know why, but for some reason he was lying to her. ‘Why did you want to see Anna? Nothing's happened, has it?'

‘Why did
you
want to see Anna?' he asked.

A trawler with its lights on was making its way between the pier heads and into the harbour, and every now and then a single voice could be heard clearly above the sound of the engine.

‘I've got something for her.'

The Inspector was watching the approaching trawler as Martha undid her rucksack and brought out the porcelain doll, holding it carefully in her hands while smoothing the hair down.

He stared down at the doll. ‘You made that?'

She nodded, continuing to stroke the doll's hair.

‘For Anna?'

She nodded again then turned to face him.

The Inspector smiled, and was completely unprepared for what Martha said next.

‘You think dad's committed suicide, don't you?'

‘No – I don't think that.'

‘Yes you do.' After a while, Martha said, ‘They argue all the time – mum and dad. She lied on Saturday when you asked her if everything was okay between them and she said everything was fine. It isn't. They've got no money and everything's pretty much going to shit. The other night she was going on and on at him because she was drunk – she's always drunk at the moment. She went on and on at him until he shouted back at her . . . I heard him . . .' light tears were rolling down her face, but she carried on speaking as if unaware of them, ‘. . . that he'd be better off dead.' Martha paused, staring intently at the doll. ‘What if she forced him to do something?'

‘Like what?'

‘I don't know,' Martha said, exasperated. ‘But you should consider it – as a possibility.'

Laviolette pulled up the zip on his coat ‘These things have their own rhythm, and right now the focus is on the search and possible appeal.' He started to look in his pockets for his car keys and when he found them said suddenly to her, ‘Have you got lights for that?'

Martha shook her head.

It was dark now.

‘I'll drive you home – we can put the bike in the boot.'

‘What's this?' she said as he started up the engine and the car filled with the sound of choral music.

‘Miners – singing.' He didn't tell her that it was an old recording and that one of the singing miners was his father. ‘The thing you need to keep in mind,' he said, a few minutes later, ‘is that there's only one person who really knows what happened to your dad – and that's your dad.'

‘Your car's tidy.'

‘You sound surprised.'

‘I'm not talking about that sort of tidy.'

‘How many different sorts of tidy are there?' He smiled through the windscreen at the road.

‘I don't mean tidy like clean and tidy. I mean empty tidy, like even if you wanted to make it untidy, you wouldn't be able to because you haven't got enough stuff to litter it with. See what I mean?'

Laviolette, amused, thought about this – still smiling – then said, ‘Yeah – I do.' He paused. ‘You're right.'

They drove in silence for a while after this, Martha watching the wind move through the grasses on the dunes as the car crawled along. Then she turned to him and said, ‘You're not married, are you?'

This time he took his eyes off the road to meet her gaze. ‘What makes you say that?'

‘I don't know – it just feels like there's only you.'

‘You're a very astute young woman. I used to be married.'

‘When?' she asked, interested.

‘A long time ago – I wasn't much older than you are now.'

‘Like mum and dad then – they married young.' She stared out the window again, glad she was inside the car and not out in the night on her bike. ‘What went wrong?'

‘Well, we should never have married in the first place – so it was more a case of nothing was going to go right anyway.'

‘So why did you – marry?'

‘I don't know. I really don't know.'

Martha leant back in the seat, turning her head to watch him. ‘Are you still in touch?'

‘No – no.'

‘Vehemently said.'

Laviolette laughed.

‘What? Did I say something stupid?'

‘I can't imagine you ever saying anything stupid. Vehemently,' he repeated, trying not to let the fact that he was unsettled by her interest in him, show. He wasn't used to people being interested in him. ‘I haven't heard that word in a long while.'

‘It just came to mind.' She paused. ‘I'm not sure if I like it – as a word.'

‘Me neither.' Then Laviolette said quietly, ‘I'm not even sure if she's dead or alive.'

‘Your wife?'

He nodded.

‘Why would she be dead?'

‘She was a heavy drug user. Heroin.'

‘Is that why things didn't work out?'

‘It wasn't the drugs I had a problem with – it was the part of her that needed them.'

‘It's the same thing.'

Laviolette gave her a quick look.

‘I'm never getting married.'

‘You're only fifteen.'

‘I don't care. I'm never getting married. Whatever's there in the beginning – it always turns out the same. Look at you – mum and dad.'

She put her leg up on the dashboard, distant from him now.

‘There's a moment – and it's hard to say when exactly it happens because it happens so gradually – when life becomes about owning rather than just being, and that's when things get complicated.' Laviolette paused. ‘At your age, people don't expect you to own anything – they don't even expect you to own yourself.'

Martha turned away from him to look out the window, uninterested. ‘Do you think anybody marries the person they're meant to?'

‘Some people do.'

Laviolette turned into the Duneside development.

‘On Saturday – when dad was dropping me off at Nan's – Anna was there, and it was the first time they'd seen each other in, like, sixteen years, and he was holding my hand so tight it went – numb,' she finished, gripping suddenly onto Laviolette's arm. ‘Stop the car.'

‘What's wrong?'

‘The van – the one parked outside the house,' she whispered, ‘it's dad's brother – Jamie Deane.'

Laviolette's hand remained on the gearstick as he peered through the windscreen at the van. ‘Does he often come round to the house?'

Martha was staring so intently out the window that Laviolette, unsure whether or not she'd heard the question was about to ask it again when Martha said, ‘Never. I didn't even know dad had a brother – until last night when he phoned mum, but she was too doped up to hear – so I picked up.'

‘What did he want?'

Martha thought about this. ‘Nothing. He just said that he knew about dad. I didn't say anything – I just let him talk. He thought he was speaking to mum. He sounded just like dad – on the phone. That was weird. Where are you going? Wait –'

But the Inspector was already out the car, running in a way that should have made him look ridiculous, but didn't – towards the white van, which juddered into life, pulling away sharply from the kerb and reversing over the ‘Private Property' sign on the edge of number four's lawn before accelerating unevenly away – the van's exhaust scraping the blue gentians in Mr Thompson's rock garden.

Half way up Marine Drive the van jumped as the gears were changed. Thinking it was going to stall, Laviolette ran after it, but was left stooped panting over a drain as the van accelerated once more – watched by Martha who was smiling to herself, pleased. Jamie Deane had got away – from what, she didn't know, but he had got away and for some reason this made her suddenly happy.

Still bent over double, Laviolette twisted his head in the direction of number two Marine Drive, whose door was open.

The front door to number four was also open. It opened, in fact, at the same time as the door to number two, and Mr Thompson – who'd been watching the white van long before the wanton act of vandalism – was now running in a lopsided fashion towards the rockery where he fell on his knees in the damp grass in front of his shredded gentians.

Laura Deane stood in the doorway to number two, her phone in her hand, and it was Laura Deane the Inspector made his way towards, still breathless.

For a moment her face was the most open he'd seen it – verging on vulnerable – and this, he realised, was due to fear.

But before Laviolette had a chance to speak Laura – who was watching Martha get her bike out of the Inspector's car and wheel it slowly past Mr Thompson next door, prostrate still before his gentians – said, ‘What's Martha doing with you?'

Laviolette was about to respond to this when all three of them became suddenly aware of Mr Thompson getting numbly to his feet on the lawn outside number four, two dark patches of dew on his trousers at the knee.

‘This is private property,' he hissed unevenly at them before stalking indoors with his left fist clenched, fully intending to write a letter requesting compensation for damages.

‘Shall we go inside?' Laviolette suggested at last. ‘I want to talk about Jamie Deane,' he carried on smoothly, noting the expression on Laura's face.

‘My uncle,' Martha prompted her. ‘The one I never knew I had?'

Ignoring this, Laura said, ‘I'll open the garage so you can put your bike in.'

Laviolette waited in the hallway while Laura opened the garage door. He heard her talking to Martha. The tone was angry, but he couldn't make out the words and when they emerged from the garage Martha walked straight past him up the stairs, holding her arm as if it hurt, her face set.

‘D'you mind if we go into the kitchen,' Laura said, looking suddenly tired.

He hauled himself awkwardly onto one of the bar stools – as awkwardly as Don had earlier – and watched her fill the kettle with water and switch on the gas.

‘I'm putting the kettle on – I don't know why. D'you want tea? Coffee?'

‘I'm fine thanks.'

‘Me neither.' She switched off the gas and hovered restlessly for a moment in the corner of the kitchen. ‘Actually, I'm going to have a glass of wine – it's been a long day. I don't suppose you're allowed one, are you?'

‘I'm fine,' he said again, watching her uncork an already open bottle and close her eyes as she took the first sip.

‘We decided not to tell Martha about Jamie.'

Laviolette didn't say anything.

‘It was a joint decision,' she added. ‘Are you comfortable talking about this?'

‘Why wouldn't I be?'

‘Well it was your –'

‘How did Jamie feel about this joint decision?'

Laura shrugged irritably. ‘Put it this way – he never tried to contact us either.'

Laviolette stared down at the reflection of himself in the polished granite surface of the breakfast bar. ‘Until now.'

‘I don't know how he found out about Bryan,' she said, watching him.

‘Or why finding out about him should provoke an impromptu visit.' He looked up at her.

‘D'you think he's got something to do with Bryan's disappearance?'

Ignoring this, Laviolette said, ‘How did he know where you lived?'

Laura shook her head and looked afraid again. ‘No idea. I've got no idea how he got the number either.'

‘What did he say – on the phone? What did he want?'

‘Nothing – apart from that he knew Bryan had gone missing, and that he was parked outside.'

‘Did he threaten you in anyway?'

Laura gave a short laugh. ‘Most women would find a man calling them to say they're parked directly outside their house threatening.' She paused. ‘I feel taunted. Jamie was always good at that.' She stopped suddenly as she realised what it was she'd said.

‘So you knew him well at some point?'

‘As a child.' She poured herself another glass of wine.

‘And as a child was it Bryan you knew first – or his brother, Jamie?'

Laura hesitated. ‘Jamie, I suppose.'

‘How was that?'

‘I don't know. He just always seemed to be around.'

‘Were you and Jamie ever together as in a relationship together?'

‘Not really, no.'

‘Not really,' the Inspector repeated.

‘But you already knew that, didn't you, Inspector?'

‘Yes, I did.'

‘You know all about Jamie Deane.'

‘I do.'

‘So why are we doing this? Why are you even handling this case?'

‘Because although you're answering my questions, you're not giving me anything here.' He brought his palm down suddenly against the granite surface, leaving a print.

Laura jerked in reaction to this, spilling some wine, as Laviolette slipped off the stool far more gracefully than he'd got onto it, walked purposefully towards the patio doors and stared out at the garden – wondering briefly which of the Deanes was responsible for it, and trying to discern any real horticultural passion.

‘How old were you and Bryan when you first started seeing each other?'

‘I was thirteen. Bryan was fourteen.'

‘What did Jamie think about that?'