Watching You (6 page)

Marnie called his mobile. She kept calling. The next morning she phoned the police. A constable asked her if there was evidence of violence.

“What would that be?” she asked.

“Did you find blood or signs of a break-in?”

“No.”

“How long has he been missing?”

“Since yesterday.”

“We can’t report someone missing until it’s been forty-eight hours.”

“Why?”

“That’s the rule.”

“It’s a pretty stupid rule. What if something has happened to him? What if he’s hurt?”

“He might have wanted to get away for a few days.”

The constable was younger than Marnie. He told her that most missing husbands turn up eventually, making Daniel sound like a stray dog being fed by a neighbor.

Two more days passed. By then Marnie had called every number in her contacts list, along with hospitals, clinics, homeless shelters, and casinos. That’s when the police assigned PC Rhonda Firth to keep her informed. The big-hipped black woman had hair woven into Rastafarian plaits, pinned tightly to her scalp. Smart, sturdy, and good-natured, Rhonda was the sort of woman that Marnie once wished she could have as a friend because she didn’t have any black friends and she thought it reflected badly on her.

Rhonda took notes and collected photographs, asking about Daniel’s daily routines. Did he have any hobbies? Could he have been seeing someone else? Do you have his passport?

Marnie mentioned the gambling and casinos. She thought maybe Daniel had been followed home and mugged. Rhonda thought it unlikely. Already she seemed to have passed judgment, dismissing Daniel as a problem gambler who had abandoned his wife and children.

“Why aren’t you out there looking for him?” Marnie asked. “Why isn’t his photograph all over the news?”

Rhonda smiled as though dealing with a child. “We have to take into consideration Daniel’s feelings.”

“His feelings?”

“What if he meant to run away? He might need some time to think. Maybe he’s feeling emotionally fragile. If we plaster his face all over the news, it might make him do something foolish.”

“He’s not going to kill himself,” said Marnie, growing frustrated. “He’s the least suicidal person you’ll ever meet.”

Rhonda asked about their sex life. Did Marnie and Daniel have arguments?
Yes
. Had he ever been violent toward her?
No
. Was disappearing like this out of character?
Yes
. Could he have been having an affair?
No
.

Marnie heard herself answering, but couldn’t make herself sound convincing.

“No offense,” said Rhonda, “but sometimes the spouse is the last to know.”

“No offense,” replied Marnie, “but more often they’re the
first
.”

“Did your husband ever borrow money to gamble?”

Marnie hesitated. “I don’t think so. He was going to meetings.”

“What sort of meetings?”

“Gamblers Anonymous.”

“Could he have met someone there?”

“I’m sure he meets lots of people.”

“Someone special?”

The answer was still no.

Marnie remembered the name and phone number she found in Daniel’s wallet, but she didn’t mention the incident to Rhonda. Nor did she say how secretive Daniel had become, keeping odd hours and taking phone calls into other rooms. Instead Marnie sat on the sofa, bottling up her fear, one foot jittering up and down, listening to the policewoman talk about circulating Daniel’s photograph and checking his mobile phone records.

“You want my advice,” said Rhonda as she was leaving. “Pour yourself a glass of wine, take a long hot bath, and call a girlfriend. Your husband is a big boy—he’ll find his way home.”

T
he
Evening Standard
has two paragraphs at the bottom of page four.

Marnie reads the story again. She had no idea Quinn was married. He didn’t wear a wedding ring. He’d never mentioned a wife or children. Their only conversations were about pick-up times and money. Perhaps “security guard” is a euphemism for pimp or minder.

Penny is reading over her shoulder, holding the stem of a wine glass between her thumb and two manicured fingers. “It’s cocktail hour somewhere,” she told Marnie, when she arrived with the bottle. She finishes reading and dismisses the story with a
pfffft
sound.

“He had his throat cut,” says Marnie.

“He stomped all over you, the sadistic bastard, I’m glad he’s dead.” Penny sets down her wine glass. “Let me see.”

“I’m fine.”

“Show me.”

Marnie raises her blouse. Penny brushes her fingertips across the bruises. Even the slightest touch hits fresh sharp notes of pain.

She looks at Marnie guiltily. “I should never have got you involved in this.”

“It’s not your fault.”

She puts her arms around Marnie, who flinches.

“Too soon?”

“Still tender.”

The two of them have been friends since their second year at university. Drugs. Parties. Festivals. Holidays. Marnie had been the sensible, normal one, while Penny partied for England and tried to bed the entire team. Penny dropped out of university to become a model, but not one anyone will remember. She did a few Littlewoods catalogues and a shampoo commercial where they had her standing under a waterfall in Sweden. She nearly froze to death, she said, “my nipples were like bullets.” That was the highlight of her career—a week in Stockholm, the Four Seasons Hotel, all expenses paid, sleeping with the director. Penny was philosophical about her lack of subsequent success. She didn’t have the height for the catwalk or the breasts for glamour modelling, but she’d fallen in love with the lifestyle by then.

She stopped working as an escort when she met Keegan—one of her better clients, she said, because he was single, sober, and showered regularly. He was fifteen years older and slightly overweight, but he fell madly in love with Penny, whom he called his “Pretty Woman.” Nobody else knew about her past except for Marnie. And Daniel, of course, who got quite turned on by the fact that Marnie’s best friend had once been a prostitute.

So they married and Penny put away her condoms and slutty lingerie and became the corporate wife: beautiful, doting, and expensive to keep. Motherhood wasn’t quite so seamless. She fell pregnant unexpectedly and complained for the duration about stretch marks, water retention, and being “too fat to fuck.” She gave up smoking (ish) and drinking (ish) and demanded a Caesarean because “the Kegster doesn’t drive a big enough car for me to need a bigger garage.”

Since Abigail was born, Marnie and Penny haven’t seen as much of each other, but they still talk on the phone every few days, less and less about Daniel, whom Penny calls a “shitty husband” and a “fuck-up” for abandoning his family.

Penny’s legs are entwined, one foot hitched behind an ankle. She notices the bottle of painkillers on the counter. “Ooh, blue ones and yellow ones. Lucky old you!”

Marnie doesn’t laugh because it hurts. She changes the subject quite suddenly, as though afraid that she might lose the courage if she doesn’t act immediately.

“I’m going to have him declared dead.”

Penny is holding the wine glass to her lips. She lowers it again. “Can you do that?”

“I have to do something.”

“What about Hennessy?”

“If I get the insurance money, I can pay him back.”

“You go, girl!” Penny slurs. “It’s about time.”

Marnie gazes across the table, not wanting to ask. “I don’t have any money.”

Penny’s fingers are fidgeting on the stem of her glass. She begins speaking rapidly, stumbling over words.

“The Kegster has me on a tight leash at the moment. There wasn’t a Christmas bonus last year. He said I couldn’t give you any more money.”

“Of course,” says Marnie, “I understand.”

“I would if I could.”

“I know.”

“I feel terrible.”

“Don’t.”

The atmosphere has changed. Warmth has been swept away by guilt. Penny blinks, her eyes less bright, and looks at her watch. “The nanny leaves at five. I should get home.”

At the door they touch cheeks. Penny’s long slender fingers make a peculiar gesture, moving sideways and up as though imparting some sort of blessing.

“He didn’t deserve you,” she says. “If he comes back, I’ll kill him personally.”

Marnie searches for the business card that the lawyer gave her, fearing she may have lost it. She tips the contents of her bag onto the table. The card is stuck to a sweet wrapper.

“Should you ever need a lawyer,” he had said to her in the cab. She needs one now.

They meet at the Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street, a landmark pub from the days when printing presses rumbled in nearby basements and convoys of liveried trucks took bundles of newspapers on a race around the country to news-stands and corner shops. Daniel brought Marnie here once and spoke in hushed, almost reverential tones about the famous journalists and writers associated with the pub, like Dickens and Twain and Tennyson. There were other names she didn’t recognize but they rolled off Daniel’s tongue as though she should have known them.

“This place is older than European settlement in Australia,” he said. “Makes me realize that we have no history.”

“Give it a few more centuries,” she told him.

Alone at a table, Marnie glances at the door, practicing what she’s going to say to Craig Bryant. She sees him first. He’s standing on the far side of the road, holding up his mobile phone as though taking a photograph.

Tall and loose-limbed, the lawyer is dressed in the same dark suit but today has a tie the color of a cut watermelon. Crossing the road, he jinks between traffic and acknowledges her with a smile. Wide. White. He’s like a model in a commercial for toothpaste, minus the toothbrush and the jingle.

“So who did you kill?” he asks, pulling up a chair.

Marnie flinches.

“Hey, I’m only joking.”

She smiles tightly and her stomach flips over.

“Have you ordered something? What would you like? Wine? Beer?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Please don’t let me drink alone.”

“White wine.”

“I know just the one.”

Bryant goes to the bar and orders two glasses. Marnie watches the way his suit hangs from his shoulders. Well cut. Expensive. She feels frumpy and out of practice.

When the lawyer returns, he sets down her wine. She holds the glass in both hands. Sips.

“Is this Cloudy Bay?”

“You like it?”

“It’s my favorite.”

Bryant raises his glass. “Great minds.”

Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he lets it flare out as he leans back in his chair.

“So what can I do for you, Marnie Logan?”

“I want my husband declared dead.”

The statement arrives at a lull in the background noise. People turn from nearby tables. Marnie feels her cheeks grow hot, but looks up and meets their stares as though challenging them. People look away.

Bryant brushes his fingers against her hand. Her eyes return to his.

“You believe he’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any evidence?”

Marnie fidgets with the strap of her shoulder bag and relates the details of Daniel’s disappearance and the police investigation. She tries not to leave anything out—mentioning the gambling debts and Patrick Hennessy.

“And you’ve told the police this?”

Marnie hesitates.

“They know most of it.”

The lawyer lets her answer hang in the air for a moment. He seems to make a decision. “Normally you have to wait seven years to have a missing person declared dead.”

“I know.”

“Why is it so important. Why now?”

“Daniel had a life insurance policy and the company won’t pay out unless I produce a death certificate.”

“So it’s about the money?”

Marnie is tired of feeling guilty. “I’m not trying to steal from anyone. I can’t even change Daniel’s direct debits or access the little money in his accounts. I’m getting legal letters. The Inland Revenue claim he owes money. I tried to explain that he was missing, but they accused me of lying. Three days ago I sold the TV. I’ve borrowed from everyone I know. Friends. Family. They don’t return my calls anymore.”

Bryant runs his finger down the edge of the glass. “It’s not my field.”

“Please?”

“From what I’ve read it’s a crazy paving of legislation, all sorts of statutory and non-statutory provisions. Under normal circumstances the courts assume a person to be dead when there’s no evidence of his or her continued existence.”

“For seven years?”

“Yes, but that’s a common-law presumption. It can sometimes be rebutted with the right evidence.”

“What evidence?”

“You have to convince a judge that your husband can’t possibly be alive.”

“How do I do that?”

“You exhaust every avenue. You get statements from people, his family, friends, colleagues; you tick the boxes. Then we go to court and see what happens.”

Bryant takes out a yellow legal notepad from his briefcase.

“I can’t afford to pay you,” says Marnie.

“You don’t know how much I cost.”

“More than I can afford.”

He reaches across the table and takes her hand, lacing his fingers in hers.

“We’ll work it out later.”

Something shifts inside her stomach. “But I don’t want—”

“You’re going to do most of the work, Marnella.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I figured Marnie was short for something.”

Blinking away a film of moisture, she watches him writing notes on the pad.

“Did Daniel have mental problems?”

“No.”

“Was he depressed?”

“No.”

“You said he had gambling debts.”

“Yes.”

“OK. You need to get affidavits from Daniel’s parents and his closest friends, saying they’re convinced he’s dead—all the people who knew him best. How old is your eldest daughter?”

“Fifteen.”

“Get an affidavit from her.”

“I haven’t told her yet.”

“Well she needs to know.”

Bryant jots another note to himself. “We can try an application under the Non-Contentious Probate Rules. It allows a judge to grant an applicant leave to swear to the death of a person to the best of his or her information or belief.”

“Will that work?”

“It’s sometimes granted in cases where a death is presumed rather than proven, but I can’t promise anything. Best-case scenario, a judge will grant probate, allowing you to administer your husband’s affairs, but it still won’t guarantee that your insurance company will pay up.”

“Why?”

“They might not accept the order. How much is the policy worth?”

“Three hundred thousand pounds. I don’t need it all,” says Marnie, self-consciously.

“You deserve it.”

“I mean…”

“Your husband is dead. You’re owed the money.”

Marnie nods gratefully.

Bryant stands and hovers over Marnie for a few seconds. “Do you need money now?”

“No, you’ve done enough.”

“Do you still have my business card?” He takes it from her and writes his mobile phone number on the back. He returns the card. “If you need anything.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, moved by his kindness.

The lawyer opens his palms. “We’re neighbors.”