Gone Page 3

  I thank him and hang up the phone. Looking at the clock on the wall, it can’t be far off her finishing time. How long do police shifts last? I know they work long hours, but will there be enough time for her to call me back before she leaves? And what happens if something changes overnight? Who do I call then? I can’t just wait for the police station to open and for PC McCain to get into work.

  I can feel my anxiety rising as the blood pounds in my ears. I need to calm myself down. I think of the Douglas Dakota model sitting on the workbench in the garage, the bulkheads waiting to be glued, and I decide this would be the perfect way to pass some time and relax my mind until PC McCain can call me back.

  When I get out to the garage, I feel instantly calmer. This is my man cave. The place where I can work on my models and forget the outside world. It’s an odd sensation, because right now I feel a bit bad about blanking everything out, but I know I need to. At least until PC McCain rings me. In the meantime, there’s nothing I can do.

  I inspect the model and remind myself of how far I got last time. I put the bulkheads in place and try to close the fuselage, but it’s tight. If I push any harder the hinges will start to creak, then snap. The bulkheads are going to need to be filed down a bit. Just a tiny slither around the edge should do it.

  I walk over to the chest of drawers against the wall, next to the door that leads from the garage to the kitchen, and open the top drawer to find my scalpel. As I pull the drawer open, I freeze. Gone are my scalpels, screwdrivers, tubes of glue and tweezers. What greets my eyes is a blue sequinned dress. One I remember Anya used to love wearing. The smile on her face glowed every time she put it on. She looked a million dollars.

  It’s then that I notice the drawer is positively stuffed with clothes — all hers. I fling open the other drawers and they’re all the same. Tops, dresses, skirts, the lot. Everything that was missing from the bedroom, all crammed into this chest of drawers in the garage. But why?

  I don’t have long to think about that, as I hear my mobile phone ringing and vibrating on the workbench behind me. I look at the display. It’s the police.

  ‘Hello?’ I say, not really paying attention, my eyes fixed to the chest of drawers as if they’re alive and are going to start moving if I stop looking at them.

  ‘Stephen? It’s PC McCain. I got a message to say you wanted to speak to me. Something about a development?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. I spoke to your colleague.’ I can’t even register what she’s saying to me, never mind think about what I need to say to her.

  ‘He mentioned something to do with Anya’s clothes. Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’ve found them.’

  ‘Found them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  There are a few moments of silence before PC McCain speaks again. ‘What do you mean “found them”, Stephen? Had they been missing? My records show that you said earlier nothing was gone.’

  ‘Yeah. I couldn’t find them. But now I have,’ I reply, still stunned.

  ‘Stephen, I’m going to come over with a colleague of mine, alright? There are a couple of things we want to check with you. Are you home?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah I’m home,’ I say, almost whisper.

  ‘Okay, hold tight. We’ll be there in five.’

  I nod and hang up the phone, my eyes never leaving the chest of drawers. And all of a sudden I start to feel my world closing in on me.

  7

  I barely register the knock on the door. I must have stood staring at that chest of drawers the whole time from when the phone call ended to now. Calmly, I leave the garage, walk through the kitchen to my hallway and unbolt the door. PC McCain isn’t the first person I see — her head is just about visible above the shoulder of a man in a suit who introduces himself as Swanson or Sanderson or something. I don’t really hear what he says, but I stand aside and let them through.

  When we get to the living room, I gesture for them to take a seat on the sofa. I opt for the armchair.

  It’s PC McCain who speaks first. ‘Stephen, we’d just like to clarify a few things today, but first of all can you tell me a bit more about Anya’s clothes?’

  I swallow. ‘Yeah. They were meant to be up in her wardrobe. That’s where they’re always kept. But when I looked they weren’t there.’

  ‘You said on the phone that you’d found them?’ she says, more as a question than a statement.

  ‘Yeah. I did. They were in the garage.’

  ‘The garage?’ she asks. The man in the suit narrows his eyes slightly.

  ‘Mmmm. In the chest of drawers.’

  ‘Is that where she’d normally keep clothes?’ McCain asks.

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘It’s where I keep my tools.’

  ‘Mind if I take a look?’ the man says, standing and heading for the garage before I can even reply.

  Once he’s gone, I give McCain a quizzical look. I don’t want to talk, but I hope she’s able to decode it.

  ‘DS Sansom’s from CID,’ she says.

  ‘That means they’re taking it seriously, doesn’t it?’ I ask.

  She pauses for a moment. ‘Yes. Yes, it means they’re taking it seriously.’

  Nothing is said for a minute or two, and I get the feeling that PC McCain is under strict orders not to say too much without the man in the suit here. She keeps looking at me, though, and I don’t like it. It’s almost like she’s half keeping an eye on me and half trying to work out what I’m thinking. Good luck on that last part, I think. Even I don’t know what I’m thinking right now. I don’t even know if I am thinking. I’m just existing.

  A few moments later, the man in the suit returns. He walks slowly around the living room, looking at the ornaments and items I’ve got lying around. ‘Don’t have many photos of your family, do you?’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘We don’t get on.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘Lots of reasons,’ I say.

  ‘Want to tell me any of them?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  He pauses and looks at me. ‘Stephen, we know what’s been going on. Is there anything you want to tell us?’

  In my dazed state, I’m not entirely sure what this means. I know it isn’t good, but I struggle to make sense of much more than that. Is this just a psychological game they like to play? Make out they know everything and hope I’ll sit down and admit to everything, like some second-rate murder mystery novel?

  Truth is, I don’t even know what it is I’m meant to be admitting to. I’ve done nothing wrong, that I know of. My conscience is clear.

  ‘When did you last see your parents, Stephen?’ the man asks.

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. A long time ago.’

  ‘How long?’

  I shake my head harder. ‘I really don’t know. I don’t remember seeing them after I was a child.’

  He considers this for a moment. ‘What do you mean you “don’t remember” seeing them?’

  I feel my heart rate and breathing getting faster.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. It’s the only thing I can think of to say. The tears cloud my eyes.

  ‘We spoke to your parents’ neighbours, Stephen. They seem to recall you visiting fairly regularly. Almost daily, in fact.’

  I don’t know what to say. I swallow again.

  ‘In fact, two of the neighbours said they saw you visiting very recently. Thursday, in fact. Was that when you had your falling out?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ I say.

  ‘You don’t remember if you went to visit your parents on Thursday?’ the man asks.

  I shake my head again. ‘No.’ The truth is there’s a very vague, hazy memory starting to reappear. Almost like I’m watching an old black and white film, but I’m standing fifty feet away from the TV and the screen’s covered in dust and grime.

  ‘But would you say it’s entirely possible that you did, in fact, visit your parents on Thursday?’

  The picture starts to get
a little clearer, but I don’t want him to know that. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We spoke to your parents’ neighbours, Stephen, because there wasn’t any answer at your parents’ house when we called round to speak to them this afternoon.’

  I look up at him. ‘You went to speak to them,’ I say. It comes out more like a statement than a question.

  ‘Yes, we did. PC McCain spoke to me about some concerns she had. It was decided that we needed some additional information and background.’

  ‘That quickly?’ I ask. It’s the only thing I can think of to say. I only reported Anya missing last night.

  ‘Things do tend to move quickly at this stage of an investigation,’ the man says. ‘Especially when we’re talking about missing people.’

  My brain starts to buzz. The confusion is overwhelming. The last thing I heard, PC McCain wasn’t even treating this as a missing persons case. She was of a view that Anya had a right to disappear if she wanted to. And now I discover they’ve been snooping about in the background.

  ‘Do you have any idea why there wasn’t an answer at your parents’ house, Stephen?’ the man asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘We had a closer look. The neighbours were certain your parents hadn’t gone out. They only ever went out in the car, apparently, and the car was on the drive. Their side gate was open, so we went round and looked in through the kitchen window. Any idea what we saw, Stephen?’

  The picture gets even clearer. It’s in full colour now. ‘No,’ I say, quietly. Almost a whisper.

  ‘I’m sorry to say that we saw your parents. They were both lying on the kitchen floor. We forced entry to the kitchen, Stephen. They were dead.’

  I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. Every time I blink, I see exactly what they see in full, glorious high definition.

  ‘You don’t seem too surprised, Stephen,’ the man says. PC McCain has a look of true sorrow on her face. Her eyes look more liquid. Her face shows concern and anguish.

  ‘I... I don’t know,’ I say.

  ‘We also spoke to your manager at Tesco, Stephen,’ the man says. ‘You didn’t show up for work on Thursday. In fact, he said he hasn’t seen you since Wednesday. Some of your colleagues said you showed up at someone’s leaving do, though,’ he says, looking down at his notepad. ‘A Jennifer Lucas. Is that right?’

  I nod. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where were you on Thursday? Were you ill?’

  Yes, I want to tell him. I was really fucking ill. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know if you were ill?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Okay, Stephen. Here’s what we know. We know you didn’t turn up for work on Thursday. We know you were seen at your parents’ house that day. We also know your parents both died, and that it looks like someone killed them. We also know there’s a decent chance they died on Thursday. Do you have anything else you want to say?’

  I blink a few times, trying to think of something.

  ‘Of course, we had our suspicions. Most murders are committed by people who know the deceased. Husband, wife, brother, sister. Son. But then the question we had was why would you want to do such a thing? But, you see, PC McCain here has been doing some sterling work. She’ll make a good detective one day. She’s spent the day looking into your girlfriend’s life. I think it’d be fair to say she didn’t quite expect to find what she found. Is there anything you want to tell us, Stephen?’

  PC McCain starts speaking. Something about suspicion of murder, harming my defence, evidence. Not for the first time over the past couple of days, I feel my entire world start to collapse around me. I close my eyes and wish it all away.

  8

  The police station’s a lot more comfortable and welcoming than what you might think, but that’s not saying much. It’s not all cold, dark corridors and dingy brick-lined interview rooms soaked in a faint blue light that you might expect. Some people are actually smiling, but I don’t feel like it.

  I’ve been taken to an interview suite. I guess that sounds a lot more reassuring than interrogation room. I’ve been placed under arrest, they tell me. They say they want to speak to me under caution. I don’t know why. I’m not sure what more I can say.

  One thing’s for sure: I don’t feel in control. I haven’t done since shortly before Anya disappeared. Since my perfect little universe started to come tumbling down. And that’s the worst thing about losing control: as soon as it starts, it doesn’t stop. It’s self-fulfilling. You start to lose control, you panic, you overcompensate, you lose even more control. Which is why the only answer is to cling on as tightly as you can, cling on until your knuckles turn white and the veins pop out the sides of your forehead.

  I’m sitting on an upholstered armchair, a low coffee table in front of me, with two people sitting on identical chairs diagonally opposite me. One of them’s the suited detective who came to my house. The other is a woman I don’t recognise, but who I’m sure isn’t a police officer. This can’t be a conventional interview room. It looks more like one of those rooms you see on television that they take people into to tell them their family members have died.

  They offered me a solicitor. I declined. I need to try and regain as much control as I can. Accepting a solicitor when I’ve not done anything wrong would be admitting defeat. And I’m not ready for that yet. Am I? A large part of me is starting to wonder.

  ‘Are you comfortable, Stephen?’ the woman asks me, seeming genuinely concerned. I don’t know who she is, but they tell me she’s here for my benefit. An ‘appropriate adult’, they called her.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Okay. You let me know if that changes at any time, alright?’

  I nod. She’s definitely not a police officer.

  ‘Stephen, I want to talk to you a little more about relationships,’ the detective says, acting far friendlier than he did in my living room earlier. ‘What was your relationship with your parents like?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Mostly.’

  ‘Mostly? Until the end, do you mean?’

  ‘Mostly, I mean.’

  ‘Stephen, did you kill your parents?’

  The shock tactic. Just come out with it and see how I react. I like it. Pure power play.

  I say nothing. The woman looks at him, a neutral expression on her face, but one which says everything. She’s trying to keep this much tamer.

  ‘Can you tell me why you didn’t have any photographs in your house, Stephen?’ he asks. ‘I mean, most people have framed photos knocking about in most rooms. I know I do. How about you, Kelly?’

  Kelly doesn’t answer.

  He continues. ‘It’s a bit odd not to have any photographs of your family, isn’t it? Or your girlfriend.’

  ‘I’m not very good with relationships,’ I say. ‘I have a—’

  ‘We know,’ he says, interrupting. ‘But still. I would have expected to see something. Then again, you did have a picture on your phone, didn’t you?’

  He opens a manilla folder and slides a blown-up print-out of the image I used as my phone’s home screen over the coffee table towards me.

  ‘Can you confirm for me who these two people are, please, Stephen?’

  I blink, trying to hold back the tears.

  ‘Me and Anya,’ I say, almost whispering.

  ‘Sorry, a bit louder please?’

  ‘Me and Anya.’

  He pulls the image back towards himself.

  ‘We’re quite good at finding people, you see, Stephen. And we found the woman in this photo. She’s alive and well.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Do you know if Anya went by any other names at all?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know. No. No, she didn’t.’

  He’s silent for a few moments.

  ‘Only we’ve been looking at this quite closely, and one of our team recognised the woman in this photo. She knows her as Robyn Marshall. Does that name ring a bell at all?’

>   I shake my head.

  ‘No. It might not do. You might know her as Vixen R. How about that? Any bells ringing?’

  I look at the floor, saying nothing.

  ‘Stephen, the woman in the photograph, Robyn Marshall, works as an escort under the name Vixen R. Were you aware of that?’

  I blink four times.

  ‘We spoke to Ms Marshall, Stephen. She took a bit of persuading, granted, but when she found out what it was about she was only too happy to help. She told us she distinctly remembers meeting you. Not in the bread aisle at Tesco, but on the front doorstep of your house after you called her and enquired about her services.’

  I can feel my breathing start to get heavier. I sense the woman, who’s not said a word, shuffle in her seat and cock her head slightly.

  The man continues. ‘She told us that you were willing to pay her extra for what she termed “additional services”,’ he says, reading from a sheet of A4 paper. ‘Can you tell us anything about that?’

  I say nothing.

  ‘She told us that these additional services included posing for a photograph with you and speaking in a foreign accent. Why did you ask her to do that, Stephen?’

  I still say nothing.

  ‘The thing that puzzles me is that she says this was a few months ago now. She couldn’t say exactly when, but she remembers it quite distinctly. When was it you said you and Anya got together?’

  I don’t know what to say. It’s all moving far too quickly for me.

  ‘She remembers it quite distinctly because she said your requests and demands were getting a little too... Odd, shall we say? She says she left after less than an hour. She also says that over the following days you kept trying to call her, only she wouldn’t respond. You left her a few voicemails, she says. The first few referring to her by her real name, and then you started calling her Anya.’

  He sits back in his chair, signalling that he’s said what he has to say. There must be a good thirty seconds of silence before the woman speaks.

  ‘Stephen, we all create some form of fantasy world around ourselves. That’s true of all of us. Sometimes we witness things or we see people, and those fleeting moments enter our reality. They reappear in dreams or fantasies. It’s quite common and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But do you recognise that this woman, Ms Marshall, is not Anya? She never has been. Anya is a persona, a character you created.’