‘You’re not old. You’re beautiful.’
‘You always say that.’
‘Because it’s true.’
She shakes her head helplessly. ‘I know I shouldn’t be so vain and self-obsessed. You’re the one who has every right to be self-conscious and feel resentful.’
‘I don’t resent anything. I have you. I have the girls. That’s enough.’
She looks at me knowingly. ‘If it’s enough why did you throw yourself into this murder investigation?’
‘I was asked.’
‘You could have said no.’
‘I saw a chance to help.’
‘Oh, come on, Joe, you wanted a challenge. You were bored. You didn’t like being at home with Emma. At least be honest about it.’
I reach for my glass of water. My hand trembles.
Julianne’s voice softens. ‘I know what you’re like, Joe. You’re trying to save Darcy’s mother all over again but that’s not possible. She’s gone.’
‘I can stop it happening to someone else.’
‘Maybe you can. You’re a good man. You care about people. You care about Darcy. I love that about you. But you have to understand why I’m frightened. I don’t want you involved- not after last time. You’ve done your bit. You’ve given your time. Let someone else help the police from now on.’
I watch her eyes pool with emotion and feel a desperate desire to make her happy.
‘I didn’t ask to become involved. It just happened,’ I say.
‘By accident.’
‘Exactly. And sometimes we can’t ignore accidents. We can’t drive by without stopping or pretend we haven’t seen them. We have to stop. We call for an ambulance. We try to help…’
‘And then we leave it to the experts.’
‘What if I am one of the experts?’
Julianne frowns and her lips tighten. ‘I may have to go to Italy next week,’ she announces suddenly.
‘Why?’
‘The TV station deal has hit a snag. One of the institutional shareholders is holding out. Unless we get ninety per cent approval the deal falls over.’
‘When will you leave?’
‘Monday.’
‘You’ll go with Dirk.’
‘Yes.’ She opens the menu. ‘Imogen is here now. She’ll help you look after Emma.’
‘What’s Dirk like?’
She doesn’t look up from the menu. ‘A force of nature.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He’s very full on. Some people find him abrasive and opinionated. I think he’s an acquired taste.’
‘Have you acquired the taste?’
‘I understand him better than most people. He’s very good at his job.’
‘Is he married?’
She laughs. ‘No.’
‘What’s so funny?’
‘The thought of Dirk being married.’
I can hear her tights scrape as she crosses her legs. Her eyes are no longer focused on the menu. She’s somewhere else. It strikes me how different she’s grown since she started working, how disengaged. In the midst of a conversation she can suddenly seem to be a thousand miles away.
‘I’d like to meet your workmates,’ I say.
Her eyes come back to me. ‘Really?’
‘You sound surprised.’
‘I am surprised. You’ve never shown any interest.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Well, there’s an office party next Saturday- our tenth anniversary. I didn’t think you wanted to go.’
‘Why?’
‘I told you about it weeks ago.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I do want to go. It’ll be fun.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. We can get a hotel room. Make a weekend of it.’
My foot find hers beneath the table, less gently than I’d hoped. She flinches as though I’ve tried to kick her. I apologise and feel my heart vibrating. Only it’s not my heart. It’s my phone.
I hold my hand against the pocket, wishing I’d turned it off. Julianne takes a sip of wine and ponders my dilemma. ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
‘I’m sorry.’
Her shrug is not ambivalent or open to interpretation. I know what she’s thinking. I flip open the handset. DI Cray’s number is on the screen.
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At a restaurant.’
‘What’s the address? I’m sending a car.’
‘Why?’
‘Maureen Bracken has been missing since six o’clock this evening. Her ex-husband found the front door wide open. Her car is gone. Her mobile is engaged.’
My heart swells and wedges in my throat.
‘Where’s her son?’
‘Home. He was late getting back from football training. Someone stole his mobile phone. When he went back to look, he got locked in the changing rooms.’
My surging stare goes straight through Julianne. DI Cray is still talking.
‘Oliver Rabb is trying to get a fix on the mobile. It’s still transmitting.’
‘Where’s Bruno?’
‘I told him to stay at the house in case his ex-wife calls. There’s an officer with him. Ten minutes, Professor. Be waiting outside.’
The call ends. I look at Julianne. Her face doesn’t begin to hint at what’s on her mind.
I tell her that I have to leave. I tell her why. Without a word she stands and gathers her coat. We haven’t ordered. We haven’t eaten. She signals for the bill and pays for the wine.
I follow her across the restaurant, her hips swinging fluidly beneath her dress, articulating more in a few paces than most people manage in an hour of conversation. I walk her to the car. She gets in. There’s no kiss goodbye. Her face is an unknowable combination of disappointment and disconnection. I want to go after her, to win back the moment, but it’s too late.
43
Fears and imaginings. They begin as a tiny ceaseless tremor inside me, a buzzing blade that gnaws at the soft wet tissue opening up great cavities that are still not large enough for my lungs to expand.
I have talked to Bruno. He is a different man. Diminished. It is after midnight. Maureen is still missing. Her mobile phone has stopped transmitting. Oliver Rabb has traced the dying signal to a phone tower on the southern edge of Victoria Park in Bath. Police are searching the surrounding streets.
Coincidences and small occurrences keep adding themselves to this story, complicating the picture instead of making it clearer. The emails. The reunion. Gideon Tyler. I have no clear evidence he is behind this. Ruiz has gone to his last known address. There’s nobody home.
Veronica Cray has made two official requests to the MOD for information. So far silence. We have no idea if Tyler is still serving in the army or if he’s resigned his commission. When did he leave Germany? How long has he been home? What’s he been doing?
Maureen’s car is found just after 5.00 a.m., parked in Queen Street near the gates to Victoria Park. Two standing lions watch over the vehicle from stone plinths. The headlights are on. The driver’s door is open. Maureen’s mobile is resting on the seat. The battery is dead.
Victoria Park covers fifty-seven acres and has seven entrances. I look through the railing fences into the gloom. The sky is purple black, an hour before dawn and the air is freezing. We could have a thousand officers turning over every leaf and still not find Maureen.
Instead we have two dozen officers wearing reflective vests and carrying torches. The dog squad will be here by seven. A helicopter sweeps above us, tethered by a beam of light to the ground.
We move off in pairs. Monk is with me. His long legs are made for crossing open ground in the dark; and his voice is like a foghorn. I hold a torch in one hand and my walking stick in the other, watching the beam of light reflect off wet grass and the trees, turning them silver.
Staying on the gravel path until we pass the tennis courts and the pitch amp; putt, we then veer right climbing the slope. On the high side of the park, the Palladian style terraces of the Royal Crescent are etched against the sky. Lights are coming on. People have heard the helicopter.
Two dozen torches are moving between the trees like bloated fireflies, unable to lift off. At the same time the park lights are like balls of yellow blurred by the pre-dawn mist.