IV
I’ve read books where they say things like I took an indefinite leave of absence. Do you have a job like that? Does anyone you know have a job like that? By Friday, my phone was ringing off the hook. Was I sick? Had I forgotten the appropriate channels for alerting HR to health issues? I spat, fumed and mentally consigned HR to hell, but once I’d raged my hour I bit the bullet and saw my GP, who listened sympathetically while my story squirmed out, then signed me off work for the month. I returned home and delivered the news to the fools in HR. Then I fished out Yellow Pages and looked for handwriting experts.
Here’s another. Have you ever tried looking for a handwriting expert in Yellow Pages?
Nothing under handwriting. Calligraphy offers sign-writers and commercial artists. And—
And that’s all I came up with.
I sat next to the phone for a while, useless directory in my hands. What other guise might a handwriting expert adopt? I couldn’t imagine. I failed to deduce.
In the end, I looked up Detective Agencies instead.
You’re probably thinking that was the thing to do. That once the professional arrived on the scene I’d fade into the background where I belonged, while some hard-bitten but soft-centred ex-cop with an alcohol problem and an interestingly named cat reravelled my life for £250 a day plus expenses. But it was just another trip to Dolphin Junction. I gave my story twice, once over the phone and once in person to an acne-scratched twentysomething who couldn’t get his digital recorder to work and forgot — thank God — to take the postcard when he left. I didn’t hear from him again. He probably lost my address. And if he couldn’t find me, missing persons were definitely out of his league.
Anyway. I went back to the police.
V
This time, it was a man. A thin, dark-featured man whose tie featured small dancing elephants, a detail which stuck with me a long time afterwards. He was a detective sergeant, so at least I was being shuffled upwards, rather than down. His name was Martin Dampner, and I wasn’t a stranger to him.
“We’ve met before, Mr Wallace. You probably don’t remember.”
“I do,” I told him. “I think I do. When Jane was killed.”
It would have had to be then. When else had I been in a police station?
“That’s right. I sat in on the interview. Don’t think I said anything. I was a DC then. A Detective Constable.”
“It was a long time ago,” I said.
He digested that, perhaps examining it for hidden barbs. But I hadn’t meant anything special. It had been twelve years ago. If that was a long time to rise from DC to DS, that was his problem.
He said, “It was a bad business.”
“So is this.”
“Of course,” he said.
We were in an office which might have been his or just one he was using for our conversation. I’ve no idea whether Detective Sergeants get their own office. My impression was that life was open-plan at that rank.
“How are you?” he now asked.
This stumped me.
“What do you mean?”
He settled into the chair his side of the desk. “How are you feeling? Are you eating properly? Drinking too much? Getting to work okay?”
I said, “My GP signed me off.”
“Sensible. Good move.”
“Can we talk about my missing wife?”
“We can. We can.” He put his hands behind his neck, and stared at me for what felt a long while. I was starting to quite seriously wonder if he were mad. Then he said, “I’ve looked at the notes DC Peterson made. She seems convinced your wife left of her own accord.”
“Well it’s nice to know she’s formed an opinion. That didn’t take much effort on her part, did it?”
“You’re underestimating my colleague. She followed some matters up after speaking to you. Did you know that?”
I didn’t. And had more important subjects to raise: “Did she explain about the name? The name the note was signed with?”
“Shell, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“For Michelle.”
“My wife never called herself that. Never would. She hated it.”
“I got that much. But if you don’t mind my saying so, Mr Wallace, that’s a pretty flimsy base on which to assume — what is it you’re assuming? Abduction?”
“Abduction. Kidnapping. Whatever you call it when someone is taken against their will and the police won’t do a bloody thing about it!”
I was shaking suddenly. How did that happen? For days I’d been calm and reasonably controlled, and now this supercilious cop was undoing all that work. Did he have any idea what I was going through? These days of not knowing; these endless nights of staring at the ceiling? And then, just when it felt the dark would never end, light pulling its second-storey job; bringing definition to the furniture, and returning all the spooky shapes to their everyday functional presences. With this came not fresh hope. Just an awareness that things weren’t over yet.
Days of this. More than a week now. How much longer?
“Let’s calm down,” he suggested.
“Why,” I asked, pulling myself together, “did you agree to see me? If you’ve made up your mind nothing’s wrong?”
“We serve the public,” he said.
I didn’t have an answer to that.
“My colleague, DC Peterson. She did some follow-up after you spoke.” Martin Dampner pushed his chair back, to allow himself room to uncross his legs, then cross them the other way. “She went to the library where Mrs Wallace worked. Spoke to the librarian.”
“And?”
Though I knew what was coming.
“When your wife handed her resignation in, she was perfectly in control. She handed her letter over, discussed its ramifications. Refused to be swayed. There was no coercion. Nobody waiting outside. No whispered messages for help.”
“And I’m sure you’ve drawn all the conclusions you need from that.”
He steamrollered on. “She also went, DC Peterson, to your building society. Where she didn’t just ask questions. She saw the tape.”
I closed my eyes.
“They record everything on CCTV. You probably know that already. DC Peterson watched footage of Mrs Wallace withdrawing money, having a brief chat with the cashier — who has no memory of their conversation, other than that it probably involved the weather or holidays — and leaving. On her own. Uncoerced.”
It was like pursuing an argument with a filing cabinet. I stood.
“Mr Wallace, I am sorry. But you need to hear this.”
“Which is why you agreed to see me. Right?”
“Also, I was wondering if you’d had a handwriting test done.”
I stared.
“Have you?”
“No. No, I haven’t.”
“And does that mean you’re now convinced it is her writing? Or so convinced it isn’t that mere proof isn’t likely to sway you?”
“It means, Sergeant, that I haven’t yet found anywhere that’ll do the job for me.” I didn’t want to tell him about the spotty private eye. I already knew that was a road heading nowhere. “And I don’t suppose you’re about to tell me you’ve had a change of heart? And will do it yourselves?”
He was shaking his head before I’d finished. “Mr Wallace. Believe me, I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I’ve been there myself, and there aren’t many I’d wish it on. But the facts as we understand them leave little room for doubt. Your wife quit her job, withdrew half your savings, and left a note saying she was leaving. All of which suggests that wherever Mrs Wallace is, she’s there of her own accord.”