Fine Lines - SA (23 page)

I know because he always dates everything, and the last date is the day before I came back from Amsterdam." I tried to quel my sudden excitement. "So they don't give any clues?"

"No, nothing. I never thought they would. I don't know why he left, but it certainly wasn't anything to do with him going to gay clubs. He hadn't been for weeks, anyway. And if he'd been planning to go while I was away, he would have told me." She shrugged. "I don't suppose that'l make any difference to the police, though. It's a nice, handy little explanation for them.

Particularly when his own father lets them know what he thinks." I said something vaguely reassuring, but I cannot remember what. I was no longer paying attention. Al I could think was that Marty had been as good as his word. Unless there was some record of his meeting with Zeppo in his notes at university, which was unlikely, he had kept it a secret. The only danger that remained was if someone remembered seeing them at the nightclub. That was a possibility, but somehow I could not make myself feel too concerned about it. I sensed that the crisis point had been reached and passed, and suddenly the tension ebbed out of me. Without warning, I yawned.

"I'm sorry," I said through it. "Excuse me."

"You must be tired."

"I am, rather. It's been a long day." One of the longest I had known, actual y. Now it was over, reaction had left me exhausted. Yawning again, I made my excuses and left. It was al I could do to stay awake long enough to drive home. I considered cal ing Zeppo to tel him the good news about Marty's father, but decided that could wait. It would serve him right to sweat a little. By half-past nine I was in bed.

It was the best night's sleep I had had in weeks.

Westerman left the next morning, as he had said he would. Anna tried telephoning him at his hotel, presumably in the desperate hope of making him change his mind. But he had already checked out.

She contacted the police. Again, as promised, Marty's father had notified them that he was leaving, and when Anna pressed they admitted he had also made his views on the situation clear. They assured her that the investigation would be unaffected, but she was not convinced.

"I suppose they'l stil keep it open, or on file, or whatever they do," she said. "But I can't see them worrying about it too much. As far as they're concerned now, Marty's just another gay who's come out of the closet and left his girlfriend." I made reassuring noises, but of course she was right. What had been half-hearted to begin with now seemed almost certain to become even more perfunctory.

Once again, there was a sort of lul . If the police were doing anything, it failed to produce any further news. Then, a week after Westerman had left, Anna was late again. I had come to recognise that as almost invariably meaning something had happened, and a smal twist of anxiety began to eat at my confidence. It flared when I saw her face as she walked in.

"Is everything al right?" I asked.

She did not look at me. "Marty's bank statement came this morning." She began to speak; stopped, as though the words hurt her. "Nothing's been taken out of his account since before he disappeared." She stood there without moving, head hung slightly, stil with

her coat on and her bag slung over one shoulder. She did not seem to know what to do with herself.

I tried to think of the correct thing to say. "Does he have another account anywhere?" She shook her head.

"Wel , perhaps he drew enough money out to last him for a while." Anna stil did not look at me. I had the impression these were al points she had already considered and dismissed. "The last withdrawal was for a hundred pounds. He couldn't stil be living on that." I wished I had saved the chequebook and card. Zeppo could have used them in supermarkets, or anywhere else anonymous and busy, to give the impression that Marty was stil in circulation. But it was too late now. And it would have been a further risk.

"Have you told the police?"

"I phoned them before I came here. They said the same as you, that he might have another account. When I told them he hadn't, they said he might have one I didn't know about. But I know he hasn't. Al his money's in that one."

"Did you tel them that?" She nodded. "They said he could have got a job somewhere by now, and that if he didn't want anyone to know where he was, he wouldn't risk writing cheques on his old account anyway." She looked lost and helpless. "They didn't seem to think it was anything worth worrying about."

"They were probably only trying to reassure you." She looked at me, miserably. "I don't want reassuring. I'm not stupid. I just want to know that someone apart from me wants to find him." I knew what she wanted me to do, and shied away from it. I thought I was safely past that sort of involvement. Then I looked at her face, and knew there was no avoiding it.

"Would you like me to talk to the police?" I asked. "I don't know if it'l do any good, but I'l try, if you want me to." Her expression became instantly grateful. "Would you mind? After what Marty's father said to them, I know they won't take much notice of me.

But they might listen to you." There was no reason why they should, but I smiled. "I can only try, can't I?"

I telephoned from the office, while Anna waited downstairs. I asked for the detective inspector who had been to the gal ery: the telephone gave a series of clicks, then I was connected.

"Inspector Lindsey."

"My name's Donald Ramsey. You came to my gal ery last week to speak to my assistant, Anna Palmer, about her missing boyfriend. Marty Westerman. An American."

"Yes?" Waiting for me to get to the point. I hurried on.

"She received a bank statement this morning from her boyfriend's account, and it appears that the last withdrawal was made several days before he disappeared. Since then nothing's been taken out. Obviously, Miss Palmer is quite upset."

"Just a second." Something was put over the receiver, muffling it. I waited. It was taken off "Yes, I'm sorry. Go on." A little disconcerted, I searched for my thread. "As I was saying, Miss Palmer's upset about this because she thinks it might mean that..

." The words caught. '.. . Wel , she's worried that it means something's happened to him."

"She's already let us know about this, hasn't she?" His voice was slow and deliberate. There was an ironic, almost mocking quality to it.

"She telephoned you this morning. I don't think it was you she spoke to, though."

"So how can I help you?" He might as wel have asked, "So what do you want me to do about it?"

"Wel , basical y, I would like to know what you intend to do with the information."

"Was the situation not explained to Miss Palmer?" I refused to let him intimidate me. "From what she's said, I don't think whoever she spoke to was particularly helpful. She's very worried, obviously, and wants to know that everything possible is being done to locate her boyfriend."

"It is. I thought we'd already made that plain to her. On several occasions." Indignation made me forget myself. "Then perhaps you can tel me what you intend to do now you know he's been missing al this time with apparently no money to live on?"

"What exactly is your relationship to either Mr. Westerman or his girlfriend?"

"I'm Miss Palmer's employer. A friend. Of them both," I added, lamely.

"You aren't a relative, then?"

"No." I heard him sigh. I could almost smel his tobacco breath. "Mr.

Ramsey, let me explain our position. Everyday we receive literal y dozens of cal s from people who have someone missing. Some are more urgent than others. This morning, for example, I've just been speaking to a mother whose five-year-old daughter has been missing for thirty-six hours. The little girl is a diabetic. The mother has only just reported her missing because she's been out al this time and thought her daughter was "at a friend's". Which means that we now have a five-year-old girl who is God knows where, who is probably in urgent need of medication, and who has already been missing for over a day and a half. That worries us. A ful y grown adult who leaves home with a suitcase, clothes, chequebook and passport does not. It might be very distressing for his girlfriend, but it does not merit us pressing the panic button. Particularly not when this person's own father tel s us he's satisfied his son has left of his own free wil , and for his own good reasons." He paused. "Now we hear that this person has not touched his bank account since he left home. Wel , that may or may not be a cause for concern. There can be any number of different explanations for it. He might he living with someone who is paying al his bil s, for instance.

He might have found a job, and not want to use his old account for fear of being traced by his girlfriend, who he has walked out on. He might be wandering around with amnesia, not even sure what a chequebook's for. Or he might be lying dead somewhere, as a result of an accident, a mugging, or perhaps even a jealous boyfriend.

"It could be any of those, or any one of a dozen other reasons. And to be perfectly honest, it doesn't make any difference. That is not being cal ous. That is simply stating the simple truth. We have already done everything we reasonably can. If anyone fitting his description turns up, alive or, regretful y, otherwise, at any hospital, train station, or wherever, we wil know about it within a matter of hours.

If he leaves the country, we wil know about it almost immediately. I am told his visa does not expire for several more months, so he has every legal right to be here, but even if he hadn't, we could do no more to locate him than we have already.

Short of organising a nationwide manhunt, which, bank account notwithstanding, is not justified, there is nothing else we can do. I am very sorry for his girlfriend. I am very sorry for al the other girlfriends, boyfriends, wives, husbands, parents, and sundry other family members who also have loved ones missing. Of which, as we speak, in this division alone there are several hundred. Many of which have been on file for considerably long-ger than Miss Palmer's boyfriend. And of which, at this current moment in time, I am most concerned about a little girl with an ignorant mother and diabetes."

I heard him breathing. "Now. Does that explain the situation clearly enough for you?" It did. Clearly enough not to mind his condescending and faintly contemptuous manner. "Yes, I think so. Thank you. I'm sorry to have bothered you." He relented a little. "Tel Miss Palmer that we're doing everything we can. If we hear anything at al , we'l let her know."

"I wil ." I said goodbye and hung up. I waited a moment before going downstairs, letting my euphoria bleed off before I faced Anna. I no longer had any doubt that Marty's fate would remain lost to history.

The way ahead was final y clear.

Now it was only a matter of time.

For Anna, the final nail in Marty's coffin was not long in coming. His

bank statement, and the subsequent indifference of the police, hit her hard, and I had put her increasing quietness down to that. I had lost track of time, and did not realise the significance of the date until the morning she spilt coffee on my lap.

I was on the telephone when she arrived at the gal ery, and so did not immediately notice the state she was in. I mimed drinking and pointed towards the filter machine; I had set it going, but the telephone had rung before I could pour my customary cup of black coffee. Only half listening to my cal er, I watched abstractedly as Anna's cotton skirt, a bonus of the increasingly warmer weather, swung against her as she walked.

She disappeared into the kitchen area. I could hear her moving about, and then there was a clatter of dropped crockery. But I heard nothing actual y break, and a moment later Anna re-emerged and came towards me with a cup and saucer. I nodded thanks to her, concentrating now on my telephone conversation, and as I reached out to take it she suddenly fumbled and tipped the whole thing into my lap.

I dropped the telephone and leapt up as the scalding coffee spilt on to my legs.

"Quick, get a cloth!" I shouted, shaking the front of my trousers, struggling to keep the steaming fabric off my skin. Anna didn't move.

"Hurry!" I snapped, and stopped. Her face had crumpled. Silent sobs were jerking at her shoulders, and as I looked tears began to stream down her face.

"I'm sorry." Her voice was almost inaudible. "I'm sorry."

"It's al right, it doesn't matter." I straightened, wincing as the stil -hot cloth stuck to my legs.

"I'm sorry." It seemed al she could say. Her arms twitched at her side, as though she did not know what to do with them.

"No harm done. It could have been worse." In fact it could, quite easily. I had been resting an open journal on my lap, and much of the coffee had landed on that.

But my reassurance did no good. Anna stil stood and sobbed. I hurriedly retrieved the receiver and told the confused cal er I would cal back. Then I turned to Anna, hovering uncertainly. Over the past few weeks I had seen her close to tears on several occasions. But nothing like this. She was inconsolable. "What is it? What's the matter?" I asked. She showed no sign of having heard. "Anna, please, tel me what's wrong?" Her body heaved and shook. "He's dead." The words sent a shock through me. "Who's dead?" It was a stupid question. She could only mean one person.

"Muh ... Marty." I felt numb. "How ... Have the police found him?" It took her a moment to get the words out. I waited, agonised. "Nuh

... no, but he is. I knuh ... know he is!" Relief made me dizzy. For an awful moment, I had thought he must have been discovered. But if he had, she would have said so. This was based on conviction, not facts. "Of course he isn't. Don't say such a thing." She smeared her eyes with the side of her hand, like a smal child. Her sobs tugged at her. "He is. He's dead, I know he is!" I moved forward, hesitantly. Her emotion unnerved me. "You don't know that, Anna."

"I duh ... do." She hugged herself. "We should have gone to Am ...