A Wayward Game (23 page)

“He doesn’t
tell me what to do,” she tells me, smiling across the table. Her
smile is too bright, too tight. “I’m still in charge of my own
life, Katherine. It’s just that he and I happen to want the same
things.”

“Really?”

“Of course.
Look, I’ve never lied to you, Katherine: I want to have a good
life. I want money and respect and all the things that people
normally want, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise or apologise
for it. Since when was ambition a crime?”

“You’ve changed
almost everything about yourself, Diane. Even your accent is
different.”

Diane is silent
for a moment, tearing her sandwich into two smaller pieces. She’s
hardly eaten a thing, I notice; she’s slimmer than she ever was
before, almost thin.

“You know,” she
says at last, “I’ll say this for being born into poverty: you get a
very good idea of the value of things, and at an early age. You
don’t understand, Katherine. You can afford to be superior about
all of this, because you know that, if it all goes wrong, your nice
middle-class parents will be there to help you out with loans, a
place to live, all of that. You can afford to be indifferent to
success, because you don’t need it. You’ve always been comfortable.
I’ve never had that. Who can I rely on? My mother? She can barely
even look after herself.”

“And James
will?”

“Yes, I think
he will.”

I want to
believe her, almost, and try to believe her. But I can’t quite
accept what she’s saying as the truth. She has walked into this
relationship with a man she barely knows or understands, and
already she is deferring to him in everything, adopting his manners
and outlook and lifestyle without question. She is playing at being
someone other than the girl who had holes in her clothes when she
was growing up and didn’t eat out at a restaurant until she was
eighteen. I can understand why she might. But the problem, I think,
is that nobody can live their entire life under the shadow of lies.
Lies have a habit of catching up with you, even if you can sustain
them, which most people can’t. But what can I say? I don’t have the
courage or conviction to tell her my thoughts. It’s her life. We’re
not together anymore. She’s free to do as she wishes, and to make
her own mistakes.

Suddenly the
vision shifts, and I’m walking through a busy London street. Cars
and taxis inch past on the road, and pedestrians weave in and out
of one another. Diane isn’t here anymore, and I think she must have
gone back to work. I turn a corner, and suddenly, in the irrational
way of dreams, find that I’m in Bucklock Wood. It’s quiet and still
out here. The sky is grey, and the path muddy; I look down at my
impractical work shoes, and wonder why I didn’t wear something more
functional.

Frieda, peering
out from between the trees, gives me a look of mystery. “It’s all
right,” she says. “Diane isn’t here. But watch your step
anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because
somebody else
is
here.”

I walk on until
I reach Waken Mere. The lake is grey under the cloudy sky, empty
even of the birds that usually congregate there. Too many deaths
have taken place here, I think; it’s cursed ground, nothing can
live here. So many people killed and buried out here, at least
according to Neil – if I can believe a word he says. I stand
staring out over the water, and see someone standing on the
opposite shore. I’m too far away to see who it is, but something
about the figure is familiar, and threatening. It raises its hand,
either in greeting or warning, and suddenly a scream rips through
the still air.

I wake up and
find myself lying on the sofa. A car alarm has gone off in the
street below, that’s all. My heart thuds against my ribs as I sit
up. The music has ended; I’ve been lying here listening to the low
hiss of nothing. And I wonder if that is what death is like. Not
knowing that it’s all ended, not knowing anything at all; just
silence and darkness and emptiness, forever.

Neil wakes at
seven o’clock, and we eat breakfast together before he showers and
gets ready for the day ahead. He’s quiet, unobtrusive, neat; he
tidies the bathroom after he has used it, and makes no particular
demands. He’s like a very well-behaved and polite guest, and
something about this saddens me; I would prefer it, I think, if he
were to be more relaxed and less respectful.

Before leaving,
he takes a quick look outside, searching for any sign of someone
watching the flat.

“Nothing,” he
says, closing the window. “Nothing that I can see, at any rate. If
anything happens, though, or you feel worried, give me a call.”

After he has
left, the atmosphere in the flat grows barren and stale. I feel
restless and uneasy, without quite knowing why. I stand at the
window drinking coffee, watching the cars slip past on the street.
Eventually I log on to www.whathappenedtodiane.org. I read Lurker’s
message again, and type out a reply.

Lurker,

I’m reluctant to reveal
my true identity, even to my fellow forum members, for very sound
(and potentially legal) reasons. I’m sure you can understand that.
James Sallow is, apart from anything, notoriously litigious.

As you say, openly
stating that Sallow was involved in Diane’s disappearance is
libellous, given that he has never faced criminal charges. However,
a vital principle of free speech might be at stake here. Given the
evidence that appears to implicate him, is one not even allowed to
raise the possibility that he was involved? This is a question that
must be asked. And the journalist, in my view, does not provide
answers, primarily; he or she asks questions. Sometimes we ask the
wrong questions, and sometimes we fail to receive any reply, but
our basic function remains the same. If journalists are not allowed
to pose questions, then vital ideals such as freedom of speech and
freedom of the press come under threat.

I, and others like me,
are not levelling accusations at Sallow for no reason other than
mischief or spite. There is very compelling evidence that he was
involved in Diane’s disappearance. If I hadn’t looked at that
evidence carefully, weighed it in my own mind, and felt convinced
that it pointed to a particular theory, then I would never make any
public accusations against Sallow. The evidence against him may not
be strong enough to get him into court. But it nevertheless exists,
and it has never been satisfactorily accounted for.

I’d be inclined to
doubt your statement that Sallow’s life has been ruined by Diane’s
disappearance. When she vanished, he was rid of someone who had
become extremely troublesome to him. By all accounts he had no
intention of becoming a conventional husband or father, and Diane
and the baby cast a shadow over his projected future. Had he not
been suspected of any involvement, his parliamentary ambitions
might just as easily have been enhanced by Diane’s disappearance; a
personal tragedy might have humanised him, won the sympathy vote.
Even now, there is a possibility that, in the long term, none of
his aspirations will be damaged by what has happened. People have
short memories, even when it comes to cases like this, and Diane
Meath-Jones is already a fading memory for most people. Sallow had
ridden out the storm so far, and can probably ride it out to the
very end. His team of private investigators are, I think, just as
likely to be employed in keeping an eye on his detractors rather
than actively searching for Diane.

Regarding Sallow’s
alibi, by the way – I have reasons for suspecting Martin
Stevenson’s honesty and reliability. If he did not in fact see
Diane on the morning of June 16th, that would of course put an
entirely different complexion on matters.

When I’ve typed
and sent my reply, I make my way back to the main forum, which is
already warming up in preparation for another day of chat and
theorising. Many of the regulars – Dreamsnatcher, Valley Girl,
Lookwest – are there, along with Phillip, the newbie. I click on a
new thread about Martin Stevenson’s sighting, and am surprised to
find that my own doubts are being repeated by Phillip:

There’s something a
little strange about Martin Stevenson’s sighting, if you ask me. By
Stevenson’s own account to the police, he had only seen Diane a few
times before, and yet he had no hesitation in identifying her as
the woman he saw on June 16th. He also admitted that he only saw
her for a few seconds, and at a distance, at a time when he wasn’t
paying much attention to what was happening around him. Even more
peculiarly, though, he waited until the 21st to come forward and
talk to the police. For five whole days, during which the media
storm was at its height and you could barely turn on the TV or walk
into a newsagent’s without seeing or hearing something about Diane,
he said nothing.

How, then, can he state
with such certainty that the woman he saw (if indeed he saw anyone)
was Diane?

I suppose he could
simply have been mistaken. However, in that case one might expect
that he would be
less
confident in
his identification. I can’t help but wonder, frankly, if he was
trying to mislead the police with his supposed sighting.

This, of course,
leads to the question of
why
.
Stevenson, so far as I’m aware, has no personal connection with
Sallow. Quite why else he would agree to lie to the police is a
matter of conjecture. Money? Could be.

The point, though, is
this: if Stevenson’s sighting was either inaccurate or untrue, that
in turn leaves open the possibility that Diane disappeared prior to
ten o’clock on June 16th – and that, of course, removes Sallow’s
alibi.

It’s strange, I
think, that Phillip’s concerns seem to mirror my own so exactly.
But, of course, this is what happens on such forums: ideas and
impressions come together, and narratives are expanded and refined.
I click “Reply”, and type out an answer:

I couldn’t agree more,
Phillip. Sadly, Stevenson has stuck to his story from the
beginning, and he has never changed or deviated from it. Some say
this points to its veracity; I say it’s just as likely to be the
result of rehearsal, of knowing in advance precisely what he had to
say and committing the details to memory. I doubt he’ll change his
version of events any time soon. We can’t be sure why, though
personally I suspect that money might be a factor. Well-appointed
restaurants in Richmond do not come cheap.

This is why, when I’m
feeling pessimistic, I think that there will never be justice for
Diane. Too many people are involved, and there is too much at
stake. Money, power, greed – it’s a lethal combination, and a nasty
business all round.

Martin Stevenson is, in
essence, just an ordinary man, but he served a purpose and has
probably been richly rewarded for it. Every man, it seems, has his
price.

I wonder how these
people can sleep at night?

As I hit
“Post”, I find myself thinking that the internet, though commonly
known as the web, is in fact more like a labyrinth. It meanders and
twists, and turns back on itself, and reaches shadowy dead ends;
there is no one fixed centre, and multiple entry and exit points.
This labyrinth, moreover, is in a constant state of flux; it is
constantly being altered, refined, demolished and rebuilt. All of
this takes place silently, almost invisibly, so that one can never
really retrace one’s steps or cover the same ground twice. And the
people one encounters in that labyrinth are indistinct figures
indeed, illusory shadows of their real selves, and possibly not to
be trusted.

My thoughts are
interrupted by a pinging sound as another personal message arrives
for me. It is, I find, from Lurker, and its tone is markedly
different to the one he used in his other messages. The veiled
hostility has gone, and instead he sounds wary, humble, and
nervous.

Kittyminx,

I’m so glad you replied
to me. I know this is going to sound odd, but I need your help.
You’re probably sitting there reading this and considering deleting
this message and blocking me, but please – wait. At least hear me
out. I desperately need advice, and you’re the only person I can
think of to confide in.

The truth is that while
I’ve been researching my article I’ve hit on something that has
shocked me. You know I’ve always been sceptical about the various
conspiracy theories that have been put forward, but now even I can
only wonder. In short, I think I might just have uncovered
something that constitutes that elusive “evidence”. I’m not sure if
it would be accepted as such by the police, though it looks pretty
persuasive to me. I don’t want to comment on what it is, precisely;
websites and email accounts can be hacked. And this stuff, if true,
has the potential to be truly explosive.

I don’t know what to
do, Kittyminx. I’m not an established journalist. I’m a nobody. I
have no employer, no editor, to help me with these things. That’s
why I’m asking for your help. You’re a journalist, and you’re
knowledgeable about this case. You can look at this evidence and
advise me on whether it’s important, and what exactly I’m supposed
to do with it if it is.

There’s another issue,
one that scares me shitless. You, and other forum members, have
always argued that this case was influenced by political and
economic pressure exerted from certain quarters. I was sceptical of
that claim at the outset. Now, given the nature of the information
I’ve uncovered, I wonder if you might have been right all along. If
so, then I might suddenly find that I’ve become of very great
interest to certain people.

Please, Kittyminx. I
know we haven’t always seen eye to eye. I know we don’t even know
each other. But please help me.