A Wayward Game (7 page)

Distance,
spatial and temporal, lends perspective. Diane was as complicated
and mercurial as any of us. She was not the trusting innocent
idolised by a handful of internet fetishists, but nor was she a
bitch. She was kind, loving, intelligent and charming – not an
inconsiderable collection of qualities, when you think about it.
But it was ambition – that, and a stubborn streak of conformity –
that proved the deepest flaw, the most serious fissure, in her
character. Had she been otherwise in that respect, she would
probably have ended up living a life of mildly prosperous, mildly
bohemian contentment: a life that, whatever its inadequacies, did
not end in mystery and misery one June morning in Bucklock
Wood.

But Diane
wanted more. She wanted money, in part; like many a person born
into poverty, she had a healthy regard for the kind of happiness
that money could buy. It was more than that, though. It was,
rather, a touching faith that the majority viewpoint could never be
truly wrong, that such a large number of people could never be
mistaken or at fault. It was a belief in a world as comforting and
enduring as the rich soil of the Home Counties, the turning of the
seasons, and Carols at Christmas. An urge to see a man like James
Sallow not as the product of naked venality, but as someone who
typified a kind of soft, sentimental conservatism: industry,
stability, the preservation of all that is good and worthwhile. And
perhaps Diane came to these places – Greenwich Park, Bucklock Wood
– to glimpse this world that has almost disappeared, or never
really was. Walking along these quiet paths, with just her dog for
company, that world must have seemed so close, so tantalisingly
real, that she could not fail to find it. Instead she found only
danger, and death.

The sky
darkens, threatening rain, and a chill breeze springs up, ruffling
leaves and bending branches. I shiver and increase my pace, turning
back in the direction of the park gates.

Leaving the
park behind, I run in the direction of the Thames. After a few
minutes, I reach a quiet road that runs alongside the river, and
emerge into yet another world. Here, the gentility of the older
parts of Greenwich is swallowed by the raw ambition of modern
developments: luxury flats that hold their heads high over the
city, interspersed by expensive restaurants and bars. An urban
playground for the young, wealthy, and upwardly mobile. It’s a
world you either love or hate, and which is easy to mock. But for
Diane, refugee from a rough estate and a broken home, it must have
seemed representative of security and stability, all the things she
had not had herself and wanted for her child.

I slow down as
I approach the building where Diane lived, and where James Sallow
still lives. Lexwood House is an immense, ten-storey development,
surrounded by windswept concrete and neat rows of trees, planted
with almost mathematical precision. I stop opposite the main doors,
and look inside towards the lobby, where a concierge sits day and
night at a desk. I lean against a lamp post, pretending to stretch
my calves and hamstrings, but quietly watching the building
instead. It is neat and clean, with no traces of grime or decay.
There wouldn’t be, of course: residents here pay a fortune toward
the upkeep of the place, and teams of painters and carpenters and
electricians regularly turn up to maintain it. Sallow, like most of
his neighbours, also employs a maid to come and clean the flat for
him. The effect of all this cleanliness is, in this place, an
absolute blotting out of personality. There is little room here for
the individual or the particular. I don’t doubt that every last
trace of Diane’s existence has been stripped away from the place,
wiped out so thoroughly that it might as well never have been. Of
course, she wasn’t here for long enough to leave much of a mark,
but I wonder if anything of her – a flake of her skin, a strand of
her hair – survives. I doubt it, for there is little room in
Sallow’s life for sentiment.

For a
relatively young man, Sallow has already made his mark in the City,
and his ambitions extend further still. He is an active,
high-profile member of a major political party, and was once talked
of as a prospective parliamentary candidate – until, that is, the
rumours surrounding Diane’s disappearance undermined his
reputation. The party hierarchy could, after all, hardly be seen to
endorse a man who was suspected of being involved in such a
scandalous case, and all talk of his potential candidacy was
quietly shelved. It must have been a galling and humiliating
experience for a man of Sallow’s status and drive. Nowadays, I
suspect, he views this failure as a minor setback. He dabbles
instead in real estate, the financial market, and the media.
Superficially, he is charming, with the curious, impersonal
affability of the privileged. His voice evokes public schools,
country houses, and comfort. Yet there is another side to him,
lurking just beneath the surface: a dark, insatiable hunger, a
destructive greed. It is present in the reptilian coldness of his
gaze, the line of his expensive suits, his neatly groomed hair. He
represents the avarice of an era, the cold-blooded desire to
possess, to exploit, and to impress.

Diane, by
contrast, did not truly belong in Sallow’s world. She tried hard to
be accepted there: she changed her appearance, her accent, and even
her outlook and opinions. But she lacked Sallow’s self-confidence,
and his ruthlessness. Her vision of the world was altogether more
sentimental. She either did not see, or chose to ignore, the dark
underbelly of Sallow’s milieu. If she had any doubts, she stifled
them when she became pregnant. She saw the child she was carrying
as Fate’s answer to her questions, and put her qualms to one side.
She moved in with Sallow, and for the better part of six months
they lived in his apartment together, behind those spotless windows
that stare out over the Thames.

I look up at
the top floor, and wish that this place would give up its secrets.
Instead, there is only silence, and doubt. If Diane lingers
anywhere now, she is not here. If any answers are to be found, I’ll
have to look elsewhere for them. Or will I? This is, after all,
ultimately just a block of flats, if an expensive one. There are
neighbours on either side, and on the floors beneath. There’s a
concierge sitting at the desk in the front lobby at all hours of
the day and night. There are eyes that might have seen, ears that
might have heard . . .

The clouds
overhead have thickened, and a light drizzle begins to fall. I turn
and begin to walk back to the tube station, and a grey depression
steals further over me with every step. I am no closer to solving
the riddle of Diane’s disappearance than before; but a seed has
been sown. Someone, somewhere, I am convinced, knows more than they
have ever told. If I can only find that person, I might just grasp
the key that will unlock this mystery.

“Of course,”
the estate agent, Lorraine, says as we get into the lift, “it’s a
very
exclusive
development. Residents pay for, and get, a
high level of service. A concierge is available twenty-four hours a
day. Communal areas are cleaned daily, and any maintenance problems
– electrical faults, problems with the plumbing – can usually be
dealt with within a matter of hours.”

“Very
impressive,” I say, and on a certain level it really is. Lexwood
House is a yuppie’s playground, a monument to the particular
pleasures of the young, wealthy urbanite. There’s a gym in the
basement, free Wi-Fi access, and an optional laundry service. Each
individual apartment is protected by polished wooden doors and
intercom, and boasts balconies and terraces. The communal areas –
the lobby, the corridors, and the lifts – are minimalist, and
almost ruthlessly neat and clean, decorated with potted palms and
abstract paintings. It’s a perfect place for those, like Sallow,
who are rich in money but poor in time. I do not really belong in
this world, but I’ve been amongst its citizens for long enough to
imitate them, and I doubt that Lorraine believes me to be anything
other than what I have told her I am: a successful businesswoman,
fiercely independent and frequently exhausted, who is willing to
pay for comfort and convenience.

The lift begins
to glide down to the ground floor, and Lorraine clutches her
clipboard more firmly to her chest, and crosses one leg in front of
the other. She’s young, certainly no more than thirty, and
well-spoken, but curiously timid. I guess that, like me, she’s
essentially an alien in this rarefied universe, and is nervous. The
difference between us is that she has not yet learned to disguise
her nerves, and her soft brown eyes frequently betray her panic.
When she showed me around the apartment on the ninth floor, she
could not quite hide her awe of its glacial, spacious calm. I
affected near-indifference. I hadn’t yet made up my mind, I told
her as the viewing drew to a close; I had to think about it.

“If you have
any further questions,” she says now, as the lift nears the ground
floor, “then please do call me.”

“I will.” A
last, desperate push for a sale, but I don’t hold it against her.
Seeing such values as these in their proudest and most obvious form
could hardly fail to make an impact on her, and she no doubt spends
a lot of time plotting her own career trajectory and measuring it
against these impossible standards. I smile. “I wonder, might I be
able to speak to the concierge on duty? There are a few things I’d
like to know about. Practical issues.”

Lorraine’s
bright smile falters slightly. “I’m sure that if you’ve any
questions, Miss Hollis, I can answer them.” Her tone is
aggrieved.

“Oh, I don’t
doubt it,” I say soothingly. “You’ve been very helpful and
informative. But, you know, the concierge is surely something of an
authority on the day-to-day running of the place. And these
practicalities can sometimes be of great importance.”

Lorraine
considers this for a moment, and then nods, though her eyes are
full of reproach.

“I don’t
suppose there can be any harm in it,” she says.

“Thank
you.”

The lift jolts
slightly as we reach the ground floor, and the doors slide open to
reveal the cold, airy lobby with its veined marble surfaces and
floor-to-ceiling windows. The duty concierge – a young and rather
shy man, with fluffy brown hair and the remnants of adolescent acne
on his cheeks – looks at us as we get out, and then looks away
again. Looking without seeing, listening without hearing – he
cannot have been in the job long, but he’s already learned the
importance of discretion.

“Thank you,
Lorraine,” I say, taking her hand before she can protest or play
for time. “You’ve been extremely helpful. I’ll be in touch with you
as soon as I’ve made a decision.”

Lorraine looks
for a moment as if she might protest, but she doesn’t yet have the
confidence to argue with her clients, and so just gives me a muted
smile.

“You’re
welcome. And please, Miss Hollis, do contact me, whenever you
wish.”

She wobbles out
of the doors on her high heels, and I watch as she heads off in the
direction of the car park. I turn and glance at the concierge. He’s
sitting behind his desk, pretending to concentrate on some
paperwork and studiously ignoring my presence. I begin to rummage
around in my handbag, as if searching for something; and then,
after a few moments have passed, I take a step back, put my hand to
my forehead, and sink into one of the soft chairs provided for the
comfort of visitors. I sit slumped forward, still with my hand to
my head, and try my best to look weak and ill. I glance sideways,
and see the concierge looking up from his paperwork.

“Are you all
right, Madam? Do you need any help?” A soft young voice, with just
the hint of a Cockney accent.

I raise my
head, and look at him.

“No – no, thank
you. I’ll be all right in a moment. I wonder if I might have some
water?”

“Yes, of
course.”

He disappears
through the doorway behind the desk. Glancing after him, I see a
small office room, with a computer monitor flickering on top of a
desk. He returns a few moments later, with a small glass of water,
and holds it out to me.

“Thank you.” I
take a sip. “I get these turns occasionally, I’m afraid. Diabetes,”
I add, in a confidential tone.

“I’m sorry,
Madam. Do you feel better now?”

“I will
shortly.” I hesitate, and take another sip. “These little episodes
have been coming rather frequently of late. I’m really quite
worried about them.”

“Would you like
me to contact someone? A relative, a doctor?”

“No, thank you.
I’m sure I’ll feel better in a moment or two. I wonder, though—” I
look up at him pleadingly. “Could I possibly use a computer here?
I’d like to contact my doctor, and make an appointment immediately
– for this afternoon, if possible. Normally I’d use my mobile
phone, but the battery has run out.”

The concierge
hesitates, just for a moment. “We don’t normally allow it, Madam.
The computer in the office is for staff use only.”

“I’ll only be a
minute or two, I promise.”

“Well—” I sense
him weakening, his timid gallantry slowly overcoming his innate
caution. “I don’t suppose there can be any harm in it. Please, come
this way.”

He leads me
into the small, windowless office room, and holds out the chair in
front of the computer screen. I sink down onto it, and smile
gratefully. He smiles back at me, and then turns and goes back to
the main desk, leaving me alone.

A lifetime of
administrative tasks has honed my talent for locating obscure
information quickly. After a final glance over my shoulder, I open
the folder in which, I suppose, just about all information relating
to work and staffing at Lexwood House may be found. A vast number
of files appear on the screen, and I skim through them. Timesheets,
staff regulations, contact details, bulletins – all the
bureaucratic detritus of businesses and organisations everywhere. I
glance over them, and at last reach a folder titled “Staff
Records”. I click on it, and a list of sub-folders appears. I read
through them, and click on the one entitled “Rota”.