Gone Again (4 page)

As he swung the Peugeot into Circus Place, Mark got a familiar feeling that he was lowering the tone of the neighbourhood. He’d been this way plenty of times to pick Lauren up for lunch or go shopping after work, and he could never shake off the idea that his sort wasn’t supposed to sully the regimented Georgian streets around here.

He parked outside the Caledonia Dreaming office and shuffled up the steps, eyeing the luxurious sculpted shrubbery that flanked the heavy front door. He slunk through the glass and brass vestibule, scuffing over the marble floor, then he was into the reception area.

They were clearly doing all right for themselves. Caledonia Dreaming was a high-end estate agency that specialised in snapping up rural plots of land, dilapidated mansions, top-of-the-range city properties and even country estates, then flogging them on at a profit. They seemed to have been completely bulletproof during the recent recession, the richest of the rich unaffected by the slump and as keen as ever to buy up Scottish real estate and the history that went with it. In fact, the company had positively blossomed in the last few years, as the old moneyed gentry of the upper classes struggled to hold on to their legacy, and all the usual oligarchs and bankers bought up property, eager to invest in their own Highland havens.

Mark didn’t recognise the receptionist, but he recognised the type – posh Edinburgh, impeccably groomed, barely out of her teens but already assured and entitled. This was a classy little stepping-stone gap-year job on the way to investment analyst or rich housewife depending how the cards fell.

She glanced at him, looked him up and down, then returned her gaze to a sleek Mac on the huge mahogany desk. Obviously realised he wasn’t rich enough to bother with. Tap, tap, tap. Making him wait.

‘Can I help you?’ she said.

‘I’m Mark, Lauren Bell’s husband?’

Blank look.

‘Lauren? Chief sales agent?’ Mark couldn’t help putting inverted commas round the job title with his voice, as Lauren had done with her more lowly ‘executive sales agent’ for the first few months after she joined the company.

‘Oh, Miss Bell, I didn’t realise she was married.’

‘Well, she is. To me.’

Those eyes again. She was thinking how Mark was punching well above his weight with Lauren. He was used to seeing that in people’s faces.

‘Miss Bell isn’t in yet this morning.’

‘I need to know when she was last in the office.’

The girl frowned. ‘Why do you need to know that?’

‘What?’

‘It’s a strange thing to be asking about your wife, that’s all.’

‘I just need to know.’

‘Can I see some ID?’

‘What?’

The girl looked at her manicured nails then back up. ‘You could be anyone. A stalker.’

‘For Christ’s sake.’ Mark dug in his pocket, pulled out his driver’s licence and handed it over.

‘This says “Mark Douglas”.’

‘Lauren never took my name. Look, I don’t have time for this.’

‘I’m sorry.’ The girl handed back the licence. ‘We can’t give that sort of information to just anyone.’

‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous.’ Mark puffed his cheeks and blew out. ‘OK, I need to see Gavin Taylor, then.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Taylor is in meetings all morning. If you’d like to . . .’

Mark turned. ‘Never mind, I’ll go and find him.’

He strode through a set of glass doors, further into the building.

The girl called after him but he was gone, down the corridor, all landscape paintings and expensive spotlights. Smell of new carpet. He scanned the names on the doors. Of course, Taylor’s was the biggest, a solid brass nameplate with ‘Managing Director’ written underneath.

Mark knocked and waited. The receptionist would’ve phoned ahead.

‘Come in.’

Gavin Taylor was putting the phone down as Mark came in. He stuck on a smile and stepped out from behind his desk.

‘Mark, how’s it going?’

He held out a meaty hand. Mark shook it, feeling the bones ripple in his knuckles.

Gavin was a classic Scottish rugby type, private Edinburgh school, prop-forward physique wrestled into an Ede & Ravenscroft suit. He was shorter than Mark but probably weighed seventy pounds more, all of which was muscle. Army-buzz hair, plummy vowels, he was charming with the underlying threat that his physical presence gave him.

Mark had known Gavin for over ten years, but never closely, and he’d never liked him. Gavin and his Edinburgh Uni rugger-bugger chums used to drink in the Last Drop during a spell when Lauren worked there, loud, braying guys with a gang mentality and an air of superiority. He flirted with Lauren off and on, advances she gently but firmly rebuffed, pointing out that she already had a boyfriend. Gavin never said as much, but he clearly couldn’t believe Lauren would choose Mark over him.

In time, he’d backed off on the flirting, but had remained friendly with Lauren, Mark just having to put up with it. Then, a while after he had set up his own property company with some help from his rich dad, he offered Lauren a job in sales.

Lauren and Mark discussed it. He wasn’t keen on her working with this guy, but he trusted her. They’d been together as a couple for years at that point, and although they hadn’t said as much, it was clear they both felt that this was it for the rest of their lives. No need for words, they both just knew.

Lauren wasn’t mad keen on sales either, she didn’t have any experience. But Gavin pointed out that she was good with people and good with numbers, and that was just about all you needed. Plus he offered her twice as much money as she was scraping together as a barmaid. And you couldn’t work in pubs all your life. With a decent, steady income, they could think about putting a deposit down on a place of their own, maybe even afford to go on holiday.

That was all eight years ago. A change in the direction of their lives, but a good one, one that had paid off. Gavin had got married to a suitable member of the Edinburgh elite, and the flirting of the Last Drop was consigned to history.

Lauren had turned out to be a good saleswoman, the right mix of outgoing charm and hard-nosed business sense. Her salary had increased, and she began snaring bonuses when times were good. She rose up quickly to the point where she was the top agent, and Gavin offered her a junior partnership in the firm. She and Mark had talked about the offer, it was a big step. She had to take out a hefty business loan to buy in, but the rewards were potentially much bigger. As were the risks, of course, if the company got into trouble. But there had been no sign of that so far. Mind you, there was precious little sign of rewards for Lauren either, with the loan repayments cancelling out her share of the profits. But it was a long-term plan that would hopefully come good eventually.

The whole business about Lauren’s depression after Nathan was born was kept a secret from Gavin, no need to introduce any element of doubt about her state of mind with her senior partner and company MD. Plus her disappearance, return and recovery all occurred during her maternity leave anyway.

Since Nathan was born, Mark had only met Gavin a handful of times at Caledonia Dreaming events, wine and canapé affairs in swanky George Street venues, the company once hiring out the whole of Tigerlily for a banquet. Mark always felt out of place at those things, but played the game for Lauren’s sake, glad-handing and smiling. The free champagne helped.

‘If you’re looking for Lauren, I don’t think she’s in yet,’ Gavin said.

‘I need to know when she was last in the office.’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘I just need to know.’

‘Is there some kind of trouble at home?’

Mark shook his head. ‘That’s not what this is about.’

Gavin put a hand lightly on Mark’s shoulder. A confident movement. ‘Because I don’t want to get in the middle of a domestic, if that’s what’s going on.’

‘It’s not that.’ Mark swithered, looked around the office. Minimalist, expensive. Oak shelving and furniture, marble fireplace, swirling cornicing. Trees shuddered and shook outside the big bay window.

He turned to Gavin. ‘She never came home last night.’

Gavin removed his hand. ‘What?’

‘She didn’t pick Nathan up from school. Didn’t come home. I haven’t been able to get in contact with her.’

Gavin put on a concerned face. ‘Have you called the police?’

‘Of course, last night, but they said they can’t do anything until she’s been missing for longer.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘It’s the rules.’

Gavin tugged at his cuffs. ‘Well, she seemed fine in the office yesterday.’

‘So she was at work?’

‘Yes, we had a quick meeting in the morning, then she left at lunchtime.’

‘She didn’t come back?’

‘Took a half day.’

‘She never mentioned it to me.’

Gavin shrugged. ‘Said she had some stuff to do.’

‘When exactly did you last see her?’

Gavin rubbed his earlobe. ‘Just before twelve. Like I said, we had a meeting.’

‘What about?’

‘Just a property we’re in negotiation about.’

‘Which property?’

Gavin frowned. ‘An estate outside Longniddry.’

‘Would she have gone out there?’

A shake of the head. ‘We don’t own it yet. Anyway, she was off work in the afternoon, I told you.’

Mark breathed out heavily, unclenched his fists. ‘I know, I’m sorry. I’m just worried.’

‘I can imagine.’ Gavin’s hand went back on to Mark’s shoulder, it was meant to be comforting.

‘I don’t know what to do.’ Mark rubbed at his forehead.

‘I’m sure she’s fine. Maybe she just needs a bit of space.’

Mark looked at Gavin. He was rubbing his earlobe again.

‘Why would you say that? Space from what? Me?’

‘Take it easy. I didn’t mean anything.’ Gavin began ushering Mark towards the door. ‘Look, why not go home and wait for her. I’m sure she’ll turn up soon enough. If she gets in contact with the office, I’ll have her call you straight away. OK?’

Mark wanted to do something, say something. He shrugged off Gavin’s hand.

‘I have to do more than just sit at home,’ he said. ‘She’s fucking missing, don’t you understand? I have no idea where my wife is.’

‘Of course I understand. I would feel exactly the same in your position. I would be beside myself if Sarah-Jane disappeared. But the best thing you can do is wait for Lauren to get in contact, and keep in touch with the police.’

Gavin opened the office door. ‘I’m sure it’ll all be fine. Try not to worry.’

‘I’m fed up of people telling me that.’

The door closed and Mark stood there rubbing his face with his hands.

He turned and walked down the corridor. Took a left turn to Lauren’s office. Stood outside her door and looked at the nameplate. Miss Lauren Bell. Chief Sales Agent. It was mostly out of sheer laziness that she had never taken his name. And she never corrected the ‘Miss’ at work. Turned out to be quite an advantage in business deals with middle-aged men, a bit of flirting, the illusion of availability. Mark resented the implications of that, how could he not. But it wasn’t a big deal because he trusted her.

He turned the handle and was surprised to find the door open. He went inside. It was smaller than Gavin’s office, no great view out the window, cheaper fixtures and fittings, no fireplace. A seascape on one wall and a shelf of folders and binders on the other.

He walked to her desk. Neat, organised. Two small piles of paperwork, contracts or similar. A Mac, switched off. A notepad with scribbles on it next to the phone. A picture of her, Mark and Nathan taken on the beach at Brodick in Arran, their first holiday together as a family. Nathan was clutching a toy police van in his hand. He had carried that with him the whole holiday. Lauren looking tired but contented. Two old golfers were on the course behind them, one in mid-swing. A moment captured in time forever.

He tried the desk drawer. Another notepad, Post-Its, a stapler, some business cards, a hole-punch, another neat pile of paperwork. Nothing unusual.

He shut the drawer and leaned on the desk with his knuckles, concentrating on breathing in and out. Looked around the office again then left, closing the door softly behind him.

As he passed through reception, the posh girl gave him daggers. There was a man waiting on a sofa, another of Edinburgh’s privileged in a pinstripe suit, handkerchief in the breast pocket, handsome, carefully trimmed wavy hair. He was ages with Mark but looked younger. Mark was sick of all these rich, beautiful people already. The man watched blankly as Mark gave a sarcastic smile to the receptionist and left. He could feel her stare on him as he stumbled out the door.

From outside, Portobello Police Station was a beautiful old building, all turrets and crenellations. Inside it was a dump – jaundiced striplights, fag-burned furniture, smell of piss.

Mark approached the front desk, where a spotty kid in uniform was doodling.

‘Is DC Ferguson about?’

The kid looked startled at being spoken to. ‘I’ll see if she’s available, sir. What’s your name?’

‘Mark Douglas.’

‘And will she know what it’s regarding?’

‘I spoke to her last night about a missing person.’

‘Take a seat, please.’

The kid picked up the phone. Mark examined the stains on the seats and stayed standing. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and stared blankly at crime-prevention posters. No knives, better lives. Cut out hate crime. Boozed up, squared up, locked up.

‘Mr Douglas?’

He turned. DC Ferguson was short and slim, shoulder-length brown hair in an expensive cut, thin white blouse and black skirt. Her make-up was pristine and she had a smattering of freckles across her nose. She looked even younger than she sounded on the phone, and had an enthusiastic smile.

‘Hi, we spoke last night,’ Mark said.

‘I remember. Your wife. Has she been in contact?’

‘No, that’s why I’m here.’

‘Do you have some new information?’

‘I’ve just been up at her work. She left at lunchtime yesterday, took a half day. I didn’t know anything about that.’

Ferguson raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, that’s not necessarily bad news, Mr Douglas. It could mean there was an element of premeditation about her disappearance. She might’ve been planning something.’

‘If Taylor was telling the truth.’

‘Taylor?’

‘Lauren’s boss.’

‘Wait.’ Ferguson went to the spotty kid at the desk and borrowed his pad and pen. ‘Where does your wife work?’

‘Caledonia Dreaming. It’s a property place in the New Town.’

‘And what does she do there?’

‘She’s chief sales agent. Basically negotiates deals. She’s a junior partner in the company.’

‘And this Mr Taylor?’

‘He’s managing director.’

‘And you just spoke to him?’

‘Yeah, he said he had a meeting with Lauren yesterday morning, then she left at lunchtime. But . . .’

Ferguson frowned. ‘What?’

Mark tried to remember the conversation. ‘What if he’s lying?’

‘Do you have any reason to think he might be?’

Mark shook his head. ‘Not really. I don’t know. Just a feeling.’

‘Well, we can speak to Mr Taylor in good time, if we need to. I’m sure it won’t come to that, your wife will probably turn up very soon.’

Mark scratched at his scalp. ‘People keep telling me that, it really doesn’t help.’

Ferguson looked at her watch, then back towards the desk.

‘OK, look, I can see you’re upset. I think we can turn this into an official missing person report, if you want.’

‘Yes, definitely.’

‘We’ll need to get lots of details from you.’

‘Like what?’

‘A list of friends and family, places your wife might frequent, financial details, car registration, phone number, email accounts, everything.’

‘Not a problem.’

‘And we’ll need a couple of recent photographs and a DNA sample.’

‘A sample?’

‘Her toothbrush or hairbrush maybe.’

‘Oh. OK.’

‘And we need consent to search your home.’

‘What?’

‘Standard procedure.’

Mark drew his fingers like a pincer across his eyes. ‘Sure. Fine.’

He felt a hand on his arm. Everyone was always trying to comfort him. He didn’t feel comforted.

‘Look,’ Ferguson said. ‘Why don’t we go there first? I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. For all you know, she might be at home wondering where you are.’

Mark shook his head. He knew there wasn’t a hope in hell that was true.