In Too Deep (12 page)

My own parents were quite the opposite, however, and when Rick was at ‘Castle Forrester’, as I call it, I often visited Mum and Dad. When I broke the news to them about Rick disappearing, Mum immediately insisted on coming to stay. They live on the south coast so it’s a bit of a trek. I put her off for a day or so, but didn’t fail to notice the worry in her voice as she hung up, making me promise to call her the moment there was news.

It had felt like a hundred years of agony as we waited for the police to do something. We filled the hours by driving around places he might have gone, jamming the brakes on at the sight of any man who looked vaguely like Rick, calling his name out of the window and not caring if we looked like idiots. Hannah was sobbing as we drove home, and in the end I got angry with her. It wasn’t helping. She was acting as if he was already dead.

‘We evaluate the risk level of the missing person before deciding what action to take,’ PC Lane explained as I sat stiffly on my sofa.

‘Risk of what?’ I heard myself asking. Surely there was no risk. Rick was sensible. He wasn’t a drunk. He wasn’t depressed. He wasn’t stupid, and he knew how to look after himself.

PC Lane hesitated. She spoke softly. ‘Risk to the person’s overall safety based upon whether we believe their disappearance is voluntary or . . . or not. The Missing Persons Bureau has collected data over the years from many cases and has produced a . . . well, a formula for calculating the most likely outcome.’

PC Boyd cleared his throat. I wondered if it was secret code for
Shut up
.

‘The good news is that most people come back within a day or two,’ PC Lane went on.

‘And the bad news?’ I asked. It had already been a day or two.

She picked up her mug and took a long sip. ‘The bad
news,’ she said, her voice a little uneven now, ‘is that sometimes they don’t.’

Half an hour later and PC Lane had drained her mug, although she was showing no signs of leaving. ‘It’s my personal feeling that the risk of Rick having come to harm is low,’ she said cautiously. PC Boyd had left the room to talk on his radio.

‘It’s just not
like
him, though,’ I said for the hundredth time. My eyes were misty with tears. ‘He’s never done this before. And he didn’t take his wallet or his phone or his keys or . . . or anything.’

‘That’s the bit we’ll be taking into account.’ A pause, then that smile again, one she’d clearly practised over the years. It was a non-committal yet pleasant smile that hinted I should leave it in their hands now. But I couldn’t.

‘What do you mean –
taking into account
?’

‘We’ll be factoring it into our investigation, but it does puzzle me, I admit. It’s not entirely unusual, though. When we go through his things, do a bit of a search, check accounts and stuff, we may find that he’s arranged for funds to be available elsewhere, if you know what I mean.’ She shrugged by way of apology for the implication.

But I didn’t know what she meant. I didn’t know at all. Or rather I refused to acknowledge it.

I knew Rick hadn’t touched our joint account because I’d already checked the balance. The last transaction he’d made on the debit card was buying petrol for his car on the Thursday before. He’d paid for some groceries on the
way home, and there were one or two cash withdrawals for twenty pounds here and there over the previous week or two, but nothing that would be of much use if he’d planned on running away and abandoning his family.

‘Rick and I don’t have a huge amount of spare cash,’ I explained. ‘I’m an estate agent and mainly on commission, while for the last few years Rick has been working as a freelance film-maker and photographer. He mostly works here at home, but has some stints away on location, meeting with clients. Sometimes he goes to Europe, though rarely. It sounds glamorous, but it’s hard to make a living in that field. He was finally building up a regular client base, especially in the tourism industry. He did a lovely video for a caravan site in Cornwall recently.’

It occurred to me he might have gone there – to live life in a trailer with windswept cliffs and beaches, blue skies and sandy feet. He hadn’t been able to stop talking about the place when he’d come back from the job. Perhaps he’d met someone, but I soon kicked the thought from my mind. I’d have noticed changes if he’d fallen for another woman.

I managed a smile, almost able to hear the music Rick had used to accompany the footage as I continued describing his work to PC Lane – the way he’d sat hunched over his computer late into the night perfecting the timing of the soundtrack, making the swell of the haunting music he’d commissioned from an up-and-coming young musician in London fit perfectly with the crashing waves, the soaring gulls, the happy holidaymakers enjoying drinks
overlooking the sunset. There was a chance it was going to be aired on regional television.

‘So would you say money was tight?’ PC Lane asked. ‘Sorry,’ she added. ‘There will be some questions that are a bit uncomfortable.’

I shook my head, aggravating a brewing headache. ‘No, no, that’s fine.’ I took a breath. ‘Money has never been in abundance,’ I confessed. ‘But we got . . . get by. Four times a year I receive a small bonus, which we put towards a holiday or maybe Christmas presents, or towards a new car. We’re sensible, and always have just enough. Though with Hannah at university, things have got a little tighter.’ I said the last bit quietly, not wanting Hannah to hear, even though she was upstairs in her room. PC Lane said she wanted a word with her before they left.

‘So you don’t think that . . . that Rick could have been putting some aside?’ she said.

‘God, no,’ I replied quickly without even thinking.

But then I did think. And I also did some very rough mental arithmetic. If Rick had managed to ‘lose’, say, twenty pounds a week – perhaps by gathering stray coins, or buying sale items but pretending they were full price, or perhaps by just pilfering a tenner here and there – over the two decades we’d been together, he could have saved up nearly twenty grand, plus all the accumulated interest. Plenty to leave and start a new life if he’d had enough.

But the thing was, I knew he hadn’t had enough. I knew my husband. And I knew that he loved us. The whole idea was preposterous.

‘We’ve struggled once or twice – you know, with repairs to the house, a deposit on my car, that kind of thing. If Rick had money tucked away for a rainy day, he’d have told me. I absolutely guarantee it.’ There was no doubt in my mind that Rick hadn’t been secretly saving. It would have taken more than a rainy day for him to betray us like that. It would have taken a biblical flood.

‘Thanks for being honest,’ PC Lane said. ‘Would it be OK if we looked in your husband’s study? You mentioned he used the spare room?’

‘Of course,’ I said, standing just as PC Boyd came back. He smiled awkwardly, letting me past. They followed me upstairs. Hannah’s door was closed, I noticed.

There was a chill in Rick’s workspace, as if it were protesting at his absence. Everywhere Rick went, he spread warmth and life, embracing whatever he was doing with such energy and verve.

‘Come here,’ he’d growl if I brought him up lunch or a hot drink on my day off. He’d carefully put down whatever it was I was carrying, then literally sweep me off my feet in a tango-style embrace that would have me gasping and giggling. Very often it had led to us spending the next hour or so on the sofa in the study, or perhaps retreating shamelessly to bed for the afternoon. I felt myself blushing at the thought as PC Lane and PC Boyd cast their eyes around the room, almost as if they could see us.

‘Please, feel free to look in any cupboards,’ I said. ‘None are locked.’

That was the thing with Rick: not only was he warm
and loving with the gravitational pull of a planet, but he was honest and open to the core. He’d never miss a beat confessing to anything he’d done – whether it was being late, breaking or losing something, or owning up to forgetting an anniversary, which he only did a couple of times.

‘Is this his only computer?’ PC Boyd asked.

‘He did all his work on that laptop, yes,’ I said. ‘There’s no other computer. And look, his wallet is still in this drawer where he keeps it, along with his chequebook.’

‘We’ll need to take some items, if that’s OK with you,’ PC Lane said kindly. Her head was tilted sympathetically to one side as she plucked Rick’s battered brown leather wallet from the drawer. She put it into a plastic bag that PC Boyd was holding open, and that’s when the room began to spin and the nausea swelled. As he labelled the bag, it suddenly seemed horribly real.

‘You’ll get them back in a few days,’ PC Lane went on. ‘And we’ll notify the Missing Persons Bureau. Following your report on Saturday, Rick is already on the PNC in case of, well, you know . . .’

But again, I didn’t know. My frown prompted PC Boyd to continue.

‘It’s the Police National Computer. It’ll help in case there’s any news from, say, a traffic officer in another county. That kind of thing. Helps us put a name to a face.’ He smiled unconvincingly.

A name to a body
, I thought.

‘If it’s OK, we’ll take these couple of files too. They
contain bank statements and the like, by the looks of it.’ PC Lane was flipping through one of the folders, reading as she spoke. She snapped it shut before I had time to see what was in there. ‘We’ll contact the bank for activity, see if any attempts have been made to use the cards that may not show up online yet.’

‘OK, fine,’ I said weakly. ‘Anything.’

‘And one more thing,’ she said. ‘Would you have his toothbrush, or perhaps a disposable razor that’s been used by him? We like to have a DNA sample for the files. Once Rick’s found, I assure you it will be deleted from our systems.’

Once Rick’s found . . .

‘Of course,’ I said, heading for the bathroom at the opposite end of the landing. Hannah poked her head out of her bedroom just as I went past.

‘Have they gone yet?’ she whispered.

I shook my head, walking past her to fetch Rick’s toothbrush and the Bic he’d left on the basin last week. I knew for a fact he hadn’t shaved that Saturday morning, saying he’d do all that before our guests came. He always made an effort to look good.

Like the wallet, PC Boyd bagged up Rick’s items from the bathroom. My chest and throat tightened as Hannah watched. Her face froze in an expression I’d never seen before.

‘He . . . he will be OK, won’t he?’ she said to me, rather than the police. She’d crept out of her room and was beside me, clinging on to my arm.

‘They say most come back of their own accord, love,’ I told her, squeezing her. ‘And I’ll be having a few bloody words with him when he does!’ I added, trying to sound light-hearted. No one laughed.

‘Would it be possible to have a chat with your daughter now?’ PC Lane asked. Her eyes flicked between me and Hannah.

‘Of course,’ I said, beckoning everyone downstairs again.

‘In private, if that’s all right,’ she said, remaining on the landing. I looked back up the stairs, watching as Hannah nodded nervously, showing both officers into her bedroom. She quietly clicked the door closed. I felt my heart pound, my face burn.

Why were they shutting me out?

With my heart thumping, I crept back up to the landing, careful to avoid the couple of creaky treads on the stairs. My breath rasped in and out of my chest so loudly I was worried they’d hear me. I knew what I was doing was wrong but I listened anyway, picking out their voices – PC Boyd’s mainly, occasionally woven in with Hannah’s softer tones. Several times there was silence, perhaps a hiccup type of sob, and then the slightly louder but kind voice of PC Lane as she asked questions.

‘How did your dad seem when you last saw him?’

There was a long pause after this question, and a big sigh before Hannah answered. ‘Fine, I guess. I came home from university the week before, though I’d . . . I’d not seen much of him.’

‘Why did you come home?’ PC Lane asked. ‘It’s not the end of term yet.’

I wanted to know the same thing myself. Rick and I had never got to the bottom of Hannah’s return, even though she swore she wasn’t quitting her degree. She just told us she needed time to work out some stuff. We took her at her word, knowing Hannah only too well. Pressuring her was a sure-fire way to create drama. She was either burned-out already, had been dumped by a boy, or somehow her grief for Jacob had been triggered. It happened from time to time, and we knew how to deal with it: space, time, love.

‘Just stuff,’ Hannah said, though her voice was muffled. ‘I needed some time out.’

‘And your dad didn’t seem stressed or worried about anything?’

‘Not really.’ I could imagine Hannah’s face, her non-committal expression, the casual shrug of her shoulders. ‘He was just normal Dad. Tied up with work, a bit concerned about me, of course. But I was up here mostly, keeping out of the way.’

A few minutes later, with nothing discernible to be made out, I crept back down the stairs. I didn’t want to get caught eavesdropping. I sat in my empty living room, and when the officers came down again, PC Lane gave me some leaflets and numbers to call if I needed support.

‘Of course, the best thing right now is to get help from family or friends,’ she said. ‘Is there anyone who would stay with you for a night or two?’

‘Hannah’s here,’ I said, staring at the floor. She was behind PC Lane, almost cowering in the doorway.

‘She’ll need support too,’ PC Lane said. ‘During these early days, it’s important to have a system in place, even for basic things like shopping and cooking meals for you. These things will seem like huge tasks to begin with.’

Early days . . . to begin with . . .
Words that meant there were more, possibly many more, days like this to come.

When the officers went, I stood at the front window and watched them leave. As they put Rick’s belongings in the back of their police car, Hannah drew up beside me. I pulled her close, and she rested her head on my shoulder. I noticed that she felt thin – too thin – and added it to my mental list of worries.

‘It’ll be OK, love,’ I said, mustering some strength. ‘Dad will be back soon.’