The Disappearance of Emily Marr (32 page)

But it wasn’t the whole story and I could see in Josa’s face that she knew this. The abhorrent truth was that I didn’t want Arthur to leave that night. I wanted him to stay. I was elated and I was frightened and both emotions carried an invincible desire to be with him. I had deliberately kept him in ignorance and any thought I’d spared for the consequences of the phone call had been purely with regard to my own self. Would Sylvie come tearing back that night, I’d fretted, and, if she did, what would happen to me? Arthur and me. What was it I’d thought that night? Maybe it would be better if she found us together. Maybe it would be
better
.

Josa did not acknowledge my answer as satisfactory, but merely indicated to the coroner that she was finished. Now he said I could go.

Arthur was called next. The sight of him raising himself, moving with reluctance to the spot I had vacated, placing himself in front of us grey and diminished, it caused painful lurches in my gut. He emanated the same air of disgrace that I supposed I must have myself and, like me, he kept his head angled towards the coroner, his eyes not once straying to his enemies. Seeing the tragic line of his profile, his features downturned, untouched even by the memory of a smile, I was revisited as perhaps others in the room were by that adjective Nina had used, ‘euphoric’, and struck with the certainty that this was a man who could never experience that state of being again.

Or even cast a glance towards the source of that erstwhile euphoria.

‘I have, as you have heard, questioned Mrs Meeks, Mrs Buxton and Dr Hanrahan,’ the coroner told him, ‘each of whom knew your wife well and are in agreement that she displayed no signs of considering taking her own life or those of your sons. Is that an impression you would agree with?’

‘Yes,’ Arthur said. ‘She wasn’t suicidal and never had been. I think she wasn’t thinking straight, she was panicking.’ Hearing his dipped, sorrowful voice brought a further assault of pain. I had never seen him cry, I realised.

‘You received no word from her that she was on her way back to the family home?’

‘No, but I wouldn’t have heard her call, in any case. My phone was in another part of the house. After I left her a message I put it in my study to charge. I think I explained in my statement that I have a mobile line especially for family and it was this one she would have used.’

I watched the sequence of his actions in my mind’s eye – leave house, make phone call, buy champagne, return home, plug in phone, pick up champagne flutes, bound up the stairs to the guest bedroom, to me – and the images were reduced, blurred, as if delivered on damaged film from a century ago. For the first time, it struck me that Arthur might have deliberately kept his phone out of earshot; he’d had his own compulsion to prolong our joyful, precious night, perhaps even his own thoughts of things being better this way.

‘But you were in a position to see after the event whether she had tried to phone you?’

‘Yes, and she hadn’t. Only Hugo had phoned me, on the morning of the accident.’ Arthur’s right hand strayed to his face, touched the bridge of his nose, fell once more to his side. I saw the fingers clench.

‘The voicemail you received from your son that morning, you say you did not hear this until after the accident?’

‘That’s right. I found I had missed two calls from him, but there was only one voicemail, the one he must have left soon before the car went off the road.’

The coroner nodded in grave agreement. ‘This is the voicemail recorded at eight-twenty-six a.m., only twenty-two minutes before the time of death was given. I have had the opportunity of hearing a recording of this message myself and I do not wish to distress you by playing it during these open proceedings, but would you agree that the gist of the message is that your son wanted you to speak urgently with your wife?’

‘Yes. I’m guessing he wanted me to talk her into pulling over or stopping for a break. She must have been driving erratically and it was worrying him enough to want me to intervene.’

‘And could you confirm that the voice in the background is that of your wife?’

‘Yes. She was shouting at Hugo not to speak to me, to get off the phone. She sounded distraught. Too distraught to be able to continue driving.’

‘What is your opinion of the reason she wanted your son to end the call?’

‘Maybe she didn’t want him to tell me that they were on their way back to London. She wanted to catch me by surprise, not give me any warning that she was coming.’

‘Even though you had let her know you would be driving down yourself later that day?’

‘Yes. Perhaps she hadn’t picked up that message, or maybe she didn’t want to wait until the afternoon. In the past when I’d joined them, I was sometimes later than I’d estimated.’ There was a pause then in which I, and perhaps others in the room, imagined untold latenesses and let-downs on Arthur’s part. ‘Or perhaps she thought she would catch me in the act. I know now that she knew Emily was with me in the house and it’s possible she expected to find us together. I don’t know what she was thinking, but I imagine, whatever it was, her judgement was obscured by the alcohol and sedatives in her system.’

‘Would you say that it was typical for her to drive at the speeds we have heard discussed today?’

‘Absolutely not. She never speeded, not with the boys in the car. I would agree with the investigator that she must have fallen asleep, had her foot on the accelerator. By the time the boys noticed she’d passed out, the car was going too fast for them to be able to take control. Alex tried, but he couldn’t save them in time. I don’t know if anyone could have succeeded in a car moving at that speed.’

‘Thank you, Mr Woodhall. I know it must be very painful for you to have to return to the events of that day, and I think we can leave it there.’

No sooner had Arthur returned to his seat than the coroner announced that he was going to adjourn proceedings for the day and ask the remaining two witnesses to return in the morning. ‘That will give me time to consider the evidence, including the very helpful information from Miss Marr.’

I knew there would not be a person in the room (perhaps those two local reporters) who wasn’t thinking then, There’s nothing helpful in what
she
’s done.

By the time I could decide whether to leave the room first or last, after him or before, most people had departed and the decision had been made for me. In the lobby I could see him some distance ahead, on his own, hastening towards the main doors, about to leave the building. I drew two conclusions from this: one, he had not waited to speak to anyone, including me, and therefore wanted no company or conversation; two, without entourage or protection, he could be easily approached. As I grappled with the dilemma, I sensed the scrutiny of someone close by, the same unmasked disgust I’d provoked in Josa. But not Josa this time: Nina, who stood with her husband Ed in a group by the front desk.

She took a sudden step towards me. I took one back, as if in a dance. Her lips parted and for a moment I thought she might be about to spit at me, or loudly insult me, but instead she spoke in a tone that was sinister in its mildness. ‘If I were you, Emily, I would think seriously about disappearing.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘Is that some sort of threat?’ I asked.

‘Not at all, I wouldn’t dream of threatening you. I’m just telling you what I would do if I were in your shoes.’ And she looked down at mine, blood-red court shoes with bows, the kind of cute Betty Boop shoes that Arthur had once loved to see me in, the kind of shoes I should not have worn to the inquest into the death of his wife and sons.

Turning my back on her, on the mute loathing of her supporters, I hurried out of the door, my mind made up: I would speak to Arthur whether he wanted it or not. I would not go unacknowledged. Already half panicking about those seconds lost to Nina, I scanned the car park and nearby roads for him. My heart bounced. There he was, at the driver’s door of his Mercedes. Rushing towards him between the rows of parked cars, I had the wild idea that I would drive with him back to London or wherever he was staying, we would talk and comfort one another. We would reconcile. We might never again experience the bliss of our beginning, but we might at least make life tolerable again.

‘Arthur, Arthur, please wait!’

He turned, closed the car door with reluctance, even locking it as if he feared I’d try to climb in uninvited, and stood with his back to it, staring in my direction. Before, when he’d looked at me, it had been with an unblinking rapture I’d found spellbinding. Now it was gone, extinguished, and his eyes narrowed slightly as if to minimise the sight of me.

I hesitated. ‘We haven’t had the chance to speak since everything happened.’ I made this sound as if we were the victims of a series of cancelled arrangements, missing each other by bad luck, not design, and in my mind an image rose of a broken woman sobbing in the corridors of St Barnabas’ while staff threatened to call Security. I reached for him then, the fingers of my right hand making contact with the fabric of his left sleeve. I did not dare grip the wrist beneath. ‘I need to explain… Could we… do you have time to get a coffee somewhere?’

He removed his arm from my touch. I could tell by the glance he shot over my shoulder towards the building that our reunion was being observed, but I could also tell that he was acting of his own accord, not for anyone else. ‘I’m afraid I have to get back to London for a meeting this evening.’

‘You’re not staying overnight?’

Only when he looked at me with a revolted expression did I hear how my question might have sounded, like an invitation to spend the night together (in his holiday home, perhaps – was that where he lived now? Extraordinarily, the possibility had not occurred to me until then). ‘I mean, I thought you would want to stay to hear the verdicts in the morning?’

He said nothing to this, had not the energy to fabricate an answer, for I knew then that there was no meeting in London. I stood, hopeless and forsaken, never in greater need of direction from him and never less likely to win it. I thought, in desperation, If I wanted to I could follow you to wherever you’re going; there’d be nothing you could do to stop me. I could sit outside your door and wait, like a pet you’ve tried to set free but who keeps coming back.

But I was no pet, not any more.

‘Please, Emily. You must see there’s nothing to be gained…’ He didn’t finish the sentence but if he had it would have been ‘from talking’ or ‘from going over it’. There was nothing to be gained from
us
.

My eyes brimmed. ‘I think there
is
something to be gained, Arthur. Knowing that someone loves you and wants to care for you during the worst time of your life. Not being alone in the dark night after night.’

But my appeal seemed only to pain him. I am alone, he said, without words. You do not count. ‘You need to forget me,’ he said simply.

‘You mean that?’ Though my ribcage rose and fell with every desperate breath, he remained utterly immobile. He had not lost that capacity for stillness. ‘That’s really what you want? For us to forget everything we ever said, everything we ever felt?’

‘Yes.’

As my face convulsed in anguish, he pressed the fob in his hand and the car locks released. I watched him get into the driver’s seat with the hopeless wonder of someone seeing an astronaut prepare for a shuttle launch, his destination inconceivable to an ordinary, earthbound mortal like me.

‘Goodbye, Arthur,’ I said to the sealed window. And the car reversed from its spot, leaving me there with my face in my hands.

I did not think again that day about Nina and what she had said. I did not think to fish from my bag the leaflet the support team had sent me, explaining the procedure in a coroner’s court, the passage warning witnesses that members of the press might request a statement to include in their coverage. The afternoon I was questioned, there was not a single reporter interested in exchanging two words with me, much less requesting a statement. I simply walked to the bus stop alone; in turmoil and wretchedness, certainly, but in private turmoil, private wretchedness.

I had no idea, that day, as I waited for the train back to London, how precious my privacy was and how close it was to jeopardy.

Chapter 18

Tabby

The day after breaching the secret folder, Tabby awoke earlier than usual and in a state of nervous excitement. It was obvious to her that she had found herself in the thick of some sort of mystery and that she now had enough clues to discover once and for all the cause of Emmie’s reclusive behaviour. It was also clear to her that she had not the strength of character to leave well alone. It was
not
well, she convinced herself, and that was all the justification she needed.

She could hardly contain herself as she approached the internet bureau immediately after breakfast – until she saw the handwritten card in the window:
Fermé. Ouvert 17 Août
. She could not believe her eyes: closed, in the height of the season, in the midst of her investigation! There was not the demand, she supposed, not when most tourists had their own laptops and could pick up wi-fi in one of the larger cafés or hotel bars. And all the houses she cleaned had a PC for guests to use; an internet connection was expected in the same way a high-end espresso machine was, a twenty-first-century holidaymaker’s right.

She replayed the thought – all of the houses she cleaned had an internet connection – and let it lead itself naturally to the next: all of the houses had a dossier of guest information that freely gave the wi-fi code. Moira had told her that the tariff was paid by the owners monthly: the guests could use the internet and landline as frequently as they pleased free of charge. Of course it was strictly forbidden for cleaners to do so, just as it was forbidden to read confidential documents locked in a drawer or entertain lovers in bedrooms you were supposed to be airing.

Her job that day was in Le Bois-Plage and she arrived well in advance of the usual start time in order to watch the out-going holidaymakers get into their taxi for the airport (these days, she scarcely glanced at the faces of these tanned, well-rested folk; she shared no language with them, not even with the British ones). Making use of the adrenalin coursing through her, she worked furiously until the house resembled a show home. In this property, an interior-designed beach bungalow, there were numerous extra touches: towels and bedlinen to be folded and tucked just so, special local soaps for the adults and caramels for the children, a home-made lemon tart that had to be taken from the freezer at the beginning of the shift in order to defrost in good time. She forced herself to finish every detail before settling at the desk in an alcove off the kitchen and turning on the PC. She could smell the lemon in the thawing tart on the worktop nearby.