The Disappearance of Emily Marr (42 page)

She’d forgotten how beautiful England could be in late summer. The sun was high when she reached the turn into Walnut Grove and saw at her feet the steep slope of shimmering green so familiar from Emmie’s descriptions. It was a narrower street than she’d expected, the trees on either pavement meeting at their tops to create a canopy, under which she began to walk as if through an enchanted forest. It was easy to see why Emmie had fallen in love with the place, how she’d been charmed into believing that being in possession of a set of keys was the same as belonging. Walking down – she’d begun at Arthur’s end, the ‘good’ end on the hill – she was struck by the height of the houses, so tall and imposing after the low roofs of Saint-Martin. Number 11 was dauntingly grand, what Tabby would consider a mansion, the white stucco exterior immaculate and the windowboxes on the first floor bright with summer flowers. The watered blooms and the gleam of light through the fanlight were promising signs: the house was open, lived in once more. But by Arthur? Would a man so catastrophically bereft live in a house so large, would he be able to use its rooms without seeing the ghosts of his own children?

She rang the bell. A Nigerian woman appeared: a cleaner, Tabby assumed, like her. She automatically relaxed.

‘I’m looking for Arthur Woodhall. Does he still live here?’

The woman shook her head, readily enough for Tabby to see this was a misunderstanding she’d had to correct before. ‘He moved out. Another family live here now.’

‘Oh, I see. When did he leave?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you know where he went? Is he still in London?’ But the poor thing clearly knew nothing and was anxious to get on with her work. The closed door caused a prickle behind Tabby’s eyelids and she berated herself. It was scarcely likely to be the only one today: she needed to toughen up if she was to accomplish what she’d set out to do.

She turned and surveyed the row of houses across the street. These ones were narrower, with brickwork painted black, but were nonetheless large and smart, rising to four floors. Two houses might be said to be directly opposite number 11 and she approached the one on the right first, fixing her smile as she knocked. The woman who answered was too young, in her thirties, hair loose and feet in flip-flops. She could not be the famous Nina Meeks. The cries of young children from within supported this, for Nina had older children, the same age as the Woodhalls’. The thought made Tabby swallow hard. This was where it had all begun: this street, these houses.

‘Oh.’ Seeing her, the woman wore the crestfallen look of someone who’d been expecting a delivery of cakes and been handed instead a council tax summons. (Don’t think of Susie, Tabby told herself.) ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for Nina Meeks. I was told her house is near here, is that right?’

The woman frowned. ‘Who’s asking?’

Of course, Nina was famous. What neighbour of a celebrity would just give the information to a stranger, especially when the whole street had so recently been crawling with press? Then Tabby remembered that Nina
was
press, the sort that trampled over people’s lives without any thought for the harm they were causing; how many other Emmies had she ritually tortured? Tabby need make no special allowances for her.

‘My name’s Tabby Dewhurst. I’ve come all the way from France in the hope of talking to Nina about something very important, to do with her work. Please, I’m sure she won’t mind meeting me.’

‘Shouldn’t you try her office first?’

‘I could, I suppose, but I’m in the area now and I don’t have much time before I have to get back.’

The woman considered the factors: Tabby’s innocuous appearance, the name redolent of sleeping cats, the distance travelled. ‘She’s two up, number sixteen. But she probably won’t be in, so don’t get your hopes up.’

‘Thank you.’

At number 16, there was an agonising wait before a young man came to the door, which startled Tabby into temporary silence as she thought again of the boys she’d read about in Emily’s story. This must be the good friend of Alexander; nineteen or so now, college age. There were no obvious signs of bereavement, but it was over a year since the accident. Life went on, as it had for all involved, even for Emmie for a period.

‘I’m looking for Nina. Is she your mum?’

‘She’s in town, at the paper, I think.’

‘The
Press
?’ This was more promising. It would be easy enough to find the address of a national newspaper.

‘But she’ll be back later,’ he added.

‘Do you know what time? I’ve come quite a long way to see her.’

Tabby was lucky that the boy had either been raised to be helpful or kept unaware of any harassment Nina had been subjected to during the scandal, because he answered quite guilelessly, ‘She said about five o’clock, maybe earlier.’

‘OK, I’ll come back then if that’s all right?’

‘Sure.’

It was frustrating to have to wait almost three hours, but she did not wish to risk going into central London only to find that Nina had passed her on a train heading home. On the other hand, it was heartening to have positively located one of the people she’d come to see and to have won the boy’s casual permission to return. She took her time walking down the Grove towards the high street, at last reaching the other two houses mentioned by Emmie: 199 and 197. One-nine-seven was the Laings’, hosts of the party at which Arthur and Emmie had met, but otherwise undesirable components of her story. There was Sarah Laing’s black and gleaming four-by-four parked outside. Tabby was glad not to be looking for a meeting with her. The woman had been jealous of Emmie, spitefully so. With all she had – this house, her family, wealth, security – she’d still found the space and energy to envy someone with so much less. In her own way, she had been as responsible for Emmie’s ostracism as Nina.

Next door stood one of the most down-at-heel houses on the whole street. The door was shabby and dented, the paintwork on the window ledges dark with dirt, a mismatched array of cheap roller blinds at the windows, hanging at various careless angles. She tried to picture Emmie behind the window of the first floor – was the living room on the left or the right? – somehow finding a viewpoint at which to watch the reporters below while not being seen herself. It seemed incredible that an ordinary woman should find herself the object of such interest, such intrusion. No wonder she had said it hadn’t felt as if it were really happening to her.

All at once, the door to number 197 jerked open and a short woman in jeans and wedged heels clopped down the path towards the Range-Rover. Sarah. As she climbed into the driver’s seat she cast Tabby a look that was neither friendly nor unfriendly, a kind of acknowledgement that she was not worth registering.

She thinks I’m one of her neighbours’ cleaners, Tabby thought. She wasn’t sure she liked Walnut Grove. It felt like the kind of street where the residents made it clear if you offended their superior sensibilities, adulterous affair with a neighbour or not.

Just before five, she arrived at the gate of number 16 at exactly the same time as Nina Meeks was parking her Prius in a bay opposite – she recognised her cap of raven hair from the news coverage. It was not ideal to have to accost her kerbside, but it at least allowed her to catch her prey off guard.

‘Ms Meeks? My name’s Tabitha Dewhurst. Your son said it might be OK to come and have a quick chat with you.’

Busy juggling an armful of bags and papers, Nina hardly glanced her way. She looked much older than Tabby had pictured, the strains of her profession pinching the skin between her eyebrows and drawing down the corners of her mouth. ‘You’re a friend of his?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Then what do you want to talk about, exactly?’ She spoke rapidly and in a sharp tone, hovering rather than pausing, in anticipation of a succinct response. Her eyes were an arresting blue, with flecks of yellow-gold, and to experience their focus was to feel your defences fall as fast as your nerves rose.

‘It’s about Arthur Woodhall,’ Tabby said. She’d planned every last word of her approach, judging that his name might open doors wider than Emmie’s.

‘I can’t think of anything you might have to say about
him
that would interest me,’ Nina said. She was on the move again, but not objecting when Tabby followed her up the path. Nor did she close the door in her face, instead standing looking at her uninvited guest from just inside, her head slightly cocked. She had the unmistakable energy of the innately inquisitive, the same kind that had got Tabby involved in this affair in the first place.

‘Would it be OK to come in, just for a couple of minutes?’ Tabby persisted and Nina sighed, ‘If you must,’ and then Tabby was in, closing the door behind her.

She lingered in the hallway, noting the framed caricatures of political figures, the table and radiator cover stacked haphazardly with post and newspapers, while at the foot of the stairs Nina called up to her son that she was home. Not receiving an answer, she turned to Tabby to say, ‘Come down to the kitchen, we might as well have a cup of tea.’ While you prove that you have nothing meaningful to say to me, was the implication.

Tabby readily accepted the offer; though she’d had two coffees in the café while she’d waited, she thought it might buy her a longer interview if she did. No one threw you out when your mug was still full. Taking a seat at the table, an old scrubbed thing bearing the ancient marks of children’s felt-tips and fresher red-wine rings, she couldn’t help thinking of the scene Emmie had described of her own kitchen interrogation, the one held in Sarah’s basement. She was determined not to let Nina intimidate her. They had no personal connection, they would never see each other again after this.

Nina delivered the mugs of tea and sat directly opposite her, blue eyes meeting her visitor’s with a certain pitiless indifference. ‘So how can I help? You said it was about Arthur?’

‘Actually, it’s more about Emmie.’

‘Who’s Emmie?’

Tabby was taken aback, before she remembered that the name was a fabrication and not a commonly used nickname. ‘I mean Emily, sorry. Emily Marr.’

‘Oh.’ Instantly, Nina’s lips thinned and her vivid eyes seemed to darken. ‘What about her?’

‘Well, I’ve got to know her quite well recently and, the thing is, she’s very upset.’ The words sounded absurdly understated – she’d be ejected before she started at this rate – and so she began again, this time more boldly: ‘More than that, she’s having some sort of nervous breakdown. I’m really worried she might self-harm or do something really terrible.’

‘Makes a change from harming other people, I suppose. And unless you’ve been living on the moon, you’ll know she’s already done something really terrible.’ Not blinking, Nina raised an eyebrow and took a sip from her tea. In the face of such aloofness Tabby began describing some of Emmie’s symptoms, struggling with feelings of betrayal as she did. ‘She won’t stop crying, she hardly eats, she can’t work any more. I found her on the floor, completely hysterical. She feels the whole world hates her and she’ll never be forgiven.’

‘I find that very hard to believe,’ Nina said, unmoved. ‘She’s probably just acting, trying to get your sympathy. She’s extremely manipulative, you know. She can persuade people to do whatever she tells them.’

‘I’ve never met anyone less manipulative!’ Tabby said, her voice shrill with outrage, but Nina merely looked down at her tea as if she might fathom in its depths what on earth it was she was doing here, sitting with this ridiculous person when there were so many more pressing errands to turn her mind to. Tabby composed herself. ‘I know it’s your job to write about people in… in strong terms, and I’m sure some of them have got it coming to them, but not Emily. She’s not a politician or someone used to that sort of attack, she’s an innocent member of the public. She didn’t deserve it.’

‘Innocent?’ Over the top of the mug, Nina’s eyes narrowed with displeasure. ‘That’s the last word I’d use to describe that woman.’

‘I mean innocent of any actual crime. You have to admit that, surely? She had an affair, that was all, but you wrote up the inquest as if she was in the dock. She was never on trial for anything, was she?’

‘I’m impressed with your grasp of the basic premise of a coroner’s court,’ Nina said, regarding her with a new expression, somewhere between indulgence and disdain, which made Tabby feel very small.

‘But she didn’t
make
Sylvie Woodhall do what she did, did she?’

At her friend’s name Nina roused herself, sensing perhaps that her visitor would simply go on in this vein until forcibly halted. ‘Yes, she did. That’s the point that you seem to have missed. Emily directly caused Sylvie to drink far more than she was used to and to take a sleeping pill because she was so overwrought she couldn’t get any rest without it. These acts would not have taken place without Emily having said the things she said that evening: that is a fact.’

‘But how can —?’ Tabby began, but Nina was in her flow now and not to be interrupted.

‘Emily filled her with such fear about the future of her family that she thought she had no choice but to tear off back to London the second she woke up. She lost consciousness at the wheel, did you know that?’ At the sight of Tabby’s uncertain response, Nina made a rough, exasperated noise. ‘I can’t believe I’m even discussing this with you. You obviously don’t know the first thing about it.’

‘That was only a theory, wasn’t it, that she passed out at the wheel?’

‘Only a theory? The coroner accepted it as the most probable cause of death!’ Nina’s face darkened with a terrible anger. ‘How dare you come here and spout about that disgusting woman’s innocence? I’ll tell you who was
innocent
in this: the three people who died.’

Tabby nodded, lowered her eyes in humility. This was not going well. ‘What I mean is, she didn’t
have
to drive, did she? Knowing she might be over the limit, she could have waited, or got the train.’

‘The train? Is this some sort of joke? She didn’t sit there pondering her travel options like she was going to the beach for a picnic! She needed to get to her husband as fast as was humanly possible and save her marriage!’