Dont come looking, p.1
Don't Come Looking, page 1
DON’T COME LOOKING
AJ Campbell
Copyright © AJ Campbell 2021
The moral right of AJ Campbell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
ISBN 978-1-8381091-1-0
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of quotations in a book review. Nor is it to be otherwise circulated in any form, or binding, or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents portrayed are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Cover design © Tim Barber, Dissect Designs 2021
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For Andy
P A R T 1
One
DAY 1
The day Marc disappears, I’m running up the steps back into work when I see him barge out of the automatic double doors like a prisoner trying to escape. I don’t recognise him at first. The hood of his parka covers his head as if protecting him from a storm. My first thought is that the man must be baking in this June afternoon sunshine. I stop abruptly and do a double take. ‘Marc! What’re you doing here?’
His eyes are fixed firmly on his feet as if scared that he’ll fall if he dares to look elsewhere. He rushes past me, and his small holdall, thrown over his shoulder, bashes against my arm. It knocks me off balance. I’m carrying a Costa, and coffee spills out over the lid and dribbles down my shirt sleeve. Damn, it’s hot. I turn and watch as his urgency launches him down the steps two at a time. He marches off left towards the main road, turning the corner at the funeral directors.
Puzzled, I carry on into the police station, delivering the latte to Leo, one of my colleagues who works the front desk. ‘Happy birthday,’ I sing over the hum of officers talking on phones and tapping away on keyboards.
He looks up from his screen and laughs. ‘My favourite afternoon treat,’ he says, picking up his present. ‘You’re going to heaven, Eva Barnes.’
I grin at how fitting his friendly expression and stocky frame are for facing the increasing numbers of crime victims we encounter every day. Leo’s like the station’s guard dog. An Alsatian – courageous and loyal, but boy, don’t get on the wrong side of him. I wipe small beads of sweat from my forehead. ‘It’s a scorcher out there again this afternoon.’
‘You are coming for birthday drinks with us all later, aren’t you?’ he asks. ‘My shout.’
‘Busy, sorry. I’m off home soon.’
His bottom lip droops like the dog who didn’t get the bone. ‘You’re always busy.’ He shouts across at the other workers, ‘Eva’s not coming for birthday drinks.’ Several heads look over at me, directing a roll of eyes or downturned lips my way.
‘What was that man doing in here? The one with the holdall,’ I ask.
‘Parka boy?’
‘Marc O’Sullivan?’
‘Correct.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Fancy this. He came in here and said he’s leaving home, and when his family report him missing, he doesn’t want to be found.’
‘What?’
‘Turner spoke to him but reported that the guy seemed the full ticket, so logged the incident and off he went. Adamant, he was. Married with three kids too. Can you believe that?’
‘No, I can’t,’ I say, tapping the desk with my fingers, ‘because he and his wife are our close friends. And as far as I’m aware, they are very happily married.’
I charge back outside, following the direction Marc took in the vain hope that I can catch up with him. It’s the beginning of rush hour, and the usual surge of commuters heading towards the Underground packs the streets. I guess that’s where he’s aiming. Or maybe he’s thinking of taking British Rail somewhere? I zigzag my way through the crowds, searching, trying to spot him through the flow of hurrying bodies. There he is, by a bin, searching through his holdall. Stepping sideways onto the road, I follow the double red lines, quickening my pace. I cough on the exhaust fumes from the heavy traffic as black cabs and red buses sweep past. I see him zip up the holdall and dart into the Tube station.
Breaking into a jog, I follow him, hindered by the swarms of people desperate to get home. There he is, heading towards an escalator. I hop on too, sliding into the left-hand line so I can get to the bottom as fast as the crowds will allow. My shirt is sticking to my back like a second skin, the intense late-afternoon heat rare for this time of year. As I step off, I cough again with the potent smell of rush hour chaos and grinding train brakes. I can no longer see him. Am I too late? Has he taken the Victoria line north or south?
I try the north. Bingo. There he is, waiting to board the next Tube heading to Walthamstow Central. I work my way through the wilting commuters, apologising, ignoring the tuts and scowls directed my way. The parka has gone, revealing a smartly-dressed Marc in a suit. Why so smart? The train approaches, clattering and screeching as it decelerates. I reach for his arm and gently squeeze it. He spins around. He’s wearing a tie too, as if he’s off somewhere important.
‘Marc, are you OK?’
His normally friendly tone spits fire at me. ‘You’ve followed me.’
‘I don’t understand. What’s going on?’ My hand brushes his shoulder.
‘Go and speak to your colleagues. Leave me alone.’ There is no doubt that he means it. He thrusts his hand out towards the exit. ‘Go away.’ The train doors squeak and hiss open. He pushes me out of the way and jumps into the carriage, turning his back as the doors clunk closed.
This is not the Marc I know. Kind and generous Marc, the committed husband and father who possesses the ability to continually roll limericks off his tongue like a professional comedian. The guy who promotes moral excellence in all aspects of his life. He’s the type you see helping old ladies to their cars with their shopping, and crouching down to hand notes to the homeless. Flummoxed, I watch as the packed train picks up speed and disappears into the dark tunnel.
What the hell is going on?
I glance at my watch, turn around and retrace my steps back to the station with equal urgency.
Damn, I’m going to be late home. Again.
Marc and Sasha are happy, aren’t they? She’s never let on otherwise. I’ve only known them three years, but when I visit them with Jim, for his weekly physio sessions with Sasha, their busy, loving household has always led me to believe nothing but.
‘Tell me what that man said again,’ I say to Leo when I arrive back at the station. I walk behind the desk.
‘Best ask Turner for a full rundown. He took him into a room and had a chat with him, then logged the incident.’ He lifts his takeaway cup. ‘The best birthday present I’ve had.’ He continues talking while he taps away on his computer.
I keep quiet. Leo’s a trooper but talks far too much, and now’s not the time for idle conversation. He points to an entry on the screen. ‘Here you go; this is the discussion.’
I read the details but learn nothing more than what Leo already briefed me on earlier. It’s all there, clearly stated. Marc O’Sullivan is leaving home, and if anyone reports him missing, he doesn’t want to be found. He’s not at risk, no mental health issues, no previous reports of disappearing.
It doesn’t make sense.
‘Have a good evening,’ I say. ‘And have a beer for me.’
‘You haven’t changed your mind, then? I’ve reserved an outside table at the Elders.’
I shake my head.
‘Won’t be the same without you, Barnes.’
I wink at him and leave to hurry to my car, praying the traffic has eased. Taking my phone out of my bag, I start to text Jim that something has come up, and I’m going to be late, as a text arrives from Sasha.
I need your help. Please call me as soon as you can. X
She knows.
I insert the key in the ignition and sit for a few seconds, deciding what to do. Sasha’s house is on the way home. I could be there in ten minutes, twenty maybe with the traffic. Should I get involved? I could pretend I never saw Marc and let events unfold as they will, but Sasha doesn’t deserve that from me. I can’t lie to her. She’s like the sister I never had.
I finish my text to Jim, telling him that his physio session is cancelled tonight and that I’ll be home soon. Then I drop a text to Paula, who babysits on a Monday evening while I take Jim for his physio, to say we won’t be needing her tonight. I start the engine and turn the air conditioning to max.
Turning out of the station, I join the queues of exasperated drivers swearing along with me that London’s congestion is getting worse by the day. My phone beeps – another text from Sasha asking me t o call her. The day is going from difficult to downright impossible. I can’t talk to her because I’ll have to lie. And that’s something I can’t do – not to people who matter anyway.
I divert my route to Sasha’s, stopping off at the supermarket to pick up a few items we need at home. Sasha lives in a small, private development – Napier Close, comprising of six moderate-sized detached houses, each fronted by well-pruned eucalyptus trees. On a good day, it’s less than a ten-minute journey from home. Attached to the side of each house is a studio annexe some of the residents use for small business purposes. Sasha runs her physiotherapy practice from hers. An attractive complex, especially for the area, it was built on an old factory site about twenty years ago. The new-millennium developer clearly had the foresight to understand children would be unable to afford to fly the nest and that there would be an increase in people working from home. A paved, double parking space fronts each studio, and at the rear of each property is a small courtyard garden.
Fake calmness fails to conceal the panic in her voice as Sasha appears from her studio. Her slender, athletic frame, dressed in white gym shoes, Lycra leggings and a white T-shirt with The Body and Back Clinic logo embossed across the back in emerald green, appears before I’ve switched off the engine. She’s such a pretty woman. Two soft dimples usually light up her face when she smiles, but today they are lost in the darkness of her troubles. I climb out of the car.
‘You got my texts then?’ she says, her voice shaking. Her long, shiny dark hair is dishevelled, and her face, filled with a nervous vulnerability, has lost its usual healthy glow. I’ve always been in awe of that glow. The way she always looks like she’s just finished an hour of yoga and eaten a kilo of spinach. ‘Marc has gone.’
‘Let’s go inside,’ I say, dreading what’s to come. After ten hours poking around into the life of suspected criminals, I’m done in. Actually, suspected isn’t the right word. We know the two brothers we’ve had under surveillance for the past four months for their unabating involvement in crime are as guilty as the Krays. We’ve just got to nail the scum.
‘We can’t. The kids are there. I can’t talk about this with them around.’ She gulps down tears. ‘Come with me.’
When she turns her back, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, preparing myself for the deep water I’m about to dive into. I follow her into her clinic. It’s a spacious room with a skylight roof. Soothing music plays from a wireless speaker filling the room with a sense of relaxation. Not for long, I guess.
Anatomy pictures cover the whitewashed walls. The human body illustrated in every form – the skeleton, muscular system, nervous system, internal organs, joints and ligaments. I’ve seen her refer to them regularly during Jim’s physio session to reinforce a point she’s trying to make. One of them explains the working of the digestive system, the guts displayed raw and twisted like hers must be at the moment. She sits on her saddle stool and passes me a scrap of paper.
It doesn’t take long to read the single paragraph scrawled upon a folded piece of paper informing her that he’s had enough. He’s sorry, but he wants out of his life, and she mustn’t come looking for him. The chill in his words snowballs all kinds of thoughts through my mind. What happened to the respect that twenty-plus years of marriage and three kids should reward? Was he really so unhappy? Is there another woman?
‘If I didn’t know his handwriting so well, I would say someone else wrote this,’ Sasha says.
The torture on her face is killing me. I reread the note, before handing it back to her.
‘OK. Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me what’s happened these past few days?’
Her legs bounce furiously. ‘He went out last night. I don’t know where. He wouldn’t tell me.’ She shrugs. ‘He never goes out without telling me where. And never on a Sunday. I tried calling him, but he didn’t pick up. God, it’s hot in here. My fan has broken.’ She stands and reaches to open a window. The catch jams. ‘Blasted thing,’ she says. ‘Marc was meant to have fixed this.’ She tugs at it until it opens. A police siren wails in the background.
She paces the room. ‘He got home after midnight. I was in bed. When I questioned him about what he’d been up to, he said something about a potential business connection, and that he was tired and would tell me in the morning. But when I woke up, he’d already gone out again.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Around six. And let me tell you, my husband’s a night owl. Only an emergency would get him out of bed that early.’
‘Where did he go?’
She throws her arms around as she strides up and down the studio. ‘No idea. I never got to ask him. I had back-to-back appointments all day. One client texted me to say they were running late, so I went to grab a sandwich, but he still wasn’t back. I tried calling him between clients, but it kept going to voicemail. Then this afternoon, after I finished my last client, I went to look for him, but he was gone. Like, gone, gone.’ She shakes her head, continuing to pace the room. ‘The holdall he uses for work trips isn’t in his wardrobe. He’s taken a handful of clothes and his wallet, and, from what I can tell, that’s it.’
It takes a lot to make me speechless. I guess this is a lot.
‘He’s left his phone. I heard it ringing in the bedroom when I tried to call him again this afternoon. I don’t understand it. He wouldn’t do this to Harry in the middle of his A levels. He adores his kids. They are everything to him.’ Her hand slaps against her forehead. ‘Oh, God, and it’s Harry’s eighteenth on Saturday. We’re meant to be having a get-together. You are still coming, aren’t you?’
Is she thinking this will still go ahead? I nod and make a mental note to source a gift.
‘It was meant to be family and family friends only, but Harry’s invited a few of his school mates now.’ She stops pacing and slumps in her seat. Her elbows drop to her knees and her head into her hands. Her troubled eyes look up at me. ‘You don’t think he’s found someone else, do you?’ Her arms circle her middle as if she’s trying to contain her pain as she sways backwards and forwards. ‘He wouldn’t, would he?’
‘Don’t jump to conclusions. It’s not helpful.’
‘Eva, you have to help me find out where he’s gone.’
I inwardly sigh. I should be used to delivering news people don’t want to hear. Many times, I’ve had to convey brutal accounts to suffering families, but this one’s up there on the difficulty scale. ‘I can’t,’ I say, clenching the corners of the bench. ‘He came into the station earlier.’
‘What! You saw him? What was he doing there?’
‘I bumped into him on his way out and followed him to the Tube.’ I pause and bite my lip. ‘He doesn’t want to be found.’
‘What’s that meant to mean?’
‘He was interviewed, and he clearly stated that he doesn’t want to be found. The police can’t do anything, not against his wishes. So, my job won’t allow me to help you.’ I explain some more, but she’s not listening.
‘The police have to find him. He’s gone missing.’
I shake my head. ‘They don’t. He’s not deemed a missing person. If you try and file a missing person’s report, they’ll tell you what I’ve just told you. I’m sorry, but they won’t look for him.’
‘But this can’t be right. He wouldn’t leave us. He wouldn’t. I’m begging you. You have to help me find him.’
‘Take one day at a time. You should tell the children.’
She shakes her head, forcefully. ‘No, I can’t. Not until Harry has finished his A levels. I can’t ruin his future. Hannah will be devastated. You know her, she’s such a daddy’s girl.’ She pauses, deep in thought. ‘That’s what I can’t understand about all this. Harry has to get his grades, or he won’t get his place at uni. Marc knows this. He wouldn’t walk out at such a delicate time. He wouldn’t.’
‘When do Harry’s exams finish?’
‘Friday week.’
‘There’s only one thing for it, then.’
