Dont come looking, p.6
Don't Come Looking, page 6
Harry is sitting in the passenger seat and Luke in the back, both of them on their phones. ‘What time’s the exam?’ I ask when I get in.
Harry manages to pull his face away from the screen for a brief second. ‘Eleven.’ He returns his focus to the screen and adds, as if a second thought. ‘Thanks for doing this.’
‘No problem.’ I try to strike up a conversation, but that’s hard when you’re in fierce competition with a teenager’s phone, so I have to keep trying. ‘Looking forward to your party on Saturday?’
‘Sort of. Would be better if my exams were over. Why can’t I have been born in September like him?’ He gestures to Luke with a nod. ‘That’s why he’s way ahead of me. He’s nearly a whole year older. Proper brainbox.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Luke adds.
‘His mum took him for an IQ test before he started secondary school.’
‘You’re embarrassing me, Haz.’
Harry laughs. ‘One hundred and thirty-nine, he scored: very superior intelligence. Only one point off genius or near genius.’
‘Hazza.’
‘He’s a member of Mensa.’
I look in the rear-view mirror to a blushing Luke. He looks much older than his eighteen years – confident, without being arrogant – and the way he holds himself in a crisp white shirt, suggests a man in his twenties. Other than a couple of stifled grunts, it’s a struggle to get much more out of either of them.
Back at Sasha’s, I stay in the car before going into the studio, catching up on chores I’ve been putting off – a call to HMRC about a payroll tax problem for Mel and an erroneous entry on my credit card last month. I update our online supermarket delivery order then click onto Amazon and order a princess fancy dress outfit for Isabella for an upcoming party.
As I enter the studio, scented oils are burning; jasmine I think, and Jim is lying face down on the bench. Sasha is performing myofascial release on him. An alternative therapy she once used on me after a fight I had to defuse between two reckless females outside a pub in Soho a few years ago. After one of them walked off, the other, a slight woman with bubble-gum pink hair and dozens of piercings, verbally abused me. She was angry at life, and I sympathised. I was once like that. I tried to placate her, which backfired on me as she lashed out and pushed me against the front of a coffee shop next door. Unfortunately, I fell hard against the glass frontage. She was charged with assaulting a police officer, and I ended up with a bad back and three months physiotherapy with Sasha. But let’s look on the bright side; if it wasn’t for Miss Pink Hair, Sasha and I would never have met.
‘His hamstrings are extra tight this week. So are his glutes. This will be contributing towards the pain, I believe. I’ve concentrated on them this morning.’
‘Why’s that?’ I ask.
‘He needs to have regular breaks out of his chair. He’s not stretching enough. Art is going to be able to help here.’
Jim waves a hand up. ‘I am present, you know.’
Sasha profusely apologises then says to me. ‘Marc’s phone is over there if you still want to take a look.’ She nods to her desk.
I pick it up.
‘1066,’ she says.
I enter the code and spend the next fifteen minutes flicking through the contents, but nothing stirs suspicion.
Sasha taps Jim on the shoulder. ‘We’re all done. Make sure you stretch your legs as much as possible.’ She walks over to me. ‘Find anything?’
I shake my head. ‘Nothing untoward.’
‘Art can see you next Monday, if that suits. Jim can have his usual session with me and afterwards go and have a chat with Art about the best way to proceed.’
‘What time were you thinking?’ I ask.
She picks up her diary. ‘How about a session with me at two-thirty, then go and have a chat with Art at three-thirty. He’s a nice guy, and so good at what he does. He has a waiting list, but he’s agreed to fit you in as a favour. I’ll introduce you to him at the party on Saturday. You can’t help but like him.’
I pick up my phone and log on to my banking app. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Normal, please.’
‘You’ve been more than an hour.’
She gives me a look as if to say, so what, I owe you ten times that.
Sasha and I step outside while Jim is getting dressed. ‘I didn’t finish telling you,’ she says. ‘The strange thing is, the doctor prescribed Marc some anti-depressants.’ She claps her hands together and draws them to her lips as if she is about to pray. ‘Art dropped him at the chemist to pick them up after the appointment. I found them at the back of his bathroom cabinet this morning. The seal is still intact, so wherever he’s gone, he wasn’t depressed enough to take them with him.’
Seven
‘You were depressed and suicidal once. What did it feel like?’ I ask Jim as we crawl back home. I’m edgy. We are stuck in a traffic jam. Mel needs the car today as Joe and Isabella have playdates after school, so I’ll have to take the Tube into work. Arthur is going to be tapping his watch again.
‘Where’s this come from?’
‘Just wondering about Marc’s state of mind.’
‘It’s not a good place to be.’
‘But what did it actually feel like? You’ve never really told me properly.’
‘Before or after the accident?’
‘Both.’
‘They were different, I suppose. Different but interlinked in my case. Before, I was more suicidal. A reaction to the situation. I mean, it was pretty dire, wasn’t it?’
I scoff. ‘You can say that again.’ The car in front of us edges forward before its brake lights redden. ‘Damn traffic,’ I say, straining to see what’s holding things up. ‘It’s chocka out there.’
‘I can still see myself sitting in that hotel room in New York, holding that bottle of pills. It was like I couldn’t see clearly. I couldn’t see a way out. With or without you.’
He turns his head, gazing out of the window. ‘I emptied the whole bottle into my hand so many times. They were like little blue smarties.’ He snorts. ‘I could so easily have taken them.’
I place my hand on his knee and squeeze it. ‘What stopped you?’
He turns to me. ‘You. I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing you again. And what it would do to you. And Joe, of course. The thought of police officers knocking on our door to tell you I’d been found dead on a hotel room floor, that’s what stopped me. I couldn’t do it to you.’ He put his hand on top of mine and squeezed it tightly. ‘After the accident, when they told me I’d never walk again, I’d say that was more depression. I never thought about ending it all, though. I didn’t know what to do, how the future would turn out. How I was going to look after you and the kids. I knew I’d never be capable of going back to my old job.’ He paused. ‘And I was scared you would leave me.’
‘Jim!’
‘I know, I know. That’s what I mean. That’s what depression does to you. You can’t think clearly.’ He taps his temple. ‘You’re confused all the time. Helpless, that’s the word, you feel powerless, and you can’t see anything positive. It’s painful – mentally, as well as physically, harrowing.’ He slaps his open hand against his chest. ‘It hurt here. Like life had landed an anchor on my chest, and I couldn’t find a way to break free. They were dark, dark times. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. You lose sight of what it feels like to be happy.’
I’m shocked. All the love I feel for him rushes to my heart, making it skip a beat. How distraught Sasha must have been to learn of Marc’s depression. My voice breaks. ‘You’ve never spoken like that before.’
‘I guess I couldn’t. It’s been a long time now, though.’
‘Do you ever feel like that now?’
He smiles and squeezes my hand again. ‘Never.’
‘You would tell me if you did, wouldn’t you?’
‘Don’t worry. I may have legs that don’t always work, but I have everything else I need in my life.’
‘But you would tell me, wouldn’t you?’
He nods.
I reach behind the driver’s seat and fish in my bag for my phone. ‘Do you think Marc was depressed?’
‘What makes you ask?’
I relay what Sasha has told me while checking for traffic updates.
‘If he was, he never let on to me. He was his normal self when I saw him last week. Perhaps he was a little down about not finding work, but he never came across as depressed.’
‘That’s what I can’t understand.’ I sigh heavily.
‘It’s hard to believe he was. Then again, people learn to disguise these things well. You know what? Looking back, however bad things were for me, I would never have walked out as Marc has. He must be in a bad place. Who knows what he’s capable of?’
My fingers tap the steering wheel. ‘I wish this traffic would get moving.’
‘Chill out. There’s nothing you can do about it.’
‘I need to get to work.’
‘Let’s take the kids to the beach this weekend.’
I turn to him in surprise. ‘Where did that come from?’
He shrugs. ‘It’s your weekend off, and the weather’s going to be sunny. We haven’t been to the beach since last summer. The kids’ll love it. We need to have some fun.’
‘For sure, I’m up for that.’
‘Brighton?’
‘Let’s do it. Don’t forget we have Harry’s party on Saturday, so it’ll have to be Sunday.’
‘Gill’s coming on Sunday for the week, remember? Mel is off on holiday.’
‘How could I forget?’ Gill has been like a mother to me. I’ve known her since I was sixteen when she fostered the unruly teenager I was back then. ‘Let me check with Gill that she’s happy to go to the beach.’
When we finally arrive home, I rush to get Jim’s wheelchair out of the car. I might make it into work on time if I hurry. Mel comes out of the house, still in the PVC apron covered with dogs that the kids insisted on getting her for Christmas last year. I hand her the keys. ‘Want a lift to the Tube?’ she asks. I could kiss her.
I switch on the radio. A broadcast about depression and suicide catches my attention. Middle-aged men have the highest rate of suicide in the UK, and the rate for young females is now at its highest rate on record. ‘What’s the definition of middle-aged?’ I ask Mel.
‘I know this because my daughter told me on my last birthday that I am now officially middle-aged. Between forty-five and sixty-five.’
We celebrated Marc’s forty-sixth birthday earlier this year at the local Chinese restaurant. My thoughts return to my conversation with Jim this morning.
I run to my desk, an hour late. Rob appears before I’ve managed to sit down. He’s tapping his watch and smirking.
‘Don’t even go there. The Northern line came to a standstill. I had to get off and get a cab. I could’ve really done without the hold-up today.’ And the cost! I remove my cardigan and wipe my forehead. ‘I’m in court later, and I need to go through the papers.’
‘I need to go up to the City. I’ll give you a lift if you want.’
‘What’re you doing there?’
‘I’ve got a lead on our Jason.’
‘Jason Harper?’
He nods. ‘A bloke he used to work with.’
‘Tell me more.’
Before he can answer, Arthur hurries over. ‘Late again, Barnes.’
‘What can I do for you today, sir?’
‘Some work would be good. A little treat has been delivered to our door. Shane Baker! I want you to come in on the interview.’
I tut. ‘I’m due in court.’ I would love to be in that interview. We’ve been trying to nab Shane Baker for so long. And, if what Arthur said yesterday about possible links to Jason Harper is right, it could be an interesting few hours.
‘What about you?’ Arthur asks Rob.
‘I’ve got a lead on Jason Harper,’ Rob says. ‘I could rearrange.’
‘You carry on. I’ll get Peters to come in on this one.’ Arthur returns to his desk.
When we pull away from the station, I ask Rob about his lead on Jason Harper.
‘It seems the neighbours were right. He used to work for a software company up at Moorgate. He was a salesman. I gather he got the boot at the end of last year. The bloke I’m going to see hinted at drug use.’
‘Interesting. I wish I could come with you.’
‘Nosy, nosy. Always want to be involved, don’t you?’
I elbow his arm.
‘I fancy a drive-through. You got time?’ he asks.
‘What is it with you and food?’
‘I’m a growing lad?’
I pull a face at his gut. ‘Exactly.’
‘Be kind, DC Barnes, be kind.’
‘I’m just trying to give back.’
‘You’re not trying too hard.’
‘Cut the sarcasm.’
‘I love sarcasm. It’s like smacking people in the face but with words. You’ve taught me so well. I’ve nearly mastered its delivery as perfectly as you.’
He laughs. I laugh too, thankful for the humour he brings to days like today.
We stop at McDonald’s for him to pick up a Big Mac and Fries. I opt for a Veggie Wrap, and we park up on a side street to eat. Chomping and chewing like this is his last day on earth, he demolishes his food before I’m even halfway through mine. ‘I think I might dash to the loo before we go,’ I say, opening the car door.
His mobile rings as I get out of the car, and he’s still on the phone when I return. ‘Catch you later,’ he says and ends the call. ‘That was my flatmate, Phil; the one who works for the British Transport Police. Looks like the reason for your holdup this morning was a jumper at Brixton Tube.’ He pulls a pained grimace. ‘It was a right mucky one by all accounts. Bloke all over the track.’
The spicy relish from the wrap repeats on me. Regardless of how many people there are in London, and, for that matter, middle-aged men, I can’t help but dwell on the uneasy feeling that Marc could well be that person sprawled across the tracks. I throw the remainder of the wrap in with his rubbish and tell him to get a move on.
Eight
DAY 4
After dropping the kids at school, I pull on my running gear. I haven’t managed to get out since Sunday, and I’m jittery. Withdrawal symptoms from the endorphin rush I get from pounding the streets. Running is my drug. It doses my body with freedom. My running repertoire is comprised of various routes. There’s a six-miler up to and around Wandsworth Common, a shorter Tooting Common three-miler for when I only have a half-hour to spare, and street circuits of varying distances for when it’s dark. It’s another late shift today. I’m not due into work until two, so, after lacing my trainers, I quickly stretch before heading towards Wandsworth Common.
The sun is shining in a baby-blue sky, warming my skin as David Guetta pumps through my AirPods. They’re new, the AirPods. Jim bought them for me last week. Not because it’s my birthday or anything, but because that’s the kind of thing he does. ‘Not for nighttime runs, though,’ he insisted.
Usually, when I find my rhythm, my worries and anxieties start to subside, and I can zone out, but Sasha and Marc invade my thoughts today. Despite my reassuring words to her, I’ve started to sprout a seed of worry. Has Marc been having an affair? Not with Pen. I don’t think that’s possible, but who else? I plan to have a dig around at work later. I know I will get to the root of his disappearance. My determination will succeed. It may take a few days, but it always wins.
My phone rings in the bedroom as I step my sweat-purged body into the shower. I step back out to check who’s calling.
It’s Sasha. ‘How’s it going?’ I ask.
‘I need you to see something.’
‘What’s happened?’
Noisy kids emerge in the background. Her voice becomes muffled. ‘Sorry, I can’t talk right now.’
‘I’ll try my best to stop by at some point. Call you later.’
I arrive at the station an hour before my shift starts. Not that Arthur acknowledges my efforts like he does my occasional lateness. I have a ton of paperwork to catch up on, so I grab a coffee and plough in. When Rob turns up, he briefs me on his findings from yesterday. Apparently, Jason Harper was suspected of taking a backhander in some client deal and “asked to leave” the software company he worked for. It was all kept very hush-hush because the client in question had associations with the company secretary. We view the Shane Baker interview from yesterday. He was let go due to insufficient evidence to charge him.
Despite our focused attempts, it’s not until late afternoon that we get a tip-off from an old school friend of Baker’s who we trace through social media. We head out to the given address west of Holborn. It feels like a treat, in a way, to escape the office and journey into the West End.
‘My mum’s got us tickets for my dad’s sixtieth birthday up in that thing,’ Rob says as we near the London Eye.
‘That thing?’ I say in a tone to suggest he needs to pay this London landmark a little more respect. As we wait in traffic, I stare at the ferris wheel revolving in London’s sky. Jim and I have ridden the Eye twice, once in the day, once at night, way back before the kids, when life was so much simpler. I had loved the daytime ride so much, Jim surprised me one Saturday morning. ‘I’ve got you a treat,’ he said, opening the bedroom shutters to a glorious summer day. ‘The weather has to be right. And tonight’s the night.’ He perched on the edge of the bed and handed me a printout of the tickets slotted amongst a bunch of red roses.
Such different experiences, but the night visit won the vote. He’d arranged a river sightseeing trip beforehand too. We drank bubbly and ate canapes as we cruised up the Thames capturing the best of London – St Paul’s Cathedral, the Tower of London and the Houses of Parliament – before boarding the glass-encased pod. The thirty-minute ride turned out to be everything I had imagined. Some claim it’s overrated and overpriced, but I don’t agree. Seeing London twinkle a spectrum of colours, illuminating the night sky, is an experience you can only capture from views rising to one hundred and thirty-five metres high. We dined at the Oxo Tower afterwards and discussed our future – four kids and a holiday home in the South of France that were never to be.
