by T. M. Logan
‘He’s a very smart, ambitious young guy, with a good heart, a conscience and a fantastic set of cheekbones. Men like that do exist, you know.’
‘But what’s the catch? It makes me think he’s hiding something.’
Her voice rose in exasperation. ‘Why does there have to be a catch?’
I shrugged. ‘There’s always a catch, isn’t there?’
‘Luckily we’re not all as cynical as you, Ed.’
‘Maybe I am being a cynical old bastard, but there are things about him,’ I said quietly. ‘About Ryan. Things that you don’t know.’
‘Well of course there are! I’ve only met him a handful of times. But I’d like to get to know him better in the next few months, provided you don’t screw the whole thing up.’
‘I mean, there are things that I know, that I’ve found out in the last week.’
She turned to me, makeup removal pad in hand. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Things that might change your opinion of him.’
‘Like what?’
I was tempted, sorely tempted, to tell her about everything I’d been doing over the past ten days. But it was too soon, too risky. Instead I limited myself to the mention of Ryan visiting the house in Bestwood.
Claire shook her head slowly, unable to hide a look of astonishment. ‘My God, Ed. You’ve been following him, haven’t you?’
I felt my face reddening. ‘I happened to see him once when I was visiting a client project over that way, I was curious what he was doing there.’ I’d practiced the lie so much that it almost felt like the truth. ‘Just noticed his car because it was so out of place on that estate, this smart black Audi, and then I recognised the number plate.’
‘You just happened to see his car on the street in a run-down housing estate, in a city of half a million people? That seems like an incredible coincidence.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well? Was it a coincidence?’
I looked away. ‘I’ve been trying to find out a bit more about him.’
‘Why on earth don’t you just ask him? Or ask Abbie?’
‘Because he could tell us literally anything and we’d have no idea if it was true or not.’ I opened my hands. ‘What do we actually know about him, really? What do we know for sure? Almost nothing. Our daughter is the most important thing in the world to us, our only child, and she’s marrying a virtual stranger.’
‘This isn’t the eighteenth century, Ed. We’re not handing her over, it’s her choice.’
‘You know what I mean,’ I said. ‘He just doesn’t ring true to me.’
‘Can you actually hear what you’re saying? How mad it sounds? “He doesn’t ring true.” It’s like those crazy people on the internet saying someone on the news is guilty of abducting their own child, or harming their partner or staging a crime because they look “a bit dodgy”. Is that the best you can do?’
‘It’s gut instinct. A feeling I had, the first time I met him. I know it sounds mad, but—’
‘Yes, it does, it sounds completely bonkers,’ she said. ‘And you know what? I don’t think this is actually anything to do with him. It’s not about him at all, he’s done nothing but show he’s decent and honourable and a thoroughly nice guy. You’ve taken against him because you feel that he’s somehow going to “take Abbie away”. It’s all about you, Ed.’
‘Me?’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your behaviour, your inability to let go of Abbie. That’s all it is. But you can’t let your obsessions ruin this for her. It’s her life.’
‘My obsessions? What does that mean?’
‘It means one of you is looking mad all right, but it isn’t him.’ She paused, swallowing. ‘I’m away on the Ireland tour in a few weeks and I need to know you’re not going to mess this up for Abbie, if you don’t have me looking over your shoulder. Can you manage that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Promise me you’ll back off and stop with the crazy over-protective dad stuff? Because you need to be clear on what the consequences could be, if you don’t.’
‘Consequences?’
‘If you’re not careful, you’ll force her into making a choice between you and Ryan. And trust me, if you asked her that question right now you wouldn’t like the answer.’
22
SATURDAY
Twenty-three days until the wedding
Abbie handed me a cup of tea and sat down on the small sofa opposite. We were surrounded by boxes of books, DVDs, clothes, toiletries and makeup, jewellery, framed pictures and diaries and a hundred other things packed up from her bedroom at home and unloaded into Ryan’s lounge. I had been trying to gauge her mood all morning, to get a measure of whether she was still angry with me following our falling-out after the meal on Thursday night. She’d never been one to hold grudges but had only been sending brief, factual replies to my texts and screening most of my calls, the atmosphere between us cool as we moved her things into their new home.
It was weird to be back in this small sitting room, drinking tea, where just a few days ago I had been skulking around alone searching for clues about my future son-in-law.
Claire’s words were still fresh in my mind. Call a truce. Let her live her life, otherwise you’re going to lose her.
Whatever happened with Ryan, I couldn’t set myself up in opposition to him. At least not in Abbie’s eyes. I needed to be smarter, to act smarter.
‘I wanted to apologise for the other night, the meal at World Service,’ I said, sipping my tea from a University of Manchester mug. ‘For putting a downer on the evening.’
Abbie shook her head. Her hair was tied back in a loose ponytail and she was wearing jeans and a baggy purple sweatshirt from her old school, the names of everyone in her year printed in faded white lettering on the back. She sat back against the sofa cushions, legs crossed, almost folded in on herself.
‘Don’t worry about it, Dad.’ She wouldn’t look at me. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
I allowed a beat of silence to pass between us. ‘What’s the matter, Abs?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’ve been very quiet this morning.’
Finally, she met my eye. ‘You really want to know? Fine. Ryan’s asked me if I want to slow things down.’
‘Slow what down?’
‘He said he didn’t want to cause a family rift.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘He gets that me and you have a “special bond” ’ – these two words in air quotes – ‘and doesn’t want to do anything that might affect that. So he’s asked me if I want to reconsider the wedding date.’
Clever guy, I thought. It was a smart move, coming across as the magnanimous one, willing to put his own happiness on hold. Putting the blame indirectly on my shoulders. I felt my face warming, a flush creeping up from my neckline.
‘And what did you say to that?’
‘I said no!’ Her voice almost cracked. ‘Of course I don’t want to change the date.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘What else did he say?’
‘Basically he knows you’re struggling with the whole engagement thing and doesn’t want to upset you, doesn’t want it to be an issue. You know the worst thing? The craziest part of it all? He’s worried about you, about your feelings. Although I think maybe secretly he’s having second thoughts about marrying into a family with a crazy father-in-law. He probably thinks he had a lucky escape, and this is his way of backing out of the engagement.’
A hole opened up in my stomach, a giddy sick feeling that I had done something terrible and was about to be found out. I had let Abbie down and I was going to lose her, one way or the other.
‘I’m sure that’s not the case, Abs, but I’m sorry anyway.’ I leaned forward. ‘I’ve been acting like a total arse. I’m sure the two of you will be back on track in no time.’
‘And what about the two of you?’ she said. ‘You and Ryan?’
�
��We’ll get there. I’m just a bit set in my ways, you know me. For now, I’m just happy that you’re happy.’
‘Hmm.’ She conceded a small smile. ‘You’re a grumpy old bugger, Mum says.’
‘This is true,’ I said, smiling back. ‘I’m the original grouch.’
I went to sit on the sofa next to her and put an arm around her shoulders, trying to bridge the gap between us. I kissed the side of her head and was hit by a sudden wave of love so fierce it almost took my breath away.
‘Your mother is never wrong, as we both know.’
‘Never.’
‘I promise I’ll make more of an effort,’ I said quietly.
‘Ryan’s always going on about you, you know.’
‘Is he?’
‘Always saying what an amazing bloke you are. What a great dad, a brilliant role model, stuff like that.’
‘Excellent judge of character, that lad.’
She gave me a playful slap on the shoulder. ‘I’ve had to put him right a few times.’
‘Harsh.’ I disengaged from the embrace, studying my daughter up close. She had been busy at work, busy planning a wedding, busy moving into her new home. But there was something else in her expression, something troubled. ‘Is everything else OK, Abs? You still seem a bit down.’
‘It’s not just Ryan, it’s something else.’
She took her phone out of her jeans’ pocket and touched the screen a few times before turning it around to show me a post on Instagram, from someone called Alannah Fitzgerald. A photo of George, head and shoulders, turning to smile at the camera so he was half in profile.
The text below it read: George Fitzgerald has not been seen since Tuesday 2nd June. Please just get in touch, G. We love you and miss you! Everyone’s so worried about you! If you have any information that might help us find George PLEASE pass it to the police on 101, contact our family or DM me.
The post had 487 likes and dozens of comments below it.
‘He’s missing?’ I said.
Abbie nodded. ‘This was only posted this morning.’
A cold feeling like a trickle of icy water traced its way down the back of my neck as I read the post again. For all his faults, George was a popular guy, a sociable guy, someone who spent his life around others and would not just go off the grid without warning.
‘Maybe it’s a personal thing?’ I said. ‘Has he ever had any issues with, you know . . . mental health?’
‘George? Don’t think so. Not that I know of, anyway. But no one’s seen him since last Tuesday. He was supposed to be presenting a young film-makers’ Q&A, a thing in town at the Broadway Cinema, with a reception after. But he didn’t turn up and no one’s heard from him since. Not his mum and dad, not his sister, none of his friends. It’s just so out of character for him.’
‘Has he been to work?’
‘He’s sort of self-employed,’ she said. ‘But apparently he had a meeting with a London producer set up for yesterday. He missed that too. I’m really worried about him, Dad. I’ve tried ringing him but his phone’s switched off or out of battery, it goes straight to voicemail.’
She carried on speaking, but suddenly I wasn’t listening.
I was too busy counting back the days in my head. Calculating how long it had been since George had turned up at our house, since I had tried to put him in Ryan’s path to generate a reaction. To get Abbie’s fiancé to show his true colours. But my little gambit had failed completely – Abbie said Ryan knew all about him, knew he was an ex-boyfriend, and that he was fine with it.
And yet George had now disappeared.
23
Claire
‘So,’ Claire said, holding the van doors open. ‘Have you had a chance to meet any of Abbie’s friends yet?’
‘Quite a few,’ Ryan said, sliding a heavy chest of drawers into the back of the white Transit. ‘Some of her uni friends and her colleagues from the school. There was a twenty-fifth birthday party in town last weekend and I met loads of people, but I beg you not to test me on names. If I’m honest I lost track after the first few and they’re all a bit of a blur.’
He stepped back as Claire pushed the van’s rear doors shut. She straightened her overalls and climbed into the driver’s seat as Ryan got in the passenger side. The van was old and noisy and smelt of diesel, but it belonged to the theatre and no one minded if she borrowed it once in a while – she had more miles behind the wheel than anyone else, anyway.
‘Is this all of her stuff now?’ Ryan said, gesturing behind him with a thumb.
He was wearing an old pair of faded blue jeans and a grey Adidas sweatshirt with a hole in the elbow, a New York Yankees baseball cap tipped back on his head. It was funny, Claire thought, how much younger he looked when he wasn’t dressed for a meal out or for work. Almost as if he’d taken off a suit of armour to show the real person underneath. It had been her idea to have Ryan help her on the van runs, loading and unloading at his house in Beeston. It was another opportunity to find out a little bit more about this new addition to the family.
‘I think so,’ she said, indicating and pulling the big van out onto the main road. ‘This is the last of the furniture we had in storage.’
‘My house is still half-empty, so it will be nice to fill in the gaps.’
Claire fiddled with the old stereo until she found a music channel, George Michael’s ‘Faith’ filling the van. She turned it up.
‘How about George, have you come across him yet?’
Ryan looked over at her, his brow furrowed in confusion.
‘Give me a clue?’
Claire smiled. ‘George Fitzgerald.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Is he a teacher at her school?’
‘No, he’s a rather persistent ex-boyfriend.’
Claire sensed Ryan shifting in the seat beside her.
‘Right, right,’ he said. ‘Erm . . . he’s the film guy, isn’t he?’
‘That’s him. Aspiring film director.’ Claire eased into a roundabout, indicating right, feeling the pull of the Transit’s big steering wheel as she accelerated into the turn. She enjoyed driving it, the engine had plenty of power and it always tickled her to see the occasional double-take from older road-users. White Van Woman. ‘He and Abbie were together for a bit, last year.’
‘Abbie did mention him,’ Ryan said, pushing the baseball cap a little further back on his head. ‘But . . . I don’t think we’ve actually met.’
‘Just a word of warning about George. He’s never really got over her, can’t take no for an answer. I think in his head he still believes they’re going to end up together.’
‘He’s not got the message?’
‘Sadly not.’
Ryan nodded slowly. ‘OK, thanks for the heads-up, Claire.’
‘But I don’t want to give you the wrong impression.’ She laughed and put a hand on his forearm. ‘The rest of her friends are lovely!’
‘They all seem really nice.’
‘And what about your friends, Ryan? Are you planning a big stag do? Go-karting in Blackpool or a wild weekend in Vegas?’
‘Oh, err . . . . I’ll probably just get a few mates together. A few drinks back in Manchester, nothing too major.’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m just teasing, Ryan.’
‘Right,’ he gave her a sheepish grin. ‘By the way, do you think I should invite Ed?’
‘To what? Your stag do?’
‘Yes. Is that the done thing, is it what you’re supposed to do?’
Claire gunned the van’s big engine as they climbed a hill, going through the gears as they headed up towards the ring road.
‘I really have no idea about stag do protocol,’ she said. ‘What does your best man think?’
‘I’ve actually decided not to have a best man.’ He crossed his arms. ‘I asked Ollie, my best mate from the regiment, but he’s on deployment in Cyprus and can’t get back at short notice. So I’m just organising things myself, but I’l
l invite Ed if you think it will help with . . . everything.’
‘That’s very sweet of you Ryan, but I think you should probably just do your own thing.’
‘Right.’ Ryan turned slightly so he was angled towards her. ‘Tell me a bit about Ed. I want to know more about him, I’d like us to get on.’
‘Ed?’ Claire glanced at him, a curious smile on her face. ‘What do you want to know?’
Ryan shrugged. ‘What does he like to do, how does he spend his time? What are his hobbies?’
‘He’s likes running, reading, films, rock music, pretty normal stuff really.’
‘Does he go walking? I love the Peak District, maybe we could do a pub lunch up there some time, the four of us?’
‘Sounds like a lovely idea, Ryan.’
‘I might join his gym as well, is it any good?’
‘His gym?’
‘The one in town near the railway station,’ Ryan said.
‘Ed’s not really into that.’
‘They do massage and all those wellbeing treatments too? It’s next door to Hooters.’
Claire frowned, glancing over quickly at her passenger. ‘Ed doesn’t belong to a gym.’
‘Oh, I could have sworn I saw him walking in there the other week.’
Her mind processed his throwaway remark, gears turning as she tried to make sense of it. Perhaps Ryan was just mistaken. ‘Maybe . . . it’s a new thing,’ she said eventually. ‘That he hasn’t mentioned to me.’
Or maybe he’s keeping more secrets than I realise.
24
MONDAY
Twenty-one days until the wedding
Monday morning was taken up with client meetings in Loughborough and I didn’t get into work until lunchtime. I walked through the open plan office, throwing out a few hellos to my team, receiving a few muted replies in return. No one would meet my gaze. Only Siobhan, my deputy, gave me a half-hearted smile before dropping her eyes back to her keyboard. What was that? Sympathy? Solidarity? Before I had even taken my jacket off there was a rap on the glass partition door of my office from Georgia, the boss’s PA.
