The Catch

by T. M. Logan

  My focus was shattered as soon as I had turned the key in the front door.

  Because there was something in the house’s internal atmosphere, a disturbance of its normal self, in the composition of the air. That was it. The faintest smell of aftershave still lingering on the stairs and in the kitchen – a ghost of sharp citrus and soft eucalyptus – as if a guest had paid a visit only to find the owners absent. As if Ryan had paid a visit.

  All the doors were locked as they should be, and all the windows closed.

  There were only four keys – one each for me, Abbie and Claire, plus a spare. But now Abbie and Ryan were married and living together, it would be fairly straightforward for him to borrow her key and get a copy cut for himself, with or without her knowledge. Perhaps, after he’d caught me in his house, he wanted to return the favour.

  But what was he looking for, and what had he taken?

  With the sweat of the run still drying on my back, I set about the task of going through drawers and cupboards, checking the study and the bedside drawers, concentrating on what was out of place. I went carefully, taking my time, spending a few minutes to just stand and look at the lounge, the kitchen, bedrooms and bathroom, like an investigator studying a crime scene before diving in and disrupting the order of things. And everywhere I felt the presence of this other, this stranger, in my home. Almost as if I could turn a corner and discover him there.

  But after an hour, I had drawn a blank.

  Finally, after checking every room three times, I sank down on the sofa and allowed myself to close my eyes for a few precious moments. I had been so sure, so positive that someone had been in the house, but I had no proof. No evidence.

  Maybe Claire was right.

  Was I going mad? Or was this what it felt like when you were the only sane one around while everyone else had started to lose it? Because Claire couldn’t seem to see it. Joyce couldn’t see it. Abbie definitely couldn’t see it, even though it was right in front of her. I was the only one who understood the truth about Ryan. The only other thing I knew for sure was that I was tired. So tired, I could sleep for a week. But I couldn’t allow myself to rest.

  I logged into the GPS tracking portal provided by Midland Investigations and went over Ryan’s journeys today. There were none to West Bridgford recently, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been here – he could have taken an Uber, or cycled, or even run here on one of his marathon training routes.

  CCTV and motion detectors for the house: that would be my next job after this. In the meantime, I selected the tab for the last seven days in the GPS tracking portal and went over Ryan’s movements again. Work, home, clients in Nottingham, Birmingham, Leicester. Sainsbury’s shopping and the gym. A couple of evening visits to Forest Road West, and one to the house in Bestwood. I pulled up the data that had been logged by the first GPS tracker – the one I had bought online – and repeated the process. A lot of journeys matched up, repeated trips on familiar routes. The one that didn’t – the one that stood out more than any other – was the trip into the Peak District. The second Sunday in June.

  I fetched the AA road map from the study and sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of green tea. On a notepad, I began to write lists – things to take, things to remember, times and dates – and was just starting to gather up what I’d need when the doorbell rang.

  I opened the door and was greeted by a man and a woman, both in their late twenties, both in suits. The man, half a pace in front, held up his ID.

  ‘Edward Collier?’

  My first thought – always my first thought, since we’d lost Joshua – was that something had happened to Abbie or Claire, that one of them had been involved in an accident.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name’s DC Preston and this is DC Basu, we’d like to speak to you about George Fitzgerald. Mind if we come in?’

  46

  I presented both police officers with cups of tea, green for him, regular and one sweetener for her.

  DC Preston had close-cropped dark hair and a freshly-scrubbed complexion. He seemed almost too friendly to be a detective, smiling as he greeted me at the door, smiling as he complimented me on the Minton tiled floor of the entrance hall, smiling again now. I smiled back, relieved at least that their visit was not about Abbie, but still on my guard.

  Preston sat on the sofa with his legs crossed at the ankle, his tea remaining untouched on a side table. His partner, DC Basu, sat on the armchair.

  ‘I hope we didn’t interrupt anything,’ Preston said, indicating my running gear. ‘Looks like you’re busy.’

  ‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ I said.

  ‘I love your house,’ he said. ‘Victorian, is it?’

  ‘Edwardian. 1908, I think.’ I didn’t think, I knew, the original deeds were in a folder in my study, but something about sitting across the coffee table from two detectives gave me pause, made me doubt my own certainty. ‘Although a lot of the buildings around this part of Bridgford do go back to Victorian times.’

  ‘Good schools around here, too?’ Preston didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Me and my other half would love to move out this way when we can afford it. So, down to business,’ he said, producing a pen and pad from his bag. ‘You know George Fitzgerald, is that correct?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘And you’re aware there have been concerns raised for his wellbeing in recent days? Aspects of George’s current situation that we’re looking into?’ He sipped his tea. ‘An adult male wouldn’t typically be considered a high-risk missing person, but there are certain factors which have nudged George’s case towards the spotlight. Out of character behaviour, a complete absence of activity in his bank accounts, social media accounts, his phone switched off since the last day he was seen, total withdrawal from his professional commitments. You’re aware of the concerns raised by friends and family?’

  ‘My daughter mentioned it. Showed me some of the stuff on social media.’

  The detective checked his notebook. ‘Your daughter would be Abbie?’ Smiling again, he added, ‘Mr Fitzgerald was in a relationship with her, is that right?’

  ‘A while back,’ I said. ‘They split up last year.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I said, momentarily thrown by the question. ‘You probably need to ask Abbie.’

  ‘I’m asking you, Mr Collier.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Why do you think that relationship broke down?’

  ‘She was studying in Cardiff at the time, the distance got too much so she decided to—’

  ‘According to one of Mr Fitzgerald’s close friends,’ he interrupted, ‘you’re the reason they split.’

  ‘Me?’ I said. ‘No, that’s not true.’

  ‘This friend says the relationship ended because you made threats of harm against Mr Fitzgerald. You threatened to kill him, in fact.’ He was stone-faced now. ‘Unless he broke off the relationship with your daughter.’

  ‘No, no, they’ve got it backwards.’ I felt a bloom of heat in my cheeks. ‘He started stalking her after she split up with him, and I had to warn him off. But I never threatened to kill him, that’s crazy.’

  Preston studied me for a moment.

  ‘You “warned him off ”.’

  ‘I told him to stop following her, stop turning up to see her at all hours of the day and night. I was protecting my daughter.’

  The detective frowned. ‘Was he ever violent towards her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you ever violent towards him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you did “warn him off”, in your words, and recently you made more threats when he came here, to this house.’

  I ran through my last encounter with George. He’d given me the letter, which I passed on to Abbie.

  ‘That’s not right either,’ I said. ‘We parted on quite good terms, actually.’

  ‘You’re denying it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  There was silence in
the room for a moment, both detectives writing in their pads now. I looked from one to the other, wiping my damp palms on the thighs of my running shorts.

  Finally, Preston clicked his ballpoint pen and laid it on top of the notepad.

  ‘Forgive a slightly random question: have you ever heard of something called Snapchat Spectacles?’

  ‘Abbie was on Snapchat for a while,’ I shrugged. ‘Don’t know if she still uses it.’

  ‘They sell sunglasses with a tiny camera built in, for making videos to post on social media. The camera is so small you can barely see it, so they look like regular sunglasses. Mr Fitzgerald, being an aspiring filmmaker, seemed quite keen on the gadget. I want to show you something that he posted on his YouTube channel shortly before he was reported missing.’

  He took a mobile phone out of his jacket pocket, unlocked it and tapped the screen a few times before turning it around to face me. A video file, a still frame at the beginning of a shot of him, standing at the end of my drive. The angle was high, as if the camera was right at eye level.

  ‘Watch,’ Preston said, and hit play.

  On the small mobile screen, I saw myself come to life, arms crossed, anger etched on my face.

  ‘You can’t stop me!’ George’s voice shouted.

  The day he had come to the house, wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day.

  I heard my own voice, a growl of warning. ‘On my property, I can.’

  The camera trying to jostle past, then I watched myself reach a hand out and give George a shove back onto the pavement, a tiny oof captured by the microphone. The image jerked, wobbled, came back to the centre as George recovered his balance.

  His voice louder now, full of indignation. ‘That’s assault,’ he said.

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘You assaulted me. You attacked me.’

  Me shaking my head, saying, ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘That’s common assault, you put your hands on me and intentionally inflicted unlawful force. I did a year of law and my father is a QC, actually. You can get six months’ jail time for that.’

  I remembered abruptly what I had said next, borne of frustration more than anything, a bone-deep annoyance that George just didn’t seem to get the message that he was not wanted. I braced myself against my own words, realising this was the reason – the real reason – the police had come to my door.

  On the little screen, I watched myself saying, ‘I didn’t assault, you – but I will, if you don’t leave Abbie alone.’

  ‘Is that a threat? Are you threatening me?’

  ‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘Just go, you’re embarrassing yourself.’

  ‘You threatened to beat me up.’ George stood his ground, a few paces back. ‘I’m going to stay right here, until you let me talk to Abbie. You know, I should have reported you to the police for what you did before.’

  The detective stopped the video, dragged it back twenty seconds, and restarted it as George was in full flow.

  ‘. . . a QC, actually. You can get six months’ jail time for that.’

  ‘I didn’t assault, you – but I will, if you don’t leave Abbie alone.’

  Preston paused the video again, the freeze frame capturing my face dark with anger.

  ‘Do you remember that exchange?’ the detective said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I assume you didn’t know he was recording it?’

  ‘Why on earth would he have recorded something like that?’

  ‘Perhaps he was concerned about your propensity towards violence.’

  ‘I don’t have a propensity to—’

  ‘Which seems justified by the contents of this video, I would say.’ He indicated his phone, my angry face still visible. ‘After this incident, when was the next time you had contact with Mr Fitzgerald?’

  I paused, cleared my throat. ‘He came back once more after that.’

  ‘You parted on good terms?’

  ‘Yes.’ My head was starting to throb. ‘We did, actually.’

  ‘Even though you said you might attack him?’

  ‘I apologised afterwards, agreed to pass on a letter that he’d written to my daughter. He said he wanted to re-establish contact.’

  ‘There’s no apology in this sequence.’

  ‘He must have edited that bit out.’

  ‘Right.’

  I scrambled to remember what else might have been edited out of this conversation. We had parted on better terms, I had offered to pass on the letter to Abbie, had told George about Abbie’s charity fundraising, I had—

  I had tried to put George back in play to provoke a reaction out of Ryan.

  ‘You should talk to Ryan, too,’ I said, trying to keep my voice level. ‘My son-in-law.’

  ‘We talked to Mr Wilson this morning, he was very helpful. Anyone else you think can shed light on Mr Fitzgerald’s whereabouts?’

  I made a pretence of thinking for a moment, before shaking my head. ‘No one else comes to mind.’

  Preston began gathering up his things, phone, notebook, pen, and putting them back in his bag. He paused for a moment, his palms on his knees, his eyes on me, sharp and cold as shards of granite.

  ‘Do you know where Mr Fitzgerald is, Ed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know if he’s come to some kind of harm?’

  ‘I honestly have no idea.’

  ‘The thing is though, Ed,’ he said, standing up. ‘This video was recorded less than a week before Mr Fitzgerald disappeared. It’s clear evidence of intent to commit assault, at the very least. And in my experience this kind of thing can escalate quickly, get out of hand if you know what I mean? An over-protective father, an ex-boyfriend who won’t take no for an answer, the stress of an imminent wedding, sometimes things happen that you don’t intend. Especially when it’s your own flesh and blood you’re protecting. So you see my problem, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘I suppose I do.’

  47

  I went down into the cellar, stooping over the tool shelf to find what I needed. I kept a crowbar down here: solid, rolled steel, curving around into a hook at the top, heavy enough to do serious damage. It was better to be prepared, better to have something to fall back on. And besides, it wasn’t about using it – this was about the threat, about the deterrent effect. It was what the weapon represented, I told myself. But the crowbar wasn’t in its usual place on the shelf. Did I lend it to Jason? I opened my toolbox instead, hefting a hammer in my hand. Not as heavy but more portable.

  It was better to be prepared. I closed the toolbox and took the hammer up to the kitchen.

  Saturday night, and I was getting ready.

  I laid the hammer on the kitchen table alongside my other kit, my lists, my maps, iPad, rucksack and walking jacket. I’d spent the day gathering what I needed. Now I just needed to check whether Ryan ever invited Abbie to go with him on the second Sunday of the month. I rang her, listened as it went to voicemail. I knew she was home, so assumed she was screening me. I’d tried to call her after the police visit as well, because I knew she’d be upset about George, but she hadn’t picked up then either. I left another message asking her to call me back, waited fifteen minutes, and when there was no response sent her a text instead.

  Hi Abs hope you’re OK. Got time for a quick chat? Just wondering if you’re around on Sunday. x

  I’d laid out the rest of my kit on the kitchen table before she replied.

  Busy sorry x

  I tried to make the text sound casual.

  Ok. You out with Ryan? X

  No, got loads of marking to do x

  You’re not going to Manchester with him? X

  She stopped answering my texts then.

  But at least I had confirmed that Ryan would be going alone.

  I did another Google search on Edale to see what else I could find out about the place. It seemed to be popular with walkers and hikers, lying near to Mam Tor and Kinder Scout, with miles of wild moorland once
you climbed up from the valley floor. It was in an area called the Dark Peak, the higher and wilder part of the Peak District, mostly in Derbyshire but extending into five other counties and the margins of Greater Manchester. Unpredictable weather conditions can make the high moors a hazard for the unprepared.

  I searched my memory but couldn’t remember ever going there before. I’d been to Chatsworth and Bakewell, which were both nearby, but never as far north as Edale. I found an old pair of binoculars on the top of the wardrobe, blew the dust off them and packed them in my rucksack. I had no proper camera, but there was a 12x zoom on my phone and it would take pretty good pictures at a distance, as long as there was a decent amount of light.

  I dug my walking boots out of the back of the wardrobe and laid out my clothes, cargo trousers with lots of pockets, T-shirt plus two more layers that I could take off if I got too hot, dark green waterproof, sunglasses and a black wool beanie cap that would make me a little more anonymous. I unplugged my phone, checked the battery was fully charged, and composed a text to Claire that I could send in the morning before I set off.

  Going up to north Derbyshire. Back this evening x

  Imagining her response, knowing I wasn’t much of a walker.

  Why? You OK? X

  And then what would I say?

  All fine, just going to spend the day stalking our son-in-law. LOL x

  I deleted the message, wrote it again. Something shorter, just to let her know where I was going. But she’d still want to know why.

  Remembering her angry words a few days ago, I deleted the text again, putting the phone back in my pocket. Maybe it would be better if she didn’t know what was happening until there was something to tell her.

  But I needed some insurance. The hammer was too difficult to hide, it might be useful to keep in my backpack for an emergency but it was too big to keep close at hand. My eye fell on something hanging from the kitchen noticeboard: an old sheath knife that I’d got years back on a family holiday to America. A last-minute gift/souvenir from Abbie who sometimes forgot that I had an August birthday until after we’d left the UK. A four-inch blade with a smooth wooden handle, Grand Canyon engraved on one side, #1 Dad on the other.