She goes right up to the fireplace, in case she’s missing something, inspecting it at close quarters. Everything is as it should be. Just as advertised. Exactly as the website showed.
Except there are no photographs of Will.
Fifteen
Jo wraps her dressing gown around her, tying it at the waist. She didn’t sleep well. As she approaches the kitchen, she hears Spangle’s claws clacking on the tiles, scraping at the door with an eager whine as she goes in. ‘Hey, down boy,’ she says, catching him by the shoulders as he jumps up for a lick. ‘Steady… ooh, yes, and a good morning to you too.’ She manages to hold him still long enough to press her face into his neck, breathe in his scent. Even though he’s Suzanne’s dog, he’s some kind of comfort.
‘Maybe I’m wrong,’ she says, grateful to have two animals to justify talking to herself as she fills the kettle. ‘Maybe Will was never even here and I was just seeing what I wanted to see.’ Then, for the hundredth time, she pulls up the screenshots and examines them. He might have been missing for a year, but she hasn’t forgotten his face – his bright eyes, strong jaw, his perfect-shaped head that he always kept clean-shaven. There’s no mistaking him.
‘Have you seen this man?’ she says to Spangle and then Bonnie, as the cat sits on the windowsill staring out into the back garden. Spangle wipes his nose on the screen, almost as if he’s picking up a scent, but Bonnie just turns away, uninterested, a faint purr at the back of her throat.
‘It’s crazy, but you two probably know the answers to all the questions I need to ask. You’ve probably witnessed everything that would fill in the blanks in my life,’ she adds, spooning some instant coffee granules into a mug. The ‘actor’ mug still sits by the sink. Jo twists it round so she can’t read the words.
Last night, she discovered three bedrooms upstairs, deciding to sleep in the smallest one at the back of the house. It only has a single bed, but she couldn’t face sleeping in the double bed in Suzanne’s room. She only managed a few minutes in there, gazing round at the belongings – few and far between, and none looking as though they belonged to a man. Suzanne had laid out fresh towels on the clean duvet with a note saying ‘Welcome to my home’. Jo had left it undisturbed and headed for the landing, wanting somewhere else to sleep.
‘Odd,’ she’d said, discovering one of the other bedroom doors was locked. But then she realised it was likely where Suzanne kept her valuables. She would do the same with strangers coming and going. So that only left the rear bedroom. And a fitful night of sleep after she’d given Spangle a quick run down the lane.
‘Right, you two,’ Jo says, ‘let’s get you sorted.’ In the utility room, she mixes up a large stainless steel bowl of dog meat and biscuits, following the quantities written out on a chart taped to the cupboard. Then she empties a sachet of food for Bonnie. ‘Feed separately’, the note states, and Jo can see why when Spangle gulps his breakfast down in only a few snaps of his mouth, while the cat pecks at hers.
After they’ve finished, she lets the cat outside and puts on her coat and boots before hooking the extending lead onto an overexcited Spangle’s collar. She grabs her phone and keys and heads out of the front door, squinting into the bright morning light. Then she stops, turns and leads Spangle back inside – the dog dragging his feet when he thinks the walk is aborted. ‘Just a minute, boy,’ Jo says, pushing the living room door open slightly, enough for her to see the mantelpiece. She just needs to check one more time.
Her shoulders drop. Still no Will.
She heads off down the lane with Spangle on a shortish lead while on the road, doing exactly what Simon suggested – allowing the dog to follow its nose. They pass through the village – almost picture-postcard perfect with a mix of black-and-white timbered houses as well as stone and red-brick places, some with dark-stained timber cladding, traditional in the area. As they approach the centre of the village, Jo sees the church – more austere than the other buildings and clearly very ancient. Opposite is the pub, the place that Simon mentioned yesterday. Mainly stone with a red pantile roof, a gnarled wisteria winds its way along the front of the building, half obscuring the sign.
‘The Crown,’ Jo says to herself, slowing. Perhaps I’ll go in for an early supper one evening, she thinks, seeing they allow dogs. Right on cue, Spangle gives an excited bark, looking across at the place and wagging his tail excitedly.
‘Do you go in there, boy?’ she asks, imagining Suzanne and Will strolling down here arm in arm on a Sunday lunchtime, having a lazy roast dinner with Spangle at their feet before heading back to Suzanne’s cosy place. She shudders, seeing the blackboard menu outside – ‘Roast beef with all the trimmings’ – and a sign advertising the pool match that Simon also mentioned. ‘Quiz night Sunday 8 p.m.,’ Jo reads from another board. She shakes her head and walks on. Things like that aren’t for her. Not any more.
After a few more houses and a couple of lanes – Church Hill, Battle Lane – Jo finds herself out in open countryside. For the first time in what seems like an age, she feels warmth in the sun, even though it’s not yet 8 a.m. The hedgerows are greening up and the last of the cherry blossoms are still out, with rabbits darting across the fields as well as in front of them on the lane, making Spangle strain on his lead. His tongue lolls out of this mouth as he eagerly pushes on.
‘You want to go up there?’ Jo says, noticing how he has veered into a gateway. There’s a public footpath sign, so Jo follows him, deciding the dog knows best. She sees the steep incline beyond, the path winding up around the side of a grassy field before disappearing into a wooded copse. She reckons the views from up there will be worth it as she squeezes through the kissing gate, allowing Spangle to weave through first.
By the time they reach the top, Jo is puffing and her thighs are aching. Her cheeks smart from the breeze. She’s not let Spangle off the lead yet, partly in case there are still lambs in nearby fields but also because she’s not certain the dog won’t simply run off. She’s not his owner, after all. But she allows him plenty of freedom to run on a long lead. At the top of the hill, before the path disappears into the thicket of trees, Jo stops to catch her breath, turning round to take in the scenery.
‘Wow,’ she says, just able to see the coast in the distance. A patchwork of fields spreads out before her in varying shades of green and brown, with hamlets, villages and farms scattered across the quilt of the land. She wonders if Will is somewhere down there, within sight, yet out of sight too.
She feels tears stinging her eyes, but manages to blink them back as Spangle bounds up to her, letting out a whine as she drops to a squat. He presses up against her and Jo puts a hand on his back, pulling him closer – anything to feel the warmth of another living thing.
‘You know what, dog?’ she says, wiping her fingers under her eyes, determined not to cry. ‘I feel less alone up here with you than I have the entire last year surrounded by people.’ Even caring people, she thinks, mainly about Louise. Her friend has done everything to help her – from cooking and shopping, offering money without the need to repay, a bed for the night, a social life and now, it seems, matchmaking. She’s done everything except move in with her. But, as well intentioned as Louise is, none of these things really helps. None of these things has brought Will back.
She drops down onto the grass, not minding if the wet soaks through her jeans. Spangle makes another deep whine and rests his chin on her bent knees, looking into her eyes as if he understands everything behind them. Jo laughs through a sniff, giving his silky ears a good stroke.
‘That day…’ she says, her words carried away on the wind. ‘If only I’d known back then that almost a year later I’d still be looking for him.’ She shakes her head in disbelief, hoping the view will ground her. ‘I’d only ever tell you this, Spangle, but there was a point a few weeks before Will disappeared when I thought things couldn’t get any worse. But they did. Oh how they did. And I’m the one left wondering what to do with that information, not knowing if the two things are co
nnected, if I should tell anyone… And if I do, then what?’
She fusses Spangle again, taking deep breaths to calm the welling anxiety. She stares into the dog’s huge, eager eyes. ‘I’m not sure I can keep it in any longer,’ she whispers. ‘The size of it… it’s like a tumour growing inside me, eating me up. But how can I tell anyone, let alone the police?’ She shakes her head.
She made a pact with Will that night. She can’t go back on her word.
‘Maybe we were both in shock,’ she tells Spangle. ‘Acted in panic. Hindsight is a great thing. But then time goes on and it becomes too late to change things, becomes a way of life, something you learn to live with. But how I’d have done things differently if I’d known Will was going to vanish into thin air.’
Jo stands then, brushing mud and grass off her legs. ‘Right, come on, Spangle. We can’t sit around here all day moping. Let’s get you worn out so I can get on with…’
Jo trails off, imagining herself rifling through Suzanne’s possessions, desperate for clues, desperate to find those photographs, desperate to prove that she isn’t going mad. That Will has been in Suzanne’s house. That he is still alive.
Sixteen
As she heads back to Hawthorn Lodge, Jo can’t help her mind wandering, switching from one painful memory to another as if her brain is torturing her. Thoughts of that night mixed up with the day Will disappeared, when the gravity of the situation was only just becoming apparent. Of course, she’d had to call her parents.
‘Oh, Mum,’ Jo had said, wanting nothing more than to fall into her mother’s arms as she opened the door. Usually her mother’s arrival, which was extremely rare, if not unheard of, sent knots of anxiety through her, but not now. She’d never needed her mum more and prayed she could rely on her, prayed she would put aside her judgements about Will. Apart from Will himself standing there when she answered the door (he’d left without his keys, after all), her mother was, sort of, the next best thing. Yet, deep down, she wasn’t comfortable with relying on her for anything, let alone emotional support. Their relationship had turned into something more businesslike over the years, rather than mother and daughter.
‘Darling,’ Elizabeth said, stepping inside, a pained expression set on her face as she gave her a cursory embrace. But that was nothing new. Jo’s father, Dennis, followed, giving his daughter a longer and tighter hug as he came inside, making a comforting grumbling sound in his throat.
‘Simply wretched of him, that’s what it is,’ her mother said, going into the small living room, hesitating before sitting down. ‘Where are the police? I thought they’d be here. Don’t they want to question us?’
‘Why on earth would they question you, Mum? You’ve chosen not to see Will since last summer.’ Jo couldn’t help the bitterness in her voice, which her mother would no doubt interpret as bitchy. But Will wasn’t there to defend himself. ‘I don’t think there’s anything you could say that would help find him. I’d rather the police were out looking than sitting here chatting to us.’
‘We could perhaps give them another angle to his character. It might help with all their profiling stuff. It’s amazing what they can work out these days, you know.’
‘What, you mean maligning him just because you hoped your daughter would marry a bank manager or stockbroker instead of an actor?’
‘He’s a schoolteacher, darling, let’s be real. At a comprehensive.’
‘Elizabeth…’ Dennis had said then, giving his wife a look. ‘We’re here to support Joanna, not dish out I-told-you-so’s.’ He sat down, sinking deep into the saggy sofa next to his wife.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ Jo had said then, preparing herself for more of the same as she explained what she knew so far, which was pretty much nothing. Her mother’s vitriol was the least of her worries back then.
Thanks, Dad… Jo thinks now as she walks up the driveway of Hawthorn Lodge, remembering how old she thought he’d looked that day. She’d never noticed it before. And back then, she also had no idea how she would age as the days turned into weeks and then months. As things stood, she had no idea how many years would go by before there was news.
Lack of sleep, the wrong food (or no food), too much wine to take away the pain, and cortisol levels through the roof from anxiety had all taken their toll. She can’t help the smile as she remembers the emergency hamper Louise brought round several months on from D-Day.
‘For you. Use them,’ she’d said in that Louise way of hers, tossing out the boxes and bottles and tubes onto Jo’s bed. ‘This is for your eye bags. This is for the eczema flare-ups. This will make your hair shine, guaranteed, and this is the ultimate night cream. Oh, and use this on your hands. It’s expensive. There’s a chance your skin will…’ She’d grabbed one of Jo’s hands then, studying the crepey texture. ‘Well, there’s a chance it might regenerate in time.’
Jo hadn’t had the energy to protest or defend herself, to say that really, until she knew what had happened to Will, her beauty regime (not that there was much of one in the first place) was not a priority. ‘Thanks, Lou, that’s so thoughtful.’
And she’d meant it.
‘Oh,’ Jo says, seeing the package on the doorstep, glancing back out onto the lane in case the delivery driver is still about, wondering if she should have signed for it. She hasn’t fully read through Suzanne’s email of instructions yet, but she thinks there was something mentioning a couple of deliveries over the next few days. She picks up the large, sealed plastic bag and takes it inside.
‘No, no, Spangle, no!’ She lunges at the living room door to close it but is too late – Spangle charges inside, tracking muddy paw marks over the rug. ‘Get down!’ Jo shrieks, making the dog freeze then bow his head. He gives a little whine before lying down on the white sofa, his wet tail thumping against the cream upholstery, leaving feathery lines of dirt on the fabric. ‘Oh, Spangle, you’re going to get me into trouble,’ Jo says, approaching him calmly. When she’s next to him, she scoops him up in her arms. It seems he’s quite happy to be held, even though he’s heavy and a little too big to be picked up.
Jo takes him to the utility room and gives him a good rub down, making sure he can’t get out of the kitchen. Then she stares at the grey package on the kitchen table. The wrapping has several large barcode stickers on it, with Suzanne’s address and a return address, plus some dirty scuff marks. She pokes it. There’s something soft yet substantial inside. Clothing, she suspects.
Open it, a voice says.
Jo glances up. Will, she says, feeling the relief wash through her.
You know you want to. His deep voice resonates through the kitchen as he leans against the worktop, head tilted, a mischievous look in his eyes.
‘I can’t,’ Jo says out loud. Spangle gives a quiet little bark, bouncing about at Jo’s feet, as if to say, Who are you talking to? ‘It’s not addressed to me.’ She picks up the package again and googles the website name on her phone. ‘Men’s clothing,’ she says, her heart suddenly thumping. She looks to Will for encouragement, for one last Open it, but he’s gone.
It only takes a moment to carefully peel back the sealed flap of the plastic bag, though some of it tears in the process. But it looks as though it will seal up again OK with some tape, and Jo can always blame Spangle, say he’d had a quick chew before she could stop him. She slides out the contents.
Two men’s shirts.
Her mouth goes dry as she reads the collar size – 16½ inches.
Will’s size.
Coincidence, that’s all, she thinks, hardly able to look at them. She can’t lie to herself – they’re exactly the type of shirt Will liked to wear to work. Not too formal, one striped grey and white, the other a deep blue. Both fitted and semi-casual.
‘Get a grip,’ she tells herself. ‘Simon mentioned Suzanne might have a new man in her life. They must be for him. It’s probably his birthday or something and she’s ordered him a gift, that’s all.’ She slides the plastic-wrapped shirts back into the bag and pr
esses down the seal again.
But what if her new man is Will?
Jo opens every drawer and every cupboard in the living room. It doesn’t take long. There’s a sideboard – painted in a faded antique white. The bottom cupboard is filled with all sorts of things, from magazines and old pamphlets, to board games, tablecloths and mats, some dusty old dried flowers with their stalks tied together, an old camcorder and a few DVDs and video cassettes. Nothing unusual, particularly, and no photographs or anything indicative of Will.
Then she goes through the wooden chest that sits between the two sofas as a table. More of the same – the type of bric-a-brac that wouldn’t look out of place at a car boot sale. She opens a couple of drawers in a small cabinet on the far wall and scans the tall bookshelf in case the photos have been tucked between some books. Nothing.
Where would I hide photos from the mantelpiece if I wanted them out of sight but not got rid of?
Jo peels back the rug in front of the fireplace, on every side so that the wooden boards beneath are exposed. No photographs. She removes a couple of prints from the wall in case Suzanne has tucked something behind, but there’s nothing. She looks underneath the sofas, behind the furniture, inside the curtain linings and even in the log burner to look for remnants in case Suzanne has burned them. Nothing. Anywhere.
‘OK, I need to either give up or find some other kind of proof that Will has been here or is linked to Suzanne. Or think completely differently,’ she whispers to herself, dropping down onto the sofa. Then she hears a noise followed by claws on the hallway tiles. ‘Spangle, how on earth did you open the kitchen door?’
The dog trots into the living room and slumps down at Jo’s feet. She can’t help grinning.
‘Before I do anything, though, I need to clean up that mess.’ She points to the muddy marks on the sofa beside her as Spangle thumps his tail on the floor. Guilty.
The Happy Couple: An absolutely unputdownable and gripping psychological thriller Page 9
