by Adele Parks
The sex was not tepid. It was technically perfect. Ideally, Fiona would have liked more kissing, a little foreplay perhaps and she’d have liked to have been lying down. Clothes off. But she couldn’t complain because her screaming orgasm was real. She’d faked hundreds in her lifetime, even when there had been kissing, foreplay, a bed. So it was crazy to feel disappointed when she came bent over the kitchen table. Besides, the important thing was that there would be follow-up, an actual date, with conversation and a chance. He said, ‘See you again,’ as she left. She hung on to that.
There have been three more encounters since then. Four including last night. It doesn’t sound many, Fiona concedes, not over five months, but there was messaging too, phone calls, pictures. He likes her to send pictures. She can’t say they’ve dated exactly, not in a traditional sense. They haven’t ever visited a restaurant, or the theatre or even the cinema. But on two occasions, afterwards, Daan ordered food to be delivered (Thai), and last night, afterwards, they went to a local bar (and then back to his apartment for a second round of sex). Things have been progressing.
But he has been married all along. She has been used. Daan is married to her best friend. It is such an enormously overwhelming fact to try to take in. Shocking. It has left her reeling.
Her missing best friend. The thought sends chills through Fiona’s body, flashes of panic seize her and almost paralyse her limbs. She feels heavy and stupid one moment, energetic – almost raging – the next. She is not being rational. Staying over at Daan’s last night was a stupid risk. She hadn’t planned on staying but she had needed to see for herself how he was reacting to Leigh’s disappearance. Suspicion always fell on the husband. It was just a fact. Statistics. He looked terrible. Broken, splintered. Then he’d smiled at her in a way he’d never smiled at her before. As though she was the person he most wanted to see in the world. Although she couldn’t be, could she? Surely the person he most wanted to see in the world was Kai. He asked her in, it all seemed simple, normal; she didn’t feel frightened at all, even though anyone looking on might think she ought to be. Before she’d clapped eyes on him, she had been stretched with anxiety, aching with concern, apprehension, fear, but then he kissed her – she could taste the whisky he’d been drinking on his lips and all that melted away. He kissed over and over again, and she felt better. Quite simply that. Soothed. So she stayed.
This morning he looks completely different. There is no point in kidding herself. She couldn’t if she tried. It’s as though the scales have fallen from her eyes about everything, now she knows what deception her best friend is capable of. His eyes search her face, but not in a lust-dazed way, his eyes have a sadly all-too-familiar morning-after hardness. He wants to know when she will leave. Whether she will leave without a fuss. That look used to make Fiona feel ashamed, then it made her despair. Now, her despair has stiffened to something closer to resentment. She shouldn’t have slept with him. He doesn’t care about her. He does not see her as a girlfriend, a lover. Not even a mistress or a temptation. She means nothing to him. She leaves.
Without a fuss.
Like he wants.
Fiona doesn’t know how to tell Mark about her involvement with Daan. It is too weird, too much. She hadn’t asked to be in this position, she just found herself in it. Honestly, she had started to suspect Daan might be involved with someone else around Christmas time, their second hook-up. The suspicion hung about in the shadows of her mind. The infrequency of their dates, the way he never let her move around the flat; they fucked in the kitchen and then she’d leave. His casual, dismissive way with her was hard to ignore completely and especially during the season when everyone was supposed to be merry and bright. She hadn’t wanted to confront him. Like a child, she thought if she ignored her problem, it might go away. How could she have imagined who his wife was? She could never have imagined her best friend was married to two men. Who did that?
Fiona should have confessed to Mark that she already knows Daan. Now she has complicated things by promising she will find out more about him and report back. She is getting herself into hot water. If Leigh has taught her anything, it is that lying is not the answer. Fiona should try to avoid that as much as possible, she should tell the truth when she can. Obviously, there was no real need for Fiona to go to Daan’s to find out more about him. She was already able to tell Mark that Daan is affluent, charming, accomplished, that when he speaks to you it is as though a spotlight is being shone on you and you are stood on the stage at Carnegie Hall. Established, important, spectacular. Had Leigh felt that? Of course, she must have. She had been his leading lady for years. And Fiona? Well, Fiona had been nothing more than a chorus girl, no matter what she might have once believed or hoped.
Daan has been a delicious secret that she has nursed for five months now. A secret that she brings out whenever she is alone, to be examined gently, carefully. Furtively. She’s never spoken to Leigh about him. She has wanted to, on about a hundred occasions. She wonders now what would have happened if she had. Imagine if she had mentioned that she was dating a rich Dutchman, would Leigh have blanched? If Fiona had photos of Daan, and had shared them with her best friend, would Leigh have broken down? Confessed? Fiona doesn’t have photos of Daan though, the photos only went one way between them and there were no occasions when it would have seemed reasonable to take a couple shot.
Fiona had not mentioned Daan to Leigh when they first hooked up because she knew Leigh would have been dismissive, even supercilious. If Fiona had confided the details of her relationship with her friend, Leigh would have insisted on saying that Fiona was nothing more than a booty call and heading for trouble. Fiona knew Leigh would have concluded that her rich mystery man was probably involved with someone else because, in truth, all the indicators were there. Leigh had done that before. She believed in tough love and never had any problem with telling Fiona if her lovers were losers or likeable. She didn’t hold back.
Fiona had always struggled with Leigh’s brutal dismissals of her romantic involvements. It was humiliating, patronising. Leigh seemed a bit smug; she clearly enjoyed playing the happy wife, able to dole out advice, offer guidance to her hapless single friend. Fiona used to have to bite her tongue. She wanted to demand, ‘What do you know about it? Dating has changed since you met Mark.’ But she didn’t, because whilst part of her felt belittled, hurt, another part of her hoped Leigh did know more than her, and might somehow magically guide her to the happily ever after. But it has turned out that Leigh was a liar, a cheat. She really was only playing being the happy wife. Leigh was far from the perfect wife and mother, the perfect friend that she portrayed. She had no right to offer advice. Her life was a sham, a fraud. She had caused so much pain and confusion.
How could Leigh do what she had done and not tell Fiona? They were supposed to be best friends. All those years. All those lies. To think Fiona had felt bad about keeping quiet about her thing with Daan for a few months. Sleeping with a man who she suspected was involved with someone else was hardly a moral crime in comparison. She hadn’t even planned to keep quiet about that forever, only until whatever they had was a bit more established. Just until it was robust enough to withstand Leigh’s scepticism and scorn.
Daan. What is she supposed to think about him now? Having sex with him, actually sleeping with him last night was a mistake, it has clouded her judgement again. Stopping over was so much more intimate than a hook-up. She now knew what his breath smelt like in the morning (annoyingly still attractive), it had been something else feeling his warm, rhythmic breath on her neck as he slept.
Still, she has to look at the facts. Daan isn’t a faithful husband. Should she tell the DC that? Is it relevant? She doesn’t want to be drawn into this quagmire. But if it helps the police build a profile of Daan then she probably should tell.
One thing Fiona is clear on is that it is essential Mark does not meet Daan. What Mark is dealing with is monumentally painful, confusing and cruel. She understands – more th
an anyone – how viciously hurt he must be. Her pain is tearing her into pieces, what might Mark’s pain destroy? If anything kicked off between the two men, it would just add to the misery.
Fiona does not go straight back to Mark’s. She needs some time to think about what to do next. She calls him, says she’ll pop over later this afternoon, or early evening. She buys some more groceries, noting the shelves look like the mouth of a seven-year-old who has lost baby teeth, black gaps stand stark. Fiona feels a swell of impatience at people’s selfishness. There would be enough to go around if no one hogged more than they needed. She does a few errands, returns home for a shower and, even though it’s a Sunday, she calls her boss to confirm she’ll be continuing to work from home for the foreseeable future. Her boss is flexible, less interested in the tragedy of her missing best friend than she would be in normal circumstances because a lockdown of the city seems imminent. It’s all anybody is thinking and talking about. Hospitals are being prepared for an influx of patients, the police are being drilled for potential rioting and looting. All resources are being redirected that way.
‘Stay safe, yeah?’ says her boss. It is said with self-consciousness but sincerity.
Fiona feels her stomach contract with anxiety. What will a locked-down city mean for Leigh? She knows she has one more call to make. Yes, obviously being unfaithful is a long way away from being someone who might hurt his wife. Fiona isn’t saying Daan is capable of that, she’ll leave that decision up to the police. All she can do is give them the information she has.
34
DC Clements
Sunday 22nd March
Despite the alert that was issued on Thursday, no members of the public have reported a sighting of Leigh Gillingham. Not one. This is unusual. Pre-Coronavirus the general public seemed to be much more interested in missing people. Whether their concern was genuine or because they are busybodies who believe they can do the job better than the police Clements can’t be sure, however routinely someone – many someones – would have called in a sighting, which may or may not have checked out, but would have at least stopped Clements feeling like she was shouting down an empty chasm. Now, everyone up and down the country has problems of their own. Loo roll and pasta stockpiling has become the national hobby. People, bloated with suspicion, skirt around one another, unwilling to look another being in the eye. Maybe this is the reason no one has seen a forty-three-year-old, five-foot-seven brunette in black jeans and a camel-coloured coat, anywhere.
Kylie was last seen on Monday the sixteenth. It is Sunday the twenty-second. A week. Clements feels the pressure of the days dissolving in front of her. She feels cheated that they weren’t alerted to Kylie’s disappearance until four days after she’d vanished. A handicap. Clements and Tanner sit in the almost deserted station, poring over the facts, files, information and hunches; determined to wring every moment out of the time they have left on this investigation.
There isn’t a reward for information, which doesn’t help. Daan Janssen hasn’t offered to fund one, even though he is in a position to do so. Nor has Mark Fletcher, although coming up with the cash would presumably be more of a struggle for him. That said, Clements knows of cases where people have taken loans, mortgaged their houses, sold their cars to be able to offer rewards for information on their loved ones. Not that the police unilaterally encourage this, it can lead to all sorts of confusion and attract the wrong type of person coming forward with inaccurate information. Normally, the police have to spend time discussing the pros and cons of offering a reward. Normally, relatives are desperate and willing to try anything to bring their missing home. Even missing people that left mid-fight, mid-crisis, mid-trauma.
Normally.
Neither man has made posters to pin on notice boards of cafés, libraries or community centres. There are no laminated photocopies of a favoured photo of Leigh or Kai zip-tied to lampposts. Posters that beg passers-by for attention and help. Posters that rip at hearts, and as often or not, fade in the sun or smudge in the rain before they yield results. Neither man has nagged for a press conference, a radio appeal. As far as she is aware, they have not spent hours walking the streets in hope of spotting Kylie. It puzzles and bothers Clements that neither husband seems interested in following the usual patterns or protocols to help find the woman. Clements has known cats that have gone astray to cause more concern. Yes, the circumstances are unusual, and Kylie has clearly fallen from grace in both their eyes, but shouldn’t they care more? Frustrated, Clements voices her thoughts to Tanner. ‘Shouldn’t what they once had inflame if not concern, then at least curiosity as to her whereabouts? Shouldn’t they want to fight for her, to fight with her? If they loved her a week ago how could it all have vanished so instantly, so completely?’
‘Well, obviously their indifference indicates guilt, an involvement in her disappearance. Maybe they are not niggling for a thorough search because they don’t want it to be fruitful. Maybe they already know what happened to her.’
‘What – both of them?’
Tanner shrugs and grins, ‘You’re the one always saying keep an open mind, boss.’
So far, Clements has considered a number of theories including one or the other husband discovering the truth, perhaps threatening Kylie with exposure, with violence, and her running away afraid. Or, one or the other husband discovering the truth and hurting her, perhaps in a moment of fury, perhaps something planned.
She could have fled.
She could be dead.
It depends on how far either man might be prepared to go. Marital homicide is frighteningly common. Every week, two women in Britain die because of violence in their home. Every week. The person these women presumably loved and trusted most in the world – once upon a time – kills them. It is hard to believe in fairy tales in Clements’ line of work. There ought to be protests, banners, placards, marches, even riots. She’d understand riots, venting anger and frustration at that statistic. There are none of these things; there is silence and sometimes it feels like indifference.
Clements sighs and rubs the back of her neck. Rolls her head from left to right and back again to release tension; her neck cracks out a tune like a glockenspiel. She shouldn’t let herself think this way. She gets carried away. Frustrated by the enormity of the all-pervasive problems when really, she ought to concentrate on the micro level. Finding Kylie Gillingham won’t stop the relentless march of fear, or violence, or misogyny, but she might help one woman see her kids again.
‘I suppose, since there have been no sightings, no leads, we have to consider the theory most favoured within the station,’ says Tanner. He can’t hide his disappointment.
‘What, that neither of the husbands has hurt her, that neither of them was aware of her bigamy?’
‘Yup, that she has simply run away.’
‘Well, the stress and impossibility of carrying on two lives concurrently must be enormous,’ Clements admits. ‘Still, even if that is the case, it doesn’t mean she’s safe,’ she adds grimly. ‘What’s not to say someone else out there might not have brought her to harm? The world is full of violent, unstable, cruel men.’ For generations, since time began, men have picked up arms and picked a fight. They’ve chosen land, women, resources and various illusions of power that they’ve deemed excuse enough to savagely battle for. Clements wonders, is it in their DNA or an environment thing that leads to this constant vehement ferocity? And without armoured wars, for nebulous kings, that allowed sword wielding on battle fields, there seemed to be a few favoured outlets for that pugnacious anger: video games, fascism and hurting women. Considering the options, Clements thought video games provided a national service.
‘What if she hasn’t run away? And what if nobody has hurt her? What if it was all too much and she’s taken her own life?’
Clements scowls at Tanner. This thought depresses her the most. She has become hardened to many things, but not suicide. Dealing with suicide wrung her out, mangled her inside. The waste, the hope
lessness, the helplessness.
‘Well, you can never be one hundred per cent certain about who might take their own life, who might be so desperate to think that was the only way, but I don’t feel Kylie fits the profile. She is too heretical, too unconventional.’
‘But the best mate was right. Leigh Fletcher’s doctor has confirmed she was prescribed antidepressants.’
‘Yes, but a while ago and at a very low dose. She hadn’t renewed her prescription in months which suggested she didn’t feel the need for them anymore.’
‘Or maybe she had come off them too suddenly – that could create problems.’
Clements nods, it is a possibility. ‘But we’ve checked hospitals, refuges and the Jane Does in morgues. No sign.’
Tanner has been surprisingly keen and helpful in continuing to make enquiries for this case. Clements thought his interest might be pulled towards the totally novel prep for the pandemic, that’s where all the buzz is, but he has remained keen to help pursue the matter. Clements wants to think his diligence comes from a good place; she tries not to think that he is hopeful of finding a body. A body that would push this inquiry into something high profile and macabrely juicy. Still, even with his help, they are no closer to knowing where this woman has vanished to.
‘Thing is, Tanner, I’m no quitter, but I’m beginning to wonder, should we simply accept that Kylie Gillingham is a woman who tends to do things in her own inimitable way? Maybe she doesn’t want to be found and maybe she’s right to have come to that decision, considering both men have given up on her so easily. It is unsettling.’
Just as Clements is thinking no one has anything else to add to Kylie Gillingham’s story – that maybe she will have to let it lie as everyone seems to want her to do – there are two phone calls, almost back-to-back, that allow her to keep the lighthouse lamp lit. First, Fiona Phillipson calls to say she has had sex with Daan Janssen. Clements is open-minded, it is helpful in her line of work and as she always doubts the fidelity of incredibly hot men, she isn’t shocked or judgemental when she hears this confession. She is curious, though. When? Where? How often? She doesn’t need to ask why. She’s met him twice.
