The Missing Marriage

by Sarah May

  ‘That was a children’s home when I was growing up,’ Anna said pointing to the detached red brick house on the corner of Parkview that they’d passed earlier. ‘The kids from there used to run wild.’

  Martha looked up at the house.

  ‘I think it was an end of the line place for the kids who got passed around until there was nowhere left, but there – St Jude’s hostel.’

  ‘Is that what it was called?’

  ‘No, it’s a joke – St Jude’s the patron saint of hopeless cases. There were never more than around ten children living there. I always remember this boy who was there for a year – he must have been twelve or something – and he only had half a head of hair. I always wondered about him – because of the hair.’

  They were on Parkview again – almost at number seventeen – when Martha said unexpectedly, ‘Mum hates the fact she comes from this place. Did you know she once –’ She stopped talking, looking up the street.

  Following the direction she was looking in, Anna saw – simultaneously – Inspector Laviolette outside number seventeen, and Laviolette’s car parked on the street behind her Capri.

  ‘Anna,’ he called out, seeing her.

  They walked up to him, Martha holding onto Anna, clearly upset.

  ‘Don’t worry – nothing to report. I’ve been touching base with your grandparents following the appeal.’

  He gave Martha a thin, bright smile. Then he turned to Anna. ‘Been out for a walk?’

  Before she had a chance to respond, he jerked his head in the direction of number nineteen, and said, ‘How are things?’

  ‘Much worse.’

  All three of them hesitated, waiting for someone to say something, when Don – who was standing on the doorstep drying his hands on a tea towel – said, ‘Are you coming in, Martha?’

  There was nothing to say after that and Anna watched as Laviolette got into his car and Martha disappeared inside number seventeen.

  Once Martha had gone, Anna walked over to the Inspector’s car.

  He wound down the window. ‘Are you okay?’ He’d already asked her this, but there was an intimacy to it second time round that unnerved her.

  ‘I need to ask you something. It doesn’t seem right –’

  ‘What doesn’t seem right?’

  ‘You being assigned this case – with the history between you and the Deane family and Jamie Deane on probation now.’

  ‘Who’ve you been talking to?’

  ‘It isn’t right.’

  ‘It isn’t right,’ he agreed. ‘That’s why I’ve been assigned this case.’

  ‘Enemies?’

  ‘Enemies,’ he repeated.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She paused. ‘And you know that Jamie’s attempted to contact Laura – are you worried?’

  Laviolette sighed. ‘I don’t know. I’m inclined to think that Laura’s done more harm to Jamie than he could ever do to her – or any of the other Deanes for that matter.’

  He left her standing on the pavement next to the spot where his car had been parked.

  Laura Deane was standing with her arms folded inside a long cashmere cardigan, staring absentmindedly through the salon window at Tynemouth Front Street. Sorrow suited her. She felt relatively calm, and there was a fruitful buzz coming from the salon behind her. People she worked with and people she knew had been coming in all morning. People had been kind, and she’d allowed herself to be visibly moved by their kindness, which people liked. It made them feel as if they were getting something for their sympathy.

  She glanced down at her hands – manicured by Liz that morning – which so many people had taken hold of and held. The scent of so many differently perfumed embraces rose from the threads of her cashmere cardigan where they’d been temporarily trapped, released by the movement of her arms as they fell suddenly to her side.

  A white transit van with Reeves Regeneration on the side had pulled up on the kerb opposite – right next to the bus stop. The door opened and Jamie Deane stepped down into the road, oblivious to the lunch time traffic. Grinning, he held up a copy of The Journal with Bryan’s picture on the front. Laura could see the red of Bryan’s T-shirt from where she was standing.

  Aware that Kirsty on reception had also noticed him, Laura said, ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Some nutter. D’you want me to call the police?’

  Laura didn’t answer, and they both carried on watching as Jamie got back into the van, yelling something at a man in a blue car who’d sounded his horn at him.

  Mo’s daughter, Leanne, stared sullenly at Laviolette as he pushed the bacon, eggs, loaf of bread and butter across the counter, smiling patiently at her as she counted the handful of change he gave her. He continued to smile as she dropped most of it on the counter and started counting again, the shop lighting bouncing harshly off her carefully oiled hair, pulled back in a bunch.

  ‘All there?’ he said.

  She nodded, slammed the till drawer shut and watched him leave the shop, get back in his car and drive away.

  Then she called Jamie, who didn’t pick up. She remained sunk heavily over the counter, lost in admiration at the stars that had been airbrushed onto her nails.

  When her phone started ringing, she grabbed at it.

  ‘What is it?’ Jamie demanded.

  ‘That copper’s just been in here,’ she said, enjoying herself. ‘The one who came to see your dad that time.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Leanne ran her tongue quickly over the nails on her forefinger. ‘He just bought some stuff – bread, bacon –’

  Jamie cut her off. ‘I don’t give a fuck about his shopping list – where’d he go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well go and see if his car’s parked outside dad’s you dumb fuck – then phone me back.’

  *

  Laviolette pulled up outside number eight Armstrong Crescent, watched through nets by Mrs Harris at number six, and Leanne – under instructions from Jamie Deane – from the fire exit at the back of the shop.

  He knocked on Bobby Deane’s door and waited, turning instinctively round to see Leanne – across the green at the back of the shop – staring at him. He waved, and she disappeared. Then the front door to Bobby’s bungalow opened.

  For a moment Bobby’s eyes rested with intent on the Inspector, as his mind sought out Laviolette. Then he gave up. He was holding a copy of The Journal in his hand with Bryan’s picture on the front.

  Laviolette held up the bag of food.

  ‘What’s that?’ Bobby asked, not really interested.

  ‘Lunch.’

  Bobby thought about this. ‘Are you Meals on Wheels? Did you come yesterday?’

  Laviolette hesitated then nodded.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Bobby said, still unconvinced, his eyes on the bag as the Inspector walked past him, into his house.

  ‘Can I go through to the kitchen?’ Laviolette asked.

  Bobby nodded and followed him.

  The kitchen felt cleaner than it had last time, and there were no signs of Jamie’s Methadrone production line.

  ‘D’you remember me?’ the Inspector asked.

  Bobby shook his head. ‘What’s in the bag?’

  ‘Bacon – eggs. Have you got a frying pan?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘D’you mind if I look for one?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Laviolette started opening cupboards at random until he found a pan in the one under the sink along with a couple of Pyrex dishes, some plates, a plastic jug, stainless steel toast rack, six egg cups, a pair of scales, and an old Happy Meal toy. There was also a basket of cleaning fluids.

  The pan had once been non-stick and smelt strongly of the countless cans of soup that had been heated in it.

  Bobby remained in the kitchen doorway and watched as Laviolette fried the bacon, with difficulty, in the small pan. ‘The food used to come in tin foil trays.’ He paused. ‘You wore a
red sweater with words on it.’

  ‘Well this smells better than any ready meal, doesn’t it?’ he said to Bobby, who didn’t respond.

  He was wearing slippers today, Laviolette noted, and no coat, and hadn’t referred to the fact that his son’s photograph was on the front of the newspaper he was holding.

  Laviolette finished cooking the bacon, putting it on a Pyrex dish in the oven to keep it warm, and decided to scramble the eggs he’d bought. There only seemed to be one set of crockery so Laviolette put his food on the dish he’d been keeping the bacon warm on then took everything through to the lounge followed by Bobby, who stood at a loss in the centre of the room, his eyes on the steaming food.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down in your armchair?’

  Bobby shuffled over to the armchair and Laviolette put the plate of food in his lap, pulling The Journal gently out of his hands.

  ‘You’ve got it?’

  Bobby nodded and sat holding the plate, staring en raptured at the food.

  ‘It feels hot.’

  ‘It’s not too hot, is it?’

  ‘No – no.’

  Laviolette disappeared back into the kitchen to get some cutlery for them both then, sitting down on the microwave he’d sat on during his last visit, they started to eat in silence, Bobby staring at a fixed point on the floor as he chewed.

  ‘You’re eating as well?’ he asked after a while.

  ‘Is that okay?’

  Bobby nodded, and carried on eating – almost shyly now.

  Laviolette waited until they’d finished before picking up the newspaper Bobby had been holding.

  ‘This looks like Bryan,’ he said, sounding surprised. He wanted to get Bobby’s attention without agitating him. ‘Doesn’t this look like your Bryan?’

  Bobby stared over his empty plate at the photograph of his son, smiling under foreign skies.

  ‘Bryan,’ he said, giving Laviolette his plate and taking the newspaper off him. ‘Bryan,’ he said again, looking hard at the picture – in the same way he had looked at Laviolette earlier. ‘That’s not Bryan,’ he concluded.

  ‘It is Bryan,’ Laviolette insisted, gently. ‘He’s gone missing – that’s why he’s in the papers. We’re trying to look for him.’ Laviolette started to read the piece out loud and after a while Bobby pulled it out of his hands, excited, staring at the photograph – suddenly absorbed by it.

  He was about to say something when Laviolette heard the front door opening, and stood up thinking it must be Jamie Deane.

  ‘That’s not Bryan. He’s far too old,’ Bobby was saying. ‘Bryan’s only fourteen,’ he concluded, triumphant as Mary Faust walked into the bungalow’s lounge, staring from Laviolette to Bobby, shocked. ‘And he’s not missing, he’s been round at Mary’s all afternoon. You ask Mary – she’ll tell you,’ Bobby carried on, excited. ‘Tell him, Mary,’ Bobby commanded, not at all surprised to see her standing there.

  ‘Mrs Faust,’ Laviolette said, taking in the keys she was holding in her hand still.

  ‘I’ve come round to check on him,’ she said, awkwardly, her eyes on the plates. ‘You made lunch?’

  Laviolette nodded. ‘I wanted to talk to Bobby about Bryan – Bryan being in the papers. We’ve been talking about Bryan, haven’t we Bobby?’

  Ignoring this, his eyes on Mary, Bobby said, ‘Tell him about Bryan.’

  Mary turned obediently to the Inspector. ‘Bryan’s been with me all afternoon,’ she said, uncomfortable.

  Laviolette stared at her, puzzled, and before he had time to say anything, she picked up the plates and took them through to the kitchen, staring at the sink as it filled with water.

  He watched her wash and dry the dishes in silence, stacking them on the kitchen surface – until Bobby appeared, suddenly anxious, holding the newspaper still.

  ‘Rachel loved Bryan. She loved him best out of all of us, and that’s why he took it so hard when she . . . when she . . .’

  ‘You loved her didn’t you Bobby?’ Laviolette said, suddenly overwhelmed by this fact. ‘You loved your wife very much.’

  Bobby was panting in short sharp rapid breaths that made Laviolette worry he was about to have a heart attack.

  ‘Stop it,’ Mary said forcefully, drying her hands on the tea towel. ‘He’s not well.’

  ‘No, he isn’t well. He needs round the clock care.’

  ‘I try to come at least once a week, but it’s difficult with Erwin ill,’ Mary said helplessly.

  ‘He needs professional care.’

  ‘I’ve tried talking to Don and Doreen about it, but he’s not really their responsibility. I can’t do any more. Family matters are private, but – look at him.’ Mary’s face was crumpling.

  ‘Who are you?’ Bobby asked her suddenly, interested.

  ‘A friend, Bobby,’ Mary said, close to tears. ‘A friend.’

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ Laviolette said, taking hold of Mary’s hand. ‘And if he says anything at all – about Bryan – I need you to phone me. Anna’s got my number. And I’m sorry for your troubles,’ he finished ambiguously.

  When he left the bungalow, Mrs Harris from next door was waiting for him. ‘So that’s what it was about – the other day. Bryan Deane’s gone missing,’ she concluded, triumphantly, before the thin smile slid sideways off her face. ‘Or he’s on a beach in Spain somewhere.’

  Laviolette watched her thoughtfully for a moment before nodding, and taking his leave of Mrs Harris – who remained in her front garden, arms folded, virtually motionless, until Jamie Deane’s van pulled up fifteen minutes later.

  When he got home Mrs Kelly and Harvey were out at a yoga class Harvey was responding well to – becoming something of a class pet – run by a friend of Mrs Kelly’s who had recently qualified as an Yyvengar yoga instructor.

  Laviolette went straight up to his study, thinking about Mary Faust and Bobby Deane, and what Bobby had said about Bryan being round at Mary’s. He thought about phoning Anna, but what was she going to confirm that he hadn’t seen with his own eyes – Mary Faust’s husband was dying of cancer and she still found the time to visit Bobby Deane. There must have been something between them once.

  It was difficult to follow Bobby because time was no longer linear for him: his magnetic fields were constantly shifting and the North Pole could turn up any time, any place. It was only now, Laviolette realised, that when Bobby – insistent, almost irate – had said that Bryan was with Mary, that he was talking about the afternoon of 7th August 1987. He’d completely forgotten that Mary Faust was Bryan’s alibi: Bryan had been with Mary the afternoon his brother, Jamie, beat a man half to death and then set fire to him. Mary was Bryan’s alibi: Bryan spent that afternoon in the garden at number nineteen Parkview, drawing insects.

  He found the interview tape he was looking for and was soon listening to Mary Faust’s voice, dry, uncertain, wanting to be helpful.

  He’d listened to the tape before, but only a couple of times – not like the Jamie Deane tapes that he virtually knew by heart.

  Mary, nervous under the circumstances, but sensing that the environment wasn’t hostile to her, went into some vague, unnecessary appraisal of Bryan’s skills as a draughtsman.

  ‘Was there anybody else with you yesterday afternoon, Mary?’

  Gently asked by Jim Cornish.

  Hesitation on Mary’s part then, ‘No. Just me – and Bryan.’

  The interview was short because Inspector Jim Cornish wasn’t interested in Mary Faust – the questions he asked were barely rudimentary – and he wasn’t interested in Bryan Deane either. Inspector Jim Cornish had made up his mind and Jamie Dean, he decided, was guilty, for all sorts of reasons his brain was linking rapidly and at random ranging from Bobby Deane’s role in the Strike to the fact that Jamie Deane had two records for GBH.

  Laviolette rewound the ten minutes’ worth of interview he’d just listened to, playing it again.

  It was so simple he’d overlooked it, but listening to the tape now,
he realised that Mary Faust was lying – why and about what, he wasn’t sure, but she was definitely lying.

  Cornish would have sensed it, deep down, which was why he hadn’t probed. She was vague about the time she finished her shift at the Welwyn, but by then Jim was too worked up to uncover anything other than the statements he’d decided in advance he wanted to uncover. The overriding force at work in all the interviews and interrogations was Jim’s need to indict Jamie Deane. Failing that, he probably would have pushed for Bobby Deane, but Bobby Deane had been hundreds of metres underground that day with about twenty alibis and even Jim Cornish might have had trouble buying twenty alibis – not that he could have bought any of those men. So he went all out for Jamie Deane.

  Laviolette heard noises lower down in the house – cupboard doors banging, voices, the TV . . . Mrs Kelly and Harvey were back from yoga.

  Mrs Kelly called out, ‘Hello?’

  He got up and opened the door to the study.

  ‘Alright, Mrs Kelly?’ he called down the stairs.

  From where he was standing in the doorway, he could see the top of her hair – there was a one inch crown of grey where the dye was growing out. For the first time, he wondered whether Mrs Kelly – who had intimated to him in the past that she spent a lot of money on the upkeep of her hair – got her hair done at Laura Deane’s place, Starz Salon, on Front Street.

  ‘You’re home,’ she said, turning her face up towards him. ‘D’you want me to bring you a cup of tea up?’

  ‘It’s okay – I’ll come down. I’m only going to be a few minutes more.’

  She nodded and disappeared.

  He remained in the doorway, listening to her tread on the stairs as she descended back down to ground level and Harvey.

  Then he went back into the study, but he was no longer thinking about Mary or Laura or Bobby or Bryan, he was thinking about Jim Cornish.

  Laviolette would never forget Jim Cornish in 1984, his face smashed with drink and laughter, saying to him, ‘You’re never thinking of joining up and putting yourself in uniform now in the middle of a strike with a scab for a dad, you daft bloody fuck.’

  Jim Cornish had his eye on him right from the start, and while Jim Cornish bothered a lot of people, Laviolette was the only one who made the mistake of letting it show.