by T. M. Logan
And so I told him. From Thursday night until today, how it had all gone down—including Beth Delaney’s revelation in the pub yesterday and her husband being on the loose with one of his shotguns. Naylor listened to the whole sorry tale, nodding from time to time, his face impassive as Redford made notes alongside the form I recognized from Saturday, the statement I’d made to PC Khan. I told them everything as quickly as possible, trying to get it over with, and when the story was finished he gave me a moment before continuing.
“What we do with a missing persons case like this, Joe, is try to establish a timeline of a person’s movements and activities. We take the timeline as far as we can and see where it stops. Along with other information, that gives us a framework of facts to work with. These are the notes taken by PC Khan when he interviewed you and Mrs. Lynch on Saturday afternoon.” He turned pages in his folder, found the one he was looking for. “So before this morning at the country park, Thursday was definitely the last time you saw Ben?”
“Yes.”
“And how exactly did you part company? On friendly terms?”
“No.”
“Explain.”
“I reversed into his car. He wasn’t best pleased.”
Naylor tapped the page in front of him with a pencil. “Interesting.”
“I’m not proud of it.”
“Interesting, in that your wife said there was a bit more to it than that.”
A swooping, lurching sensation in my stomach.
Shit. The story we told Beth on Saturday.
“Oh?” was all I could manage.
“She told PC Khan that there was an argument. That Mr. Delaney ended up on the deck.”
“Erm. Yeah.” I could feel my face getting hot. “That’s what happened. I had to leave in a hurry to get my son’s inhaler because he was having an asthma attack. And when I went back to the hotel soon after, Ben had left.”
“You had a fight.”
“He hit me. I pushed him. It wasn’t really a fight.”
“Why didn’t you tell PC Khan that, Joe?”
I felt like I was ten years old again, standing in the headmaster’s office. At the same time, I was annoyed that Mel couldn’t have just stuck to the story we’d agreed.
“I’m sorry. I should have. But Ben’s wife came over on Saturday and was asking about him, so Mel gave her the story about the car to cover my back, and then I said the same thing to your colleague so Beth wouldn’t find out she’d lied.”
“I see,” Naylor said.
“All that’s by the by now, of course, after what happened yesterday.” I held my hands up. “I’m sorry. It was stupid. Stupid.”
“So she lied to Beth Delaney, and then you lied to a police officer.”
“She was trying to protect me. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Beth was upset, she was crying, I was going to tell her the truth, but then Mel jumped in with this story about me reversing into his Porsche. I thought she’d say the same to the policeman. All we were trying to do was help find Ben.”
“You thought she’d lie to the police for you?”
I could feel the sweat beneath my shirt. “No, that’s not what happened. She told the truth.”
“Or maybe both of you are lying.”
“I’m sorry. It was dumb. I’m a terrible liar, as you can probably tell.”
Naylor nodded. “Lying well is a lot harder than most people think. Things gets complicated, people lose track. ‘A liar should have a good memory,’ so they say. Most people don’t, not for this kind of thing.”
“So what are you saying? That you don’t believe me?”
“I’m saying nothing—we’re just trying to track a man down. A prominent, successful, well-off businessman who seems to have disappeared. Do you know where he might be?”
“No idea. But he hasn’t disappeared.”
Naylor frowned and cocked his head to one side slightly. “Hasn’t he?”
“I told you, I saw him this morning.”
“Is that another lie?”
“No. I swear.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Mel spoke to him on the phone yesterday, and he’s been texting me.”
Naylor made another note on his pad.
“You can see why we’re concerned, though, right? We’re not talking about a drunk, or an addict, or a person with mental health issues, or a serial runaway. We’re talking about a highly successful businessman who might have trampled people, turned people over, on his way up the ladder.”
“There’s no ‘might have’ about it. Ben does exactly what he wants, and screw everyone else. He’s destroyed people. Have you heard of Alex Kolnik?”
“We’re talking to him this afternoon.”
“I doubt he’ll have many nice things to say about Ben.”
“We’ll see.” He drank from his Property of the BOSS mug and then held a finger up as if he’d just remembered something.
“What was this meeting at the country park all about, by the way?”
“Ben texted last night and said he wanted to talk to me, in private.”
“About what?”
“He didn’t say. Just that it was important. Presumably it was about Mel.”
“And he couldn’t just call you up?”
“He wanted to do it face-to-face.”
There was a muffled knock on the door of the interview room, and Naylor called for the visitor to come in. A young officer leaned in, apologized for interrupting, and handed Naylor a folder with the words Forensic Support Unit in thick black letters on its front cover.
“From the FSU, boss. Just came in.”
“Much obliged, James.”
Naylor opened the file so I couldn’t see the contents. He scanned the two sheets briefly, grunted with something that was either satisfaction or disappointment—I couldn’t tell which—and passed it over to Redford.
“You said you saw his car at the country park this morning?”
“His Aston Martin was in the parking lot. Did you see it?”
Naylor shook his head. “Nope. Was Mr. Delaney in the vehicle at the time?”
“No. He got there before I did.”
Naylor’s icy-blue eyes regarded me, studied me. “On the subject of cars, though, we have found something else. In circumstances that cause us concern.”
“What?”
“You asked me earlier why it wasn’t PC Khan who came out to meet you at the country park this morning.”
I nodded, and he continued.
“A Porsche SUV registered to Mr. Delaney was found on Friday, three days ago, in an alleyway next to some lock-up garages. This is about half a mile from the Premier Inn where you two had your falling out.”
“The big white one, the Cheyenne or whatever it’s called?”
“Cayenne. That’s the one.”
“And?” I prompted.
“Someone had tried to burn it out. But they didn’t do a very good job.”
32
“We cross-reference every vehicle-related fire against the national database of stolen vehicles and persons of interest,” Naylor continued. “Of course, it’s entirely possible that Mr. Delaney’s car was stolen by joyriders in a completely unrelated incident and then torched to destroy evidence. Happens every day somewhere in London. It’s possible that’s what happened with the Porsche—except for a couple of things. First, he hadn’t reported his car stolen. And second, because the fire didn’t take hold properly, a lot of the car escaped damage. Whoever tried to torch it was very much the amateur arsonist, didn’t know what they were doing. So even on a fairly cursory initial examination, we were able to recover forensic evidence from inside the vehicle. Including traces of blood on the front passenger seat.”
Naylor let that hang in the air for a minute.
“Blood,” I repeated dumbly.
“Traces, yes.”
“Do you know whose it is?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute. First, a bit of h
istory.” He took out another sheet from his folder. “Last year, Mr. Delaney was involved in a minor traffic accident on the M6. No serious injuries—he was lucky—but when his vehicle was being repaired, they found his brakes had been tampered with. Police investigators then found microscopic traces of blood on the damaged brake cables. As part of the investigation,” Naylor continued, “they took a DNA sample from Mr. Delaney so they could cross-reference it with the trace evidence and ensure he wasn’t the source.”
“So did they get him?”
“Who?”
“The guy who did it.”
Naylor flipped a page in the green folder that had been handed to him a few minutes before.
“No. A former employee of Mr. Delaney’s was charged and went on trial, but he was acquitted. Matthew Goring.”
“That name rings a bell.” Though I couldn’t remember where from.
“Anyway, the long and the short of this little piece of history is this: Mr. Delaney’s DNA information went into the database. And it turns out that his DNA is a match for the blood we found on the passenger seat of his car yesterday.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But why are you telling me this?”
Naylor shrugged. “Just wondering if you can shed any light on it, that’s all.”
“But I’ve told you everything.”
Naylor considered this for a moment. “Does it bother you that Ben Delaney’s a self-made millionaire and you’re a teacher?”
“Not particularly.”
“Does it bother you that he has a six-bedroom pile in Hampstead and a fleet of flashy cars to turn ladies’ heads?”
“Honestly? No.”
“And what did it feel like,” Naylor said, leaning forward, “when you found out he’d been fucking your wife?”
He slid the swear word in quietly, almost gently, like a stiletto between my ribs.
I looked from one detective to the other. “You seriously expect me to answer that?”
“But you were angry, right?”
“Of course I was angry.”
“You beat him up, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“You beat the shit out of him in that parking lot. You gave him what he deserved, didn’t you, Joe? I would have, in the same position.”
“No, that isn’t what happened.”
“But then you realized you’d gone too far.”
I shook my head, unease crawling through my veins like a toxin.
“I didn’t even know about the affair then.”
“He punched you, and you didn’t retaliate?”
“I pushed him. That’s all.”
“You punched him?”
“No. I never hit him.”
“Why not?”
“He’s half my size.”
That was a stupid thing to say.
“So would you say you’re a lot bigger, physically stronger, and more powerful than this man who was shagging your wife and has now gone missing?”
I tried to stay calm, think about what I said next before it came out of my mouth. “He’s not missing, not in the way you’re talking about it.”
“But you’re a lot taller and stronger than he is.”
“I suppose so.”
“You’re a big guy. I bet you hit pretty hard.”
“I told you, I didn’t hit him.”
“But you left him there, on the ground? Weren’t you concerned about him?”
“My son was having an asthma attack, a bad one. I thought he was going to die on me. I went back as soon I could to check Ben was OK, but he had already gone.”
Naylor frowned, lines bunching together across his forehead. “Gone where, do you think?”
“I don’t know. Just gone.”
“So he was in a bad way when you left him, then?”
It occurred to me that I had already said too much. Probably way too much. “Am I being arrested?”
Naylor smiled, the frown lines on his forehead disappearing. “Of course not. You can leave whenever you want.”
“So I can leave now?”
“Yup.”
“I can just get up and walk out if I want to?”
“That’s right.”
He paused, as if daring me to do just that. Now I knew I was free to leave, it seemed churlish to do it when I had nothing to hide. But I suddenly felt intensely claustrophobic, as if I might be stuck here forever if I didn’t get out now.
“And what happens next?”
“We continue to gather evidence. On the back of these blood results”—he indicated the green file—“I’ll be requesting additional support to carry out a full proof-of-life inquiry over the next thirty-six hours, starting this morning.”
“What’s a proof-of-life inquiry?”
“We start from the premise that Mr. Delaney is alive and well, and then try to confirm that using all the different avenues available to us: cell phone data, banking records, social media, utility bill payments, DWP, tax, CCTV, you name it. Everything we can get our hands on, basically, to see if there is evidence that Mr. Delaney is out there somewhere. It’s actually very difficult to live nowadays without leaving any trace at all.”
“He’s already been on Facebook, and text, and on the phone to Mel yesterday.”
“Yup,” Naylor said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve made a note of all of those. We’ll be looking at them along with everything else.”
“And there might be CCTV at the Premier Inn? So you could see for yourselves what happened on Thursday.”
“There’s a system there, but it’s pretty ancient and more for show than anything else. Four cameras, three of them out of order, the other one covering the reception desk.”
“You’ve checked it already?”
“Yup. The footage is not much use to us, I’m afraid.”
I sighed, my shoulders dropping. “So how long does the whole process take?”
“We’ll be fast-tracking this one, for reasons I think I’ve outlined.”
It all sounded very formal, very official. Very serious. “Should I have a lawyer?”
“Do you think you need one?”
“I’ve no idea. This is all new to me. I’ve never had any real contact with the police before.” I spread my hands. “What do you think I should do?”
“Completely up to you. As the senior investigating officer, I’m obliged to advise you of your rights, but I’m not allowed to give you an opinion on legal representation. That sort of thing could end up going against us.”
“Against us in general, or against you in particular?”
“Against me.” He smiled again, but there was no humor in it. “Stay local, Joe. We’ll be in touch.”
33
The three-story redbrick police station felt like a presence squatting behind me as I emerged, blinking, back out on Salisbury Road. People walking past me left and right, cars passing on the street, the smells of diesel and dirt and greasy takeout food mingling in the autumn drizzle.
What did I just admit to? Why don’t they believe me? What the hell is going on?
The police interview had lasted less than an hour, but it felt like I’d aged five years. It seemed I’d entered a game whose rules I didn’t understand, and bet everything on the outcome. My life was juddering from one disaster to the next.
Time to get some legal advice.
I turned down DS Redford’s offer to drop me back at Fryent Country Park. I wanted to get away from the police as quickly as possible. I got a black cab instead and drove my car home.
It was strangely quiet in the house in the middle of the day, without William’s chatter and questions and car noises. There were times when my son was full-on and bouncing off the walls with energy and I sometimes craved the stillness of a quiet house, but when those rare times came, it felt unnatural.
It didn’t feel much like my home without William in it. Or Mel. The thought of my wife threw a shadow across everything.
I took my phone out and text
ed her.
Why did you tell police Ben and I got physical on Thurs? Thought we were sticking with story we told Beth?
12:26 P.M. Me
The reply came back quickly.
Oh god oh god I’m sorry Joe I forgot honestly are you OK?? I’m so sorry my head’s all over the place at the moment, what did they say? Call me? xxx
12:27 P.M. Mel cell
I put the phone down—I didn’t feel like talking to her at the moment. A minute later, it rang, vibrating on the countertop. I rejected the call and switched it to silent.
Ben’s timeline on Facebook showed nothing new since his post on Saturday evening. It was tempting to direct-message him again and ask him what he was playing at, but the answer to that seemed pretty obvious. I checked my email and phone messages as well. Nothing doing there either, beyond the usual junk.
I found an old envelope on the kitchen counter and wrote down four questions.
1. Where is Ben?
2. What does he want?
3. Why did he ask to meet yesterday?
4. What “evidence” did he want to show me?
Next to each question I made notes, writing down possible answers. Arrows looping from one point to the next. Question two was the only one I had a solid answer for: he wanted Mel, that seemed pretty clear. And if he couldn’t have her, he wanted to drive us apart.
That is never going to happen, Ben.
The heat of anger was in my chest, threatening to choke me like bile. Anger at Mel. Blended with betrayal and a dash of humiliation for good measure.
I had to get back on the front foot.
I went upstairs to the master bedroom and opened Mel’s bedside drawer. It was full but neatly ordered: makeup, jewelry boxes, a couple of books, our three passports in a pile, a point-and-shoot camera, a stack of receipts clipped together, an Hermès watch that she wore on nights out. Various medicines and creams arrayed at the back, pill bottles and boxes standing upright. I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for—maybe to feel like I was back in the know, having spent the last five months walking around blind to her affair. What else went on in her secret life? What was going on in her head?
Most of all, I wanted to find a clue to why she had chosen another man over me.
But there was nothing out of the ordinary. The bottom drawer was stacked with holiday brochures and bank statements. Perhaps an extravagant purchase or strange pattern of spending might spill more of the secrets she’d kept from me. Had Ben given her money? Had she bought him expensive gifts?
