Never Coming Back

by Tim Weaver

  She paused, looking at me. I wasn’t the person they remembered – certainly not now, and not even before I’d been attacked – but I smiled, putting her at ease, and let her continue.

  ‘This sounds like I’m stalking you, but after I left her place this morning I thought I’d google you, see if I could find you on Facebook or Twitter. I thought I could maybe drop you an email, see how you were. But instead I found all these news stories about you, about what you’d done. The families you’d helped. The men you’d tried …’ She glanced at my stomach. ‘I read about what that guy did to you. How your heart …’

  Stopped.

  I nodded but didn’t say anything, watching her in the half-light of the kitchen. She stared back. Composed. Still. Then, gradually, there was a movement in her lips.

  She dabbed a finger to her eye. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  She smiled, and then brought her coffee towards her. ‘I’m sure you moved down here to start again. To get away from people like me. I just …’ Steam passed her face as she looked down into her mug. ‘I just don’t know where else to go. She’s my sister.’

  ‘You said the whole family disappeared?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘7 January.’

  ‘So, that’s Carrie and who else?’

  ‘Carrie, her husband Paul, Belle and Liv – their two girls.’

  Five months after dying, I should have ended the conversation there. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t ready for this; not physically, maybe not mentally either.

  But I didn’t.

  I let her carry on.

  ‘They live an hour from here, just west of Buckfastleigh,’ she continued, tone flat and barely audible, as if the story had been told countless times. I didn’t read anything into it. They all became like this sooner or later, wading across old ground, looking for the same answers in the same places. ‘I’d driven up there from Totnes, because Carrie and I were supposed to be going out in Torquay with some friends. But when I got to the house, no one answered. Their cars were still on the drive, the lights were on in the house, so I rang the doorbell, five, six, seven times.’ A pause. ‘Nothing.’

  She stopped altogether then and seemed to waver, her upper body swaying like a boat listing on ocean swells. ‘The front door was unlocked, so I let myself in and went along the hallway. They always had a nice house. I know this sounds weird, but it always smelled nice. Flowers and coffee and candles. But it didn’t smell nice when I went inside that night. I walked through to the kitchen and the dinner was still cooking.’

  ‘It had just been left like that?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘I remember it vividly. The potatoes were still cooking even though there was no water left in the pan. The pork steaks were burned to a crisp. Vegetables were half prepared, just left there on the chopping board. It was like the four of them had downed tools and walked out of the house. There was nothing out of place.’ She turned her coffee mug, lost in thought for a moment. ‘In fact, the opposite, really. Everything was in place. Even the table was set: cutlery laid out, drinks prepared.’

  ‘Did it look like they’d left in a hurry?’

  She shook her head, but in her eyes I saw a flicker of hesitation: as if she’d remembered something but wasn’t sure whether it was even worth bringing up.

  ‘Emily?’

  ‘The milk,’ she said.

  ‘Milk?’

  ‘The fridge had been left ajar. This big four-pinter was lying on the floor, and all the milk had poured out of it, across the lino. But that was it. That was the only thing. Even the dog was still wandering around the house.’

  ‘Did you check upstairs?’

  ‘I checked the whole house.’

  ‘Anything stolen?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Money, bank cards, wallets, phones, TVs, DVDs, computers – you know the kind of thing. None of that had been taken?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you know if it had?’

  ‘The TV was on in the living room, Paul’s computer was on in his study, Liv’s toys were scattered all over the floor of her room. But not like the place had been turned over. Not like that at all. It was like Liv – like all of them – had just been there.’

  ‘Moments before?’

  ‘Right. It was like a museum.’

  She meant it was a snapshot of time; nothing but the milk out of place. The food was still cooking, the lights were still on, the TV, the computer, the cars, the dog.

  ‘You presumably tried calling them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No answer?’

  ‘Their phones were still in the house.’

  I reached across the table and grabbed a piece of paper with a shopping list on it. It was everything I needed to repair the fence panels out back. For now, it would have to do as a makeshift pad. I’d left the real one back in London, I suppose as some sort of symbolic gesture. Except here I was, four months after leaving the city, doing everything I shouldn’t have. Part of me knew this was already a mistake: my feelings about taking on work from people I knew had hardened and crystallized over the past two years, mainly because I’d done it once – for a woman Derryn had worked with – and, in trying to find her son, I’d been left with scars on my body that would never heal, and memories that would never fade. And yet, as Emily recounted the disappearance of her sister and her family, I felt a buzz of electricity in my stomach. For the first time in months, I felt normal.

  ‘What’s Carrie’s surname now?’

  ‘Ling.’

  I started making some notes. ‘Her husband’s Paul?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the full names of the girls?’

  ‘Annabel and Olivia.’

  ‘Did you file a missing persons report?’

  She nodded. ‘I called them right away. They told me to come to Totnes station. The PC there asked me a few questions, filled in some paperwork, then said a team would be by the next day to take DNA samples and look around the house.’

  ‘They didn’t find anything?’

  ‘No,’ she said, eyes on me, hands flat to the table either side of her mug. ‘They took lots of things away for analysis, but it all got returned eventually.’

  ‘Do you remember exactly what they took?’

  ‘Paul’s computer, their phones.’

  ‘Whose phones?’

  ‘Carrie’s, Paul’s and Belle’s.’

  ‘Annabel had her own phone?’

  ‘She’s almost twenty-five.’

  I put down the pen. ‘So, how old is Liv then?’

  ‘Eight.’ But she didn’t need me to fill in the blanks. ‘Both Paul and Carrie wanted kids pretty much from the moment they got married, so they started trying straight away, but both of the girls were …’ She shrugged. ‘Both of them were a struggle. Belle less so, I guess, but Olivia definitely. Both times they ended up having to get … you know …’

  ‘Help?’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah, help.’

  ‘IVF?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So the age gap between Annabel and Olivia is seventeen years?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I wrote that down. ‘Annabel was still living at home?’

  No reply. I looked up from my notes and Emily was staring across my shoulder, set adrift in thought.

  ‘Emily?’

  She flinched. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. What was it you asked?’

  ‘Was Annabel still living at home?’

  ‘Yes. She’d been at university up in Bristol for four years; she’d done an MA in English Literature. But she couldn’t get a job anywhere. You know what it’s like at the moment.’

  I nodded. ‘So she moved back home?’

  ‘Yes. She got some part-time work in Newton Abbot, teaching drama to students, but she was applying for jobs all over the country. She had plenty of interviews, but never
seemed to quite make the cut. So she kept going with the teaching gig right up until …’

  ‘They all disappeared.’

  ‘Right.’

  I’d filled one side of the paper, and as I turned it over I saw something change in her face. An expectation. A glimmer of hope.

  ‘Were Paul and Carrie having any problems?’

  She frowned. ‘Problems?’

  ‘Were they fighting?’

  ‘No. No way.’

  ‘They didn’t fight?’

  ‘They fought, but never seriously. Carrie and I were always close – you probably remember that – and she never talked about arguments. Paul was very even-tempered.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He was a doctor.’

  ‘Did he work here in the village?’

  ‘No. In Torquay. He was a paediatrician.’

  ‘And Carrie?’

  ‘She was a stay-at-home mum.’

  ‘But they were doing okay?’

  ‘Nice house, nice cars, nice holidays – I’d say so.’

  ‘Carrie never complained of financial worries?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Paul?’

  ‘I didn’t really have that kind of relationship with him.’

  ‘You got on all right with him, though?’

  She glanced at me, and I could read her thoughts like they were written across her face: Was that a loaded question? ‘You mean, did he leave because of me? No.’

  ‘Don’t be offended,’ I said to her. ‘I’m trying to close off dead ends. You’re the person who knew them. You’re basically the best hope of finding out where they went. I’m sure this isn’t anything that you haven’t heard already from the police.’

  She shrugged. ‘I haven’t spoken to the police for months.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘July, August – whenever they returned Paul’s wallet.’

  ‘That was the last thing they gave back to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did they hold on to it for so long?’

  She paused, uncertain. Maybe she’d never thought of it like that. The police would have held on to a lot of the Lings’ property and gradually fed it back over time as it became obvious it wasn’t going to lead anywhere. She probably stopped noticing.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Okay. But, clearly, Paul left his wallet behind too?’

  ‘On the kitchen table,’ she said, and started to drift away again. Her eyes dulled as the memories rolled back to her. I waited it out, finishing my notes. Then, after a while, she said quietly, ‘Who leaves like that without their wallet?’

  Two hundred and fifty thousand people went missing every year in the UK, so lots of people left for lots of different reasons. But the truth was, most missing persons cases were pretty mundane: teenage runaways, depressed middle-aged men, people in their twenties and thirties drowning under the weight of mortgages or unemployment, terrified of not being able to feed their kids. Often, the missing left without anything. They got up and walked away: wallets weren’t taken, bank cards weren’t touched, emails weren’t sent. It wasn’t the wallet that interested me, it was the way the house had been left.

  All the signs of being a family home.

  But none of the family.

  11

  Healy arrived back a couple of minutes later, at twelve-thirty, rain running off his jacket, hair matted to his scalp. When he saw Emily he paused at the doorway, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was intruding on something. Then he seemed to realize it would now look even stranger if he backed out and closed the door, so he came in, shrugged off his coat and hung it up. He stank of booze and cigarettes, which meant he’d been at the pub since it opened. As far as first impressions went, it wasn’t going to win any awards.

  ‘Colm, this is Emily.’

  He came over, his eyes switching between us.

  ‘Colm’s a homeless Irishman I found wandering the streets.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ he replied, and shook hands with her. ‘Lovely to meet you, Emily.’ There was warmth in his voice, and it was probably fake, but she wouldn’t have been able to tell. That was the thing with Healy: he could play the game with the best of them.

  ‘Are you visiting?’ she asked him.

  ‘David’s been kind enough to rent me a room for a while.’ He gave me a fleeting look. He’d offered to pay me rent countless times, but I’d always refused. Part of him, I’m sure, hated being a charity case, but he was realistic: he had no job, no savings, and he needed somewhere to stay. And, ultimately, if it wasn’t for Healy, I’d already be in the ground. ‘How do you two know each other?’ he asked.

  I glanced at Emily.

  ‘We were friends growing up,’ she said.

  But he must have read something in her face – must have seen the real answer – because he made an oh with his mouth and started patting himself down, searching for his cigarettes. ‘Well, I’m going to leave you both to it,’ he said, and when he looked at me I could see a trace of guilt in his eyes; some hint that he’d been doing something he shouldn’t have. I wondered what it was, wondered where he’d been since I’d got up, but let it go. I’d find out soon enough. Healy was a good liar, could evade and avoid, but I could read him better than anyone. I’d get to the truth.

  He shook Emily’s hand a second time and disappeared upstairs.

  ‘He seems nice,’ she said.

  Nice wasn’t a word that got used much around Healy, but I agreed with her and moved the conversation on. ‘So, did the police have any leads?’

  ‘None they talked to me about.’

  ‘No sightings of the four of them?’

  ‘They said there were lots, but none that led anywhere.’

  ‘Who was your point of contact?’

  She paused, opened up her bag and started searching around inside, taking out a small, brown leather diary. ‘To start with, it was …’ She found it. ‘Colin Rocastle.’

  I went to write it down and then stopped, pen hovering above the piece of paper. Rocastle. He was the detective leading the investigation into the body on the beach. I remembered Healy mentioning him the day before, when he’d called to say the cops wanted to speak to everyone in the village. Rocastle probably worked out of Totnes – there was no CID department in Dartmouth any more – which explained why he was at both scenes. Then a second thought emerged: what if they sent Rocastle because they needed someone experienced at the Lings’ house, because there was something that required his nous? A family going missing was unusual, worrying, but until it became a kidnapping or a murder – and this disappearance never had – it wouldn’t require a DCI.

  I set the pen down. ‘You said the family lived in Buckfastleigh?’

  ‘Just west of it, yes. A development called Harbourne Lake.’

  She gave me their address. I didn’t know the area all that well, but I knew it was about twenty miles away, along some slow, narrow roads. Maybe not quite an hour, but close to it.

  ‘Okay.’ I paused for a moment, staring down at the notes I’d made. Five months ago I was lying dead on a trolley. Now I was on the brink of returning to my old life, to the world of the lost. Somehow I expected to feel conflicted about it; instead all I felt was a subtle, magnetic pull. ‘Okay,’ I said again. ‘I’ll take a look at the house tomorrow.’

  A smile broke on her face. ‘Thank you, David.’

  I held up a hand and the smile immediately dissolved again. ‘I’m not in the kind of condition you need someone to be in when they’re finding the person you love. It’s only been four weeks since my bandages came off.’ I paused, looked at her: she’d bowed her head slightly, perhaps because she thought this was all about to end in rejection. ‘I’ll do some asking around,’ I said, and she looked up at me again, hope sparking in her eyes. ‘I’ll find out as much as I can about what happened to Carrie, Paul and the girls. But five months ago, doctors were busy reviving me. I’m still reco
vering. And if things go …’

  I stopped.

  If things go bad.

  Emily was frowning at me, trying to figure out what it was I’d been about to say, and for a second I realized how much I’d changed in the four years I’d been doing this, how much I’d come to learn about the darkness in men. In her weakest moments she probably saw her sister’s family dead in a ditch somewhere, inside a car that had never been found. Victims of an accident. Victims of fate, destiny, or whatever she believed in.

  But I didn’t see any of that.

  I saw devils and executioners, men who felt nothing for the people they took, and even less for the families left behind. And the thing that frightened me the most was that I didn’t even have to try hard to remember them.

  I just had to close my eyes.

  Roots

  Tuesday, 3 May 2011 | Eighteen Months Ago

  The taxi came up the road, sun glinting in its windshield, a silver crucifix dangling from its rear-view mirror. The doctor sat on the porch and watched its approach. At first he couldn’t see the women inside, both of them hidden behind the grey tint of the windows. But then, as the cab bumped on to the sidewalk at the bottom of the driveway, he spotted them, side by side in the back seat, and recalled again how different they both were.

  Getting to his feet, he walked down to meet them, sun pressing against his back, beads of sweat instantly forming along his hairline. The day was hot – as hot as it had been all year – without even a hint of a breeze. Somewhere further out, in another part of the city, he could hear the distant wail of police sirens, but otherwise the only sound was the unending buzz of insects coming from the folds of the mountains behind the house.

  As he got to the car, the rear doors opened on both sides and the women got out. On the side closest to him, Carrie Ling emerged from the cab, smiling at him. ‘Good morning,’ she said brightly and, as he greeted her back, the doctor moved around and opened the door for her daughter. Annabel Ling, crutches already in her hands, slid out of the car, smiling at him. He smiled back, held an arm out for her, and she used it to hoist herself up and out of the car, readying her crutches for the journey up the drive.