‘What time did you arrive home?’ Kidman asks.
‘It was about five. I don’t know exactly.’
‘And you drove straight home?’
‘Right.’
‘You didn’t stop anywhere on the way down…?’
‘No.’
‘What music did you listen to while you were driving?’
My instinct is to shoot back with, ‘Who said I was listening to music?’ – but there’s no need to be aggressive. My car was stolen and I’m the victim here.
‘I was listening to the radio,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember the station but the DJ was talking about cheese. That’s all I remember.’
It gets a raised eyebrow but little more.
‘The problem I have with this,’ Kidman says, ‘is that your car ended up four miles from your flat.’
‘I told you that it was stolen.’
‘It was four miles from your flat and whoever was driving hit a pedestrian.’
‘It was stolen – and I was asleep. As soon as I woke up and saw the car was gone, I reported it.’
Kidman nods along and scratches at her earlobe. There’s a frizzy strand of hair that she tucks tight and then, after a glance to her mute colleague, it’s finally his turn to speak. I remember now that he’s a constable, so a lower rank. The lack of wrinkles mean he’s probably younger than me, though he has a shaven head that makes it look like he’s gone bald. It’s all a bit contradictory.
‘If you still have one set of car keys,’ he says, ‘how could someone have got the other set?’
‘That’s what I asked when I called you,’ I reply. ‘There was a spare set at the back of my underwear drawer.’
‘But you said there was no sign of a break-in.’
‘There isn’t.’
‘Does anybody else have keys to your flat?’
It’s impossible not to think of David.
‘No…’ I say. ‘Well, my ex-husband does. He went missing about two years ago.’
Robinson looks to his superior and it’s obvious from the momentary recognition that they both already know this.
This time, it is Kidman who picks things up. She presses forward on the desk and interlinks her fingers: ‘Did you change the locks after your husband disappeared?’
‘No. Why would I have done?’
‘Some people might have felt more secure knowing they were the only person who had keys to their home…?’
‘He was my husband – it’s not like I was scared of him.’
At least I don’t need to lie about that.
‘Have you seen your husband recently?’
I stare back at Kidman, matching her gaze. I can’t quite figure out if it’s as I suspected – that she thinks I was driving – or if she believes David might be back.
‘Of course not,’ I reply. ‘They told me it was seven years before they could issue a death certificate. I could apply for a divorce, but there doesn’t seem much point.’
‘Do you think he’s dead?’
I open my mouth and then immediately close it. I thought I was being clever but, instead, I was the one who brought this up. I take a breath and try to come up with something better than the only words in my mind.
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
It’s not great. Yesterday, I would have said it was a lie. In almost all respects, I still believe it is – except that there’s a niggly seed of doubt.
Fortunately, Kidman nods along and seems to accept this: ‘Does anyone other than your ex-husband have keys?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘Have you ever lent your keys to anyone?’
I start to say ‘no’ and then I remember: ‘My friend, Jane, got me a cleaner for my birthday last year,’ I reply. ‘I think it was a bit of a joke because my place was messy. I was out taking classes at the gym and left the keys for a few hours. When I got back, my friend was there and let me in. I can’t think of another time.’
It’s hard not to feel awkward. I have something to hide in respect to David – but I definitely wasn’t driving my car when it apparently hit a pedestrian. I’m lying, though not about the thing they might suspect me of.
I can see how it all sounds: I left a party early in the morning and, hours later, my car hit a pedestrian. If I’d failed the breathalyser test, I’d have already been charged. My mind starts wandering to things like CCTV. They surely can’t have footage of the crash, or anything around it, else they’d know I wasn’t driving. I opted to go without a solicitor, because I wanted to appear as open and honest as I could. I’m now wondering if that was a mistake. Unless I’ve misread things, they believe I hit the pedestrian, rushed home on foot, and then called to report my car stolen.
Kidman seems unbothered by my cleaner story and moves on: ‘Has anyone else been in your flat who might have taken the spare keys?’
‘Only my boyfriend, Andy. He wouldn’t have taken the keys, though.’
She takes his details anyway – and I figure I’ll have to let him know they might be in contact. In everything that’s happened, I’ve not thought about him since we were on the phone last night.
‘Anyone else?’
‘My friend, Jane, comes over fairly regularly, but she—’
‘Jane is the person who was with you at the awards dinner?’ Kidman asks.
‘Right.’
‘She also left early?’
‘Yes.’
She takes Jane’s details and, from nowhere, it feels like my entire life is up for grabs. My friends will be getting calls to see if anyone can vouch for me. Either that, or there will be implicit accusations, as if I’ve accused them of stealing my keys and car.
Kidman picks up her pad and drums her fingers on the page before looking over it to take me in. ‘What I don’t understand is how it all comes together,’ she says. ‘You say your friend and boyfriend couldn’t have taken the keys; you say your husband is missing. There’s no sign of anyone breaking into your flat – so how do you explain your car being found in a ditch four miles away from where you claim you left it?’
‘I don’t claim I left it anywhere. I parked it outside my house. It was stolen.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. Hotwired? Something like that.’
‘I don’t think your car can be “hotwired”.’ She makes air quotes and I sense a disdain that I don’t believe is in my mind.
‘I don’t know what to tell you,’ I say. ‘I noticed my car was missing and I called you.’
‘Is that so?’ she says.
‘That’s so.’
Ten
THE WHY
Three years, eight months ago
Considering I’m aiming for a career in the fitness industry, there’s definitely something off about the fact that I sweat like a 1970s BBC presenter when they hear a siren. Some people can run as if they’re being chased by bear and have to get ahead of their slowest friend – and still finish dry. With me, it’s like I’m halfway through a waterboarding.
I can’t stop eyeing the puddle of sweat at the side of the spinning bike, wondering if anyone else will notice and realise how disgusting I am. I shout that it’s time for the final climb and then push high out of the saddle to do it myself. The woman directly in front of me is on her first session and was gasping after the first climb almost twenty minutes ago. She is now pressed on the handlebars panting for air. I try to catch her eye to ask silently is she’s OK, but she doesn’t look up. I end up half watching her, while calling for everyone else to pedal. I could really do without someone having a heart attack during one of my classes. That puts a bit of a blemish on a CV.
‘Nearly there,’ I call.
The leisure centre’s ‘spin studio’ is more of a backroom that’s hidden along a warren of corridors somewhere near the boiler. I think it used to be a squash court. The alleged air conditioning spits out as much hot air as an uninformed listener on a radio phone-in. The air is clogged and humid and there’s no escape. Hot yo
ga is starting to become a thing and I guess the facilities are turning hot spinning into a pioneering offshoot.
‘And dial it down three notches,’ I shout.
There’s a collective gasp of relief as everyone sits back on their saddles. The woman struggling in front of me sways slightly as she fiddles with the bike’s resistance dial.
‘Let’s keep bringing it down,’ I add. ‘One more notch.’
Another minute and we’re done. People clamber off their bikes and start to wipe off the saddles, while I use one towel to mop the floor around me, and another to dry myself. Most give brief waves as they head back to the changing rooms and the new woman at the front insists she’ll be back. Another enthusiastically declares that she’s off to Turkey for a couple of weeks and will see me when she gets back.
I wait until everyone’s left and then check around to make sure nobody’s left anything. I’m ready to leave myself when I notice a woman leaning on the door frame. She’s in gym gear and there’s a sheen of sweat around her neck. I think she was on one of the bikes at the back, wearing a large headband that she’s now removed. I can’t be certain. She’s not one of the regulars, although there’s something vaguely familiar about her.
‘You’re Morgan, right?’ she says.
‘Yes…’
I wait for her to add something and, when she doesn’t, I continue: ‘It was hot in here today, wasn’t it?’
‘I’m Yasmine,’ the woman says. It could be a simple introduction – a pair of women swapping names – but she speaks with such self-assurance that it’s clear she expects me to know who she is. I try to remember whether I know any Yasmines, let alone her, but I can’t think of anyone.
‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘Did you want to sign up for a package of classes…? They’re doing ten per cent off if you book more than six in one go…’
‘You know David, don’t you?’ she replies. ‘David Persephone.’
‘Yes…’
‘He’s not told you about me, has he?’
Yasmine stands with her arms folded across her front, her features firm and unimpressed. Perhaps it says more about me than it does David, but my first thought is that she must be an ex-girlfriend. We’ve not gone through a full list of everyone we’ve ever been with – and I don’t think he’s mentioned a Yasmine anyway.
‘Should he have?’ I ask.
She glares at me like the way a stewardess looks at a hen party on a plane. It’s as if she’s wondering how to deal with me when she opens her mouth and says, ‘It’s just…’
She doesn’t get any further because there’s a whine of the intercom speaker overhead. Whatever’s being said is far too echoey for me to decipher but, when I look back to Yasmine, she is striding her way out of the studio. I wait for a moment, wondering if she’ll turn to give me some sort of clue as to what’s going on. It’s only when the doors bang at the far end of the corridor that I realise she isn’t coming back.
There’s no phone signal at the back of the leisure centre, so I have to hurry through the warren-like passages towards reception. There’s no sign of Yasmine, who is either an extremely fast walker, or she’s disappeared into one of the changing rooms.
I wait underneath the overhang outside the front doors, watching as the rain pours off the roof and thunders to the ground. It’s damp and clammy and my phone screen is unresponsive as I try to scroll through for David’s number. Not that it matters because, when I do finally manage to call him, there is no answer. I try a second time, though there’s no response. He did say there would be times he was unavailable – and every call we’ve shared has been at a time he suggested. I shouldn’t be surprised that I can’t reach him, I suppose.
My first attempt at a text message – ‘Who the hell is Yasmine?’ – is quickly deleted. I’m not sure yet if there’s any reason to be angry. That might be something for later.
I type out ‘Something weird happened. Call me’, but delete that, too. I’m not one of those Facebook attention seekers who’ll post something cryptic simply to get a slew of ‘U OK hun?’ responses.
I settle for something that I hope is breezy and whimsical. Something a sane, functioning human being would go for.
Hi! All’s fine here. Hope your trip is going well with loads of bargains! PS: Who’s Yasmine?
Eleven
THE NOW
The custody officer bats away a yawn and seems ready for a nap when she hands me some papers and tells me that I shouldn’t be planning any holidays.
‘I’m supposed to be moving in with my boyfriend this weekend,’ I reply.
‘I don’t see why that would be a problem,’ she replies. ‘As long as we know your address.’
She talks me through how I’m supposed to return to the station in a month to either be re-bailed or exonerated. ‘It might happen sooner than that,’ she adds.
I tell her that someone was supposed to be visiting later to take a statement about my stolen car. It’s all a bit redundant now, so she makes a note and says I can contact the non-emergency number if there’s anything I want to add.
It’s only as I’m leaving the station that I realise the implication. If whoever was hit by my car ends up dying, it could be a manslaughter charge. Suddenly, it feels like a bad idea to have spoken to the police without a solicitor. Perhaps karma does exist? I’ve apparently got away with something I did do and yet I could be in severe trouble for something I didn’t.
As soon as I’m outside, the wall of cold hits me like a brick. After the breathalyser test, I didn’t have the clarity of thought to grab anything like a hat or gloves. I’ve only taken a few steps across the car park when it feels as if I’ve buried my face in the freezer. I have no easy way to get home. Kingbridge Police Station is twelve or thirteen miles away from where I live in Gradingham. I suppose I’m fit enough to run it – but the country lanes will be covered with frost – plus, even if I wanted to, I’m not in any gear that’s particularly suitable for such a long run. It would take too long to walk and, though there must be buses, I have no idea about the schedule. I could try for a taxi – but my purse is sitting on the counter at home.
Hours have passed in a blink and it’s now a little after two in the afternoon. I’m not sure what else to do, so I start walking towards the golden arches a couple of streets over. They’ll have free Wi-Fi there.
As I walk, I call Jane. I only manage the word ‘hi’ and she must hear it from my tone. We’ve had enough of these conversations over the years – and she’s always been the first person I contact when something is up.
‘What’s wrong?’ Jane replies.
‘Can you come and get me?’ I ask.
‘Of course. What’s happened? Are you at the hotel?’
I stop for a second, confused until I realise that she has no way of knowing for sure that I arrived home from the hotel. The last time we were in contact, she’d texted to say she was home safely.
‘I’m near the police station in Kingbridge,’ I reply.
There’s a longer pause this time and I can hear the hesitation from the other end of the line. ‘The police?’
‘I can wait at the McDonald’s,’ I add, skirting the obvious. ‘Do you know the one?’
‘Why have you been with the police?’
‘It’s sort of… complicated. Can you come?’
‘Sure. I’ve got Norah and she’s not a fan of her car seat, but I’ll be there as quickly as I can.’
Jane says goodbye and then she’s gone.
I cross a couple of roads and traipse across the McDonald’s car park. There is a lone vehicle parked off to the side, with a woman in the driving seat staring aimlessly across the tarmac while munching into a burger. I can imagine her car and this hideaway being her last sanctuary of tranquillity before the madness of the school run, or whatever else she has to do.
It’s relatively quiet inside, though none of the staff members bother about me as I sit in the corner with a coffee and log onto the Wi-Fi. I search for deta
ils of the incident involving my car. There are a few stories and social media posts about how the centre of Gradingham was shut down through the morning after a pedestrian was hit. Other than that, details are sparse. It’s hard to put that to one side, though the red dot of email notifications is also burning accusingly at my lack of attention.
A few of the people with whom I swapped business cards last night have emailed, largely saying things like, ‘Just checking in to say congratulations on the win’. There’s somebody who’s organising a fitness conference in Edinburgh next year who’s wondering if I’m interested in hosting a session. There’s the usual marketing emails from companies I’ve used once and now think I want to buy something from them twice a week for the rest of eternity. After that, there’s a note from the organiser, Steven, which is a general message of congratulations. I figure I’ll deal with everything later, but then have another idea and reply to him, asking if he can send me any photos from the previous night. There might a shot of the man in the blue suit from a different angle, or in altered light, that makes it clear it isn’t David. If I can make myself certain it’s definitely someone else, I can focus on trying to figure out who stole my car – and how.
Someone in a grey uniform comes across and starts sweeping up around me. He asks if I want him to clear away my empty coffee cup, but I keep hold of it, if only so that it’s not completely obvious that I’m freeloading the Wi-Fi and heat. I suppose loitering is part of the fast-food business model. The main difference is that it would usually be teenagers hanging around inside to get away from the cold.
Close to You (ARC) Page 6
