The Other Passenger

by Louise Candlish

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to discover,’ Parry says, frowning. I can tell he’s finding me unusually sanguine about a friend having been reported missing. ‘Did you and Mr Roper pass anyone in the street on your way up from the pier?’

  ‘Not anyone I particularly remember. We didn’t walk together, actually, so he may have.’

  His gaze sharpens. ‘You didn’t walk together, even though you live a few streets away from each other?’

  ‘No. Normally we do, but . . . Come on, you obviously saw from the video that we got into a bit of an a row on the boat? I marched off ahead. I didn’t want to spend another minute with him.’ The statement hangs between us, I can almost hear it spinning around a wood-panelled courtroom – I didn’t want to spend another minute with him – and I’m not surprised by the doubtful look they exchange.

  ‘What was this row about?’ Merchison asks.

  I sigh. My throat feels painful and gritty. ‘Nothing much. We were both the worse for wear. But I didn’t want to hang around arguing. I had a very early start in the morning, a train to catch from King’s Cross, and, like I say, I assumed he followed.’

  ‘Are you and Mr Roper in the habit of arguing?’ Parry says. Unlike his colleague, who shifts constantly in his seat, he has the sharp-eyed stillness of an owl.

  ‘No, not at all. We’re mates. We were drunk, that’s all.’ Without thinking, I bring my bandaged hand to my face and of course he makes the association I’d prefer he didn’t.

  ‘Injure yourself in this fight with your mate, did you?’

  ‘No. This is a burn from the coffee machine at work. Speaking of which, is there any chance we can get some coffee?’ My first, a double espresso at home, has worn off. Usually by this time I’d be at work and firing up my second or, if I’m lucky, being handed one on arrival by Regan. ‘Look, there must be security cameras between the pier and the high street, so why don’t you check them and you’ll see it was exactly as I’m telling you?’

  I happen to know that the route back to Prospect Square took me past at least one other CCTV camera. ‘Maybe ask at the bar on Royal Way? Mariners, it’s called, on the corner of Artillery Passage, less than two minutes from where the boat docks. We often go there after getting off the late boat, so maybe he went on his own this time.’ I pause, convincing myself. ‘Yeah, I bet he stopped for a drink there, met someone and, you know, continued his evening.’

  Merchison’s pen scratches the paper throughout this speech and when he raises his gaze I see a flare of interest in his eyes. ‘Are you saying you think he spent the night with someone other than his wife?’

  ‘Maybe. If he didn’t go home, then I’d say it’s a possibility.’

  ‘Is several nights a possibility? Thewhole Christmas break?’

  Both detectives’ scepticism is plain to see. I shrug. ‘Look, I’m not saying he’s eloped bigamously, just that he might have carried on partying and got caught up in something and now he’s sleeping it off. I mean, he must have been somewhere these last few days, mustn’t he? He’s not some loner, he’s a very social animal.’

  Once, in the summer a few weeks before the wedding, Kit and I stayed out all night. It was a Friday and we’d got off the boat at North Greenwich, found a club near the O2 that stayed open till dawn. I remember there was a charity walk starting at midnight and it was surreal to watch thousands of women in leggings swarm by all bright-eyed, before limping back six hours later in a miasma of exhaustion. Melia, staying with a girlfriend across town, was not around to disapprove, but Clare was spitting blood when I finally skulked home at 8 a.m. ‘He’s young, Jamie, he can take it physically, but you might have a stroke!’ And for the rest of the day my inbox pinged with links to articles about middle-aged men falling down dead after binge-drinking.

  I don’t say any of this to the police. Instead, I look from one detective to the other, spreading my integrity evenly between them. ‘Seriously, any minute now, he’s going to come strolling back in, probably not even sorry he wasted your time. So I should probably go to work now – my colleague will be struggling on her own. Plus it’s not the kind of job where you get paid if you’re not there, you know?’

  There’s a short, sweet moment when I think I’ve swayed it and they’re going to say, Fine, off you go, our apologies for the overreaction. But they don’t. Maybe they’re remembering Melia’s face, distraught at the thought of her new husband injured or abducted or worse. She’s so appealing, even in red-eyed, nose-running distress; so persuasive.

  She’s obviously persuaded you, Jamie, Clare said, not long ago.

  ‘If you don’t mind filling in a few more gaps for us,’ Merchison says. ‘Would it help if we had a word on the phone with your manager?’

  ‘Or perhaps it’s best we head to the station, after all,’ Parry says. He flicks Merchison a dismayed look and I know I’m right about them bending the rules talking to me unofficially like this. It’s probably not even legal. But the last thing I want is for my words to be recorded and run through some lie-detection system (is that even a thing?). Or for a medical examination to expose the ugly bruises on my collarbone, safely hidden by the high neck of my sweatshirt, evidence of the true viciousness of that grapple with Kit. ‘No, please.’ I huddle inside my jacket, fold my fingers inside the cuffs for warmth. ‘Whatever you need. I just need to keep work informed.’

  ‘Thank you, James,’ Merchison says, ‘we appreciate your co-operation.’

  ‘Jamie. No one calls me James.’

  And no one calls Kit Christopher. The police’s use of our full names only emphasizes the fact that they don’t know anything about us, about this.

  ‘Jamie. So how about we make this easy and start at the beginning. You tell us everything there is to know about Mr Roper.’

  Sweet Jesus. They of all people must know that ‘everything there is to know’ is never as simple as it sounds. As a seagull squawks overhead, I nod my consent.

  ‘How long have you known each other?’

  ‘Almost a year,’ I say. ‘We met at the end of January.’

  ‘January this year?’ They both look up, surprised. ‘Not that long, then.’

  ‘No.’ And it’s true, it’s no time at all.

  On the other hand, it feels like the longest year of my life.

  3

  January 2019

  Before I start, I should like to point out that it wasn’t me who got us tangled up with the Ropers, but Clare. The woman who is now their fiercest critic was also their discoverer and erstwhile champion. For a while there, she thought they were the bee’s knees – both of them.

  Melia came first. Whatever complications arose later, there is one thing I have no doubt about: the collision of our two worlds was pure chance. Of all the estate agents in all the towns in all the world, she walks into Clare’s.

  Clare mentioned her on one of her first days back at work in January. ‘I had lunch with that new girl who started last month. Melia, she’s called. It turns out she lives near here.’

  ‘Girl?’

  ‘Well, she’s in her late twenties. Possibly thirty. I honestly don’t know.’

  Hurtling towards fifty as we were, we found it hard to judge younger adults’ ages. They all looked like sixth formers to us.

  ‘Anyway, she’s the new junior Richard hired. To work with the re-lo consultants? She’s fitting in really well, he’s getting fantastic feedback about her.’

  The relocation from overseas of corporate high flyers and their families was a healthy slice of the lettings business and I knew from Clare’s stories that some clients could be hard to please. ‘So she’s gorgeous, I take it?’

  ‘That sort of remark gets reported to HR, these days.’ Clare’s mouth curled. One of our shared convictions was a loathing of extreme political correctness. ‘If you ever hear me use the word “woke”, shoot me,’ she liked to say, and I’d reply, ‘What, even in the context of, “My devoted partner woke me up with a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich”?’ (
Oh, the banter.)

  ‘Very gorgeous, yes, ’ she added. ‘Dark hair in a bob, lovely eyes, a kind of tawny colour. Her skin is off-the-scale elastic.’

  I chuckled. ‘How can you possibly know that? What scale measures skin elasticity, anyway?’

  ‘The human eye, Jamie, the human eye.’ Clare plucked the back of her hand with an expression of fascinated disgust. ‘All I know is it doesn’t pleat like this, so it must have plenty of natural elastin. Or is it collagen?’ She was, lately, a proud discusser of menopausal symptoms, referring openly to decreasing oestrogen levels and the shutting down of wombs. I’d learned not to show how revolted I was by such talk. In any case, Clare still looked all right to me. She was tall and slim (-ish, but I was hardly rocking a six-pack myself) with blonde hair swept from her face for work but worn fringed and punky off-duty, kind of Debbie Harry circa ‘Heart of Glass’. A well-raised girl from Edinburgh, she’d been the beneficiary of an excellent state education, followed by university in London, where she’d stayed on account of a boyfriend, who exited the scene soon after. By the time, in her late thirties, she’d met yours truly at a Christmas party, her career in property sales had led naturally and lucratively to the establishment of her business with Richard. (It had helped to be free of any derailment wrought by motherhood, which by the way was a question of personal choice, not any biological malfunction or enforced preference by her current mate.)

  ‘So what did you and Melia the Millennial talk about, besides work?’

  ‘Loads of stuff. Life, family, our relationships. Oh, I told her about the career coaching and she thinks it’s an inspired gift.’

  Because she has no idea what it signals, I thought. The clearly very costly Christmas present to me of a course of sessions with some guru or other marked the end of Clare’s tolerance of my non-career. While she didn’t deny that my prospects were threatened by ageism – how many of her own hires were over thirty, let alone late forties? – the gift had come just weeks after a renewed campaign for me to set myself up as a freelancer. ‘I am a freelancer,’ I’d told her. ‘A freelance café assistant.’

  ‘Eight one-on-one consultations, wow,’ I said, on receipt of the gift voucher. I would strongly have preferred a new shirt. ‘“Dream job. Real results”. That’s my New Year’s resolution taken care of, then. In 2019, I will finally find a way to work with white tigers.’

  Clare smiled. ‘You joke, but maybe you’ll surprise yourself with what you decide to do next.’

  Maybe I would. ‘What about you? Any resolutions?’ ‘Actually, I do have one,’ she said. ‘I’ve decided I’m going to embrace the new. I read that’s the key to ageing successfully.’

  ‘I think all ageing is unsuccessful, ultimately,’ I said, grinning. ‘New what, exactly?’

  ‘New everything. New hobbies, new ideas, new friends.’ She grew emphatic as she searched for the right phrase and I saw she was very determined about this: ‘I’m open to submissions.’

  Enter Melia, and, a step or two behind her, Kit, with their winning submission of youth, fun, freedom. Everything Clare feared she was losing.

  I suppose what I’m trying to say is this whole thing began with exactly the midlife crisis you might imagine – just not mine.

  *

  They came to dinner on the third Saturday of January. I was in the kitchen when they arrived and Clare ushered them straight off for a house tour, so my first impression was of two heads of glossy dark hair yet to lose its pigmentation in a single strand, of alien and seductive fragrances that lingered in their wake. As I opened the wine, I could hear their voices in the stairwell saying the things people always say when exploring our four-storey Georgian townhouse:

  ‘Oh my God, this is, like, my dream house.’ (Her.)

  ‘Seriously, isn’t it completely beautiful?’ (Her.)

  ‘It’s fucking amazing.’ (Him.)

  ‘Look at this stone staircase. I feel almost depressed, it’s so grown-up.’ (Her.)

  And Clare’s delighted laughter, at odds with her murmured modesty.

  As I say, we were accustomed to the house being an object of envy, even among our peers. Prospect Square, a five-minute walk from the Thames, is an intact Georgian conservation area sometimes used in the filming of period dramas and number 15 still has many of its original glories: hand-cast ceiling roses, internal shutters, that kind of thing. From the rear window of our bedroom, which occupied the entire top floor, we had a view of the river; out front there was a private garden square. We were fortunate by anyone’s standards and every so often the realization would take possession of me: I’ve got it made here. I’m #Blessed.

  Maybe this gushing Melia girl was taking pictures right now for her Instagram feed, so busy cropping, filtering, hashtagging, she didn’t notice she was leaning a little too far over the curved banisters. A gruesome image sprang to mind of a young woman hurtling through the tubular void and landing splat on the flagstones of the hallway, hair fanned around her head, absorbing the blood and turning sticky.

  What the . . . ? I shook my head clear.

  When the party came back down and settled in the sitting room, I distributed large glasses of Burgundy. Helpfully, the other couple had chosen to sit opposite us on the smaller of the two sofas, a pale high-backed piece that showcased their strikingly twinlike good looks. Both were slightly built, she a beautiful tomboy dressed in an odd but winning combination of velvet shorts, glossy tights and a glittery top the colour of blue hydrangeas, he girlishly handsome in black jeans and a shirt in a paler blue. On closer inspection, of course, they weren’t so similar. She was finer-boned, a proper beauty with large eyes the amber of Pears soap, whereas he had flaws: unusually wide-set eyes, asymmetrical eyebrows, a slightly beaky nose.

  ‘This is a relief,’ Melia said, gripping the wineglass in two hands as if it might at any moment be confiscated. Her nails were yolk-yellow. ‘Everyone else seems to be doing Dry January.’

  ‘We do it every other year,’ Clare said, which made us sound not only dull but dull on an advance-notice basis.

  ‘Wait, so you already know next January is going to be completely miserable?’ said Kit. He was lithe with animation, clenching and twitching in his seat. ‘Why not leave it to the last minute to decide? Give yourselves the gift of hope?’

  ‘And what if something awful happens just before, like you’re splitting up and you really need a drink?’ Melia spoke with a blurting charm, immediately apologizing: ‘I can’t believe I said that! Of course you’re not going to split up.’

  ‘If we do, then plans for sobriety will need to be reviewed on an individual basis,’ Clare reassured her, with mock formality.

  ‘You’ve never been tempted to go dry, then?’ I asked Kit and he gave a loose, roguish smile.

  ‘Mate, I’ll quit when I’m dead.’

  Cliché though it was, we were all excitable enough to splutter at this and at the playful smack Melia landed on the back of his head. They touched and gasped and gestured frequently, I noticed, reinforcing each other’s presence.

  ‘That’s a refreshing attitude for your gen,’ Clare said to Kit. She was already very taken with him, I could tell. ‘We’ve been led to believe you prefer soya oat flat whites to the strong stuff.’

  ‘Soya or oat,’ I corrected her. ‘It’s one or the other.’

  ‘Jamie works in a café,’ she explained.

  ‘Really?’ Kit said. ‘Where? Here in St Mary’s?’

  ‘No, Waterloo. It’s called the Comfort Zone, which is appropriate since it challenges about as much as it pays.’

  ‘It’s only temporary,’ Clare said, loyally, ‘and it actually sounds exhausting.’

  ‘Well, physically, I suppose,’ I said, and as Melia’s gaze rested on me I wondered what she saw. In the flatteringly soft lamplight of our living room, a still-attractive man, I hoped. Tall, well-built, hair enduringly thick, jawline reasonably sharp. At forty-eight, I wasn’t so far off my prime, was I?

  ‘I know w
hat those jobs are like,’ Kit said. ‘We’ve both done our share of bar work, haven’t we, Me? That’s what you do when you’re an actor.’ His tone became droll. ‘You never actually act.’

  ‘I thought Clare said you worked in insurance?’ It had struck me as a staid career choice for a millennial when she’d briefed me; even more so now I’d met him.

  ‘I do. De Warr Insurance. I’ve got debts to pay off before I can do anything interesting. But for a while there, I was, you know, deluding myself I might be the next big thing.’ He shrugged the easy shrug of someone to whom such acceptance had not come easy at all.

  ‘That’s where we met,’ Melia explained. ‘Drama school.’

  So they were both failed actors: Clare hadn’t told me that. Though I hardly knew them, the detail made sense of them, of their physicality, their confidence, their need to be noticed, if not admired.

  ‘How much professional acting work did you do?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Melia was in a rep for a season,’ Kit said. ‘I did a whole load of unpaid stuff, but I gave up after a few years.’

  Melia sighed. ‘I stuck it out for a bit longer, but it was the same story every time. You’d be down to the last two and it would go to the girl with the father in the business.’

  ‘Showbiz does seem like it runs purely on nepotism,’ Clare said.

  ‘It’s becoming one of those professions where only the rich can do it,’ Kit said. ‘They’re living rent-free in their parents’ house in Hampstead, while you’re running up massive debts just to share a stinking mattress in Catford. You can’t compete.’

  There was more than a trace of resentment in this remark. Though they’d brought beautiful flowers and an expensive bottle of wine, a theme of financial hardship was already established and, by the time we’d finished the main course – I cooked beef on the teppanyaki grill – and Clare was serving her cherry and pistachio trifle, had found full voice.

  ‘I would literally give blood to live on this square,’ Melia said.

  ‘People “literally” give blood all the time,’ I told her, grinning. ‘It’s called paid donation. But I think you only get a hundred quid, not a house.’