***
Six hours later, Faye had only sore feet to show for her efforts. One or two businesses had promised to call her if anything came up. The rest had been as unsympathetic as the woman at the building society. Most of them had wondered why she didn’t have a fixed address. It wasn’t much of a CV: half a dozen lines, a huge gap, and no real skills or experience. Even Faye wouldn’t have hired herself.
She almost stopped for a coffee before heading home, but one pound sixty-five for a small cup seemed too much to lose when all she had in the world was the forty-six pounds the prison had given her upon release. At least she had Mark to go home to.
As she headed to the bus stop to get the number twenty-five bus back to the boat, an older woman unexpectedly limped over to her and hugged her.
‘Leah! It’s been far too long, my dear. When did you get back to Ilford?’ The woman was in her seventies, with bloodshot grey eyes and a tangled mess of white hair. A small flower was perched above her left ear.
Faye pried herself away from the woman’s embrace. ‘I’m sorry, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,’ she said as gently as she could. ‘My name is Faye, not Leah.’
‘Oh, you are a minx, Leah. Always playing games with me, you are. You’ve been like that ever since you were a child, you know. Away with the faeries. Always away with the faeries.’
Faye crossed her arms. ‘Ma’am, I really don’t know you. Are you confused? Can I call someone for you?’
‘You can call your mother once in a while. Poor sweet woman hasn’t heard your voice in years. And you used to be such a nice girl.’
The arrival of the bus saved Faye from responding. She leapt on board, swiped her Oyster card, and looked out the window as the crazy lady with the flower in her hair disappeared into the distance.
***
Mark was unimpressed with her story about the old woman. They curled up in bed as the rain pounded down on the roof. ‘It’s Ilford, ain’t it, babe? You’re going to get weirdos all over town.’
‘I like Ilford,’ Faye said.
‘I know you do, babe. Me too, but isn’t this better? We’ve got our own space – our own very private space.’
Faye felt his hand traverse down the small of her back to caress her buttocks. She sat up sharply and slapped him hard across the face. He looked stunned for a moment and then drew back his hand and balled it up into a fist as if he meant to punch her. She froze, a deer in the headlights. Being free didn’t feel much different from life inside. A sob escaped her, and then he began to apologise.
‘I just... I love you so much. I can wait. Just not too long, okay? You’ve been inside for four years, babe, and I am a man. With needs.’
She shivered as he wrapped an enormous arm around her.
Chapter 3: Old Times
Sunday 12th June
The days blurred together, and before Faye knew it, she had been on the boat for a week. They’d moved on to a new mooring that Saturday, doing what Mark called his Saturday Shuffle, and were now moored up a little farther along the City Road Canal in Islington. Faye could now see the canal tunnel in the distance. Graffiti was all over the stonework, and some of it looked so familiar, it could have been her own handiwork.
Faye had barely seen Mark during the week. Each morning, he had woken her up with a cup of builder’s tea and a kiss on the forehead, and then he disappeared to suit up and head to work. The only time he paid her much heed was when he trying to persuade her to have sex, or she’d done something wrong. Faye supposed she must have deserved it. He was good to her. He’d given her a home, a purpose, a freedom she hadn’t enjoyed for years.
And she was finally going to get to catch up with Laura. Her best friend since childhood, Laura had always been there. Before prison, anyway. These days, she was dating a mysterious older man called Tim. Mark had agreed that Faye could invite them both over for Sunday dinner.
Five minutes before they were due to arrive, the smoke alarm went off.
Mark came tearing through from the sitting room, which doubled up as his study. ‘Fucking hell, woman. Can’t you get anything right? Don’t you know I’ve got work to do? I told you, I’m pitching a new client tomorrow, and I cannot concentrate with that racket.’
‘S-sorry,’ Faye said as she turned out the oven. Dinner was a charred black mess.
‘Throw that overboard,’ Mark barked. ‘I don’t want it stinking up my boat. Then find something else for tonight. They’ll be here any minute. And for fuck’s sake, lock the cat in the bedroom. I’m not having her stealing table scraps tonight.’
He paused before he slammed the door shut. ‘Have you seen my phone? I swear I left it on the table.’
‘No, I haven’t seen it,’ Faye said. There was just enough time for her to coax their cat into the bedroom, fish a takeaway leaflet out of the drawer, and then call through her order before Laura and her boyfriend Tim trundled along the canal pathway arm in arm.
Faye flung herself from the narrowboat as they approached, narrowly missing the gap between the boat and the towpath. She skidded to a halt in front of Laura. Her best friend hadn’t changed a bit. She was still slim, voluptuous, and perfectly made-up, with long blonde hair cascading over pale shoulders.
Laura pursed her blood-red-stained lips in an air-kiss. ‘Hey, you. Long time, no see. How’ve you been?’
‘Better now you’re here. Who’s this?’ Faye looked at Laura’s companion. He was an older man, a good decade older than the girls. Grey hairs had begun to show in his tawny mop. If it weren’t for the Rolex prominently adorning his wrist, Faye would have wondered just what her best friend saw in him.
‘This is Tim,’ Laura said.
‘Nice to meet you, Tim.’ Faye shook his hand. ‘Want to come aboard?’
The four were soon seated around a fold-out table aboard The Guilty Pleasure. The Chinese meal had yet to arrive, and the boys were knocking back the beers in no time.
Laura leant in conspiratorially. ‘Any luck with the job search, babe?’
‘Nothing,’ Faye said, shaking her head. ‘Nobody wants an ex-con with no skills and no fixed abode.’
‘I hadn’t even thought about that. Where does your post go?’
‘We have to collect it from the post office,’ Mark chimed in. ‘I get everything sent POST RESTANTE Mark Sanders to the post office opposite my work.’
Tim drained the bottle he was holding and looked over at Mark. ‘Couldn’t you just get it sent to work?’
‘The boss wouldn’t like it,’ Mark said. ‘He doesn’t even know I live on a boat, so I’d have to explain that to him. Want another beer?’
Tim nodded. ‘You’re still at Berryman these days, aren’t you?’
‘That’s us. Berryman Financial Services.’
Laura looked confused. ‘What do you do? Sell investment opportunities?’
Mark laughed. ‘I’ll give you the opportunity to earn me a fat commission selling you something. The market can go down as well as up. As long as I get paid, I’m fucked if I care which.’
‘Remind me never to lend you so much as a tenner.’
Faye watched the conversation with a glazed expression. It felt forced. Thankfully, they were interrupted by someone tapping on the window. Faye looked out and saw a delivery bike on the towpath. She sidled away from the table to fetch dinner.
‘Faye, I’ve been thinking,’ Tim said. ‘Laura said your dad is a chef? Couldn’t you go work for him? He must need people all the time in the restaurant, and you’re more than pretty enough to cane it in tips.’
Laura cut him off with a scowl. ‘We don’t talk about him. Faye, may I use your bathroom?’
‘Sure. It’s down the hall on the–’
‘Left. I know.’
Faye watched her friend trail from the room. How did she know where the bathroom was?
‘Babe,’ Mark whispered into Faye’s ear, ‘I’m thinking we should have an early night tonight. It’s been ages since me and you... you know... did it.’
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Faye waved him off. ‘Not tonight.’
She wasn’t ready. Not yet. He’d asked every night since she’d got out.
‘It’s been four years, babe. When? Please tell me you didn’t go gay for the stay.’
Faye said nothing.
Dinner idled on for much too long. By the time the wontons were gone and the beer had been finished, Faye was ready to collapse into bed. She bade the others goodnight and curled up in their tiny bed while Fabby the cat purred contently by her side.
Eventually, the voices of the other three drew quiet. An early night wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Chapter 4: Home Alone
Monday 13th June, 07:30
Faye awoke to a cold, empty narrowboat that Monday morning. Mark hadn’t woken her up with her usual cup of tea. He had left without kissing her goodbye. The bed was cold where Mark should have been lying, and condensation was running down the windowpanes. Evidently, Mark hadn’t put the generator on, either.
The generator was on the bank side of the boat, hidden behind a wooden panel. It was diesel-powered. Faye strained to recall what Mark had said about starting it. Don’t something something too long.
It took her a while to work out, but eventually she fired up the generator, and the boat hummed to life. She turned on the hob, cracked two eggs, and set about making an omelette.
The sun was already up by the time she emerged onto the deck to look around. She pinged Mark a good morning text in the hope of putting the awkwardness of the previous night behind them.
By mid-afternoon he still hadn’t replied. Fine, Faye thought. If that’s the way he wants to play it.
Yet by teatime, her resolve had begun to weaken. He still wasn’t home when she began cooking, or when she served up their chicken curry. His portion went into the microwave for later. As she finished eating her dessert, she cracked.
‘Mark, where are you?’ she texted him.
Thoughts ran through her mind. Was he late at work? Was he at the pub with his mates? But then why wasn’t he texting? Was his phone dead? Was he with another woman?
‘Mark, I’m sorry I said no last night. I won’t do it again. Come home. Please.’
Still no answers came. A dozen more texts, and still dead air. She tried calling. His number went straight to voicemail. ‘Mark, it’s me. Please give me a call.’
Soon, it was nearly midnight, and he hadn’t come home. She locked up and headed to bed. Surely, he’ll be home by breakfast.
Chapter 5: The Other Woman
Tuesday 14th June, 12:05
The next morning Faye woke up late. There had been no sign of Mark. She’d tossed and turned throughout the night, trying to listen out for him. At one point, she’d thought he might have been home, but she must have dreamt it.
She rolled over, her back aching badly, and got out of bed. The tiny cabin bed was doing a number on her posture. The time on the clock read 12:05. Gone midday! Faye dressed as quickly as she could and fumbled her way out of the bedroom.
The front door was still locked, not that that mattered much. Mark could have come and gone while she was sleeping. She found her mobile phone lying on the counter where she had tossed it the night before. No new messages.
Mark had to have slept somewhere last night. Before she jumped to the wrong conclusion, Faye decided to call Mark’s brother in case he had crashed at his place.
Jake answered on the third ring. ‘Faye! To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Have you seen Mark? He didn’t come home last night.’
There was a pregnant pause, the silence of a man deciding if he should cover for a friend. Finally, Jake said, ‘No. He wasn’t out with us last night. I haven’t seen him since we worked on the boat on Sunday. I’m sorry, Faye.’
Faye reached the same conclusion in a heartbeat. Mark must have been with another woman. ‘Bastard.’ She rang off without another word. She’d show him.
***
Berryman Financial Services were located just off Poultry, within spitting distance of the Bank of England. It was close enough for Faye to walk down from the City Road Basin. She arrived outside at quarter to three and pressed the buzzer above the green-and-gold signage.
Mark didn’t strictly work in finance, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise. He was an IT nerd, project-managing IT software for those who actually did work in banking. But “logistics and sales management software” didn’t sound quite as sexy as investment banking, and Faye was happy to play along with his little fantasy to help keep him happy.
She knew he should be in his office, pretending to send important emails but really just waiting for other employees to start leaving the office so he could leave too. Mark never did any more work than was strictly necessary.
The one thing he was good at was sales. As soon as the lift carrying Faye up to the floor housing Berryman Financial Services opened, she saw the leader board in the entranceway marked ‘New Clients Signed This Month’. Mark’s name was at the top of the list, with thirteen new clients in as many days. The next best, with twelve, was Pip Berryman.
Mark had told her all about Pip. The son of the owner, he was given every chance, but he still lagged behind Mark. He just didn’t have the gift of the gab required for sales. No doubt if he was on the same low-pay, high-commission contract that Mark had, Pip would have been out on the streets years ago. Mark always said Pip only succeeded by riding the coat-tails of others, taking credit for the easy sales but never himself bagging a whale.
She saw Pip appear from the corner of her eye. She knew it was him from Mark’s description. She’d thought Mark had been exaggerating about the three-piece suit, the silk pocket square, the foppish blond hair and the over-polished Italian leather shoes, but Mark’s description had been spot on. Pip looked like he belonged in a courthouse more than he belonged in an IT services company.
‘Hello, darling. Are you here to congratulate me?’ he smirked.
‘Is Mark here?’
‘Sanders? Nah. That duffer didn’t even turn up today. He lost himself a whale there. His free ride as the top dog is over. See his name at the top of that leader board? Do me a favour and stick him in second place. Right, lads, champers on me at The Green Man. Who’s in?’
***
With no sign of Mark at the office, Faye roamed around the local bars looking for him. Nobody had seen him, though several bartenders admitted to knowing who he was. It seemed he was a regular in most of the pubs within a five-minute walk of his office.
After Faye returned to the boat, she found herself pacing up and down, five steps forwards, five back. With every length of their cramped sitting room, she could feel her heart rate rising. Mark might be a horn dog, but he would never miss the chance to bag a client. He’d spent all of Saturday and most of Sunday night talking about it. Why wouldn’t he have gone to work?
His brother hadn’t seen him, nor had Laura and Tim. His phone wasn’t on. He hadn’t been to the office. Where had he gone between Sunday night and now? For the first time since getting out of prison, Faye began to feel very much alone.
Should she go to the police? Would they take an ex-con seriously? She had to try.
***
Faye left the boat moored up, with a note on the dining table for Mark should he return while she was out.
The nearest police station was on Tolpuddle Street, a short walk along the canal, past the entrance to the Islington Canal Tunnel and through Chapel Market. A Victorian-style blue lamp hung above the doorway to denote the entrance. Beside the door a yellow CCTV sign glowed in the evening light, warning her that all comings and goings were being recorded.
The interior of the station was sparse and utilitarian. The walls were painted white, and the light grey countertop was made of plastic. It seemed as if the entire room had been designed to be wiped down and cleaned with bleach if the situation warranted it. The lobby was crowded with a queue running from the front door up to the main desk. Police officers were runni
ng back and forth behind the counter, escorting witnesses and victims to interview suites and scribbling down notes.
It took a few minutes for Faye to make it to the front of the queue. She overheard those in front complaining of petty theft and disorderly neighbours. When it was her turn, she averted her eyes and shuffled towards the counter without so much as glancing at the police constable behind the desk.
‘I’m h-here to report a missing person.’
‘Very well, ma’am. Please go through the door on your left,’ the constable said in a slightly nasal voice, waving a pencil in the direction of a door which Faye hadn’t initially noticed.
The door buzzed as the policeman remotely unlocked it, and Faye stepped into a small interview suite. There were two plastic chairs in the middle of the room, facing forwards.
The counter from the main reception continued along the back wall, and the nasal-voiced policeman reappeared. He pulled up a stool behind the counter and set his notebook down in front of him.
‘Who is it that’s missing, ma’am?’ he asked.
‘It’s my boyfriend. Mark. Mark Sanders.’
‘And your name is...?’ the constable said.
‘Faye Atkins.’
‘Okay, Faye, I’m Police Constable Macklemore. Can you tell me what Mark looks like?’
‘He’s tall. About six foot, I guess.’
‘Taller or shorter than I am?’ The constable stood up and drew himself up to his full height.
‘Maybe an inch or two shorter.’
‘Okay. Is he slim? Fat?’
‘Slim. He works out a lot. He’s got curly brown hair, but no beard or ‘tasche. His eyes are green, and his jawline is like a wide V.’
‘Give me a second to write all that down,’ PC Macklemore said. When he had scribbled down the description Faye had given him, Macklemore turned his attention back to Faye. ‘Does he have any tattoos? Jewellery?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing like that.’
‘Okay, Faye, you’re doing really well. Does Mark have any medication he has to take?’
Missing Persons (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 5) Page 2
