Precious Thing

by Mcbeth, Colette

  ‘Amber Corrigan will do an interview with us,’ I told him. Of course it wasn’t entirely true. At that point she hadn’t agreed to anything but a lie isn’t a lie if you can make it happen. And I knew I could make it happen.

  Robbie sat up, the initial flash of excitement giving way to a look of fear.

  ‘You can’t do it,’ he said.

  ‘No, but someone else could,’ I said, adding softly, ‘I would just be in the background.’ He squirmed in his chair. He knew it was all wrong allowing me anywhere near the story, especially now that Jonny had died, but I could see him making the calculation in his head. ‘Officially, of course, you would know nothing about my involvement.’

  ‘This Amber girl, she won’t do it with anyone else?’ he asked, scrunching the serviette up in his fat hands. I shook my head.

  ‘I wouldn’t be asking you otherwise. Look,’ I said, dropping my voice to a whisper, ‘it’s far from ideal, I know that. But Amber was one of the last people to see Clara. An interview with her might jog a few memories. Clara’s my friend after all and I’ll do anything I can to help find her, because so far the police don’t seem to be doing such a good job.’ I tapped my finger on the newspaper.

  ‘Who do you suggest?’ He was warming to the idea, his hunger for the exclusive stronger than any notion of ethics. I paused for a moment before I told him.

  ‘Jane Fenchurch,’ I said, ‘she’s perfect.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘Look, she’s not exactly Kate fucking Adie, I know, but with the right support and help I think she could do a good job. I’m offering you an interview with Amber Corrigan. Jane is unthreatening. I think Amber will warm to her. There is no one else. You can hardly send Richard after his almighty fuck-up the other day. I can guide Jane, feed her the right questions. Trust me,’ I said and saw him twitch at the sight of his phone flashing. ‘We could have it in the can this afternoon if we leave now.’ I took the newspaper from the table and folded it away in my bag.

  Robbie wiped his greasy brow and picked up the phone, ‘Hold,’ he barked. And then he nodded his agreement. ‘For God’s sake though,’ he said, resting his hand on the phone’s receiver to block out our chat, ‘don’t leave her to her own devices.’

  I found her at the furthest corner of the newsroom, her shoulders hunched, disappearing into the newspaper she was reading. I felt a stab of sympathy. To most of the editors she was already invisible, the latest casualty of a system which chewed up and spat out young reporters for the slightest transgression. Often it wasn’t even clear what they had done wrong, if anything at all. Careers were simply made or ended on the whim of an editor.

  I knew Jane Fenchurch probably thought it was her animal-print coat that did it for her but that was simply a convenient excuse. She was just another mousy blonde who had failed to make her mark.

  ‘Jane,’ I said, making her jump from behind the newspaper. She looked and me and then looked behind to see if I was talking to someone else. ‘I’m Rachel,’ I said with a smile. ‘Grab your things, we’re going out on a story.’

  We were in the car, heading out of London on the A40, when I explained to Jane the purpose of our trip. She was already familiar with your story and my connection to it and looked slightly embarrassed by it all, in the way you would if a stranger had asked you to observe an intimate moment. ‘It’s delicate,’ I told her, ‘let’s just say my involvement today is a little under the radar.’ We were sitting at the lights and I turned and saw her pale washed-out face now flushed with excitement. ‘I’m sure you won’t tell anyone I was with you.’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘Not a word,’ she said, her eyes sparkling in collusion. As I predicted, Jane Fenchurch couldn’t afford the privilege of asking too many questions.

  ‘Just let me do the talking when we get there,’ I said.

  I pressed on number twenty-five. It was your flat, Clara, and Amber’s too. I began to worry she wouldn’t answer, that I had promised too much to Robbie, dragged Jane down here for nothing. I remembered you saying she worked from home writing magazine features and thought of the yoga mat sticking out of her bag, the hint of free time on her hands that came with a freelance life.

  No answer. I buzzed again. And then her voice, a muffled hello?

  ‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘It’s Rachel, Clara’s friend.’

  ‘Rachel?’ was all she said.

  In the square a traffic warden was patrolling, seeking out his next victim. A seagull swooped down to peck at a bag of rubbish left in the street, flying off with a chicken leg in its mouth.

  Finally I heard the zzzz of the intercom and we were inside. In the lobby a handful of letters lay uncollected on the floor. I glanced quickly but none were addressed to you. We moved across the hallway to the stairs, Jane slipping in behind me. I could sense her nerves, the reluctance. ‘Maybe it’s best if you hang back for a while, let me do the talking,’ I watched the relief wash over her.

  Amber’s pale face was waiting for us in the doorway when we reached your flat. It was only a week since we’d last met but I was struck by how tired she looked, purple shadows circled her eyes. She was wearing tight jeans which grazed her bony hips and a red woollen jumper which showed off a slice of her sunken stomach. Her blond hair was shower-wet. Poor Amber, I thought, living in the flat with the ghost of you. A spasm of guilt twisted in my stomach over what I was about to do. And then it passed. There are times when the end justifies the means.

  ‘Amber,’ I said, out of breath from climbing three flights of stairs. I kissed her on both cheeks and felt her wet hair against my face. ‘You look surprised to see us.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said. She looked like a frightened animal caught in a trap.

  ‘Oh God,’ I said, ‘Don’t tell me Hilary hasn’t called you.’

  ‘Hilary?’

  ‘The police press officer. She was supposed to call and ask you.’ I took a step back from the door and raised my hand to cover my mouth. ‘Oh fuck, this is really embarrassing.’

  ‘Why would she call me?’ Amber said defensively. ‘I’ve told them everything I know.’

  I sighed and shook my head. ‘Maybe we should go and come back …’ I said, taking a step away from the door. ‘I knew it was a bad idea, it’s just that …’ I paused.

  ‘Just tell me what she wanted.’

  ‘I told them it would be too much to ask, it’s just that you were one of the last people to see her and the police …’ I pulled the folded-up Daily Telegraph from my bag and handed it to her. ‘They need all the help they can get.’

  I watched as she scanned the headline in the newspaper, shuffling on her feet. And then it clicked. ‘I can’t do it again. I told them I wouldn’t do anything else. I’m sorry Rachel, I just can’t.’ She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. ‘This is like living in a nightmare.’

  ‘You don’t have to apologise,’ I said. ‘If anyone understands it’s me. She’s in here all the time.’ I tapped my finger at the side of my head. ‘I see her everywhere: in the supermarket, sitting in traffic. I see her when I wake up and last thing at night. I can’t stop thinking of her out there, cold and alone. She hated being alone.’ My voice was unsteady and to my surprise the tears came sliding down my cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, wiping them away with my index finger. ‘I wish I could do this myself, it’s not fair to ask you. I just want to help her. I don’t know what else to do.’

  Those tears that I once found so hard to cry kept coming and I did nothing to stop them. I was aware of Amber watching me, her hand reaching out to me then pulling back, searching for words or gestures to console me.

  And then above my sobs I heard her say: ‘Come inside.’

  My tears were real, Clara. They were tears of anger and frustration. But Amber only saw her own grief reflected in them.

  In the eighteen months since our first meeting there your flat had been transformed from the stark, empty space it once was. Black-and-white photographs of street ch
ildren and wizened old ladies that you took on your travels hung from the wall alongside your own paintings; abstract flashes of colour on dark canvases. An old sunburst mirror you’d picked up on eBay, a coffee table groaning with photography books and unopened post. It was the same as always; only the bookshelves I hadn’t seen before and they made me laugh. You with your principles, the kind only the wealthy can afford, had finally succumbed to the lure of Ikea.

  I could still smell you in the living room. Or maybe it was just the smell of your flat. Every home has one, don’t they, and yours was a sickly vanilla that made my nose itch. Amber handed me a box of tissues, ‘I have no idea what to say,’ she said which was ironic since my own head was bubbling with words and sentences and accusations I wanted to throw at you.

  ‘I’ll help. But I can’t tell you what to say,’ I told her.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, with a weak smile. ‘I guess this all comes easy to you.’

  I started to unpack the small self-shoot camera I’d brought from work, anticipating the presence of a cameraman would unnerve Amber even more. Besides, the fewer people who knew I was there the better.

  I let her talk about you as Jane skipped around us, opening and closing the curtains, checking the exposure on the camera. Mostly, Amber just repeated what she’d told me the week before, little revolutions of the same story which would have irritated me normally. But not today. She told me again about your mood in the weeks leading up to your disappearance, how you seemed anxious on the Friday she last saw you, flitting between excited and worried. I let my head fall into my hands.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, pausing mid-sentence. ‘I don’t want to upset you.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. It’s just that the more I hear the more I think she was getting ill again. Those highs and lows, that’s exactly how she was in the lead-up to the breakdown. I’m so angry with myself for not picking up on it. I should have done more to help her.’

  I watched Amber turn the thought over in her head. ‘You think she’s done something to herself, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know what to think any more,’ I told her.

  By the time the camera started rolling all those little seeds I’d planted must have flowered in Amber’s mind. Jane asked her one question and she delivered the soundbite I desperately wanted. I doubt I could have said it better myself. It was as if by osmosis my own thoughts had become hers.

  ‘Was that OK?’ she asked, secretly pleased with her performance.

  ‘Perfect,’ I said. Because it was, Clara.

  From the kitchen, the sound of the kettle boiling. Amber and Jane’s voices drifted out, chat about the comparable merits of yoga and Pilates. I packed the radio mic into the kitbag and marked the interview tape carefully. Then I sloped off down the corridor.

  Do you remember how I moaned about your bathroom with its noisy flush being next to your bedroom? Well, that day I was glad of it. The proximity of the two rooms would have been a good cover if Amber had seen me; thankfully she didn’t.

  The door to your room was slightly ajar. I pushed it softly, mindful of potentially creaky hinges. On the wall, a huge painting I recognised as your abstract interpretation of the old pier. ‘My best work’ you told me once and I had to agree. There was something hypnotic about it: the red and purple and orange of a summer sky on fire, the flames licking at the charred and twisted frame of the old pier. Underneath the painting, a pair of jeans and a jacket had been discarded on a chair, pink Converse on the floor, the scent of vanilla stronger here. And on the battered chest of drawers next to the wardrobe were photo frames, one of you with your dad on a beach, though which beach I couldn’t say. He was standing behind you, his arms on your shoulders. Fleeces and weather-beaten faces and sun-wrinkled eyes. The next one was of your dad alone, wearing the same fleece, sitting over a camping stove outside a yellow beach hut. The last photograph was an old one of a toddler I hadn’t seen before. It looked like it was taken in the eighties. The eyes were unmistakably yours.

  In the background I heard the reassuring sound of Amber and Jane talking, teaspoons tapping against mugs. Quickly I reached into my bag and pulled out the photograph I’d brought with me, placing it amongst the others. Then I slipped out as quietly as I’d come in.

  ‘It would be great,’ I said as we nursed our mugs of tea, ‘if we could get a few shots of Clara’s paintings. It just gives people a sense of who she is, you know, rather than just this missing woman.’

  Amber beamed. ‘That’s a lovely idea, there are two in here,’ she said, picking them out on the wall.

  ‘Her favourite was the one of the West Pier. Actually it’s my favourite too,’ I said. ‘Shame she never got round to putting it up.’

  ‘It’s in her room,’ Amber said hesitantly and looked at me first, then Jane. ‘I’m not sure we should be going in there.’

  ‘We don’t have to be in the room, we could just zoom in on it from the doorway.’ It was Jane, surprising me with her unsolicited contribution. ‘Great idea,’ I said and saw Jane standing up to grab the camera, looking pleased with herself.

  ‘You finish your tea,’ I told her, my hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ll knock the shots off myself.’

  I went back to the doorway of your room and fixed the camera on to the small tripod. I took one shot of the painting, zooming in on it slowly, and then another which started on the West Pier and panned down to the photographs below. And then when I was finished I slipped the picture I had placed there back in my bag.

  On the way back to London I gave Jane DCI Gunn’s direct number. ‘Pin him down on the specific points Amber made,’ I said, ‘and check on the postmortem results while you’re on to him.’ They hadn’t been made public yet but I assumed they would be later that day.

  I sensed Jane stiffen, stuttering her words. ‘You don’t know how Jonny died yet?’ We were in the car, sitting at a set of traffic lights on Lewes Road heading out of Brighton. I turned to her but she avoided eye contact, doodling little flowers in her notepad instead.

  ‘I do,’ I said. ‘But you need to find out through an official channel.’ She looked up, her pen resting on the petal of a flower she had drawn.

  ‘This must be so hard for you. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.’ There was softness to her words, velvet and smooth. Her concern touched me, interrupting my train of thought.

  ‘Thank you for not judging me,’ I said and I meant it. ‘I know me being here, helping you, might seem weird, but it’s my way of coping. If I don’t do something I’ll lose my mind.’ The lights turned green and we started moving again, past the pound shops and takeaways. By the time we hit the A23 Jane was dialling DCI Gunn’s number, on speakerphone at my request. I heard it ring four times until the familiar West Country voice said hello.

  His tone was more abrupt, his answers shorter than normal, put off no doubt at being called on a mobile by a reporter he didn’t know.

  He said they would release the postmortem results in the next hour and no, he wouldn’t tell Jane anything in advance. He refused to say whether Jonny was still a suspect. He was about to hang up when Jane announced we had an interview with Amber and explained in detail what she had said. A long silence followed.

  ‘I’m not prepared to speculate,’ he said finally, police-speak for fuck off. I waited in dread for Jane to thank him and hang up and kiss our chances of a lead story goodbye.

  ‘You are aware that she had a history of mental health problems aren’t you?’ she said instead, scribbling furiously as she spoke.

  ‘We are aware of that, yes,’ DCI Gunn said defensively.

  ‘But what you’re saying is that you have categorically ruled out any link between that and her disappearance.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I said. We are considering all possibilities.’ I could hear Jane’s breaths through her words. The nerves and adrenalin that came with knowing you were closing in on a good story.

  ‘So it’s one of several possibilities?’ s
he asked. And I smiled; she’s not going to give up, I thought, I was wrong to underestimate her.

  ‘Yes,’ he conceded, wearily, ‘that would appear to be what I’m saying.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jane, her pen finally stopping on the page. And when she hung up I didn’t have to look at her to know there was a smile of satisfaction on her face. Jane Fenchurch had finally got her big break.

  In what was left of the journey we discussed how to structure the package, what shots to use, which clips of Amber to include, and when we reached the studios I dropped her at the door, handed her the tape and drove off. A little bit further up the road I called Robbie to brief him on the news lines and suggested it was a lead story. ‘Jane was amazing,’ I told him and listened to him snort. ‘You should give her another chance.’

  I headed over to Jake’s where he had offered to cook me dinner, sensing, I think, that I was keen to spend as little time alone in my flat as possible.

  At six o’clock, with a glass of wine and the smell of lemon and saffron and lamb cooking in the oven, we settled down to watch the evening news. From the headlines I knew it was the lead story and I sat back and waited to see if Jane had executed my carefully laid plan.

  Amber’s anguished face filled the screen behind the presenter as he read the cue to the story:

  ‘Police searching for the missing artist Clara O’Connor say they are now considering the possibility she may have committed suicide. Miss O’Connor, who had a history of depression, has been missing for almost two weeks as Jane Fenchurch reports.’

  It was you again, the smiling photograph so infamous, but this time it zoomed in slowly until your deep blue eyes filled the shot. Jane’s words ran over it: …‘troubled artist … who friends fear may have taken her own life’.

  It cut to Amber, sitting in your living room, so obviously your living room because in the wide shots you could see your photos, your furniture, your mug sitting on the coffee table.

  ‘On the day she disappeared,’ Amber told the camera, ‘she was all over the place, up and down. Her mood was so unpredictable. Looking back now I can see it was something that had been brewing for weeks, months even. She wasn’t stable. She kept on saying that she would feel better about everything after Friday evening but she wouldn’t say why. Now I’m just so worried she had planned something, you know, she’s done something to herself and I could have stopped it.’