The Missing Hours (22 page)

And then you can bring your hostages home.

An unrequited love

DS Finn Hale: Friday, 8.47 a.m.

‘
DID YOU KNOW
that Dominic was having an affair?’

‘What?’ Bronwyn whispers it, more of a breath than a word. Is staring at me with her over-made-up eyes. Tears spring to them.

I know that Leah is watching her, don’t have to look to tell that. So we stand there, an unlikely trio, in the quiet office, empty but for us. The receptionist’s desk is unmanned, Fae not in yet. Bronwyn clutches hold of the faux wood of its surface, fingernails painfully pink today, digging into the desktop like it is the edge of a cliff. We’d surprised her, were here when she arrived. Always the best way, I find.

The fact remains that Dominic Newell was having an affair, and that this woman, his business partner for many years, his ex-lover, is clearly still in love with him. Even I can see that. Which means, as Leah points out, it must be fairly obvious.

‘He … Dom, he would never …’ It is an empty protestation. Pointless, as it goes. Because it is clear that he did. Bronwyn shakes her head. ‘I just don’t understand it.’

She is wearing a skirt that is too tight for her, warping itself into creases across her thick thighs. How long, I wonder, has she been in love with him? Maybe she never stopped. And yet he chose Isaac, he built a life with Isaac. That had to hurt. And maybe one day Bronwyn simply lashed out in a fit of rage.

I watch her, black tears spilling down chalky cheeks, and think that Bronwyn was also the last person who saw him alive.

‘Who?’ Bronwyn pleads. She looks from me to Leah. ‘Who was it?’

We study her, both silent. There are voices, calls and laughter from the street outside, the world awake now, raring to go. We do not have long. I glance at the clock. In moments, this foyer will begin to fill. Fae will come in, sit at the desk at which we’re standing, and everything will get a lot more fractured. Bronwyn looks back at us, open at first, then her face creasing into a heavy frown as the cards finish their shuffle, awareness dawning.

‘You think it was me?’ She says it bluntly, still looking from me to Leah, back.

‘Was it?’ I ask.

Bronwyn swipes her hand across her cheek, only succeeding in smearing the mascara further. ‘As a matter of fact, it wasn’t.’ She folds her arms across her chest, forcing the grey silk blouse to gape at the buttons, showing a cream bra beneath. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘let’s get everything out on the table. Yes, I loved Dominic. I always have. Yes, I would have given anything for us to restart things again. And to be perfectly honest, I would have been quite happy to align myself against Isaac.’ She stares at Leah like it is a challenge, daring her to protest.

Leah returns her gaze. ‘Go on.’

‘The fact is, Dom didn’t want me.’ Her voice breaks, another tear, thick, black, worms its way down her cheek. ‘He knew how I felt. He always has. And last year …’ She looks at her fingernails, picking flints of fuchsia and flicking them to the ground. ‘Look, I’m not proud of this. I got drunk. At the Christmas party. I had too much. Dom said he’d take me home. He … he wanted to make sure I was safe. Take care of me. I tried it on.’

‘By tried it on, you mean …’

Bronwyn shoots me a look, one designed to freeze lava. ‘I tried to kiss him. Happy? Dom … he said …’ She sucks in a deep breath, gaze now lost in the middle distance. ‘He said that he’d always love me. As a friend. Fabulous, isn’t it?’

‘You must have been pretty upset by that,’ says Leah, softly. ‘I think I’d have been devastated.’

‘Not enough to kill him, if that’s where you’re going.’ Bronwyn leans behind her, pulling a desk diary from a tray. ‘But seeing as you are doubtful, let me just reassure you. I last saw Dom at around six p.m. on Monday. He said goodbye as he was leaving the office. Fae can confirm that. She was here with me, worked late sorting out some paperwork on a case we were dealing with. I took a phone call from a client, which lasted forty-five minutes. I’ll get you his details so you can check. Then at seven thirty, I had a dinner meeting in the bar just across the street. You can confirm that with the solicitor from Ashby and Frank, and with the bar. They know me there.’ She sets it down. A challenge.

I nod, slowly.

‘So …’ she says. ‘Who was it? Who was he sleeping with?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Leah says quietly. ‘What can you tell us about Dom’s relationship with Isaac?’

Bronwyn shrugs. ‘Not much. As far as I was concerned, they were love’s young dream.’

‘Isaac has confessed to hitting Dom in the days leading up to his death,’ I offer.

She seems to sway, grips the desk again with those terrible nails. ‘I … I didn’t know. I didn’t know.’ She looks away, more tears spilling.

It is, I suppose, another death to her. Not a physical one this time, but the death of who she had believed Dominic to be, what she had supposed their relationship was.

But then that’s true of all of us, isn’t it? We rarely know the people around us; only what they show us of themselves. And a thing like murder, it has the tendency to wipe all pretence away, show life in its ugly, gritty clarity.

‘So what about Beck Chambers?’ Bronwyn asks. ‘Given up on him, have you?’

‘Beck has an alibi,’ says Leah, calmly. ‘It wasn’t him.’

‘Are there any other clients? Anyone particularly unstable who has given you or Dominic cause for concern? Fae mentioned that Dominic was often involved in getting people into rehab, dealing with people with drug issues. Is there anyone you can think of who may have wanted to harm him?’

Bronwyn shakes her head. Then the sound of footsteps, the front door swinging inward. I glance at the clock: 8.59. Right on cue. Fae slips in, greets us with a small smile.

‘Did you know about this?’ Bronwyn demands.

‘What?’ Fae stops dead, shrinking under her boss’s scrutiny.

‘Isaac hit him.’ There is no need to clarify who she is talking about. I’m willing to bet that they have talked of little else in days.

Fae pales, a small, narrow hand flying to her mouth. ‘Oh my God. I saw … He came in, Dominic, I mean. He seemed upset, but I didn’t want to push him. Went straight into his office and closed the door. I … I took him coffee. He was looking in the mirror, at his eye. I … I teased him. I said he was getting vain. Oh my God.’

Leah is watching her, studying her. ‘We need to ask you some questions, actually,’ she says. ‘About Dom. Did you know that he was having an affair?’

‘What?’ Fae looks like a child told that Santa is not real.

‘You see,’ says Leah, ‘we need to find out who he was seeing. So that we can eliminate them, put our attention where it needs to be.’ She is speaking softly, gently probing.

I look at her, am momentarily confused by where she is going with this. See the way she is looking at Fae, waiting, and it hits me. Leah suspects Fae of being the secret lover. I open my mouth to protest, close it again. Because it is ludicrous to me. She’s a kid.

‘Fae, were you and Dominic in a relationship?’ asks Leah.

‘No!’ Fae recoils. ‘No, I, we …’

Bronwyn is staring at her like she is seeing her for the first time. ‘You spent a lot of time together.’ Her voice is flat, the sea before a storm. ‘Lots of private chats in his office.’

‘No. We didn’t, I never …’ She is crying now. ‘We were friends. That’s all.’

She looks from me to Leah to Bronwyn, pleading.

‘Honest. There’s nothing more to it. He was just a nice man.’

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Let’s all calm down. Fae, did you hear anything, or see anything, that might have indicated who he was seeing? It’s not a witch hunt, I promise you, but we need to find out who it was so we can eliminate them.’

She looks at me like I have saved her from drowning. ‘I … I don’t know. I didn’t think he would ever do that. I …’ Then she stops. Frowns. ‘Wait, there was someone. On Monday. Someone called. A woman. She must have rung six times all told. Was desperate to speak to him. I kept saying he wasn’t here, but she was having none of it.’

‘Who?’ demands Bronwyn.

‘I don’t remember her name. I … We get lots of hysterical people ringing. It didn’t seem strange, not at the time. Wait a second.’ She picks up the diary from where Bronwyn has left it, begins to leaf through. ‘I would have written it down. I write everything down, so I’m sure … Yes, here it is. Six calls between nine a.m. and three p.m. Her name was Orla Britten.’

On the banks of the river

DC Leah Mackay: Friday, 10.07 a.m.

I DRIVE STEADILY,
watch the gaudy autumn trees as they flicker by. I breathe in, breathe out, and listen to the music with its joyful jangling rhythm – ‘Dingle Dangle Scarecrow’. As I listen, it dawns on me that something is wrong, something I can’t quite put my finger on, and then I realise that my children are not in the car.

Finn is sitting in the passenger seat, his fingers beating against the door in time to the painful rhythm. Perhaps it is the music. Or perhaps it is impatience, an urge to get to the Cole house. Orla Britten. Maybe it is nothing. Or maybe it is everything.

These cases, the disappearance of Selena Cole, the murder of Dominic Newell. Miles apart, and yet somehow inextricably linked.

The office had fallen quiet, hanging on our every word.

‘Oliver,’ the SIO said, ‘you go over to the Cole house. I need you to interview this Orla Britten—’

‘Sir,’ Finn interrupted, bouncing on the balls of his feet. ‘With respect, I think it should be me and Leah doing the interview. They know her, she’s worked the case, and I think, the thing is …’

‘All right, Sergeant,’ said the SIO, an impatient edge to his voice. ‘I’m assuming you’re working on some kind of commission for your sister. Fine. You and Leah go. Go on then. Get on with it.’

We nodded, attempted to look like good little detectives, ignoring Oliver, his folded arms, flat expression.

I rotate the volume dial, allowing the music to slip into silence, and think of last night. Alex’s breathing easy and soft, my own fractured, my heart seeming to race against the darkness. Bits of sleep that you dive into then climb out of, so fragmented that you wake certain you have not slept at all. Alex watching me as I dressed, as I gave the girls their breakfast, his voice too bright, too cheery. Shall I feed the girls? Why don’t you go and have your shower? I can get them dressed. Do you want me to take them to crèche this morning? Wearing that damn shirt, its checks too bright, the one that he insists makes him look younger. I hate that shirt.

I wanted to scream.

‘It’s a nice day today,’ Finn says.

‘It is.’ I nod.

I take a left, driving into the low autumn sun. The trees reach across the road, languid arms stretching for one another, dappling the tarmac with sunlight. The road sparkles, the diamond sheen of days of rain.

I ease my foot off the accelerator, am slowing now.

You’re going to have to forgive me. If we’re going to make this marriage work. He had flung that at me once, in the course of one of many, many arguments. And, of course, he was right. I would have to forgive him. But how do you forget? It changes who you are, this thing. It changes you as a couple, a person. It burrows under your skin like a splinter, seemingly harmless, and you assume that sooner or later it will work its way out and you will be left whole again. Unencumbered. But sooner has not come yet. It remains there, buried in a shallow grave. And every now and again it rears itself up, stinging me from the inside.

I can’t do this any more. I can’t do this any more.

Something has to change.

‘So what do you think?’ Finn’s voice breaks into my thoughts, shocking me. I am not alone.

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know what to think.’

‘You were clearly right. There is some link between your missing person and Dominic’s murder. You said Selena Cole doesn’t remember what happened to her?’ Finn has that tone he gets, dripping cynicism from each syllable.

I shake my head. ‘I know. It sounds … off, right? The brother-in-law suggested that she may have been drugged. There’s this drug coming out of Colombia, devil’s breath. It’s not a big thing here yet, but the symptoms would fit.’

‘So, what? Someone drugged her and took her and then … put her back?’

‘I don’t know, Finn.’

Finn nods, looking away and out of the window.

What do I think happened? To Selena. To Dominic. What is Orla’s role in all this?

I have no idea.

‘There’s another option, you know.’

I know.

‘Selena Cole could be lying,’ says Finn.

I nod, slowly. ‘Yes. Yes, she could.’

I watch the trees, orange and brown leaves dancing as the wind springs up. They flood the road, speckled flashes of colour. Then there is a break, a gulf that yawns between the sentinel trees, and I see a glimpse of grey. The river. I look around me, suddenly realising where I am. The river. I am at the spot where Selena Cole was found.

I slow, pulling the car into a lay-by.

‘What are you doing?’ asks Finn.

I flick the engine off, my eyes trailing the bank that lies level with the road. The river is high, water kissing the grass, and I think that much more rain and this road will flood.

‘I just … I need to see something.’

I think about Selena Cole. There is a link. I don’t know what it is, but it is there, just as the sun remains when you disappear into the shade of a tree. Something I do not yet understand ties her to the death of Dominic Newell. I taste the theory, test it.

What am I thinking? I don’t know. I just … There are coincidences. They happen. But a woman vanishing, only to reappear hours later with no recollection of where she has been or what has happened to her, hours after a solicitor dies? A solicitor who apparently had an interest in collecting K&R information. Who was receiving desperate calls from Orla Britten.

I watch the river, the current pulling and tugging, bouncing over protruding rocks.

The link? Beck Chambers. A man with a nasty temper and a solid alibi for the murder of Dominic Newell. He worked for the Cole Group. Was represented by Dominic.