I take a shower, get dressed and make another cup of coffee, and then I sit down in the living room, little black book at my side, and I call Scott.
‘You should have told me,’ he says as soon as he picks up, ‘what you are.’ His tone is flat, cold. My stomach is a small, hard ball. He knows. ‘Detective Sergeant Riley spoke to me, after they let him go. He denied having an affair with her. And the witness who suggested that there was something going on was unreliable, she said. An alcoholic. Possibly mentally unstable. She didn’t tell me the witness’s name, but I take it she was talking about you?’
‘But … no,’ I say. ‘No. I’m not … I hadn’t been drinking when I saw them. It was eight thirty in the morning.’ Like that means anything. ‘And they found evidence, it said so on the news. They found—’
‘Insufficient evidence.’
The phone goes dead.
Friday, 26 July 2013
Morning
I am no longer travelling to my imaginary office. I have given up the pretence. I can barely be bothered to get out of bed. I think I last brushed my teeth on Wednesday. I am still feigning illness, although I’m pretty sure I’m fooling no one.
I can’t face getting up, getting dressed, getting on to the train, going into London, wandering the streets. It’s hard enough when the sun is shining, it’s impossible in this rain. Today is the third day of cold, driving, relentless downpour.
I’m having trouble sleeping, and it’s not just the drinking now, it’s the nightmares. I’m trapped somewhere, and I know that someone’s coming, and there’s a way out, I know there is, I know that I saw it before, only I can’t find my way back to it, and when he does get me, I can’t scream. I try – I suck the air into my lungs and I force it out – but there’s no sound, just a rasping, like a dying person fighting for air.
Sometimes, in my nightmares, I find myself in the underpass by Blenheim Road, the way back is blocked and I cannot go further because there is something there, someone waiting, and I wake in pure terror.
They’re never going to find her. Every day, every hour that passes I become more certain. She will be one of those names, hers will be one of those stories: lost, missing, body never found. And Scott will not have justice, or peace. He will never have a body to grieve over; he will never know what happened to her. There will be no closure, no resolution. I lie awake thinking about it and I ache. There can be no greater agony, nothing can be more painful than the not knowing, which will never end.
I have written to him. I admitted my problem, then I lied again, saying that I had it under control, that I was seeking help. I told him that I am not mentally unstable. I no longer know whether that’s true or not. I told him that I was very clear about what I saw, and that I hadn’t been drinking when I saw it. That, at least, is true. He hasn’t replied. I didn’t expect him to. I am cut off from him, shut out. The things I want to say to him, I can never say. I can’t write them down, they don’t sound right. I want him to know how sorry I am that it wasn’t enough to point them in Kamal’s direction, to say, look, there he is. I should have seen something. That Saturday night, I should have had my eyes open.
Evening
I am soaked through, freezing cold, the ends of my fingers blanched and wrinkled, my head throbbing from a hangover that kicked in at about half past five. Which is about right, considering I started drinking before midday. I went out to get another bottle, but I was thwarted by the ATM, which gave me the muchanticipated riposte: There are insufficient funds in your account.
After that, I started walking. I walked aimlessly for over an hour, through the driving rain. The pedestrianized centre of Ashbury was mine alone. I decided, somewhere along that walk, that I have to do something. I have to make amends for being insufficient.
Now, sodden and almost sober, I’m going to call Tom. I don’t want to know what I did, what I said, that Saturday night, but I have to find out. It might jog something. For some reason, I am certain that there is something I’m missing, something vital. Perhaps this is just more self-deception, yet another attempt to prove to myself that I’m not worthless. But perhaps it’s real.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you since Monday,’ Tom says when he answers the phone. ‘I called your office,’ he adds, and he lets that sink in.
I’m on the back foot already, embarrassed, ashamed. ‘I need to talk to you,’ I say, ‘about Saturday night. That Saturday night.’
‘What are you talking about? I need to talk to you about Monday, Rachel. What the hell were you doing at Scott Hipwell’s house?’
‘That’s not important, Tom—’
‘Yes it bloody is. What were you doing there? You do realize, don’t you, that he could be … I mean, we don’t know, do we? He could have done something to her. Couldn’t he? To his wife.’
‘He hasn’t done anything to his wife,’ I say confidently. ‘It isn’t him.’
‘How the hell would you know? Rachel, what is going on?’
‘I just … You have to believe me. That isn’t why I called you. I needed to talk to you about that Saturday. About the message you left me. You were so angry. You said I’d scared Anna.’
‘Well, you had. She saw you stumbling down the street, you shouted abuse at her. She was really freaked out, after what happened last time. With Evie.’
‘Did she … did she do something?’
‘Do something?’
‘To me?’
‘What?’
‘I had a cut, Tom. On my head. I was bleeding.’
‘Are you accusing Anna of hurting you?’ He’s yelling now, he’s furious. ‘Seriously, Rachel. That is enough! I have persuaded Anna – on more than one occasion – not to go to the police about you, but if you carry on like this – harassing us, making up stories—’
‘I’m not accusing her of anything, Tom. I’m just trying to figure things out. I don’t—’
‘You don’t remember! Of course not. Rachel doesn’t remember.’ He sighs wearily. ‘Look. Anna saw you – you were drunk and abusive. She came home to tell me, she was upset, so I went out to look for you. You were in the street. I think you might have fallen. You were very upset. You’d cut your hand.’
‘I hadn’t—’
‘Well, you had blood on your hand then. I don’t know how it got there. I told you I’d take you home, but you wouldn’t listen. You were out of control, you were making no sense. You walked off and I went to get the car, but when I came back, you’d gone. I drove up past the station but I couldn’t see you. I drove around a bit more – Anna was very worried that you were hanging around somewhere, that you’d come back, that you’d try to get into the house. I was worried you’d fall, or get yourself into trouble … I drove all the way to Ashbury. I rang the bell, but you weren’t at home. I called you a couple of times. I left a message. And yes, I was angry. I was really pissed off by that point.’