TUESDAY, JULY 16, 2013
MORNING
I’m on the 8:04, but I’m not going into London. I’mgoing to Witney instead. I’m hoping that being therewill jog my memory, that I’ll get to the station andI’ll see everything clearly, I’ll know. I don’t hold outmuch hope, but there is nothing else I can do. Ican’t call Tom. I’m too ashamed, and in any case,he’s made it clear: he wants nothing more to dowith me.
Megan is still missing; she’s been gone more thansixty hours now, and the story is becoming nationalnews. It was on the BBC website and Daily Mailthis morning; there were a few snippets mentioning iton other sites, too.
I printed out both the BBC and Daily Mail stories;I have them with me. From them I have gleaned thefollowing:
Megan and Scott argued on Saturday evening. Aneighbour reported hearing raised voices. Scottadmitted that they’d argued and said that he believedhis wife had gone to spend the night with a friend,Tara Epstein, who lives in Corly.
Megan never got to Tara’s house. Tara says the lasttime she saw Megan was on Friday afternoon attheir Pilates class. (I knew Megan would do Pilates.)According to Ms. Epstein, “She seemed fine, normal.
She was in a good mood, she was talking aboutdoing something special for her thirtieth birthday nextmonth.”
Megan was seen by one witness walking towardsWitney train station at around seven fifteen onSaturday evening.
Megan has no family in the area. Both her parentsare deceased.
Megan is unemployed. She used to run a small artgallery in Witney, but it closed down in April lastyear. (I knew Megan would be arty.)Scott is a self-employed IT consultant. (I can’tbloody believe Scott is an IT consultant.)Megan and Scott have been married for threeyears; they have been living in the house onBlenheim Road since January 2012.
According to the Daily Mail, their house is worthfour hundred thousand pounds.
Reading this, I know that things look bad for Scott.
Not just because of the argument, either; it’s just theway things are: when something bad happens to awoman, the police look at the husband or theboyfriend first. However, in this case, the police don’thave all the facts. They’re only looking at thehusband, presumably because they don’t know aboutthe boyfriend.
It could be that I am the only person who knowsthat the boyfriend exists.
I scrabble around in my bag for a scrap of paper.
On the back of a card slip for two bottles of wine, Iwrite down a list of most likely possible explanationsfor the disappearance of Megan Hipwell:
She has run off with her boyfriend, who from hereon in, I will refer to as B.
B has harmed her.
Scott has harmed her.
She has simply left her husband and gone to liveelsewhere.
Someone other than B or Scott has harmed her.
I think the first possibility is most likely, and four isa strong contender, too, because Megan is anindependent, wilful woman, I’m sure of it. And if shewere having an affair, she might need to get away toclear her head, mightn’t she? Five does not seemespecially likely, since murder by a stranger isn’t allthat common.
The bump on my head is throbbing, and I can’tstop thinking about the argument I saw, or imagined,or dreamed about, on Saturday night. As we passMegan and Scott’s house, I look up. I can hear theblood pulsing in my head. I feel excited. I feel afraid.
The windows of number fifteen, reflecting morningsunshine, look like sightless eyes.
EVENING
I’m just settling into my seat when my phone rings.
It’s Cathy. I let it go to voice mail.
She leaves a message: “Hi, Rachel, just phoning tomake sure you’re OK.” She’s worried about me,because of the thing with the taxi. “I just wanted tosay that I’m sorry, you know, about the other day,what I said about moving out. I shouldn’t have. Ioverreacted. You can stay as long as you want to.”
There’s a long pause, and then she says, “Give me aring, OK? And come straight home, Rach, don’t goto the pub.”
I don’t intend to. I wanted a drink at lunchtime; Iwas desperate for one after what happened inWitney this morning. I didn’t have one, though,because I had to keep a clear head. It’s been a longtime since I’ve had anything worth keeping a clearhead for.
It was so strange, this morning, my trip to Witney. Ifelt as though I hadn’t been there in ages, althoughof course it’s only been a few days. It may as wellhave been a completely different place, though, adifferent station in a different town. I was a differentperson than the one who went there on Saturdaynight. Today I was stiff and sober, hyperaware of thenoise and the light and fear of discovery.
I was trespassing. That’s what it felt like thismorning, because it’s their territory now, it’s Tomand Anna’s and Scott and Megan’s. I’m the outsider,I don’t belong there, and yet everything is so familiarto me. Down the concrete steps at the station, rightpast the newspaper kiosk into Roseberry Avenue, halfa block to the end of the T-junction, to the right thearchway leading to a dank pedestrian underpassbeneath the track, and to the left Blenheim Road,narrow and tree-lined, flanked with its handsomeVictorian terraces. It feels like coming home—not justto any home, but a childhood home, a place leftbehind a lifetime ago; it’s the familiarity of walking upstairs and knowing exactly which one is going tocreak.
The familiarity isn’t just in my head, it’s in mybones; it’s muscle memory. This morning, as Iwalked past the blackened tunnel mouth, theentrance to the underpass, my pace quickened. Ididn’t have to think about it because I always walkeda little faster on that section. Every night, cominghome, especially in winter, I used to pick up thepace, glancing quickly to the right, just to make sure.
There was never anyone there—not on any of thosenights and not today—and yet I stopped dead as Ilooked into the darkness this morning, because Icould suddenly see myself. I could see myself a fewmetres in, slumped against the wall, my head in myhands, and both head and hands smeared withblood.
My heart thudding in my chest, I stood there,morning commuters stepping around me as theycontinued on their way to the station, one or twoturning to look at me as they passed, as I stoodstock-still. I didn’t know—don’t know—if it was real.
Why would I have gone into the underpass? Whatreason would I have had to go down there, whereit’s dark and damp and stinks of piss?
I turned around and headed back to the station. Ididn’t want to be there any longer; I didn’t want togo to Scott and Megan’s front door. I wanted to getaway from there. Something bad happened there, Iknow it did.
I paid for my ticket and walked quickly up thestation steps to the other side of the platform, and asI did it came to me again in a flash: not theunderpass this time, but the steps; stumbling on thesteps and a man taking my arm, helping me up. Theman from the train, with the reddish hair. I couldsee him, a vague picture but no dialogue. I couldremember laughing—at myself, or at something hesaid. He was nice to me, I’m sure of it. Almost sure.
Something bad happened, but I don’t think it hadanything to do with him.
I got on the train and went into London. I went tothe library and sat at a computer terminal, lookingfor stories about Megan. There was a short piece onthe Telegraph website that said that “a man in histhirties is helping police with their inquiries.” Scott,presumably. I can’t believe he would have hurt her. Iknow that he wouldn’t. I’ve seen them together; Iknow what they’re like together. They gave aCrimestoppers number, too, which you can ring ifyou have information. I’m going to call it on the wayhome, from a pay phone. I’m going to tell themabout B, about what I saw.
My phone rings just as we’re getting into Ashbury.
It’s Cathy again. Poor girl, she really is worried aboutme.
“Rach? Are you on the train? Are you on your wayhome?” She sounds anxious.
“Yes, I’m on my way,” I tell her. “I’ll be fifteenminutes.”
“The police are here, Rachel,” she says, and myentire body goes cold. “They want to talk to you.”
WEDNESDAY, JULY 17, 2013
MORNING
Megan is still missing, and I have lied—repeatedly—tothe police.
I was in a panic by the time I got back to the flatlast night. I tried to convince myself that they’d cometo see me about my accident with the taxi, but thatdidn’t make sense. I’d spoken to police at thescene—it was clearly my fault. It had to be somethingto do with Saturday night. I must have donesomething. I must have committed some terrible actand blacked it out.
I know it sounds unlikely. What could I have done?
Gone to Blenheim Road, attacked Megan Hipwell,disposed of her body somewhere and then forgottenall about it? It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous. ButI know something happened on Saturday. I knew itwhen I looked into that dark tunnel under therailway line, my blood turning to ice water in myveins.
Blackouts happen, and it isn’t just a matter of beinga bit hazy about getting home from the club orforgetting what it was that was so funny when youwere chatting in the pub. It’s different. Total black;hours lost, never to be retrieved.
Tom bought me a book about it. Not very romantic,but he was tired of listening to me tell him howsorry I was in the morning when I didn’t even knowwhat I was sorry for. I think he wanted me to seethe damage I was doing, the kind of things I mightbe capable of. It was written by a doctor, but I’ve noidea whether it was accurate: the author claimed thatblacking out wasn’t simply a matter of forgetting whathad happened, but having no memories to forget inthe first place. His theory was that you get into astate where your brain no longer makes short-termmemories. And while you’re there, in deepest black,you don’t behave as you usually would, becauseyou’re simply reacting to the very last thing that youthink happened, because—since you aren’t makingmemories—you might not actually know what the lastthing that happened really was. He had anecdotes,too, cautionary tales for the blacked-out drinker:
There was a guy in New Jersey who got drunk at afourth of July party. Afterwards, he got into his car,drove several miles in the wrong direction on themotorway and ploughed into a van carrying sevenpeople. The van burst into flames and six peopledied. The drunk guy was fine. They always are. Hehad no memory of getting into his car.
There was another man, in New York this time,who left a bar, drove to the house he’d grown upin, stabbed its occupants to death, took off all hisclothes, got back into his car, drove home and wentto bed. He got up the next morning feeling terrible,wondering where his clothes were and how he’d gothome, but it wasn’t until the police came to get himthat he discovered he had brutally slain two peoplefor no apparent reason whatsoever.
So it sound ridiculous, but it’s not impossible, andby the time I got home last night I had convincedmyself that I was in some way involved in Megan’sdisappearance.
The police officers were sitting on the sofa in theliving room, a fortysomething man in plain clothesand a younger one in uniform with acne on hisneck. Cathy was standing next to the window,wringing her hands. She looked terrified. Thepolicemen got up. The plainclothes one, very tall andslightly stooped, shook my hand and introducedhimself as Detective Inspector Gaskill. He told me theother officer’s name as well, but I don’t remember it.
I wasn’t concentrating. I was barely breathing.
“What’s this about?” I barked at them. “Hassomething happened? Is it my mother? Is it Tom?”
“Everyone’s all right, Ms. Watson, we just need totalk to you about what you did on Saturdayevening,” Gaskill said. It’s the sort of thing they sayon television; it didn’t seem real. They want to knowwhat I did on Saturday evening. What the fuck did Ido on Saturday evening?
“I need to sit down,” I said, and the detectivemotioned for me to take his place on the sofa, nextto Neck Acne. Cathy was shifting from one foot toanother, chewing on her lower lip. She looked frantic.
“Are you all right, Ms. Watson?” Gaskill asked me.
He motioned to the cut above my eye.
“I was knocked down by a taxi,” I said. “Yesterdayafternoon, in London. I went to the hospital. You cancheck.”
“OK,” he said, with a slight shake of his head. “So.
Saturday evening?”
“I went to Witney,” I said, trying to keep the waverout of my voice.
“To do what?”
Neck Acne had a notebook out, pencil raised.
“I wanted to see my husband,” I said.
“Oh, Rachel,” Cathy said.
The detective ignored her. “Your husband?” he said.
“You mean your ex-husband? Tom Watson?” Yes, Istill bear his name. It was just more convenient. Ididn’t have to change my credit cards, email address,get a new passport, things like that.
“That’s right. I wanted to see him, but then Idecided that it wasn’t a good idea, so I came home.”
“What time was this?” Gaskill’s voice was even, hisface completely blank. His lips barely moved when hespoke. I could hear the scratch of Neck Acne’s pencilon paper, I could hear the blood pounding in myears.
“It was?.?.?. um?.?.?. I think it was around six thirty. Imean, I think I got the train at around six o’clock.”
“And you came home?.?.?.??”
“Maybe seven thirty?” I glanced up and caughtCathy’s eye and I could see from the look on herface that she knew I was lying. “Maybe a bit laterthan that. Maybe it was closer to eight. Yes, actually,I remember now—I think I got home just aftereight.” I could feel the colour rising to my cheeks; ifthis man didn’t know I was lying then, he didn’tdeserve to be on the police force.
The detective turned around, grabbed one of thechairs pushed under the table in the corner andpulled it towards him in a swift, almost violentmovement. He placed it directly opposite me, acouple of feet away. He sat down, his hands on hisknees, head cocked to one side. “OK,” he said. “Soyou left at around six, meaning you’d be in Witneyby six thirty. And you were back here around eight,which means you must have left Witney at aroundseven thirty. Does that sound about right?”
“Yes, that seems right,” I said, that wobble back inmy voice, betraying me. In a second or two he wasgoing to ask me what I’d been doing for an hour,and I had no answer to give him.
“And you didn’t actually go to see your ex-husband.
So what did you do during that hour in Witney?”
“I walked around for a bit.”
He waited, to see if I was going to elaborate. Ithought about telling him I went to a pub, but thatwould be stupid—that’s verifiable. He’d ask me whichpub, he’d ask me whether I’d spoken to anyone. AsI was thinking about what I should tell him, I realizedthat I hadn’t actually thought to ask him to explainwhy he wanted to know where I was on Saturdayevening, and that that in itself must have seemedodd. That must have made me look guilty ofsomething.
“Did you speak to anyone?” he asked me, readingmy mind. “Go into any shops, bars?.?.?.??”
“I spoke to a man in the station!” I blurted this outloudly, triumphantly almost, as though it meantsomething. “Why do you need to know this? What isgoing on?”
Detective Inspector Gaskill leaned back in the chair.
“You may have heard that a woman from Witney—awoman who lives on Blenheim Road, just a fewdoors along from your ex-husband—is missing. Wehave been going door-to-door, asking people if theyremember seeing her that night, or if they rememberseeing or hearing anything unusual. And during thecourse of our enquiries, your name came up.” He fellsilent for a bit, letting this sink in. “You were seenon Blenheim Road that evening, around the time thatMrs. Hipwell, the missing woman, left her home. Mrs.
Anna Watson told us that she saw you in the street,near Mrs. Hipwell’s home, not very far from her ownproperty. She said that you were acting strangely,and that she was worried. So worried, in fact, thatshe considered calling the police.”
My heart was fluttering like a trapped bird. Icouldn’t speak, because all I could see at thatmoment was myself, slouched in the underpass, bloodon my hands. Blood on my hands. Mine, surely? Ithad to be mine. I looked up at Gaskill, saw his eyeson mine and knew that I had to say somethingquickly to stop him reading my mind. “I didn’t doanything.” I said. “I didn’t. I just?.?.?. I just wanted tosee my husband?.?.?.”
“Your ex-husband,” Gaskill corrected me again. Hepulled a photograph out of his jacket pocket andshowed it to me. It was a picture of Megan. “Didyou see this woman on Saturday night?” he asked. Istared at it for a long time. It felt so surreal havingher presented to me like that, the perfect blonde I’dwatched, whose life I’d constructed and deconstructedin my head. It was a close-up head shot, aprofessional job. Her features were a little heavierthan I’d imagined, not quite so fine as those of theJess in my head. “Ms. Watson? Did you see her?”
I didn’t know if I’d seen her. I honestly didn’tknow. I still don’t.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“You don’t think so? So you might have seen her?”
“I?.?.?. I’m not sure.”
“Had you been drinking on Saturday evening?” heasked. “Before you went to Witney, had you beendrinking?”
The heat came rushing back to my face. “Yes,” Isaid.
“Mrs. Watson—Anna Watson—said that she thoughtyou were drunk when she saw you outside herhome. Were you drunk?”
“No,” I said, keeping my eyes firmly on the detectiveso that I didn’t catch Cathy’s eye. “I’d had a coupleof drinks in the afternoon, but I wasn’t drunk.”
Gaskill sighed. He seemed disappointed in me. Heglanced over at Neck Acne, then back at me. Slowly,deliberately, he got to his feet and pushed the chairback to its position under the table. “If youremember anything about Saturday night, anythingthat might be helpful to us, would you please callme?” he said, handing me a business card.
As Gaskill nodded sombrely at Cathy, preparing toleave, I slumped back into the sofa. I could feel myheart rate starting to slow, and then it raced again asI heard him ask me, “You work in public relations, isthat correct? Huntingdon Whitely?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Huntingdon Whitely.”
He is going to check, and he is going to know Ilied. I can’t let him find out for himself, I have to tellhim.
So that’s what I’m going to do this morning. I’mgoing to go round to the police station to comeclean. I’m going to tell him everything: that I lost myjob months ago, that I was very drunk on Saturdaynight and I have no idea what time I came home.
I’m going to say what I should have said last night:
that he’s looking in the wrong direction. I’m going totell him that I believe Megan Hipwell was having anaffair.
EVENINGThe police think I’m a rubbernecker. They think I’ma stalker, a nutcase, mentally unstable. I should neverhave gone to the police station. I’ve made my ownsituation worse and I don’t think I’ve helped Scott,which was the reason I went there in the first place.
He needs my help, because it’s obvious the police willsuspect that he’s done something to her, and I knowit isn’t true, because I know him. I really feel that,crazy as it sounds. I’ve seen the way he is with her.
He couldn’t hurt her.
OK, so helping Scott was not my sole reason forgoing to the police. There was the matter of the lie,which needed sorting out. The lie about my workingfor Huntingdon Whitely.
It took me ages to get up the courage to go intothe station. I was on the verge of turning back andgoing home a dozen times, but eventually I went in.
I asked the desk sergeant if I could speak toDetective Inspector Gaskill, and he showed me to astuffy waiting room, where I sat for over an houruntil someone came to get me. By that time I wassweating and trembling like a woman on her way tothe scaffold. I was shown into another room, smallerand stuffier still, windowless and airless. I was leftthere alone for a further ten minutes before Gaskilland a woman, also in plain clothes, turned up. Gaskillgreeted me politely; he didn’t seem surprised to seeme. He introduced his companion as DetectiveSergeant Riley. She is younger than I am, tall, slim,dark-haired, pretty in a sharp-featured, vulpine sort ofway. She did not return my smile.
We all sat down and nobody said anything; theyjust looked at me expectantly.
“I remembered the man,” I said. “I told you therewas a man at the station. I can describe him.” Rileyraised her eyebrows ever so slightly and shifted inher seat. “He was about medium height, mediumbuild, reddish hair. I slipped on the steps and hecaught my arm.” Gaskill leaned forward, his elbowson the table, hands clasped together in front of hismouth. “He was wearing?.?.?. I think he was wearinga blue shirt.”
This is not actually true. I do remember a man,and I’m pretty sure he had reddish hair, and I thinkthat he smiled at me, or smirked at me, when I wason the train. I think that he got off at Witney, and Ithink he might have spoken to me. It’s possible Imight have slipped on the steps. I have a memory ofit, but I can’t tell whether the memory belongs toSaturday night or to another time. There have beenmany slips, on many staircases. I have no idea whathe was wearing.
The detectives were not impressed with my tale.
Riley gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
Gaskill unclasped his hands and spread them out,palms upwards, in front of him. “OK. Is that reallywhat you came here to tell me, Ms. Watson?” heasked. There was no anger in his tone, he soundedalmost encouraging. I wished that Riley would goaway. I could talk to him; I could trust him.
“I don’t work for Huntingdon Whitely any longer,” Isaid.
“Oh.” He leaned back in his seat, looking moreinterested.
“I left three months ago. My flatmate—well, she’s mylandlady, really—I haven’t told her. I’m trying to findanother job. I didn’t want her to know because Ithought she would worry about the rent. I havesome money. I can pay my rent, but?.?.?. Anyway, Ilied to you yesterday about my job and I apologizefor that.”
Riley leaned forward and gave me an insinceresmile. “I see. You no longer work for HuntingdonWhitely. You don’t work for anyone, is that right?
You’re unemployed?” I nodded. “OK. So?.?.?. you’renot registered to collect unemployment benefits,nothing like that?”
“No.”
“And?.?.?. your flatmate, she hasn’t noticed that youdon’t go to work every day?”
“I do. I mean, I don’t go to the office, but I go intoLondon, the way I used to, at the same time andeverything, so that she?.?.?. so that she won’t know.”
Riley glanced at Gaskill; he kept his eyes on my face,the hint of a frown between his eyes. “It sounds odd,I know?.?.?.” I said, and I tailed off then, because itdoesn’t just sound odd, it sounds insane when yousay it out loud.
“Right. So, you pretend to go to work every day?”
Riley asked me, her brow knitted, too, as though shewere concerned about me. As though she thought Iwas completely deranged. I didn’t speak or nod ordo anything, I kept silent. “Can I ask why you leftyour job, Ms. Watson?”
There was no point in lying. If they hadn’t intendedto check out my employment record before thisconversation, they bloody well would now. “I wasfired,” I said.
“You were dismissed,” Riley said, a note ofsatisfaction in her voice. It was obviously the answershe’d anticipated. “Why was that?”
I gave a little sigh and appealed to Gaskill. “Is thisreally important? Does it matter why I left my job?”
Gaskill didn’t say anything, he was consulting somenotes that Riley had pushed in front of him, but hedid give the slightest shake of his head. Rileychanged tack.
“Ms. Watson, I wanted to ask you about Saturdaynight.”
I glanced at Gaskill—we’ve already had thisconversation—but he wasn’t looking at me. “Allright,” I said. I kept raising my hand to my scalp,worrying at my injury. I couldn’t stop myself.
“Tell me why you went to Blenheim Road onSaturday night. Why did you want to speak to yourex-husband?”
“I don’t really think that’s any of your business,” Isaid, and then, quickly, before she had time to sayanything else, “Would it be possible to have a glassof water?”
Gaskill got to his feet and left the room, whichwasn’t really the outcome I was hoping for. Rileydidn’t say a word; she just kept looking at me, thetrace of a smile still on her lips. I couldn’t hold hergaze, I looked at the table, I let my eyes wanderaround the room. I knew this was a tactic: she wasremaining silent so that I would become souncomfortable that I had to say something, even if Ididn’t really want to. “I had some things I needed todiscuss with him,” I said. “Private matters.” I soundedpompous and ridiculous.
Riley sighed. I bit my lip, determined not to speakuntil Gaskill came back into the room. The momenthe returned, placing a glass of cloudy water in frontof me, Riley spoke.
“Private matters?” she prompted.
“That’s right.”
Riley and Gaskill exchanged a look, I wasn’t sure ifit was irritation or amusement. I could taste thesweat on my upper lip. I took a sip of water; ittasted stale. Gaskill shuffled the papers in front ofhim and then pushed them aside, as though he wasdone with them, or as though whatever was in themdidn’t interest him all that much.
“Ms. Watson, your?.?.?. er?.?.?. your ex-husband’scurrent wife, Mrs. Anna Watson, has raised concernsabout you. She told us that you have been botheringher, bothering her husband, that you have gone tothe house uninvited, that on one occasion?.?.?.” Gaskillglanced back at his notes, but Riley interrupted.
“On one occasion you broke into Mr. and Mrs.
Watson’s home and took their child, their newbornbaby.”
A black hole opened up in the centre of the roomand swallowed me. “That is not true!” I said. “Ididn’t take?.?.?. It didn’t happen like that, that’swrong. I didn’t?.?.?. I didn’t take her.”
I got very upset then, I started to shake and cry, Isaid I wanted to leave. Riley pushed her chair backand got to her feet, shrugged at Gaskill and left theroom. Gaskill handed me a Kleenex.
“You can leave any time you like, Ms. Watson. Youcame here to talk to us.” He smiled at me then, anapologetic sort of smile. I liked him in that moment, Iwanted to take his hand and squeeze it, but I didn’t,because that would have been weird. “I think youhave more to tell me,” he said, and I liked him evenmore for saying “tell me” rather than “tell us.”
“Perhaps,” he said, getting to his feet and usheringme towards the door, “you would like to take abreak, stretch your legs, get yourself something toeat. Then when you’re ready, come back, and youcan tell me everything.”
I was planning to just forget the whole thing and gohome. I was walking back towards the train station,ready to turn my back on the whole thing. Then Ithought about the train journey, about goingbackwards and forwards on that line, past thehouse—Megan and Scott’s house—every day. What ifthey never found her? I was going to wonderforever—and I understand that this is not very likely,but even so—whether my saying something mighthave helped her. What if Scott was accused ofharming her just because they never knew about B?
What if she was at B’s house right now, tied up inthe basement, hurt and bleeding, or buried in thegarden?
I did as Gaskill said, I bought a ham and cheesesandwich and a bottle of water from a corner shopand took it to Witney’s only park, a rather sorry littlepatch of land surrounded by 1930s houses and givenover almost entirely to an asphalted playground. I saton a bench at the edge............