TUESDAY, JULY 23, 2013
MORNING
It takes me a while to realize what I’m feeling whenI wake. There’s a rush of elation, tempered withsomething else: a nameless dread. I know we’re closeto finding the truth. I just can’t help feeling that thetruth is going to be terrible.
I sit up in bed and grab my laptop, turn it on andwait impatiently for it to boot up, then log on to theInternet. The whole process seems interminable. I canhear Cathy moving around the house, washing upher breakfast things, running upstairs to brush herteeth. She hovers for a few moments outside mydoor. I imagine her knuckles raised, ready to rap.
She thinks better of it and runs back down thestairs.
The BBC news page comes up. The headline isabout benefit cuts, the second story about yetanother 1970s television star accused of sexualindiscretions. Nothing about Megan; nothing aboutKamal. I’m disappointed. I know that the police havetwenty-four hours to charge a suspect, and they’vehad that now. In some circumstances, they can holdsomeone for an extra twelve hours, though.
I know all this because I spent yesterday doing myresearch. After I was shown out of Scott’s house, Icame back here, turned on the television and spentmost of the day watching the news, reading articlesonline. Waiting.
By midday, the police had named their suspect. Onthe news, they talked about “evidence discovered atDr. Abdic’s home and in his car,” but they didn’t saywhat. Blood, perhaps? Her phone, as yetundiscovered? Clothes, a bag, her toothbrush? Theykept showing pictures of Kamal, close-ups of his dark,handsome face. The picture they use isn’t a mugshot, it’s a candid shot: he’s on holiday somewhere,not quite smiling, but almost. He looks too soft, toobeautiful to be a killer, but appearances can bedeceptive—they say Ted Bundy looked like CaryGrant.
I waited all day for more news, for the charges tobe made public: kidnap, assault or worse. I waited tohear where she is, where he’s been keeping her.
They showed pictures of Blenheim Road, the station,Scott’s front door. Commentators mused on the likelyimplications of the fact that neither Megan’s phonenor her bank cards had been used for more than aweek.
Tom called more than once. I didn’t pick up. Iknow what he wants. He wants to ask why I was atScott Hipwell’s house yesterday morning. Let himwonder. It has nothing to do with him. Noteverything is about him. I imagine he’s calling at herbehest, in any case. I don’t owe her anyexplanations.
I waited and waited, and still no charge; instead, weheard more about Kamal, the trusted mental healthprofessional who listened to Megan’s secrets andtroubles, who gained her trust and then abused it,who seduced her and then, who knows what?
I learned that he is a Muslim, a Bosnian, a survivorof the Balkans conflict, who came to Britain as afifteen-year-old refugee. No stranger to violence, helost his father and two older brothers at Srebrenica.
He has a conviction for domestic violence. The moreI heard about Kamal, the more I knew that I wasright: I was right to speak to the police about him, Iwas right to contact Scott.
I get up and pull my dressing gown around me,hurry downstairs and flick on the TV. I have nointention of going anywhere today. If Cathy comeshome unexpectedly, I can tell her I’m ill. I makemyself a cup of coffee and sit down in front of thetelevision, and I wait.
EVENING
I got bored around three o’clock. I got bored withhearing about benefits and seventies TV paedophiles,I got frustrated with hearing nothing about Megan,nothing about Kamal, so I went to the off-licence andbought two bottles of white wine.
I’m almost at the bottom of the first bottle when ithappens. There’s something else on the news now,shaky camera footage taken from a half-built (orhalf-destroyed) building, explosions in the distance.
Syria, or Egypt, maybe Sudan? I’ve got the sounddown, I’m not really paying attention. Then I see it:
the ticker running across the bottom of the screentells me that the government is facing a challenge tolegal aid cuts and that Fernando Torres will be outfor up to four weeks with a hamstring strain andthat the suspect in the Megan Hipwell disappearancehas been released without charge.
I put my glass down and grab the remote, clickingthe volume button up, up, up. This can’t be right.
The war report continues, it goes on and on, myblood pressure rising with it, but eventually it endsand they go back to the studio and the newsreadersays: “Kamal Abdic, the man arrested yesterday inconnection with the disappearance of Megan Hipwell,has been released without charge. Abdic, who wasMrs. Hipwell’s therapist, was detained yesterday, butwas released this morning because police say there isinsufficient evidence to charge him.”
I don’t hear what she says after that. I just sitthere, my eyes blurring over, a wash of noise in myears, thinking, They had him. They had him andthey let him go.
Upstairs, later. I’ve had too much to drink, I can’tsee the computer screen properly, everything doubles,trebles. I can read if I hold my hand over one eye.
It gives me a headache. Cathy is home, she calledout to me and I told her I was in bed, unwell. Sheknows that I’m drinking.
My belly is awash with alcohol. I feel sick. I can’tthink straight. Shouldn’t have started drinking soearly. Shouldn’t have started drinking at all. I phonedScott’s number an hour ago, again a few minutesago. Shouldn’t have done that, either. I just want toknow, what lies has Kamal told them? What lies havethey been fool enough to believe? The police havemessed the whole thing up. Idiots. That Riley woman,her fault. I’m sure of it.
The newspapers haven’t helped. There was nodomestic violence conviction, they’re saying now. Thatwas a mistake. They’re making him look like thevictim.
Don’t want to drink anymore. I know that I shouldpour the rest down the sink, because otherwise it’llbe there in the morning and I’ll get up and drink itstraightaway, and once I’ve started I’ll want to go on.
I should pour it down the sink, but I know I’m notgoing to. Something to look forward to in themorning.
It’s dark, and I can hear someone calling her name.
A voice, low at first, but then louder. Angry,desperate, calling Megan’s name. It’s Scott—he’sunhappy with her. He calls her again and again. It’sa dream, I think. I keep trying to grasp at it, to holdon to it, but the harder I struggle, the fainter andthe further away it gets.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 24, 2013
MORNING
I’m woken by a soft tapping at the door. Rainbatters against the windows; it’s after eight but stillseems dark outside. Cathy pushes the door gentlyopen and peers into the room.
“Rachel? Are you all right?” She catches sight of thebottle next to my bed and her shoulders sag. “Oh,Rachel.” She comes across to my bed and picks upthe bottle. I’m too embarrassed to say anything. “Areyou not going into work?” she asks me. “Did you goyesterday?”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer, just turns to go,calling back as she does, “You’ll end up gettingyourself sacked if you carry on like this.”
I should just say it now, she’s already angry withme. I should go after her and tell her: I was sackedmonths ago for turning up blind drunk after athree-hour lunch with a client during which Imanaged to be so rude and unprofessional that Icost the firm his business. When I close my eyes, Ican still remember the tail end of that lunch, thelook on the waitress’s face as she handed me myjacket, weaving into the office, people turning to look.
Martin Miles taking me to one side. I think youshould probably go home, Rachel.
There is a crack of thunder, a flash of light. I joltupright. What was it I thought of last night? I checkmy little black book, but I haven’t written anythingdown since midday yesterday: notes aboutKamal—age, ethnicity, conviction for domestic violence.
I pick up a pen and cross out that last point.
Downstairs, I make myself a cup of coffee and turnon the TV. The police held a press conference lastnight, they’re showing clips from it on Sky News.
Detective Inspector Gaskill’s up there, looking paleand gaunt and chastened. Hangdog. He nevermentions Kamal’s name, just says that a suspect hadbeen detained and questioned, but has been releasedwithout charge and that the investigation is ongoing.
The cameras pan away from him to Scott, sittinghunched and uncomfortable, blinking in the light ofthe cameras, his face a twist of anguish. It hurts myheart to see him. He speaks softly, his eyes castdown. He says that he has not given up hope, thatno matter what the police say, he still clings to theidea that Megan will come home.
The words come out hollow, they ring false, butwithout looking into his eyes, I can’t tell why. I can’ttell whether he doesn’t really believe she’s cominghome because all the faith he once possessed hasbeen ripped away by the events of the past fewdays, or because he really knows that she’s nevercoming home.
It comes to me, just then: the memory of calling hisnumber yesterday. Once, twice? I run upstairs to getmy phone and find it tangled up in the bedclothes. Ihave three missed calls: one from Tom and twofrom Scott. No messages. The call from Tom was lastnight, as was the first call from Scott, but later, justbefore midnight. The second call from him was thismorning, just a few minutes ago.
My heart lifts a little. This is good news. Despite hismother’s actions, despite their clear implications (Thank you very much for your help, now get lost), Scott still wants to talk to me. He needs me. I’mmomentarily flooded with affection for Cathy, filledwith gratitude to her for pouring the rest of the wineaway. I have to keep a clear head, for Scott. Heneeds me thinking straight.
I take a shower, get dressed and make another cupof 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 hepicks up, “what you are.” His tone is flat, cold. Mystomach is a small, hard ball. He knows. “DetectiveRiley spoke to me after they let him go. He deniedhaving an affair with her. And the witness whosuggested that there was something going on wasunreliable, she said. An alcoholic. Possibly mentallyunstable. She didn’t tell me the witness’s name, but Itake it she was talking about you?”
“But?.?.?. no,” I say. “No. I’m not?.?.?. I hadn’t beendrinking when I saw them. It was eight thirty in themorning.” Like that means anything. “And they foundevidence, it said so on the news. They found—”
“Insufficient evidence.”
The phone goes dead.
FRIDAY, JULY 26, 2013
MORNING
I am no longer travelling to my imaginary office. Ihave given up the pretence. I can barely be botheredto get out of bed. I think I last brushed my teeth onWednesday. I am still feigning illness, although I’mpretty sure I’m fooling no one.
I can’t face getting up, getting dressed, getting ontothe train, going into London, wandering the streets.
It’s hard enough when the sun is shining, it’simpossible in this rain. Today is the third day of cold,driving, relentless downpour.
I’m having trouble sleeping, and it’s not just thedrinking now, it’s the nightmares. I’m trappedsomewhere, and I know that someone’s coming, andthere’s a way out, I know there is, I know that Isaw it before, only I can’t find my way back to it,and when he does get me, I can’t scream. I try—Isuck the air into my lungs and I force it out—butthere’s no sound, just a rasping, like a dying personfighting for air.
Sometimes, in my nightmares, I find myself in theunderpass by Blenheim Road, the way back isblocked and I cannot go farther because there issomething there, someone waiting, and I wake inpure terror.
They’re never going to find her. Every day, everyhour that passes I become more certain. She will beone of those names, hers will be one of thosestories: lost, missing, body never found. And Scottwill not have justice, or peace. He will never have abody to grieve over; he will never know whathappened to her. There will be no closure, noresolution. I lie awake thinking about it and I ache.
There can be no greater agony, nothing can bemore painful than the not knowing, which will neverend.
I have written to him. I admitted my problem, thenI lied again, saying that I had it under control, that Iwas seeking help. I told him that I am not mentallyunstable. I no longer know whether that’s true ornot. I told him that I was very clear about what Isaw, and that I hadn’t been drinking when I saw it.
That, at least, is true. He hasn’t replied. I didn’texpect him to. I am cut off from him, shut out. Thethings I want to say to him, I can never say. I can’twrite them down, they don’t sound right. I want himto know how sorry I am that it wasn’t enough topoint them in Kamal’s direction, to say, Look, therehe is. I should have seen something. That Saturdaynight, I should have had my eyes open.
EVENING
I am soaked through, freezing cold, the ends of myfingers blanched and wrinkled, my head throbbingfrom a hangover that kicked in at about half pastfive. Which is about right, considering I starteddrinking before midday. I went out to get anotherbottle, but I was thwarted by the ATM, which gaveme the much-anticipated riposte: There areinsufficient funds in your account.
After that, I started walking. I walked aimlessly forover an hour, through the driving rain. Thepedestrianized centre of Ashbury was mine alone. Idecided, somewhere along that walk, that I have todo something. I have to make amends for beinginsufficient.
Now, sodden and almost sober, I’m going to callTom. I don’t want to know what I did, what I said,that Saturday night, but I have to find out. It mightjog something. For some reason, I am certain thatthere is something I’m missing, something vital.
Perhaps this is just more self-deception, yet anotherattempt 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 calledyour 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, “aboutSaturday night. That Saturday night.”
“What are you talking about? I need to talk to youabout Monday, Rachel. What the hell were you doingat Scott Hipwell’s house?”
“That’s not important, Tom—”
“Yes it bloody is. What were you doing there? Youdo realize, don’t you, that he could be?.?.?. I mean, wedon’t know, do we? He could have done somethingto her. Couldn’t he? To his wife.”
“He hasn’t done anything to his wife,” I sayconfidently. “It isn’t him.”
“How the hell would you know? Rachel, what isgoing on?”
“I just?.?.?. You have to believe me. That isn’t why Icalled you. I needed to talk to you about thatSaturday. About the message you left me. You wereso angry. You said I’d scared Anna.”
“Well, you had. She saw you stumbling down thestreet, you shouted abuse at her. She was reallyfreaked out, after what happened last time. WithEvie.”
“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’syelling now, he’s furious. “Seriously, Rachel. That isenough! I have persuaded Anna—on more than oneoccasion—not to go to the police about you, but ifyou carry on like this—harassing us, making upstories—”
“I’m not accusing her of anything, Tom. I’m justtrying to figure things out. I don’t—”
“You don’t remember! Of course not. Rachel doesn’tremember.” He sighs wearily. “Look. Anna sawyou—you were drunk and abusive. She came hometo tell me, she was upset, so I went out to look foryou. You were in the street. I think you might havefallen. You were very upset. You’d cut your hand.”
“I hadn’t—”
“Well, you had blood on your hand, then. I don’tknow how it got there. I told you I’d take you home,but you wouldn’t listen. You were out of control, youwere making no sense. You walked off and I went toget the car, but when I came back, you’d gone. Idrove up past the station but I couldn’t see you. Idrove around a bit more—Anna was very worriedthat you were hanging around somewhere, that you’dcome back, that you’d try to get into the house. Iwas worried you’d fall, or get yourself into trouble?.?.?.
I drove all the way to Ashbury. I rang the bell, butyou weren’t at home. I called you a couple of times.
I left a message. And yes, I was angry. I was reallypissed off by that point.”
“I’m sorry, Tom,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”
“I know,” he says. “You’re always sorry.”
“You said that I shouted at Anna,” I say, cringing atthe thought of it. “What did I say to her?”
“I don’t know,” he snaps. “Would you like me to goand get her? Perhaps you’d like to have a chat withher about it?”
“Tom?.?.?.”
“Well, honestly—what does it matter now?”
“Did you see Megan Hipwell that night?”
“No.” He sounds concerned now. “Why? Did you?
You didn’t do something, did you?”
“No, of course I didn’t.”
He’s silent for a moment. “Well, why are you askingabout this then? Rachel, if you know something?.?.?.”
“I don’t know anything,” I say. “I didn’t seeanything.”
“Why were you at the Hipwells’ house on Monday?
Please tell me so that I can put Anna’s mind at ease.
She’s worried.”
“I had something to tell him. Something I thoughtmight be useful.”
“You didn’t see her, but you had som............