I haven’t bothered to dress up for today’s meeting and the perfectionist in me hates my failure to make a formal effort, but it is too late to worry now; my boyfriend jeans and slick-backed hair will have to do. I roll through south London and eventually close in on my destination. Heavy clouds hang overhead, covering the capital in a too-thick blanket, the city strangely humid for winter, and I step over smashed green glass to get inside. The pub itself – a pokey post-war affair – is a vision in wood: the furniture, the walls, even the pool table at the back, all of it is mahogany-inspired, the smell of beer stuck to every surface. It feels strange being here before lunch.
*
I spot Chad towards the back. He’s wearing a pale-yellow polo tucked into dark jeans and a black mac hangs like a shadow on the back of his chair. His brown belt is pulled a notch too tight over his thicker-than-he-thinks waistline and a pair of clunky white trainers glow from his feet, his cell-phone holstered to his hip as if it’s a pistol. I will myself to be positive: Chad Cummings is going to find out what happened to my friend and, even though he looks like he wouldn’t be able to solve the mystery of a missing cat, it’s not only my money motivating him to do the best job he can. If he can find out what happened to the MISSING WOMAN WHO WANTED TO HAVE A BABY, the BATTERSEA BEAUTY WHO MARRIED HER UNIVERSITY SWEETHEART, he’ll be a hero. I raise my hand as I approach.
‘Hi Chad,’ I say, noting his leather briefcase-suitcase wheeled into position behind him, handle still high.
‘Hi!’ he booms. Then, ‘Is everything all right?’ His expression changes; he’s not used to seeing me without make-up.
‘Fine,’ I reply, curtly, though I spot my deflated reflection in a teak-framed mirror opposite and wonder if it’s the truth. From a distance, the healthy plump of my face belies me – the result of a few surgical enhancements that make me look better than I feel – but, look closer, and you’ll see my hair is brittle from over-washing, my eyes underlined with grey buckets, my lips chapped and bitten. I pull my stare from the mirror, grab the seat opposite Chad, and fall in.
He looks down, realising his faux pas, clearly weighing up whether to backtrack and compliment me on something else instead. Thankfully, he decides not to.
‘Wanna get to it?’ he asks.
‘Gladly.’
Chad whacks a photograph on the tabletop and spins it round. I look at a grainy CCTV image of a woman getting into a car and, though it doesn’t show her face, you can see one of her hands on the door, one of her legs stretching into the interior. If I saw the next frame she’d be sitting pretty in the passenger seat. Though the inhabitants are blurred, the number plate of the vehicle shines luminous yellow, an EU flag at the side, ‘PL’ underneath.
‘Check the date stamp,’ Chad says, leaning back.
‘The night she went missing,’ I mutter, frowning, but my forehead barely moves.
‘Yup.’
‘And you’re sure it’s her? Do you know who she’s with?’ I ask.
‘Could be her.’
‘Could be?’
‘I spoke to a former officer on the case, managed to get this. This CCTV image was their first real lead, but the line of inquiry went cold. Darn shame. They gave up on it, in the end. Do you recognise the vehicle?’
The barman comes over – he wouldn’t usually but the pub’s empty and he’s looking for something to do.
‘What can I get you?’ he asks from a slight distance, black apron tied to his waist, bushy eyebrows meeting in the middle. I wait for Chad to order first.
‘Pint of real ale,’ he replies, and I wonder if he’s made a mistake by ordering alcohol this early – it makes him stand out – but the barman doesn’t flinch.
‘Sparkling water,’ I add, forcing a smile, covering the photograph with my arms.
I pluck it from the table when the barman leaves, bringing it close.
Immediately after Tabby went missing, the police followed the theory that she disappeared of her own accord. There was no break-in, they said, no struggle, and the fact that she’d taken her phone and a few possessions meant she ‘must have planned her escape.’ At first, I agreed with the theory – she’d told me herself she wanted to move abroad – then days passed, weeks, and I still hadn’t heard from her. If she’d run away, she would have found a way to get in touch with me to let me know she was safe. To me, at least, it didn’t add up. When that story fell flat, the papers shifted their focus onto Rick. Why had he kept so quiet? Why wasn’t he out searching for her? Why wasn’t he acting like a normal husband? Eventually, after weeks of pressure, Rick went public. He reiterated that he didn’t know any more than we did. When he woke up on the morning of 22nd August Tabby was gone. He never offered any more than that, never guessed or speculated about where his wife was, never ruminated on the possibilities, never showed any real emotion, or worry, or care.
If you ask me, I think he killed her, disposed of her body, did a decent enough job to make sure she was never found, then set about playing the victim. Why? I think he wanted her gone so he could start over. Tabby had told me she suspected there was another woman in Rick’s life – not that he’d admitted it to the police – so I knew Rick was hiding something from them. I wanted Chad, among other things, to find out if my theory had weight.
‘This supports the police version then… that she ran away of her own accord. That she planned it.’ I pause. ‘Where’s the number plate from?’
‘Poland.’
I push the photograph back towards him. ‘Tabby didn’t know anyone from Poland. I don’t think it’s her.’
‘How do you know?’
I look up at him, hopes rising. ‘Are you about to tell me different?’
Chad shakes his head and my body sags anew.
‘What about Rick’s other woman?’ I ask.
‘Nothing yet,’ he replies. ‘It’s difficult to find someone without a name. I can only trail Rick and hope he leads me to her. But he hasn’t…’
I can tell by the way Chad’s eyes skirt off to the side that he doesn’t believe Rick’s other woman exists. He once asked, ‘What if Tabby made her up so she didn’t feel guilty about leaving Rick? There’s no evidence of another woman besides what Tabby told you… don’t you think that’s a little odd?’
I plait my fingers and jut out my chin.
‘Where has he led you, then?’
Chad sighs as he reaches into his case, popping the catch open and reaching within. ‘He goes to work, he catches the bus to and from, he goes to the gym, he comes home.’ He fingers out a wedge of logs, all handwritten. Date and time in the left column, location in the middle, notes on the right. There are precious few observations: blue shirt, black tie – that kind of thing.
He’d produced a similar set of observations the previous time we met. I feel my fists clench and try to keep calm because I really want this to work out, but what Chad’s been doing – following Rick in and out of the shadows – is pitiful. I could do that myself.
‘Investigations take time,’ he says, picking up on my dissatisfaction.
You don’t understand, honey. This is the game, darling. Gotta be patient here, angel.