A Wayward Game (9 page)

“Was Mr Sallow
already living there when you started work at Lexwood House?”

“Yes. He must
have been one of the first residents, because when I started the
building had only been finished a few months.”

“And did you
see him very often?”

“Sometimes;
he’d come down to the lobby every so often to collect his mail or
ask about something. For the most part, though, he didn’t have much
to do with the staff. Took the lift straight down to the
underground garage in the morning, and went straight back up to his
apartment in the evening.”

“What did you
make of him?”

Mr Walsh
frowns. “I didn’t know what to make of him. I mean, he was never
impolite or anything. And some people found him quite charming. He
was a dashing figure, I suppose. Always dressed in the best
clothes, driving that expensive car of his.” He waves his hand
around, a little vaguely, signifying either dislike of, or a lack
of interest in, such conspicuous consumption. “Flashed his cash
around, you could say. Of course, I heard that his father was an
OBE or some such thing, and had millions in the bank. But I heard
something else, too: that Sallow’s grandfather had just been a
market trader in the East End. And in a way, you know, it showed.
Sallow never really seemed comfortable, like he was expecting
someone to come along and take it all away. Like he was terrified
of losing it all.”

“What about
Miss Meath-Jones? When did she arrive?”

“Let me think –
must have been early in 2006. She was expecting, though it was
still too early to see. Didn’t make a fuss or anything; just
appeared one day, and stayed.”

“And what was
your impression of her?”

“Well, she was
different. A nice girl. Would always stop and have a chat, ask you
how you were, that kind of thing. Always seemed a bit lonely to me.
A bit confused by the world, like she couldn’t really understand
what she was doing here, or what the meaning of it all was. Not at
all like Sallow.”

“They seemed
like a mismatched couple, then?”

“Well, yes; but
I’m only going on what I saw, so it’s not fair to make assumptions.
Besides, the nature of the job was that you turned a blind eye.
Residents’ affairs were none of your business, at least not unless
they involved faulty boilers or broken radiators. Some things,
though, you can’t help but notice.” Mr Walsh lowers his voice
slightly, as though he’s afraid of being overheard even here, in
his own home. “There were arguments, quite often; the neighbours
complained about them sometimes. Sallow shouting his head off, that
kind of thing. Diane didn’t shout back, apparently, but she must
have been upset. I remember one evening she appeared in the lobby
and sat down there, crying quietly. I asked her if she was all
right. She said she was, but she’d just needed to get away for a
while. I brought her a glass of water, and then she just dried her
eyes, got up, and went back upstairs. Poor girl. It was like her
heart was broken.”

“Did you ever
have reason to think that Mr Sallow might actually have hurt Diane?
Physically, I mean?”

“Well, I never
saw anything to suggest that he had. I mean, bloody hell, if I had,
I’d have bloody well given her the train fare to go back to her
mother or something. Not worth staying with someone, is it, if they
just make you miserable.”

“You were on
duty the evening before Diane went missing, I understand.”

“Yes.”

“And did you
see anything of Mr Sallow or Miss Meath-Jones that evening?”

“No. The last I
saw of her was the Friday before. She came down in the afternoon to
see if there was any post for her, and stopped to chat for a few
minutes. Seemed happier, she did. Mentioned that they were going
off to Dorset for the weekend.”

“She seemed
happier, you say?”

“Yes. Smiling,
laughing. Seemed to have put all the bad stuff behind her. That was
what I hoped, anyway, for her and the baby.”

“But you didn’t
see her on the Sunday evening.”

“No. But there
was nothing odd about that, you know; I just supposed that they’d
parked down in the garage and gone up to their apartment in the
lift. That was what they would have done, if they’d come back late
and they were tired. One thing I did think was strange, though—” Mr
Walsh hesitates and frowns.

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s
probably nothing, but early the next morning – I was just about to
go off duty, I remember, so it must have been nearing six o’clock –
I was making some tea out in the office when I heard someone coming
in through the front doors. That was pretty unusual, so early in
the day, so I stuck my head out of the office door and saw Mr
Sallow walking towards the lifts.”

“Did he see
you?”

“I don’t think
so, no.”

“And you told
the police this?”

“Yes, of
course. Sallow told them that he couldn’t sleep and he’d gone out
to buy some cigarettes from the convenience store around the
corner. Open 24-7, that place. Does a roaring trade, thanks to the
residents of Lexwood. It’s funny, though: he looked a
mess
.
Normally, he was smart; even if he was off work and just going for
a walk, he’d be well-dressed and groomed. That morning, he was
bloody dirty: dirty hands, dirty clothes, hair all over the
place.”

“My God.” My
mouth is suddenly dry, and I feel a chill snake down my spine.

“He told the
police he fell over on his way back. Could be true, I suppose.”

“Yes, it could
be.” I look into Mr Walsh’s shrewd blue eyes. “You don’t believe
that, though, do you?”

“No.” Mr Walsh
says simply. “No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well – and
remember, love, I didn’t tell you this – there was mud on his
clothes. And there was no grass or bare earth anywhere between
Lexwood House and the convenience store. And even if there had
been, it was midsummer and there hadn’t been any rain for about a
week. So no, that made no sense to me at all.”

I sit silently
for a moment, trying to take all of this in. In a sense, it’s a
shock. And yet, in another sense, it doesn’t surprise me in the
slightest. I never believed Sallow’s story, and to hear my doubts
echoed by Mr Walsh only confirms that I was right.

“Do you
remember the next day?”

“Not much of
it, no. I came off duty at six, when Martha – my colleague, you
know – arrived. I exchanged a few words with her, and then came
home. I slept until mid-afternoon, and then went back to Lexwood
for the next night’s shift. But when I arrived it was bloody
pandemonium. Police cars parked outside, a couple of journalists
just beginning to sniff around, people hanging around in the lobby
and the phone ringing off the hook. Martha was white, poor thing,
trembling. ‘Didn’t you hear, Will?’ she asked. ‘Miss Meath-Jones
has gone missing. Disappeared out in Bucklock Wood, poor thing.’”
Mr Walsh gives an almost theatrical little shudder. “Do you know
Bucklock? Bloody sinister place, I always thought. I used to take
the grandchildren out there sometimes, just for little walks and
things, but I never much liked it. Strange atmosphere – brooding,
you know. I knew then that whatever had happened to the poor girl
could hardly be good. I’ll never forget that night – answering the
telephone, watching policemen come and go and more journalists
beginning to appear outside, and hoping against hope that somehow
she’d come walking back through the door at any moment.”

“And how did Mr
Sallow behave, following Diane’s disappearance?”

“Hard to say. A
cold fish, that Sallow. Never gave much away. Mind you, some people
are just like that. They don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves,
but it doesn’t mean they don’t have them.” Mr Walsh sighs.
“Strange, though, the way he just carried on as normal. Hardly
missed a day of work. Hardly ever at home, in the weeks and months
that followed. Work commitments, I expect.”

A charitable
view. I wonder whether Mr Walsh has heard the rumours about
Sallow’s lifestyle, about the wild weekends he enjoys with his City
friends. Remote country houses, champagne and coke, prostitutes on
hand for all who want them. This was the kind of fun that Sallow
revelled in before he met Diane, and he returned to it within weeks
of her disappearance. Not the reaction of a man who’d lost the
woman he loved, you might think.

I say none of
this, of course; I simply nod, and say, “I expect so. Is there
anything else you can tell me, Mr Walsh? Anything at all?”

“No, I doubt
it.” Mr Walsh puts a large, blue-veined hand to his forehead and
closes his eyes. “There’s not much more I remember, truth be told.
People say that age affects the memory, but if you ask me what
happens is this: you store up so many memories, a whole lifetime’s
worth, and it becomes very hard to categorise them, or search
through them and retrieve the one you want. And, of course, there
are some things you don’t want to think about – like what might
have happened to that poor girl. There are enough terrible things
in this world. You don’t have to go looking for more.”

“Well, thank
you, Mr Walsh,” I say, and begin to stand up. “You’ve been very
helpful.”

“Pleasure’s all
mine, love,” Mr Walsh says. He leads me out of the room, and back
down the narrow corridor. “Call again some time, if you like. I’m
here most days. When will your article be appearing?”

“That depends
on how my research goes, and whether my editor is sufficiently
impressed by the end result. It may not run at all.” A plausible
and suitably vague statement, which should address his doubts when
an article fails to materialise. People grumble about journalists,
I’ve found, and dismiss the media, but few are able to resist
reading the papers when they touch directly on their lives or
experiences.

“Well, good
luck. Remember, though – you didn’t hear any of this from me.”

“I won’t
forget, Mr Walsh.” He holds open the front door, and I step
outside. As I do so, I quietly press the “Stop” button on the tape
recorder that has been whirring steadily inside my pocket
throughout. “Thank you for all your help. Goodbye.”

I walk out into
a grey noon and head back to my parked car, feeling suddenly
elated. I’ve learned something new – not enough to change anything,
perhaps, but enough to lend strength and conviction to what I
already thought. And if I can find out one more new fact, I can
find out many more, until there are enough, perhaps, to reopen this
case. I unlock my car, slip into the driving seat, and begin the
journey back to Spitalfields.

As I drive, I
notice a grimy grey Honda following close behind. Occasionally I
lose sight of it during the journey, but it always reappears,
slowly creeping after me through the London traffic. But by the
time I reach home it has gone for good, and I think no more of it
as I lock the car and walk back to my flat.

Later that
afternoon, I log on to www.whathappenedtodiane.org to see what
people have been discussing since my last visit. There are a few
additions to old threads, none of them of much interest. But as I
scroll down the page, I notice a new thread, entitled “Time to move
on?”, started by an occasional poster, called – appropriately –
Lurker. The stats beneath his avatar show that he has posted only
thirty times, despite being a member of the forum for three
years.

Hi all,

I’ve been wondering
recently whether it’s time we moved on and stopped picking away at
this story. I’ve mentioned my own theory about Diane’s
disappearance before: I believe that she was dejected, probably
suffering from antenatal depression or some other mental disorder,
and either killed herself or left of her own free will. If she
killed herself, then she’s hardly unique. If she walked away from
her former life, why then should we attempt to hunt her down? What
gives us that right?

Perhaps she’s out there
somewhere, living a new life. There have been a few reported
sightings, after all – unconfirmed, certainly, and perhaps
mistaken, but nevertheless . . . In any case, she’s gone, and this
forum won’t bring her back.

Why, eight years on,
are we still chasing her memory? Isn’t it time to leave her be?

I type out a
reply:

You state that Diane
perhaps killed herself, but the fact is that no body has ever been
found, despite extensive searches. Southeast England is a pretty
small corner of the world, and densely populated, and I find it
hard to believe that a woman desperate and distraught enough to
commit suicide would also be cunning enough to select a place where
no one would ever discover her. If she is dead, the fact that no
body has been recovered suggests that somebody went to great
lengths to conceal it, which in turn suggests that it could hardly
have been a suicide.

If she left of her own
free will, on the other hand, we have to accept that she did so
without money, without a passport – without anything, in fact,
other than the clothes she was wearing. We have to accept that she
walked away, leaving the dog she cared for and the man she loved,
without saying a word. We have to accept that she did not contact
either friends or family members. We have to accept that she left
despite being pregnant, and therefore in need of medical
supervision.

All of this is not to
say that it’s impossible, of course. It may be that she had
antenatal depression, and wasn’t thinking clearly. Perhaps she even
took her own life, and just happened to do so in a place so remote
that her body would never be found. The point, though, is that
there is no evidence to suggest that she did any such thing. There
is, on the contrary, evidence to suggest that she was harmed by
James Sallow – incomplete evidence, insufficient evidence in legal
terms, but evidence nonetheless. Should we forget an injustice,
Lurker? Should we tell ourselves that, because it happened eight
years ago, it’s of no further interest?