The Missing Husband (10 page)

‘Do you still think it’s worth exploring other lines of enquiry?’ she asked weakly, unsure how she wanted Martin to answer. Did she prefer to hear confirmation from a third party that her marriage was indeed in tatters or, worse still, for him to tell her there was a real chance that David was at the bottom of a ditch or floating in the Mersey?

‘At this stage, yes.’

The policeman looked around the room then shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I can’t believe how spotless your house is,’ he remarked. ‘There’s a strong smell of bleach …’

Steph re-entered the room, moving so fast that the two cups in her hand slopped over her hand, but she seemed not to notice the scalding liquid as she glared at DS Baxter. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting for one minute that my sister had anything to do with David’s disappearing act! She’s bared her soul to you, for God’s sake!’

Jo gasped as the implications of Martin’s comments hit her. She wasn’t sure what surprised her more, the realization that she was one of the lines of enquiry or the unabashed look on the policeman’s face. Martin might not be the worn-out detective she had imagined but he clearly had enough years of experience to remain open-minded, if not a little cynical. What didn’t surprise her was the fact that Steph had been eavesdropping, but with her whole life about to be brought under scrutiny, her lack of privacy was something she was going to have to get used to.

8

The pencil moved across the page in long, sweeping curves, softly sighing as the figure began to take shape. Next came a series of scratches that brought the drawing into sharp focus and Jo refused to let anything else invade her thoughts. It was Saturday and David had been missing for three days and no one, not even the police had found any trace of him yet. It was as if he had been erased off the face of the earth and while Jo was tempted to summon him back into life with the sweep of a pencil, she was determined to remain grounded. She was forcing herself to carry on as if her life hadn’t been shattered.

‘How does it look so far?’ she asked with as much enthusiasm as she could summon.

‘Shouldn’t a wicked stepmother have a fancy wig or a big hat?’ asked her niece.

Jo and Lauren were sprawled out on Lauren’s bed with paper cuttings scattered around them for inspiration. Before replying, Jo settled her gaze on her niece’s flowing locks. ‘We could always get your mum to style your hair into a beehive – she’s good at that sort of thing.’

‘Do you think she would let me dye it? I was thinking maybe blonde.’

‘Who ever heard of an evil,
blonde
queen?’ Jo said, then picked up a cutting from a magazine and wafted it in front of Lauren. ‘Red hair is most definitely on-trend.’

‘Yeah, and there I was thinking you’d cut out pictures of models with red hair deliberately,’ Lauren said. ‘I don’t care how on-trend it is, I’m fed up being a
ginger minger
.’

Jo reached behind her head to grab her ponytail. It was long enough to swipe across Lauren’s face. ‘And is that what I am?’

‘You dye your hair.’

‘Only because I had the misfortune to be born with boring brown hair like your mum,’ Jo explained. Lauren’s ginger gene was rooted in her dad’s side of the family.

Lauren’s lips tightened to a thin line and she chose not to deign her aunt with a response. The fifteen-year-old liked to act as if she had a fifty-year-old head on her shoulders but that was often the point, it was only an act. Lauren’s maturity was like a new outfit she was struggling to grow into.

Jo stood her ground. ‘I’m in no mood to argue, Lauren,’ she warned. ‘We’ll add a headpiece but that’s as far as I’m willing to go.’

Rather than a counterattack, Lauren dropped her head and a flush rose in her cheeks. ‘Are you sure you’re up to making it now?’

Jo tapped a pencil against her chin as she took another look at the design she and Lauren had been working on. She had a flair for creativity that was distinctly underused in her choice of career. She might create policies and procedures, rules and regulations but even deciding which font to use in her reports was beyond her control; Nelson’s Engineering had set rules on branding. That was why she always jumped at the chance to put the creative skills she had acquired from her mum to good use whenever she could. ‘You’ve given me harder projects in the past,’ she said, deliberately misunderstanding her niece. ‘The owl and the pussycat costume was a particular challenge.’

Lauren had been seven when Jo had dressed her up as a black cat and built a cardboard boat complete with owl to hang around her middle. She had won first prize at the school fete, but the memory wasn’t enough to raise even a smile. ‘That wasn’t what I meant. Mum said we could hire something from a fancy dress shop.’

Jo failed miserably at her own attempt to smile, managing only to make her chin tremble. She swallowed hard and willed her emotions not to give her away. ‘What else do I have to do Lauren, except wait for news?’

‘You have the baby to look after.’

‘Oh, little FB doesn’t need any help from me right now.’

‘FB?’

‘It’s the name we gave my bump,’ she said, but was already regretting her slip. The family hadn’t known about the pet name, and she wanted to keep some things sacred, even from them. ‘
Don’t
tell anyone.’ When Lauren agreed, Jo moved on quickly. ‘The thing is, if I don’t have something to occupy myself then I’ll go crazy. You’re my therapy, Lauren,’ she told her niece with a hint of desperation. ‘So, how about deciding on the colour. The outfit that is,
not
your hair.’

Jo would have liked to have spent the entire day absorbed in the design of Lauren’s costume but this temporary distraction couldn’t keep her cocooned for ever. Her niece began spending more time on her phone messaging her friends than helping, and Jo found herself doodling rather than concentrating on the costume. When she realized she had filled an entire page with spirals that followed her train of thought in ever-decreasing circles, she knew it was time to go.

Her back ached almost as much as her heart when she went downstairs to find her sister.

‘I’ve made lasagne for tea,’ Steph said. ‘And there’s tiramisu for afters to keep with the Italian theme. It’s a Nigella recipe that I’ve been meaning to try for ages.’

‘Oh,’ Jo said. She looked at her watch and was surprised to see it was already gone five. She didn’t feel hungry, despite not eating properly for days. And even if she wasn’t sick with worry, she was too full of self-loathing to enjoy a meal while her husband was missing. ‘Sorry, Steph, I wasn’t planning on staying for dinner.’

Steph stopped what she was doing and released a puff of air, directing it upwards so it lifted her fringe and cooled her brow. She looked as if she had just finished an intense workout but the jog pants and trainers had never seen the inside of a gym despite her New Year’s resolution ten months ago to lose two stone. Steph put her hand on her hip, smudging chocolate custard on her T-shirt in the process. ‘I had a feeling you’d say that. You have to eat, Jo.’

Try as she might, Jo couldn’t accept Steph’s concern with the good grace it deserved. Her nerves were in tatters and it was too exhausting being polite all the time and with her sister, she knew she didn’t have to be, so she didn’t hold back. ‘For God’s sake, what is the sudden obsession with people wanting me to eat? Irene turned up yesterday with a chicken casserole as if filling the house with David’s favourite foods will make him magically reappear.’ She stopped and took a ragged breath, punctuating her next words with vicious jabs to the kitchen counter with an extended finger. ‘Well, it won’t.
It won’t
. I tried that on Wednesday night, remember?’ Realizing she was on the verge of losing control, Jo pursed her trembling lips.

‘I’m thinking of you, not David,’ Steph said patiently. ‘You’re the one who loves Italian. David’s more a meat and two veg kind of person, isn’t he?’ She waited for Jo to nod and then said, ‘Please stay.’

Jo shook her head. ‘I should be home in case …’ she started but couldn’t finish. Such hope was beginning to feel futile so she tried to find another justification. ‘I wouldn’t want Irene thinking I was out on the town enjoying myself.’

‘She wouldn’t think that, she knows you’re as worried about him as she is.’

‘She probably thinks it’s my fault and I wouldn’t blame her if she did.’

‘It’s not your fault, Jo.’

‘If David left me then, yes, Steph, of course it’s my fault!’

‘Not for the way he’s done it! Leaving you like this is unforgivable,’ her sister said, the last word a snarl.

‘Unless it wasn’t his choice,’ Jo said, immediately leaping to David’s defence. ‘What if he’s hurt, or been kidnapped by the Mob, or abducted by aliens … none of that makes it his fault.’ Jo pushed her fingers hard against her temples. These were the kind of thoughts that had made her head spin for days and once they started she couldn’t stop. The spirals she had been drawing in Lauren’s room danced across her vision and a wave of dizziness crashed into an equally powerful wave of nausea. She could taste the vomit burning the back of her throat and had to stop herself from gagging when she asked, ‘What if he’s lying in a ditch somewhere? What if, while everyone is cursing him for leaving me, he’s actually
dead
? What if he died loving me, which I know he did – or at least I thought he did? I’m not ready to start hating him, not until I’m absolutely sure I shouldn’t be grieving for him, so please don’t expect me to.’

When Steph put her hand on her shoulder, Jo shrugged her off. Any act of kindness now would tip her over the edge. ‘I don’t know what to do, Steph. I don’t know how to feel,’ she said in a hoarse whisper.

‘I wish I had the answers for you, Jo. And I wish there was more that I could do.’

Jo slowly pulled back her shoulders and looked at her sister. Both were amazed that Jo’s eyes were still dry. ‘You’re doing as much as you can, as much as anyone can,’ she said.

‘Well, I hate to add to your woes but Mum phoned while you were upstairs. She suggested coming down to keep you company.’

The colour drained from Jo’s face. She had already spoken to her mother and, with more strength than she thought she possessed, had assured her that she was coping. ‘Please say you talked her out of it.’

Steph smiled. ‘She didn’t take much convincing, actually. With Dad still away in France she would have had to close up shop and you know how she hates doing that.’

Their parents had moved to the Lake District ten years earlier. Ray was in the antiques business while Liz spent her time reclaiming and renovating the so-called junk her husband couldn’t sell. She had built up quite a reputation, but then it was a vocation that suited her frugal yet creative personality perfectly. Together, they made the perfect team and their antique-come-craft shop in Kendal had gone from strength to strength. It was also an arrangement that suited their two daughters who loved their parents dearly but preferred to keep Liz’s sometimes-overbearing nature at a distance. What Jo needed was time to work out for herself how she was supposed to feel and how she was meant to move forward before her mother waltzed on to the scene and told her what to do, which would probably involve hanging David out to dry.

‘I suppose I’d better phone when I get home,’ Jo said and made a move as if to leave.

‘You’re not going right now, are you? Gerry will be back from the shops soon; he can give you a lift.’

‘I walked here and I can walk back. I need all the fresh air I can get after being cooped up at home for days,’ Jo insisted but then followed Steph’s gaze out the kitchen window. It was already getting dark and home was a good two miles away. ‘At least it isn’t raining.’

‘If you have to go then you’re not going empty handed. I’ll put the lasagne in a container and if you can wait two minutes I’ll knock up a mini dessert too.’

‘Do I have a choice?’ Jo said raising her eyebrows but not an objection to taking home the food she had no intention of eating. Steph’s mothering was a much-needed balm and by far the better option to the smothering she would receive from her real mother.

‘No, you don’t. I know it’s hard but you have to look after yourself, Jo. Think of the baby.’

Jo’s hand was already resting on her bump. ‘I am trying.’

‘I know, and I’m going to help as much as I can. For a start, we need to do something about your coat. You’re going to freeze to death in that thing you came in.’

The showerproof jacket in question offered little protection against the elements, less so because Jo could no longer fasten the zip, so she didn’t argue when Steph said she could borrow her duffle coat which was two sizes bigger. ‘And let me know the minute you get home.’

‘I will.’

‘And make sure you keep to the main roads. Don’t go taking any short cuts in the dark.’

Jo nodded obediently, but like a naughty schoolgirl, she had her fingers crossed.

True to her word, Jo texted Steph to say she had arrived home safely, but it was the text itself that held the lie. She had made a slight detour and was standing outside West Allerton station with a good fifteen-minute walk still ahead of her. The route home was a well-known one because she and David had often caught the train here, usually when they were off out for a night on the tiles. Walking to the station was never a problem but on the way home she would complain drunkenly that they should get a taxi. Sometimes she won the argument but more often than not David used his powers of persuasion to convince her they could walk.

‘So you’re really going to wimp out on me?’ David had asked when she rested her head on his shoulder and looked up beseechingly as their train approached the station.

Jo groaned dramatically and lifted up a foot to reveal a very high and particularly beautiful strappy sandal. ‘My feet are killing me,’ she said. ‘And look, I’ve chipped a toenail already.’

‘But think of all the fun we’ll be missing. It’s a lovely summer’s evening and the stars are out. I could pick out all the constellations for you.’

‘I know you make them up, David,’ Jo said as he pulled her to her feet.