M. Arlidge - Eeny Meeny

Instead he drove across town to suburban Shirley, parking up in a quiet residential street. He never used his own car, so as not to give himself away. The beaten-up Golf with the tinted windows was designed to deflect attention from its true purpose and it worked – passers-by wrote it off as another teenager’s attempt to soup up an old wreck. It was the perfect vantage point from which to watch undetected.

A seven-year-old girl appeared in the window and Mark sat up, his eyes glued to her. She surveyed the street outside, then pulled the curtains to, shutting out the world. Mark cursed his luck – some days Elsie stood at that spot for twenty minutes or more. Her gaze would flit now here, now there and over time Mark had convinced himself that she was looking for him. It was a fantasy, but it fed his soul.

The sound of high heels on the pavement made him slide down in his seat. Stupid really, no one could see in. But shame makes you do strange things. He couldn’t let her discover him like this. He watched as the trim 32-year-old marched up to the house. Before she could get her key in the lock, the door opened and she was gathered into the arms of a tall, muscular man. They kissed each other long and hard.

And there it was in a nutshell. His ex-wife swept off her feet by another man – with Mark left out in the cold. A wave of fierce anger ripped through him. He had given that woman everything and she had stamped on his heart. What had she said when she called time on their short marriage? That she didn’t love him enough. It was the most debilitating of character assassinations. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He just wasn’t enough .

They had married too young. Had a baby too quickly. But for a while the chaos and emotion of first-time parenthood had glued them together. The shared fear that their baby would stop breathing if left unattended, the sleep-deprived paranoia that you were doing a bad job, but also the immense joy of seeing their little girl grow and thrive. But slowly Christina had grown tired of the rigours of parenthood – the deadening routine, the privations – and had thrown herself back into her career. Which made her arguments during their bitter custody hearings all the more obscene. She played the mother card to the hilt, contrasting her loving nature, ordered existence and well-paid job with Mark’s unpredictable and dangerous life as a Southampton copper – not forgetting to throw in some choice anecdotes about his drinking. And what had she done when she’d got sole custody of Elsie? She’d gone straight back to work full-time and handed over care of their child to her live-in lover. The woman who had once claimed to love Mark with all her heart had turned out to be a deceitful and vindictive little shit.

Christina and Stephen had gone inside now and all was quiet. Elsie would have had her bath and be dressed for bed. Snug now in her Hello Kitty dressing gown and slippers that Mark had bought her, she’d be curled up in front of the CBeebies bedtime story. It was too young for her really, but she had a sentimental attachment to it and never missed it. Suddenly Mark felt the anger subside, subsumed by a terrible sadness. He too had found parenthood tough – the never-ending round of baths, bed, stories, play dates and more – but he would have given anything to be back in the midst of it now.

It was stupid to come here. Mark gunned the engine and sped away from the house, hoping to leave his troubles right there in the street. But as he drove they clambered round his brain like monkeys, goading him with his failure, his insignificance, his loneliness. Heading for home, he suddenly changed direction, shooting down Castle Way. There was a pub near the docks that ran illegal lock-ins. As long as you were in there by midnight you could drink all night. Which is exactly what he intended to do.

The Brightston home was an imposing Victorian semi in affluent Eastleigh. Helen paced outside, angry and frustrated. She had arranged to meet Mark here at 9.30 a.m. It was now nearly ten o’clock and there was still no sign of him. She left her third voicemail on his phone, then cut her losses and rang the bell. Why did he have to be such a fuck-up?

The door was opened by Sarah Brightston, a handsome woman in her mid-forties. Expensively dressed, immaculately made up, she betrayed no emotion at finding the police on her doorstep, ushering Helen inside.

‘When did you report your husband missing?’

The pleasantries had been concluded, so Helen cut to the chase.

‘Two days ago.’

‘Even though he hadn’t come home the night before that?’

‘Peter is a lover of life. Too much so sometimes. Those trips to Bournemouth were a jolly and it would’ve been just like Peter to get the whole team pissed, then sleep it off in a local B &B. But he’s not a callous man, he would have called the following morning to talk to me, talk to the boys.’

‘And do you have any idea where he might be now?’

‘Silly sod’s probably lost. They must have broken down and tried to walk to a garage. Probably had too much to drink and twisted an ankle or something – that’d be just like him. He’s never been very coordinated.’

She spoke with total conviction – there was no doubt in her mind that her husband was alive and well. Helen admired her fortitude, but was also intrigued.

‘How many people do you have out looking for them?’ Sarah continued.

‘Every available officer.’

This much wasn’t a lie at least. The search was in full swing, but they’d found nothing and as each hour passed Helen’s fears for their safety grew. The road the two men had been on would have led them out of the forest at Calmore – a long but unchallenging walk. The weather was cold but fine, so…

Helen knew in her heart that Amy’s ordeal and Peter’s disappearance were connected, but she’d forbidden anyone else from suggesting that – this was still a missing persons enquiry officially. Helen hadn’t told Sarah that she was a murder cop by trade. Time for that later.

‘Did Peter have anything on his mind? Was anything troubling him?’ Helen resumed.

Sarah shook her head. Helen’s eyes roamed over the well-appointed interior. Peter’s legal wage was generous and Sarah worked in the antiques trade, so they weren’t strapped for cash.

‘Had anyone asked him for money recently? Have you noticed any changes in your financial circumstances recently? More money? Less?’

‘No, everything was… normal. We’re comfortable. Always have been.’

‘And how would you describe your marriage?’

‘Loving. Faithful. Strong.’

She emphasized the last word, as if slighted by the question.

‘Any problems at work?’ said Helen, changing tack.

Peter and Ben worked for a prestigious solicitors’ firm with a particular interest in maritime law. There was a lot of money involved in their long-running cases, particularly where shipping was concerned. Their disappearance could have benefited someone.

‘Had he felt under any particular pressure on a case?’

‘Not that he told me.’

‘Was he working longer hours than usual?’

A small shake of the head from Sarah.

‘Did he discuss his individual cases with you?’

Sarah claimed ignorance of Peter’s caseload, so Helen made a mental note to follow this up with his firm. But all the while, she had the nasty feeling that she was clutching at straws. Scanning the walls for inspiration, her eyes alighted on a framed photo of Peter on a sunny beach, the smiling paterfamilias at the heart of a group holiday bundle. Sarah followed her eye-line and filled her in on the details, going on to outline their future plans – a family trip to Boston at Easter. Sarah was unwavering in her belief that Peter would turn up and that things would once more return to normal. Helen wanted to believe that but she couldn’t. In her heart of hearts, she feared that Sarah would never see her husband again.