Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

I cleared my throat again. “Is the one here recent?”

She nodded. “It’s got the notes he was working on when he disappeared. I know because he always dates everything, and the last date is the day before I came back from Amsterdam.”

I tried to quell my sudden excitement. “So they don’t give any clues?”

“No, nothing. I never thought they would. I don’t know why he left, but it certainly wasn’t anything to do with him going to gay clubs. He hadn’t been for weeks, anyway. And if he’d been planning to go while I was away, he would have told me.” She shrugged. “I don’t suppose that’ll make any difference to the police, though. It’s a nice, handy little explanation for them. Particularly when his own father lets them know what he thinks.”

I said something vaguely reassuring, but I cannot remember what. I was no longer paying attention. All I could think was that Marty had been as good as his word. Unless there was some record of his meeting with Zeppo in his notes at university, which was unlikely, he had kept it a secret. The only danger that remained was if someone remembered seeing them at the nightclub. That was a possibility, but somehow I could not make myself feel too concerned about it. I sensed that the crisis point had been reached and passed, and suddenly the tension ebbed out of me. Without warning, I yawned.

“I’m sorry,” I said through it. “Excuse me.”

“You must be tired.”

“I am, rather. It’s been a long day.” One of the longest I had known, actually. Now it was over, reaction had left me exhausted. Yawning again, I made my excuses and left. It was all I could do to stay awake long enough to drive home. I considered calling Zeppo to tell him the good news about Marty’s father, but decided that could wait. It would serve him right to sweat a little. By half-past nine I was in bed.

It was the best night’s sleep I had had in weeks.

Westerman left the next morning, as he had said he would. Anna tried telephoning him at his hotel, presumably in the desperate hope of making him change his mind. But he had already checked out.

She contacted the police. Again, as promised, Marty’s father had notified them that he was leaving, and when Anna pressed they admitted he had also made his views on the situation clear. They assured her that the investigation would be unaffected, but she was not convinced.

“I suppose they’ll still keep it open, or on file, or whatever they do,” she said. “But I can’t see them worrying about it too much. As far as they’re concerned now, Marty’s just another gay who’s come out of the closet and left his girlfriend.”

I made reassuring noises, but of course she was right. What had been half-hearted to begin with now seemed almost certain to become even more perfunctory.

Once again, there was a sort of lull. If the police were doing anything, it failed to produce any further news. Then, a week after Westerman had left, Anna was late again. I had come to recognise that as almost invariably meaning something had happened, and a small twist of anxiety began to eat at my confidence. It flared when I saw her face as she walked in.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

She did not look at me. “Marty’s bank statement came this morning.” She began to speak; stopped, as though the words hurt her. “Nothing’s been taken out of his account since before he disappeared.”

She stood there without moving, head hung slightly, still with her coat on and her bag slung over one shoulder. She did not seem to know what to do with herself.

I tried to think of the correct thing to say. “Does he have another account anywhere?”

She shook her head.

“Well, perhaps he drew enough money out to last him for a while.”

Anna still did not look at me. I had the impression these were all points she had already considered and dismissed. “The last withdrawal was for a hundred pounds. He couldn’t still be living on that.”

I wished I had saved the chequebook and card. Zeppo could have used them in supermarkets, or anywhere else anonymous and busy, to give the impression that Marty was still in circulation. But it was too late now. And it would have been a further risk.

“Have you told the police?”

“I phoned them before I came here. They said the same as you, that he might have another account. When I told them he hadn’t, they said he might have one I didn’t know about. But I know he hasn’t. All his money’s in that one.”

“Did you tell them that?”

She nodded. “They said he could have got a job somewhere by now, and that if he didn’t want anyone to know where he was, he wouldn’t risk writing cheques on his old account anyway.” She looked lost and helpless. “They didn’t seem to think it was anything worth worrying about.”

“They were probably only trying to reassure you.”

She looked at me, miserably. “I don’t want reassuring. I’m not stupid. I just want to know that someone apart from me wants to find him.”

I knew what she wanted me to do, and shied away from it. I thought I was safely past that sort of involvement. Then I looked at her face, and knew there was no avoiding it.

“Would you like me to talk to the police?” I asked. “I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but I’ll try, if you want me to.”

Her expression became instantly grateful. “Would you mind? After what Marty’s father said to them, I know they won’t take much notice of me. But they might listen to you.”

There was no reason why they should, but I smiled. “I can only try, can’t I?”

I telephoned from the office, while Anna waited downstairs. I asked for the detective inspector who had been to the gallery: the telephone gave a series of clicks, then I was connected.

“Inspector Lindsey.”

“My name’s Donald Ramsey. You came to my gallery last week to speak to my assistant, Anna Palmer, about her missing boyfriend. Marty Westerman. An American.”

“Yes?” Waiting for me to get to the point. I hurried on.

“She received a bank statement this morning from her boyfriend’s account, and it appears that the last withdrawal was made several days before he disappeared. Since then nothing’s been taken out. Obviously, Miss Palmer is quite upset.”

“Just a second.” Something was put over the receiver, muffling it. I waited. It was taken off “Yes, I’m sorry. Go on.”

A little disconcerted, I searched for my thread. “As I was saying, Miss Palmer’s upset about this because she thinks it might mean that...” The words caught. “Well, she’s worried that it means something’s happened to him.”

“She’s already let us know about this, hasn’t she?” His voice was slow and deliberate. There was an ironic, almost mocking quality to it.

“She telephoned you this morning. I don’t think it was you she spoke to, though.”

“So how can I help you?” He might as well have asked, “So what do you want me to do about it?”

“Well, basically, I would like to know what you intend to do with the information.”

“Was the situation not explained to Miss Palmer?”

I refused to let him intimidate me. “From what she’s said, I don’t think whoever she spoke to was particularly helpful. She’s very worried, obviously, and wants to know that everything possible is being done to locate her boyfriend.”

“It is. I thought we’d already made that plain to her. On several occasions.”

Indignation made me forget myself. “Then perhaps you can tell me what you intend to do now you know he’s been missing all this time with apparently no money to live on?”

“What exactly is your relationship to either Mr. Westerman or his girlfriend?”

“I’m Miss Palmer’s employer. A friend. Of them both,” I added, lamely.