Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

“You aren’t a relative, then?”

“No.”

I heard him sigh. I could almost smell his tobacco breath. “Mr. Ramsey, let me explain our position. Everyday we receive literally dozens of calls from people who have someone missing. Some are more urgent than others. This morning, for example, I’ve just been speaking to a mother whose five-year-old daughter has been missing for thirty-six hours. The little girl is a diabetic. The mother has only just reported her missing because she’s been out all this time and thought her daughter was “at a friend’s”. Which means that we now have a five-year-old girl who is God knows where, who is probably in urgent need of medication, and who has already been missing for over a day and a half. That worries us. A fully grown adult who leaves home with a suitcase, clothes, chequebook and passport does not. It might be very distressing for his girlfriend, but it does not merit us pressing the panic button. Particularly not when this person’s own father tells us he’s satisfied his son has left of his own free will, and for his own good reasons.”

He paused. “Now we hear that this person has not touched his bank account since he left home. Well, that may or may not be a cause for concern. There can be any number of different explanations for it. He might he living with someone who is paying all his bills, for instance. He might have found a job, and not want to use his old account for fear of being traced by his girlfriend, who he has walked out on. He might be wandering around with amnesia, not even sure what a chequebook’s for. Or he might be lying dead somewhere, as a result of an accident, a mugging, or perhaps even a jealous boyfriend.

“It could be any of those, or any one of a dozen other reasons. And to be perfectly honest, it doesn’t make any difference. That is not being callous. That is simply stating the simple truth. We have already done everything we reasonably can. If anyone fitting his description turns up, alive or, regretfully, otherwise, at any hospital, train station, or wherever, we will know about it within a matter of hours. If he leaves the country, we will know about it almost immediately. I am told his visa does not expire for several more months, so he has every legal right to be here, but even if he hadn’t, we could do no more to locate him than we have already. Short of organising a nationwide manhunt, which, bank account notwithstanding, is not justified, there is nothing else we can do. I am very sorry for his girlfriend. I am very sorry for all the other girlfriends, boyfriends, wives, husbands, parents, and sundry other family members who also have loved ones missing. Of which, as we speak, in this division alone there are several hundred. Many of which have been on file for considerably longer than Miss Palmer’s boyfriend. And of which, at this current moment in time, I am most concerned about a little girl with an ignorant mother and diabetes.”

I heard him breathing. “Now. Does that explain the situation clearly enough for you?”

It did. Clearly enough not to mind his condescending and faintly contemptuous manner. “Yes, I think so. Thank you. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

He relented a little. “Tell Miss Palmer that we’re doing everything we can. If we hear anything at all, we’ll let her know.”

“I will.” I said goodbye and hung up. I waited a moment before going downstairs, letting my euphoria bleed off before I faced Anna. I no longer had any doubt that Marty’s fate would remain lost to history. The way ahead was finally clear.

Now it was only a matter of time.

For Anna, the final nail in Marty’s coffin was not long in coming. His bank statement, and the subsequent indifference of the police, hit her hard, and I had put her increasing quietness down to that. I had lost track of time, and did not realise the significance of the date until the morning she spilt coffee on my lap.

I was on the telephone when she arrived at the gallery, and so did not immediately notice the state she was in. I mimed drinking and pointed towards the filter machine; I had set it going, but the telephone had rung before I could pour my customary cup of black coffee. Only half listening to my caller, I watched abstractedly as Anna’s cotton skirt, a bonus of the increasingly warmer weather, swung against her as she walked.

She disappeared into the kitchen area. I could hear her moving about, and then there was a clatter of dropped crockery. But I heard nothing actually break, and a moment later Anna re-emerged and came towards me with a cup and saucer. I nodded thanks to her, concentrating now on my telephone conversation, and as I reached out to take it she suddenly fumbled and tipped the whole thing into my lap.

I dropped the telephone and leapt up as the scalding coffee spilt on to my legs.

“Quick, get a cloth!” I shouted, shaking the front of my trousers, struggling to keep the steaming fabric off my skin. Anna didn’t move. “Hurry!” I snapped, and stopped. Her face had crumpled. Silent sobs were jerking at her shoulders, and as I looked tears began to stream down her face.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was almost inaudible. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, it doesn’t matter.” I straightened, wincing as the still-hot cloth stuck to my legs.

“I’m sorry.” It seemed all she could say. Her arms twitched at her side, as though she did not know what to do with them.

“No harm done. It could have been worse.” In fact it could, quite easily. I had been resting an open journal on my lap, and much of the coffee had landed on that.

But my reassurance did no good. Anna still stood and sobbed. I hurriedly retrieved the receiver and told the confused caller I would call back. Then I turned to Anna, hovering uncertainly. Over the past few weeks I had seen her close to tears on several occasions. But nothing like this. She was inconsolable. “What is it? What’s the matter?” I asked. She showed no sign of having heard. “Anna, please, tell me what’s wrong?”

Her body heaved and shook. “He’s dead.”

The words sent a shock through me. “Who’s dead?” It was a stupid question. She could only mean one person.

“Muh... Marty.”

I felt numb. “How... Have the police found him?”

It took her a moment to get the words out. I waited, agonised. “Nuh... no, but he is. I knuh... know he is!”

Relief made me dizzy. For an awful moment, I had thought he must have been discovered. But if he had, she would have said so. This was based on conviction, not facts. “Of course he isn’t. Don’t say such a thing.”

She smeared her eyes with the side of her hand, like a small child. Her sobs tugged at her. “He is. He’s dead, I know he is!”

I moved forward, hesitantly. Her emotion unnerved me. “You don’t know that, Anna.”

“I duh... do.” She hugged herself. “We should have gone to Am... America today.”

Then I understood. “Oh, Anna, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise.”

“If he was s... still alive, I wuh... would have heard from him by now.”

I searched for the right thing to say. “He might have forgotten.”

“N... no, he wuh... wouldn’t. I kept thinking that we’d still guh... go, somehow, that he’d cuh... come back before this, but now I know he nuh... never will. The p... plane left an hour ago, and I knuh... knew then... I knew...”

No more words came. The sobs took her over completely. I tentatively put my hand on her arm, and she surged forward, burying her face in my shoulder. I hesitated and then held her. Her breath was hot and damp through my shirt, her tears scalding. I stroked her back, feeling the warmth of her flesh through thin fabric. The heat and weight of her body was against me. Her breasts pressed to my chest. I closed my eyes. The sound of the door chime made me open them: a couple stood in the gallery, staring at us.