Ken McClure - Wildcard

Karen shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘absolutely not.’

‘Well, you can’t live on love alone, despite what the songs may say. You need money and clothes and food and a roof over your head. Have a look in the wardrobe and see what he took with him, then phone the bank and find out if he took out any money.’

Karen looked at her mother, seeing in her an inner strength she hadn’t realised was there.

‘You do love him, don’t you?’ asked Ethel.

‘Yes.’

‘Then start fighting, girl.’

Karen checked her husband’s wardrobe and found that most of his clothes were still there. He’d taken just what he said he was going to take, ‘the bare minimum’, as he had put it, because there was ‘no one to impress at the field station, apart from the animals’. As soon as she remembered it, the thought planted a seed of worry in Karen’s mind. Maybe the loneliness of being marooned in rural North Wales when the days were short and the nights were long had brought Peter and whatsername together. But even if it had, surely it would have just been a physical thing? Peter wouldn’t have abandoned her and Kelly over something like that… would he?

‘Anything missing?’ asked her mother when she went back downstairs.

‘Nothing,’ said Karen.

‘Good. Get on to the bank.’

Karen did as she was told and contacted the bank to ask about account balances. ‘Nothing taken out,’ she reported.

‘Drink your tea,’ said Ethel. ‘It’s getting cold.’

Karen sipped her tea.

Ethel stared out at the rain-swept garden. ‘Do you know this Patterson woman?’ she asked.

‘I think I may have met her once at a works barbecue in the summer.’

‘Did she seem the type?’

‘What type?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I thought she was a bit mousy, to tell the truth, a typical bluestocking, all ethnic skirt and glasses. Didn’t strike me as Peter’s type at all. She and her husband went on about their bird-watching trips. Peter can’t tell a thrush from an ostrich.’

‘Then she’s married, too?’

‘That’s a point. Maybe I should get in touch with her husband?’

‘You certainly should,’ agreed Ethel. ‘It’ll be interesting to find out if he’s as surprised as you.’

The sound of crying came from upstairs. ‘Oh, Kelly,’ murmured Karen as she leafed through the phone book. ‘Give me a moment.’

‘I’ll see to her,’ said Ethel. ‘Sounds like the afternoon nap’s over.’

Karen started dialling her way through the Pattersons in the local book, asking each time if she had the right number.

She was on her eighth call when a man’s faltering voice said, ‘I’m afraid Amy’s not here at the moment.’ He sounded upset.

‘Are you Amy’s husband?’ she asked.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Karen Doig, Peter’s wife. I take it you’ve heard?’

‘I just can’t believe it,’ said Patterson.

‘You didn’t suspect?’

‘No, nothing. Paul Grossart’s call came completely out of the blue. You?’

‘The same. Look, maybe the company’s wrong about this,’ said Karen, her confidence growing by the minute. ‘Peter didn’t take any extra clothes with him and he hasn’t touched our bank account.’

‘So what are you suggesting?’

‘Just because the pair of them have disappeared doesn’t necessarily mean that they’ve run off together. Maybe that’s an assumption on the company’s part.’

‘I hadn’t even considered that,’ admitted Patterson.

‘Nor had I until this very moment.’

‘My God, they could have been involved in some kind of accident or be lost somewhere in the hills… or anything!’

‘I think we should go to the police,’ said Karen. ‘Right now.’ She turned to look at her mother to see if this were possible. Ethel nodded, and Karen and Patterson arranged to meet outside the police station in fifteen minutes.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Karen as she put down the phone and started rushing around.

‘It won’t hurt your father to get his own tea for once,’ said Ethel. ‘Off you go.’

Karen recognised Ian Patterson as soon as she saw him. She remembered the thin, serious man who had been wearing a T-shirt with ‘Save the Planet’ on it at the summer barbecue. Today he was wearing a waxed cotton jacket over a Shetland sweater, dark-green corduroy trousers and thick-soled brogues. They didn’t shake hands and Karen could only just manage a wan smile. ‘Shall we go in?’ she asked.

They had to wait in line in the police station, which smelt vaguely of disinfectant, its institution-green walls adorned with a variety of warnings and posters promising rewards for information. It was an alien world, thought Karen as she waited patiently while the man in front tried to explain why he couldn’t produce his driving licence.

She had to step back as the man, having been given a further twenty-four hours, wheeled round sharply and barged his way out. She stepped forward to the desk and explained to the middle-aged sergeant why she and Patterson were there.

‘Nothing we can do’ was the verdict he offered almost before she’d finished. He closed the daybook with a slap as if to emphasise his point.

‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Karen, taken aback at his offhandedness. ‘You’ve got to do something. It’s your job. Two people have gone missing!’

‘They’re both adults. If they choose to go off together, it’s not against the law. I’m sorry but we can’t get involved in domestic matters like this,’ said the sergeant.

‘But they didn’t “choose to go off together”,’ exclaimed Karen. ‘They’ve disappeared and they could be lying injured somewhere. Surely you don’t want that on your conscience? Can’t you contact the Welsh police and ask them to check?’

A queue was building up, making the sergeant uncomfortable. He picked up the phone and after a short conversation he said, ‘Inspector Grant will have a word with you, madam. He’ll explain our policy on these matters.’

Karen and Patterson were shown into a small office which lacked light, space and anything resembling charm. They were invited to sit on two hard chairs and Karen felt that they had been called to the headmaster’s study to account for some misdeed. This time, Patterson had a go at explaining what had happened, with interjections from Karen where appropriate. At the end of it Grant nodded sagely and said more or less what the desk sergeant had. ‘The police really can’t become involved in domestic matters.’

‘But can’t you see that it’s only an assumption on the company’s part that Peter and Ian’s wife have run off together? They could just as easily have had an accident or be lying injured somewhere out on the hills.’

Grant looked at her thoughtfully. ‘This man who told you they’d run off, you said his name is Grossart?’ he asked.

‘Paul Grossart at Lehman Genomics. He’s the managing director.’

‘Phone number?’

Karen recited the number and Grant wrote it down. He got up and went to another room. When he came back he said, ‘I’m sorry but there really is nothing we can do.’

‘What did Mr Grossart say?’ demanded Karen. ‘Did he offer you one scrap of evidence that Peter and Amy had run off together?’

Grant looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, no,’ he admitted. ‘But employers do get a feel for these sorts of things. I know it’s difficult for you, and I do sympathise, but frankly this sort of thing happens much more often than you’d think.’

‘Then you won’t help us?’

‘Not so much won’t as can’t,’ said Grant. ‘As the law sees it, they’re both adults and this is a free country.’

Karen ran out of adrenalin. Her shoulders sagged and she felt a wave of hopelessness wash over her. Tears started to run down her face and she hung her head.