Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

Kissing Rowan’s head, she lingers with her nose in his hair, which smells of apple shampoo.

“Did Daddy come home?”

“Not yet.”

“You said today.”

“Maybe.”

“Where is he?”

“Working.”

“At the bank?”

“Yes.”

Through the window she can see Polina hanging washing on the line. She’s wearing tight jeans and a blouse that looks too small for her. Her straight short black hair in a pixie cut and narrow neck make her look like a Russian gymnast or a child who has run away to the circus.

Elizabeth inherited her from her sister-in-law, although she could never understand why Inga had been so insistent. Yes, she’d been looking for a new nanny, but wouldn’t normally have chosen someone as pretty as Polina. It was something her mother had always told her-never hire pretty cleaners or nannies. Why put temptation in your husband’s way?

There were plenty of women, including some of Elizabeth’s own girlfriends, who would happily have slipped into North’s bed if she let the sheets grow cold. These were the same women who complained about their own husband’s sexual demands or their inattentiveness-getting either too much sex or not enough. That’s why Elizabeth made a conscious effort in that department, even during her pregnancy when she was “fugly,” as she called it. It was a maintenance thing: 1) Change batteries in the smoke alarms. 2) Check the air in the tires. 3) Have sex with North…

“Can I watch TV, Mummy?” asks Rowan.

“Have you finished your egg?”

“I only like the runny stuff.”

“That’s called the yolk.”

Elizabeth lifts him down from the chair and turns on the TV in the lounge. Polina has come inside, her cheeks pink with the cold.

“Good morning,” she says, “did you sleep well?” Her English sounds as if she is reading it from a phrase book.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Can I get you breakfast?”

“I can sort myself out.”

Polina begins clearing up Rowan’s crumbs. Composting the eggshell. Wiping the table. Elizabeth puts two crumpets in the toaster and feels Claudia moving again. What sort of husband leaves his wife a month before their baby is due? That’s not something North would do. He’s a sticker, a keeper, one of the good guys.

For weeks he’s been out-of-sorts, working late, leaving home early, stressed, secretive. She thought he might be having an affair. Then she discounted the possibility. Then she convinced herself. That was in the space of a few days. She hired a private detective. What a terrible wife! Faithless. Suspicious.

Twice she canceled her appointment, the guilt gnawing away inside her like a rat in a wicker cage. I’m being paranoid, she told herself. It’s the pregnancy. The hormones. Then she changed her mind and called him again.

Elizabeth smothers the crumpets with honey. Polina has gone to make the beds. She’s been spring-cleaning these past few days, clearing out the cupboards and drawers, airing old clothes and moving junk to the attic. Routines are important for everyone when a husband disappears.

Rowan has to be dressed. Polina will walk him across the park to his nursery school. Elizabeth has a doctor’s appointment: her thirty-six-week check-up. Her life is about numbers. Eight months pregnant. Seven years married. Five days alone. She can picture the last time she saw North. He went to work at the normal time. Kissed her goodbye. She lingered with her lips pressed against his. She and Rowan were going up to the Lake District to spend the weekend with her best friend from university. They didn’t come back until Sunday afternoon. She had tried to call North all day, but he wasn’t answering. She caught a cab from Euston Station and found the house in darkness. Inside it looked like it had undergone a subtle alteration, as if someone had cleaned up after a party but hadn’t managed to put things back precisely where they’d been. Her jewelry was missing. Her passport. Her spare credit card, the ugly gold watch she inherited from her Aunt Catherine…

Elizabeth kept trying to call North, sending him text messages and emails. Finally she phoned her father. Sitting on the edge of the bed, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece, she spoke in whispers so that Rowan wouldn’t hear her.

The family swung into action, calling hospitals, clinics, homeless shelters and finally the police. Two young constables came the next day and took a statement about the robbery.

“You’ll need this for insurance purposes,” said the constable.

“What about my husband?”

“I don’t think your policy covers him.”

The officers laughed. It was a joke. Elizabeth stared numbly at them. By then her mind was full of terrible scenarios: North disturbing burglars or being abducted, or worse.

A large drop of honey has dripped on her blouse. Elizabeth looks at the stain and wants to cry. Hormones.

Rowan is standing at the kitchen door watching her.

“Is you all right, Mummy?”

“I’m fine.”

“Why is you crying?”

“I’m having a sad day.”

“When Daddy comes home you’ll be happy.”

“Yes, I will.”

Standing outside the police station in London Road, Elizabeth gazes at the three-storey red-brick building squeezed between a hairdressing salon and the head office of the Richmond amp; Twickenham Times. Be polite but firm, she tells herself. Don’t be fobbed off.

Rowan is dressed in a Spiderman T-shirt and mask. The eyeholes are slightly too wide for his head, which means that only one eye is visible at any given time. He flicks his “web finger” at passing pedestrians who are either arch-villains or super-villains. Elizabeth isn’t an expert on comic book bad guys.

The uniformed officer at the front desk is a woman and she’s not carrying a gun. Rowan is a little disappointed. He was expecting a fellow crime-fighter who could compare weaponry with him and swap tales of saving the world. After waiting forty-five minutes they are taken upstairs through a cluttered open-plan office that looks reassuringly productive.

The detective constable is called Carter and he’s wearing a jacket and tie. He’s quite handsome except for a buzz-cut that makes his ears look like jug handles.

“Please sit down, Mrs. North. Tea? Coffee? Water?”

“No, thank you.”

DC Carter glances at her pregnancy and then smiles hesitantly at Rowan, who has crawled onto Elizabeth’s lap and is staring at him with the intensity that only young children can produce.

“Have you heard from your husband?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I’d heard from my husband.”

There is an awkward pause and DC Carter uses the moment to open the file on his desk.

“It has only been forty-eight hours,” he says.

“It has been five days.”

“Yes, but technically we don’t class a person as missing until a certain amount of time has elapsed.”

“How long?”

“That depends upon the circumstances.”

Rowan slips out of her arms and is now sitting on the floor linking paperclips together into a chain.

Elizabeth looks back at the detective. “What are you doing to try to find him?”

“Your husband is also over the age of eighteen and not considered vulnerable, Mrs. North.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s not at risk of suicide or self-harm.”

The words sound too harsh. He tries to make amends. “Your husband may have decided to spend a few days away, getting his head together. It happens sometimes.”

“He wouldn’t do that without telling me.”

The detective looks at her tiredly. She’s not going to make it easy for him. Consulting her statement, he goes over the details again.