Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

‘Grill Jenkins again. And go to the Traveltel—’

‘I’ve just got off the phone with the receptionist.’ Simon was pleased to be able to decapitate at least one of Proust’s unnecessary instructions. Giving redundant advice was one of the Snowman’s favourite hobbies, though he marginally preferred issuing completely uncalled-for warnings. He was forever telling Charlie and Simon and the rest of the team not to crash their cars or leave their front doors unlocked or fall off the sides of mountains if they went walking.

‘A man and a woman fitting Haworth’s and Jenkins’ descriptions have spent every Thursday night at the Traveltel, in room eleven, for roughly a year. Exactly as Jenkins said on Monday. I’m waiting for the Traveltel receptionist to get back to me and confirm it’s them. I’ve couriered a copy of the photo over to her—’

‘Of course it’s them!’ Proust slammed his mug down on the desk.

‘Sir, you’re presumably not saying that I shouldn’t have bothered to check?’ Such a basic failure—in a parallel universe in which Simon had still done lots of things wrong, but different things—would undoubtedly have resulted in a bollocking very similar to the one he was getting now.

The inspector looked thoroughly disgusted. Sounded it, too, as he said, ‘Just get on with it, Waterhouse, all right? Anything else, or might you allow me a few minutes’ calm in which to piece together the fragments of my shattered day?’

‘The receptionist said the couple—Haworth and Jenkins, assuming it’s them—seem very keen on one another.’

Proust threw up his hands. ‘That’s one mystery solved, then. That explains why they go to a roadside motel together every week. Sex, Waterhouse. What did you think: they both had a thing for eight-pound-ninety-nine platters?’

Simon ignored his sarcasm. The relationship between Robert Haworth and Naomi Jenkins was crucial, at the centre of this whole peculiar business, and the Traveltel receptionist, as far as Simon knew, was an objective, independent witness. He said firmly, ‘She told me they always had their arms round each other. Stared into each other’s eyes a lot, that sort of thing.’

‘At reception?’

‘Apparently.’

Proust snorted loudly.

‘And the woman always stayed the night, left the next morning. Whereas the man left at about seven the same evening.’

‘Always?’

‘That’s what she said.’

‘What sort of nonsense relationship can that be, then?’ said Proust, looking into his empty mug as if hoping to find that it had filled itself.

‘Possibly an abusive one,’ Simon suggested. ‘Sir, I was thinking about Stockholm syndrome. You know, where women fall in love with men who abuse them . . .’

‘Don’t waste my time, Waterhouse. Get out there and do your perishing job.’

Simon stood up, turned to leave.

‘Oh, and Waterhouse?’

‘Sir?’

‘You might buy me a book about sundials, while you’re out and about. I’ve always found them fascinating. Did you know that sundial time is more accurate than clock time, than Greenwich Mean Time? I read that somewhere. If you’re talking about measuring the precise position of the Earth in relation to the Sun—solar time—then a sundial’s your man.’ Proust smiled, startling Simon: happiness looked wrong on the inspector’s face. ‘Clocks would have us believe that all days are the same length, exactly twenty-four hours. Not true, Waterhouse. Not true. Some are a little bit shorter, and some a little bit longer. Did you know that?’

Simon did, only too well. The longer ones were the ones he was forced to spend in the company of Detective Inspector Giles Proust.

8

Wednesday, April 5

I HEAR MY back door slam. This sound is followed by the sound of footsteps. They are coming from the house towards the shed, where I’m working. When I talk to customers I call it my workshop, but it’s really just a medium-sized shed with a table, a wooden stool and all my tools in it. When I started up the business, I had two windows put in. I couldn’t work in a place that had no windows, not even for one day. I have to be able to see.

There are too many footsteps for it to be Yvon on her own. Without turning to look, I know it’s the police. I smile. A home visit. Finally I am being taken seriously. There are probably police officers on their way to your house as well, if they’re not there already. Knowing I will soon have news of you makes the passing of time bearable. It won’t be long. I try to focus only on getting the news, not on what it will be.

After days of blind, flailing panic, I feel as if I’ve scrambled up on to a small ledge. It’s a relief to be able to rest on it for a while, knowing that while I am passive, others are active.

I continue to apply gold leaf with my badger-hair brush. The motto on the dial I’m working on at the moment is ‘Better today than not at all’. It’s a belated silver-wedding-anniversary present from a forgetful husband to his wife; he told me he hopes the gesture is grand enough to get him out of her bad books. He wanted a standing sculpture, for a particular spot in their back garden. I’m making him a pillar out of Hornton stone, with the dial part on its flat top surface.

I hear the door open behind me, feel the wind on my back, through my jumper.

‘Naomi, two detectives are here to see you.’ There is anxiety in Yvon’s voice, as well as an eagerness to appear natural and relaxed.

I turn. A bulky man in a grey suit is smiling at me. It’s a dubious sort of smile, as if he expects not to be wearing it for much longer. He has a fat stomach, straw-coloured hair that is spiky with gel on top, and a shaving rash. His colleague, short, dark and thin with small eyes and a low forehead, slips in between the fat man and Yvon, and begins to prowl around my workshop, uninvited. He picks up my bandsaw, looks at it and puts it down again, then does the same with my fretsaw.

‘Get your hands off my things,’ I say. ‘Who are you? Where’s DC Waterhouse?’

‘I’m DC Sellers,’ says the fat one. He is holding up a card in a plastic wallet. ‘This is DC Gibbs.’ I don’t bother to check the ID. They’re obviously police. They have a quality in common with Waterhouse and Sergeant Zailer, one that’s hard to define. Inflexibility of manner, perhaps. Behaving as if there are charts and tables in their heads. A thin veneer of politeness masking a knee-jerk dismissiveness. They trust each other, but nobody else.

‘We need to have a look round your house,’ says DC Sellers. ‘And the garden and any outbuildings. Which includes this shed. We’ll cause as little disruption as we can.’

I smile. So the talking is over and there is going to be action. Good. ‘Don’t you need a search warrant?’ I say, though I have no intention of sending them away.

‘If we believe a missing person to be at risk, we’re entitled to search the premises,’ says DC Gibbs stiffly.

‘Are you looking for Robert Haworth? He isn’t here, but search all you please.’ Are they looking for you as a criminal or as a victim, I wonder. Perhaps both. I told DC Waterhouse that I’d considered taking the law into my own hands.

‘We might need to take some things away with us,’ says Sellers, smiling again now that he sees I’m not going to put up a fight. ‘Your computer. How long have you had it?’

‘Not long,’ I say. ‘A year or thereabouts.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ says Yvon. ‘I live here too, and work here. If you’re going to search the house, can you leave my office exactly as you found it?’

‘What work do you do?’ asks Sellers.

‘I’m a website designer.’

‘We’ll need to take your computer as well. How long have you had it?’