Tim Weaver - Vanished

But, for now, that didn’t matter.

What mattered was Sam Wren.

And the lie that was his life.

31

Robert Wren worked for a PR agency on the banks of the Thames, with views out to Tower Bridge and HMS Belfast . The offices weren’t hard to find: they were in a cube-shaped glass and steel building, with a massive digital clock set about halfway up and a replica of the Wright Brothers’ Flyer hanging in the foyer. Inside, the foyer was huge and airy, and – about fifty feet above me – a mezzanine café looked out over the Thames. I walked up to reception and asked for Wren.

I’d promised him I’d be thirty minutes, but that was before Wellis screwed up my plans. I’d screwed up too, and that was what rubbed at me. Cases ate away at me the whole time I was on them – but rarely like this. The way Sam had vanished, his journey on the Tube that day, the way his life was just a hollow shell built on lies and half-truths, it all added up – and as it added up, the pressure built.

Robert Wren emerged from one of the elevators on the far side of the foyer. He was older than Sam – at a guess, thirty-five – and, with blue eyes and fair hair, he looked like an overweight version of his brother. He was dressed in an open-neck white shirt, a pair of dark blue denims and tan shoes so shiny they reflected back half the sunlight in the building. He was every inch the PR man.

We shook hands. ‘How long have you been doing this?’ he asked as we headed to an elevator and rode it up to the café. I was struck by how softly spoken he was. Julia said he was a partner at the firm and I could tell he’d got to the top through self-control and reliability, rather than by being some kind of maverick, coming up with unworkable plans and screaming at his staff until he backed them into a corner.

‘Finding missing people or finding Sam?’

‘Missing people.’

‘Almost four years.’

‘What did you do before?’

‘I was a journalist – but don’t hold that against me.’

He laughed, but it all felt a little fake. I’d dealt with thousands of PRs during my years on the paper and very few were genuinely interested in you. Most were able to put on a pretty convincing show, though, and Robert Wren was definitely doing that. He got a couple of coffees and then brought them over to a table in the café, along with a selection of pastries.

‘I didn’t know if you were hungry, so I just grabbed everything,’ he said, and he broke out into that same laugh again. This time it sounded different; less like one from the PR manual, and more cautious somehow. After that, he started talking about his brother, initially in quiet, sombre tones, and then – as he tracked back through their childhood and the period after their parents passed on – in a much warmer, more expansive way.

‘Were you two close?’ I asked.

‘Yes. I mean, we fought – fought all the time growing up, and even when we were adults and supposed to know better – but, yeah, we were brothers. We always made time for each other. We used to meet up for lunch, and after work for a drink, because, as I’m sure Julia told you, I commute in from Reading, and I’ve got a couple of kids, so it was much harder for me to meet up with Sam on weekends without military-grade planning.’

I got out my pad and set it down on the table. ‘What was your impression of Sam during the year before he went missing?’

‘Impression?’

‘Do you think he changed during that time?’

He frowned. ‘Not really.’

‘You never got that from him?’

He paused for a moment and looked off to the marina. ‘I remember when he came in here one lunchtime, spitting bullets because they’d cut his bonuses. He vented big time that day. I’m sure he did the same at Julia when he got home.’ He stopped for a second time and then started shaking his head. ‘After that, he became a bit disillusioned with the whole thing. I remember he talked a couple of times about finding another job, but what job are you going to find in the middle of a recession?’

‘Julia said he was worried about the mortgage.’

‘Yes,’ Wren said, nodding. ‘It gave him some sleepless nights, particularly when Julia was made redundant. I told him not to stress about it. I told him, if it came to it, we’d help them out. But Sam …’ He sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘Sam was very independent. He was hard on himself; put pressure on himself. He was definitely cut out for investment banking. He was a lovely guy, don’t get me wrong, but he had a tough streak; he could swim with the sharks. He also found it difficult to accept charity, particularly after so many years of making big bonuses.’

So Sam definitely hadn’t left that day because he was worried about paying the mortgage. An offer was on the table from his brother, one Sam had been too proud to communicate to Julia. Or maybe too preoccupied. She was still under the impression the bailiffs would be kicking down the door any second.

Wren looked at me, and for the first time there was a sadness in his face. A shimmer flashed in one of his eyes, then he flattened his lips, as if this was some kind of a defeat. ‘I wouldn’t have put Sam down as the kind of guy to walk away. Not someone who abandons his family. But we all have a tipping point, I guess.’

‘So what was Sam’s tipping point, do you think?’

Another flash of sadness, but something else too: the same thing I’d noticed when he’d laughed earlier. Nerves .

‘Robert?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing he ever spoke about. Nothing that would make him up and leave like he did.’

‘But something did make him leave.’

Wren looked at me. ‘Right.’

‘So something was bothering him.’

‘Like I said, I think the financial side of things really got to him.’

‘But you’d offered to help him.’

A moment of hesitation. ‘He felt boxed in by the fact that he couldn’t earn what he was capable of earning. And he felt pressure to provide for Julia, especially after she was made redundant. I’m certain that’s why he left.’

‘Did Sam tell you something?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

I leaned forward, into his space, and he reacted exactly how I wanted him to: he moved back, seeing confidence and certainty in me. ‘I think we both know that Sam left because something was eating at him,’ I said. ‘What I want to know is what you know.’

He was frowning. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Here are the theories, Robert. Sam left because he couldn’t face up to his financial responsibilities. I don’t believe that, especially now. Sam left because Julia and he were fighting, and that drove him away. I don’t believe that either, even if she does. What husband disappears at the first sign of a fight?’ I paused, let him take it in. He was still frowning, but I could see a shift in his expression. Something giving. ‘Do you want to find him?’

His cheeks coloured. I wasn’t sure if it was anger or embarrassment, and at this point didn’t really care. ‘Yes, of course I do,’ he said, his voice raised for the first time. I left it there to see where it took us – but it didn’t take us anywhere. He peered down into his coffee cup, his thumb and forefinger turning it gently, and then looked up.

‘I can’t …’

‘Can’t what?’

His lips flattened again. ‘Who gets to hear this?’

‘Gets to hear what?’

‘This. This conversation we’re having.’

‘Who don’t you want to hear it?’

He leaned back in his seat and looked around the café. It was quiet now. The mid-morning meetings were over and lunch was yet to come. Behind Wren, the sun reflected in every panel, collecting in a pool on the floor of the foyer below us. The building was air conditioned but Robert Wren had small dots of perspiration all along his hairline.