They hardly spoke a word at breakfast. Just enough to convince Seb that everything was all right. You can still do that with twelve-year-olds, trick them into thinking you are the adult and you are steering the ship. Oli was less convinced; he has worked out that adults are just as lost as everyone else. She made Mark toast as usual; he didn’t eat it. He was being a twat, making a point, rejecting her in a tiny pathetic way. He hadn’t slept well. He kept thinking she would come upstairs and gently slip between the sheets. That they’d smudge into one another, no need for words—they’d both know it had been a daft row, blown out of all proportion. But she didn’t.
At three in the morning, he got fed up of staring at the ceiling. He threw back the duvet and sneaked downstairs to her. Ready to swallow his pride, make the first move. He fully expected her to be wide-awake, perhaps reading, perhaps just staring into the darkness as he had been. She was asleep. Her breathing deep and steady. He didn’t know why, but her ability to sleep after everything that had been said annoyed him more than if he’d found her crying.
A wave of guilt sloshes into the room. It nearly drags him under. He takes a deep breath. “She’s missing. You should be looking for her, not wasting time sitting here with me.”
“In most cases, after a domestic, there’s a cooling-off period and then the wife comes home,” says the policeman. He sounds almost bored by this fact.
“It wasn’t a domestic.” Mark doesn’t like the choice of word, doesn’t like where Tanner’s mind has gone. You read it in the papers, don’t you? Police called to a domestic disturbance. “I didn’t hit her or anything,” Mark insists.
“Have you? Ever?” This sharper question comes from the woman officer.
“No!” Mark realizes he ought to stop talking. He’s conscious that he may very well be making things worse. He’s not thinking clearly. He feels like he’s thirty seconds behind reality, like when you watch someone Skype on a news report and there’s a time delay; they don’t seem quite present, quite real. What they say isn’t believable.
Mark can’t catch up. He can’t react quickly enough to save anything. His thoughts are disjointed, severed. It is to be expected considering the trauma and lack of sleep over the past few days. He feels as though he’s dragging his body through someone else’s life. Thank God he didn’t say that out loud. No one should be talking about dragging bodies. He doesn’t feel fully conscious, but it isn’t like dreaming or even having a night terror; the comfort of those is—however weird or disturbing—you know eventually you wake up. Mark knows he is not going to suddenly wake up and have his old life back. “It was just a matter of hurt feelings,” he mutters defensively.
“I presume you’ve tried to call your wife? Sent her messages?”
“Yes, I called her on Tuesday.”
“Not Monday?”
“No.” The policeman holds his pen over his notebook. Poised, ready to write down whatever Mark says. Mark has to be careful. Exact. “I called, she didn’t pick up, so I left her a voice message, apologizing. When she didn’t get back to me, I just thought she was being overly sensitive. A bit, you know, difficult. Making a point. I’ve sent a couple of WhatsApp messages since, but she hasn’t read them. Again, I thought she was making a point.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m worried.”
They ask more questions, quick-fire, alternating between them. Mark’s head swivels left to right as he responds and tries to keep up. Tries to be clear. Careful.
“Is anything missing?”
“Like what?”
“Anything. Clothes, shoes, bag, her passport.”
“No, nothing. I don’t think. I haven’t checked everything. How would I know? She has a lot of clothes.”
“Have you contacted any of her friends?”
“I called her best friend, Fiona. She saw her on Monday morning. Sometimes if Leigh is getting the later train up to Scotland, they meet up for a quick coffee before she sets off. Fiona says that happened, but she hasn’t seen or heard from Leigh since.”
“Is that usual?”
“They are very close. They are on the phone to each other all the time. So yes, I’d say so. You should probably talk to Fiona.”
“And family members? We’ll need a list of names and numbers of anyone she might have contacted.”
“Okay.”
“Can we just have a look around?”
“If you like.”
“You mentioned Sebastian, do you have other children?”
“Yes, Oli.”
“How old are your boys?”
“Oli is sixteen next month and Sebastian is twelve.”
“Has she been in touch with either of them?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. They would have told me.”
“Can we talk to the boys all the same?”
“Well, I don’t want them worried.”
“But you do want their mother found?”
“Of course.”
“Then it would be best if we talked to the boys. See if they have anything to add.”
Mark follows the officers into Seb’s room. He’s on his phone. Mark feels a flash of embarrassment, believing his parenting is under scrutiny, when Clements comments, “Oh, what are you playing?”
“Brawl Stars.”
“My nephew likes Subway Surfers, have you tried that?” Seb nods. He isn’t fazed by the police; he has been brought up to trust and respect them. “Are you looking for my mum?” he asks.
“Yeah, we are. You could help with that.” Seb’s face lights up. He is a big fan of Sherlock Holmes. More the TV series than the books, much to Leigh’s disappointment. She is always trying to get the boys to read more. Mark thinks Seb is most likely imagining working with the detectives following them around, dusting for fingerprints, putting taps on lines.
“Can you tell us when you last saw your mum?”
“Monday morning, she dropped me off at school. She doesn’t need to—no one else is dropped off at my age. It’s embarrassing.” He blushes. The ongoing family discussion about whether he needs picking up or dropping off is a constant in the house. Mark doesn’t believe Seb needs the parental drop-offs and pickup, Seb can more than manage the tubes himself. Mark believes Leigh insists on doing them because she needs it. She misses the boys and feels guilty about the fact she is away half the week. She tries to suck up as much of them as she can when she’s at home. “She even picks me up on the days she’s not working.”
“Does your dad pick you up when your mum is working?”
The Fletchers have taught their boys not to lie. Specifically, not to lie to people in authority. “No. Mum thinks he does but I just get the tube home. Dad’s always here waiting. It’s our secret.”
DC Clements looks at Seb for a long time. Mark can see she wants to ask if they have any more secrets, but she is aware that he’s a young boy, worried about his mother. “Has she sent you any messages while she’s been away?”