“I should have called you sooner.”
Clements pulls out her notebook. “Well, I’m here now.” She starts with the standard things: name, age, then, “So, when did you last see your wife?”
“Last Thursday morning.”
Inwardly she takes a breath. “A week ago?” She tries not to allow any judgment to leak into the tone of her voice.
“Yes.”
“But you’ve waited until now to report her missing?” It is impossible not to hear the echo of the same question that was asked of Mark Fletcher earlier today. What the fuck is it with these men who lose their wives? Why are they so slow to become alarmed? Clements thinks that the next time she’s romanticizing the great institution of marriage, she’ll remind herself of these conversations.
“Oh, but she hasn’t been missing all that time,” Daan interjects. “No, of course not. She has been at her mother’s. Her mother is very ill. Kai devotes a lot of time to her care. Kai’s mother—Pamela, Pam—is in a home, in the north of England. Kai is staying there with her.”
“I see. So, when did you last hear from your wife? Have you spoken on the phone while she has been visiting her mother?”
“Yes, we have. We last spoke on Sunday afternoon.”
“But not since then?”
“We swapped WhatsApp messages. I received one at lunchtime.”
“So, you are in contact with your wife? She’s simply not at home. That’s not missing.” Clements was too eager to come here. She should have called him first, established some facts. She’d jumped the gun on the back of coming straight from Leigh Fletcher’s house, thought there was a pattern, a connection. She should be moving on that case, not wasting time here.
Daan puts up a hand to stop her leaving, to hold her attention. “Only, I don’t think it is my wife I am messaging. That’s why I came home and decided to call you.”
“What?”
“I think someone is impersonating my wife.” Involuntarily Clements glances at his whisky glass. Is the man drunk? Is he worth listening to at all? “She called me on Sunday, Pamela had developed an infection, Kai was worried about her. Pam has Alzheimer’s. She gets vicious UTIs from time to time.”
There is something about how he explains his mother-in-law’s health issues that makes Clements warm to him. She settles down on the breakfast bar stool and gives him time to finish. “Then on Monday, when I was expecting her home, she sent a message and it just said, Can’t come home right now. Very brief. I called her straightaway; you know, to see if she was okay. She’s an only child. She takes a lot on. But she didn’t pick up. I just assumed she’d had to switch her phone off.”
“That happens in hospitals.”
“Yes, but not often in care homes. Never before. I left a message asking if the UTI had got worse. She sent just a one-word response. Yes. Again, I called her, again she didn’t pick up. Anyway, over the next few days there was some messaging between us. It was a bit off. Not like herself, you know?”
“Her mother is very ill,” Clements says by way of explanation.
“Yes. That’s what I told myself too. I called her a number of times, normally we speak every day if she is away, but every time I went through to voicemail and she never rang back. She would just send a message saying things were too difficult, that she was too busy, that she couldn’t talk. She didn’t give me any details on what was going on with the prognosis or treatment. She was vague and brief. That’s not like her. She likes to talk.” He throws out a smile at his own joke, maybe at the thought of his chatty wife. “We had a supper party arranged for Tuesday. She never referenced it. I expected her to say whether she’d prefer me to cancel or go ahead without her.”
“With all that she has on her plate, might she have forgotten about it?”
“Maybe. Yesterday, I decided she shouldn’t be dealing with this all on her own; she likes to be independent, but we all need some help sometimes, right?” Clements nods. It is true. “So, I decided to go and see her and Pam. I texted and asked for the address because I have never visited the place. I realized I didn’t know exactly where it was. Somewhere in Newcastle but Newcastle is a big place. No response from her.”
Daan stares at Clements, his piercing eyes expectant of a reaction. Outrage, suspicion? She doesn’t know what to tell him. His wife has priorities other than him right now. He has to suck it up. “Did you call the care home and ask for their address?”
Daan shakes his head impatiently when he gathers that the police officer has not climbed on board with his belief that his wife is missing. “I don’t have the number.”
“You could look it up.”
“I don’t know the name of the place.”
“I see.”
“Then I thought perhaps I could find it by going through her stuff. Maybe there’s an invoice or some correspondence from the home.”
Clements glances about. “There doesn’t look like there is much stuff.”
“No, we both like a minimalist home so it wasn’t really surprising when I couldn’t find a paper bill. We are environmentalists. We keep as much as we can online.” Clements suppresses a sigh; he sounds like he is expecting to be congratulated on this very usual practice. Clements tries to be as environmentally friendly as the next person, so she doesn’t know why she finds people who declare they are environmentalists so irritating, but she does. “I logged into her email account, had a poke around there.” Clements raises her eyebrows. It’s technically an offense to read someone else’s email—admittedly, one that’s unlikely to lead to prosecution, but it’s an invasion. He shrugs, unperturbed. Entitled. “We have each other’s passwords. We’re not the sort of couple to keep secrets. I couldn’t find any correspondence from the home, or even a file on her mother. I logged into her phone provider and looked up her last phone bill. I thought there would be the number of the home on that. When she is here with me, she calls first thing in the morning to see how Pamela has slept and then in the evening to see that Pam has had a comfortable day.”
“You’d make a good detective.”
He shrugs. He’s a man used to being told he’s good at things. It doesn’t matter to him. He doesn’t need to be told; he knows it.
“But here is the thing, on her phone records there are no outgoing calls to any number other than mine.”
“What?”
“Well, no personal ones. No care home, no friends, just a couple of restaurants that we’ve visited, and her hair salon, decorators—that sort of thing. I went through every one of her phone calls—line by line—for the past six months but there are no calls to people she actually knows. Here, look.” He reaches for his laptop, types at the speed of light and pulls up a phone statement. He has all the enthusiasm and urgency of a member of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five. Clements is always skeptical of amateur sleuths. She also is starting to doubt his assertion that they are not the sort of couple to keep secrets.
“This doesn’t mean much in isolation. I need to check the numbers myself.” Clements’s first thought is that Kai Janssen has two phones. “Does your wife work, Daan?”