Fiona had always struggled with Leigh’s brutal dismissals of her romantic involvements. It was humiliating, patronizing. Leigh seemed a bit smug; she clearly enjoyed playing the happy wife, able to dole out advice, offer guidance to her hapless single friend. Fiona used to have to bite her tongue. She wanted to demand, “What do you know about it? Dating has changed since you met Mark.” But she didn’t, because while part of her felt belittled, hurt, another part of her hoped Leigh did know more than her, and might somehow magically guide her to the happily-ever-after. But it has turned out that Leigh was a liar, a cheat. She really was only playing being the happy wife. Leigh was far from the perfect wife and mother, the perfect friend that she portrayed. She had no right to offer advice. Her life was a sham, a fraud. She had caused so much pain and confusion.
How could Leigh do what she had done and not tell Fiona? They were supposed to be best friends. All those years. All those lies. To think Fiona had felt bad about keeping quiet about her thing with Daan for a few months. Sleeping with a man who she suspected was involved with someone else was hardly a moral crime in comparison. She hadn’t even planned to keep quiet about that forever, only until whatever they had was a bit more established. Just until it was robust enough to withstand Leigh’s skepticism and scorn.
Daan. What is she supposed to think about him now? Having sex with him, actually sleeping with him last night was a mistake, it has clouded her judgment again. Stopping over was so much more intimate than a hookup. She now knew what his breath smelled like in the morning （annoyingly still attractive）。 It had been something else feeling his warm, rhythmic breath on her neck as he slept.
Still, she has to look at the facts. Daan isn’t a faithful husband. Should she tell the DC that? Is it relevant? She doesn’t want to be drawn into this quagmire. But if it helps the police build a profile of Daan then she probably should tell.
One thing Fiona is clear on is that it is essential Mark does not meet Daan. What Mark is dealing with is monumentally painful, confusing and cruel. She understands—more than anyone—how viciously hurt he must be. Her pain is tearing her into pieces—what might Mark’s pain destroy? If anything kicked off between the two men, it would just add to the misery.
Fiona does not go straight back to Mark’s. She needs some time to think about what to do next. She calls him, says she’ll pop over later this afternoon, or early evening. She buys some more groceries, noting the shelves look like the mouth of a seven-year-old who has lost baby teeth; black gaps stand stark. Fiona feels a swell of impatience at people’s selfishness. There would be enough to go around if no one hogged more than they needed. She does a few chores, returns home for a shower and even though it’s a Sunday, she calls her boss to confirm she’ll be continuing to work from home for the foreseeable future. Her boss is flexible, less interested in the tragedy of her missing best friend than she would be in normal circumstances because a lockdown of the city seems imminent. It’s all anybody is thinking and talking about. Hospitals are being prepared for an influx of patients, the police are being drilled for potential rioting and looting. All resources are being redirected that way.
“Stay safe, yeah?” says her boss. It is said with self-consciousness but sincerity.
Fiona feels her stomach contract with anxiety. What will a locked-down city mean for Leigh? She knows she has one more call to make. Yes, obviously being unfaithful is a long way away from being someone who might hurt his wife. Fiona isn’t saying Daan is capable of that—she’ll leave that decision up to the police. All she can do is give them the information she has.
34
DC Clements
Despite the alert that was issued on Thursday, no members of the public have reported a sighting of Leigh Gillingham. Not one. This is unusual. Pre-coronavirus the general public seemed to be much more interested in missing people—whether their concern was genuine or because they are busybodies who believe they can do the job better than the police Clements can’t be sure, but routinely someone—many someones—would have called in a sighting which may or may not have checked out, but would have at least stopped Clements feeling like she was shouting down an empty chasm. Now, everyone up and down the country has problems of their own. Loo-roll-and-pasta-stockpiling has become the national hobby. People, bloated with suspicion, skirt around one another, unwilling to look another being in the eye. Maybe this is the reason no one has seen a forty-three-year-old, five-foot-seven brunette in black jeans and a camel-colored coat, anywhere.
Kylie was last seen on Monday the sixteenth. It is Sunday the twenty-second. A week. Clements feels the pressure of the days dissolving in front of her. She feels cheated that they weren’t alerted to Kylie’s disappearance until four days after she’d vanished. A handicap. Clements and Tanner sit in the almost deserted station, poring over the facts, files, information and hunches; determined to wring every moment out of the time they have left on this investigation.
There isn’t a reward for information, which doesn’t help. Daan Janssen hasn’t offered to fund one, even though he is in a position to do so. Nor has Mark Fletcher, although coming up with the cash would presumably be more of a struggle for him. That said, Clements knows of cases where people have taken loans, mortgaged their houses, sold their cars to be able to offer rewards for information on their loved ones. Not that the police unilaterally encourage this—it can lead to all sorts of confusion and attract the wrong type of person coming forward with inaccurate information. Normally, the police have to spend time discussing the pros and cons of offering a reward. Normally, relatives are desperate and willing to try anything to bring their missing home. Even missing people that left midfight, midcrisis, midtrauma.
Normally.
Neither man has made posters to pin on notice boards of cafés, libraries or community centers. There are no laminated photocopies of a favored photo of Leigh or Kai zip-tied to lampposts. Posters that beg passersby for attention and help. Posters that rip at hearts, and as often as not, fade in the sun or smudge in the rain before they yield results. Neither man has nagged for a press conference, a radio appeal. As far as she is aware, they have not spent hours walking the streets in hope of spotting Kylie. It puzzles and bothers Clements that neither husband seems interested in following the usual patterns or protocols to help find the woman. Clements has known cats that have gone astray to cause more concern. Yes, the circumstances are unusual, and Kylie has clearly fallen from grace in both their eyes, but shouldn’t they care more? Frustrated, Clements voices her thoughts to Tanner. “Shouldn’t what they once had inflame if not concern, then at least curiosity as to her whereabouts? Shouldn’t they want to fight for her, to fight with her? If they loved her a week ago, how could it all have vanished so instantly, so completely?”
“Well, obviously their indifference indicates guilt, an involvement in her disappearance. Maybe they are not niggling for a thorough search because they don’t want it to be fruitful. Maybe they already know what happened to her.”
“What—both of them?”
Tanner shrugs and grins. “You’re the one always saying keep an open mind, boss.”