So far, Clements has considered a number of theories including one or the other husband discovering the truth, perhaps threatening Kylie with exposure, with violence, and her running away afraid. Or, one or the other husband discovering the truth and hurting her, perhaps in a moment of fury, perhaps something planned.
She could have fled.
She could be dead.
It depends on how far either man might be prepared to go. Marital homicide is frighteningly common. Every week, two women in Britain die because of violence in their home. Every week. The person these women presumably loved and trusted most in the world—once upon a time—kills them. It is hard to believe in fairy tales in Clements’s line of work. There ought to be protests, banners, placards, marches, even riots. She’d understand riots, venting anger and frustration at that statistic. There are none of these things; there is silence and sometimes it feels like indifference.
Clements sighs and rubs the back of her neck. Rolls her head from left to right and back again to release tension; her neck cracks out a tune like a glockenspiel. She shouldn’t let herself think this way. She gets carried away. Frustrated by the enormity of the all-pervasive problems when really, she ought to concentrate on the micro level. Finding Kylie Gillingham won’t stop the relentless march of fear, or violence, or misogyny, but she might help one woman see her kids again.
“I suppose, since there have been no sightings, no leads, we have to consider the theory most favored within the station,” says Tanner. He can’t hide his disappointment.
“What—that neither of the husbands has hurt her, that neither of them was aware of her bigamy?”
“Yup, that she has simply run away.”
“Well, the stress and impossibility of carrying on two lives concurrently must be enormous,” Clements admits. “Still, even if that is the case, it doesn’t mean she’s safe,” she adds grimly. “What’s not to say someone else out there might not have brought her to harm? The world is full of violent, unstable, cruel men.” For generations, since time began, men have picked up arms and picked a fight. They’ve chosen land, women, resources and various illusions of power that they’ve deemed excuse enough to savagely battle for. Clements wonders, is it in their DNA or an environment thing that leads to this constant vehement ferocity? And without armored wars, for nebulous kings, that allowed sword wielding on battle fields, there seemed to be a few favored outlets for that pugnacious anger: video games, fascism and hurting women. Considering the options, Clements thought video games provided a national service.
“What if she hasn’t run away? And what if nobody has hurt her? What if it was all too much and she’s taken her own life?”
Clements scowls at Tanner. This thought depresses her the most. She has become hardened to many things, but not suicide. Dealing with suicide wrung her out, mangled her inside. The waste, the hopelessness, the helplessness.
“Well, you can never be 100 percent certain about who might take their own life, who might be so desperate to think that was the only way, but I don’t feel Kylie fits the profile. She was too heretical, too unconventional.”
“But the best mate was right. Leigh Fletcher’s doctor has confirmed she was prescribed antidepressants.”
“Yes, but a while ago and at a very low dose. She hadn’t renewed her prescription in months, which suggests she didn’t feel the need for them anymore.”
“Or maybe she had come off them too suddenly—that could create problems.”
Clements nods; it is a possibility. “But we’ve checked hospitals, refuges and the Jane Does in morgues. No sign.”
Tanner has been surprisingly keen and helpful in continuing to make enquiries for this case. Clements thought his interest might be pulled toward the totally novel prep for the pandemic, that’s where all the buzz is, but he has remained keen to help pursue the matter. Clements wants to think his diligence comes from a good place; she tries not to think that he is hopeful of finding a body. A body that would push this inquiry into something high-profile and macabrely juicy. Still, even with his help, they are no closer to knowing where this woman has vanished to.
“Thing is, Tanner, I’m no quitter, but I’m beginning to wonder, should we simply accept that Kylie Gillingham is a woman who tends to do things in her own inimitable way? Maybe she doesn’t want to be found and maybe she’s right to have come to that decision, considering both men having given up on her so easily. It is unsettling.”
Just as Clements is thinking no one has anything else to add to Kylie Gillingham’s story—that maybe she will have to let it lie as everyone seems to want her to do—there are two phone calls, almost back-to-back, that allow her to keep the lighthouse lamp lit. First, Fiona Phillipson calls to say she has had sex with Daan Janssen. Clements is open-minded, it is helpful in her line of work and as she always doubts the fidelity of incredibly hot men; she isn’t shocked or judgmental when she hears this confession. She is curious, though. When? Where? How often? She doesn’t need to ask why. She’s met him twice.
“Obviously, I didn’t know he was married when I got involved with him,” says Fiona. There’s heat and shame in her tone. Clements thinks she may or may not have known. Most single women like to think they are not the sort to have a crack at a married man. No one believes they have “homewrecker” on the list of their character credentials. But the truth is, it’s lonely out there. Women who should know better do stumble down that path. Clements herself had once snogged a married colleague at a Christmas party. It is embarrassing to think about. So clichéd; a quick grope in a quiet corridor on the way to the cloakroom at the end of the night. Yes, it was after everyone had had a bit too much to drink. She’d been going through a dry patch romantically and working on a depressing human trafficking case; she wanted to grab at any comfort that came her way. His warm lips, solid body that smelled of sweat and a tang of a citrus aftershave was that—momentarily. A comfort. It hadn’t gone far because she was wearing high-waisted, supershaper tummy-control panties and she just didn’t have the energy to crawl out of them, couldn’t face the mortification of being exposed in them. She’d called herself an Uber, left the party alone. But if she’d been wearing better underwear, who knows where it might have gone? She is a policewoman not a saint.
“I should have said something the moment I made the connection,” admits Fiona apologetically. The regret and pain in her voice loud and clear, even though she’s mumbling.
“And when was that?”
“When your colleague—Tanner, is it?—and I were in Mark’s kitchen. He mentioned Daan’s name. You had already said that Leigh was going under the name Kai Janssen but I wasn’t looking for the connection. It didn’t click. I wasn’t even certain you’d said Janssen, I thought most likely Johnson. There was so much to take in. But in the kitchen Officer Tanner said Daan’s name. I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to think it was a horrible, strange coincidence; after all, everything about this is off-the-scale strange, isn’t it? I wanted to think that there might be more than one Daan Janssen.” Clements is all too aware of people’s willingness to kid themselves. “But Mark and I did some digging. We googled. It quickly became apparent that there aren’t many people with the same name, fewer still living in the UK. There was only one contender to be Leigh’s Daan Janssen. It’s not like he’s called John Smith—” She breaks off. “I didn’t want to believe it. But now I’m sure. I have to face facts.”