Page 59 of You Lied First
Thank God Guy doesn’t know about the phone.
They sit in silence for a few moments, and Margot goes over the story one more time in her head, looking for potential tripwires.
‘Plot twist,’ she says. ‘Instead of waiting for the police to come to us, do you think we should actually go forward and tell them all this off our own bat? Because it’s what an innocent person would do – right? Otherwise, surely, when they track us down, they’re going to ask why we didn’t say anything?’
Sara’s mouth falls open. ‘I thought we’d agreed just to stay quiet. I mean, surely they’ll ask why it’s taken us so long to come forward?’
Margot pulls a face. ‘We lost touch with her after we moved. We didn’t know she still lived in the compound until Tom and Di mentioned it. I mean, we didn’t see anyone there, did we? We’ve no idea who was living there.’
The more she thinks about it, the more she knows it’s the best course of action. She just hopes Guy agrees. He grimaces at her.
‘You might be right. It’s not ideal, but it might actually be the thing that saves us.’
‘I agree,’ says Margot, nodding. ‘Transparency. But it would have to be one of us who contacts the police, though, because Sara didn’t technically know her.’
‘Good point,’ Guys says. ‘So are we all agreed? We saw nothing. And please, Sara, it’s more important than ever that you just stick to the story. Okay?’
They leave the park largely in silence. As they hug goodbye, Sara says, ‘Are you absolutely sure about this? Because I’m trusting you.’ And Guy nods.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll keep you posted.’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Guy mutters as he and Margot head back home. He’s driving jerkily, aggressively, throwing the car around corners in a way that makes Margot cling on to the door handle, and braking only after she’s stamped her foot to the floor herself in panic. ‘Last thing I want to do is give our names to the police and flag up that we were there but you’re right.’
‘I know.’
‘So who’s gonna do it?’ He doesn’t smile. ‘I’m guessing me, right?’
‘Who’s the better liar?’ Margot asks innocently.
‘Hmm. Okay. Let me get my thoughts together at home then I’ll go.’
And go he does. Meantime, Margot sits at home trying to work but her mind is with Guy and what might be going on at the police station. Her husband’s a persuasive speaker – one of those people who can pull you in with his tone and his body language. She imagines him going in, doing the ‘good citizen’ act to a rather disinterested duty officer who probably won’t really care that someone in Cheltenham used to know a person who’s now missing in Oman and that they hadn’t seen her in Muscat during a recent short holiday. When Margot looks at it like that, what they’re telling the police really isn’t a big deal. But she feels coming forward is definitely the right thing to do so there’s a record of it – however useless the information – for if or when the Omani police contact the UK police.
Around 7 p.m., Guy strides into the house, straight through to the kitchen, where he opens the fridge, pulls out a beer, bites the cap off and drinks steadily in one gulp until the majorityof the bottle’s content is gone. He smacks his lips and lets out a satisfied sigh.
‘Aaahhhhhh. All done.’
‘How was it?’
‘Fine. The guy acted like I was wasting his time, which is exactly how I wanted it to be. But we’re all above board now.’ He pulls Margot into his arms. ‘We did it, Mar. I think we did it!’
‘Great. Well done!’ she says, pulling away. ‘Let me tell Sara. She’ll be waiting.’
We’d agreed that the coded message would come from the phone of whoever didn’t go to the station in case the police started monitoring the phone line of the one who did.
Is there a parents’ evening this term?
She types the innocuous phrase designed to mean:He’s been to the police and told them and he’s back home, everything’s fine.
The ticks turn immediately blue and within seconds Sara responds with the real date of parents’ evening, which means:Message received, loud and clear. Well done, phew.
Margot sags against the counter in relief. Another day done … a lifetime to go.
48
SARA
Celine’s parents, I discover from continuing news coverage, live in a picturesque house in the country. Even their floof of a cat is cute. All emotion aside, it’s a story the media, currently starved of anything more interesting to report on, is salivating over. I’m staring into space catastrophising about where it’ll all end when my phone rings: Margot. She has never, ever phoned me.
