Page 76 of Close to You
‘No.’
Thirty-Six
THE WHY
Two years, one month ago
It’s four days since I pushed David’s body into the lake – and it’s only now that a pair of officers are visiting to find out the circumstances around his ‘disappearance’.
I think it would genuinely concern most people to know how long the police take to respond to cases of missing people. It’s probably cuts and diminishing resources – but there’s also a distinct sense that there isn’t a lot they can do when an adult disappears.
I’ve been wearing turtle-necks ever since, which is enough to cover my own wound. Aside from that, it had got to the point where I think I’d over-cleaned in the aftermath of what happened. I had swabbed the floors between the kitchen and the front door to the degree that they looked overly sparkling in comparison to the rest of the flat. It smelled too clinical as well, so, after all that cleaning, I had to dirty up the apartment a bit. I trampled in a few footprints and emptied a little dust from the vacuum into the corners around the kitchen appliances. I even left a small Marmite stain on the counter, close to the glued-together Tigger pot. My keys are sitting inside, as they always have.
I have no idea how I’m supposed to be behaving – whether I should be crying my eyes out, or answering their questions with a blank-eyed, glassy stare. Perhaps I should be full of hope that this is all a misunderstanding and that I’m confident David will return quickly enough? In the end, I figure I’m better offering a bit of everything.
The officers are on the sofa, both wearing uniforms, one of whom is carrying a notebook. I’m in the chair facing them, my legs curled underneath me.
‘The last I heard, he was off on a work trip,’ I say. ‘He takes them often. He buys and sells collectibles and goes to trade fairs all over Europe. He was in Sweden recently – and Estonia.’
‘Have you looked for his passport?’ one of the officers ask.
‘It’s gone. It was in the drawer next to our bed, but there’s no sign of it. His phone is gone, too. He said he’d be back in a day – but that was two days ago. I’ve not heard from him since.’
The officer motions towards the window. ‘Did you say that’s his car outside?’
‘It is. He said he was getting a taxi to the airport because of the parking fees. I’d gone to work at my studio and, when I got back, he wasn’t here. I assumed he was already on his way.’
‘Where was your husband headed?’
‘He said Denmark. I assumed Copenhagen – but I’m not sure if he ever specifically said that. I can’t remember.’
I speak as confidently as I can – but it took me a while to decide upon Denmark as the place where David was apparently going. I was thinking about a place in the UK but then figured it might mean that various British police forces join together. I found a list of collector fairs around Europe and there is one happening in Copenhagen at the moment. I hope they’ll check and put two and two together to make five.
‘Was there a reason he was going to Denmark specifically?’
‘I assume some sort of fair, or that he was buying or selling from someone specifically. We didn’t talk that much about those sorts of things – he was always going somewhere.’
That gets a nod and another note on the pad. The officer counts on his fingers and then says: ‘So the last time you saw him was on Monday morning…?’
‘Correct.’
‘When did you last hear from him?’
‘That morning. He usually texts when he gets to the airport – but not always. I assumed I’d get something when he landed in Denmark but nothing came. I’ll show you my phone.’
I figure they’d be able to check through the phone company if they really wanted – but I pass him my phone, where it highlights the messages I sent to David after I’d already killed him.
Hey. Not heard from you. How are you? How was the flight?
Are you OK? Hoping you get this. I had a good day. Hoping yours was all right.
Can you text or call me? Getting worried.
On it goes. Message after message sent to a phone I’d already smashed to pieces and dumped in a bin outside the Tesco Express in Kingbridge, along with the remains of David’s burnt passport.
The officer skims along the screen before handing it back.
‘Do you know where he might have stayed in Copenhagen?’
