Gone Read online

  ‘But you haven’t heard anything from him since?’ said Jameson.

  Libby glanced at Bloom, then shook her head. ‘I left messages, loads of them, but he’s just disappeared. No one’s heard a thing.’

  ‘And is that unusual?’ Jameson asked.

  ‘Very.’

  Bloom cleared her throat. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, Libby, but was everything OK between the two of you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And was Stuart OK? Had you noticed anything different or unusual about his behaviour?’

  ‘He wouldn’t leave me, if that’s what you’re asking. I told the police and I can tell you too. He was fine.’

  ‘But was there anything unusual about his behaviour in the last few weeks?’ Jameson repeated.

  Libby sighed and shook her head. ‘No. Nothing unusual. Nothing at all.’

  Jameson nodded and then continued, ‘Had he been worried about anything in particular or fallen out with anyone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has he ever gone off without telling you before?’

  Libby shook her head.

  ‘And how long have you been together?’

  ‘Nearly two years. It was just after I started as Finance Director at the airport. It was a pretty lonely time, if I’m honest. People didn’t like the fact I’d been promoted so young. Stuart worked in the cafe and he was the only person who’d look me in the eye and smile. He was charming. Then he was asked to leave and I was devastated.’ Libby glanced at Bloom. ‘But three days later I came out of work and found him waiting by my car with flowers. We’ve been together ever since.’

  ‘I like his style,’ said Jameson with a kind smile. ‘How would you describe Stuart, Libby? What sort of person is he?’

  ‘He’s … perfect. I mean, for me. I don’t mean he’s, like, the perfect man. Certainly not.’ She smiled. It was the first heartfelt smile they’d seen and it turned her from bland to really rather pretty. ‘I’m a bit obsessive and he’s the total opposite. Which works. He makes me laugh. He shows me I’m taking life too seriously. He does these menial jobs because he hasn’t worked out what he wants to do yet, but he could be anything. He’s bright and super-confident.’

  ‘You said Stuart was asked to leave the cafe at the airport?’ said Bloom.

  Libby looked away. ‘That was all a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘They thought he’d done something he hadn’t. I got it all cleared up, but he wouldn’t go back after how they’d treated him and I can’t say I blame him.’

  ‘What sort of misunderstanding?’

  ‘I really don’t want to talk about it. It’s not relevant.’

  Bloom and Jameson exchanged a glance, a look that said later.

  ‘So Stuart is a bit of an extrovert,’ said Jameson. ‘Pretty laid-back, charming, confident and bright?’

  ‘It sounds like I’m bigging him up, doesn’t it? I suppose I am.’ Libby stroked her hand around and around her bump. ‘But I hope this little one turns out like Daddy rather than neurotic Mummy.’

  ‘Was Stuart excited about becoming a father?’ Jameson continued.

  Libby rested both hands on her bump. ‘Yeah.’ She swallowed. ‘It’s different for guys, I think. It doesn’t become real to them until the baby’s here, does it? But he was excited.’

  ‘Are there any old friends he might be staying with?’ said Jameson.

  ‘He’s not great at keeping in touch with people. Not like me. I’ve known my two best friends since nursery school. Another way we’re opposites, I guess. But I checked everyone I could think of. Like I say, I’m obsessive.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that, is there, Dr Bloom?’ Jameson didn’t look across to see his colleague’s reaction, deliberately focusing on his notebook instead.

  ‘You said Stuart was excited about becoming a father,’ said Bloom. ‘Rather than is excited.’

  Libby raised her chin to the ceiling for a few seconds. When she looked back at Bloom there were tears in the corners of her eyes. ‘I’m not stupid, Dr Bloom. He’s been missing for nearly a month. How long do the police allow before they suspect foul play? Three days?’

  Jameson cut in. ‘That tends to be in cases of abduction, or specifically for vulnerable people and children.’

  ‘He took no money. No clothes. No passport or driving licence. They’re all still here. He hasn’t used his phone, been on social media, written anyone a bloody postcard. He’s dead. You know it and I know it too. I’m a single mother. I don’t even know why we’re talking, to be honest. This is all too late. Where were you three weeks ago?’ Libby stood and Bloom thought she was about to ask them to leave, but she didn’t. She just walked over to the window and stared out of it.

  ‘You don’t set any store by this game, then?’ asked Jameson.

  Libby looked back at him.

  ‘You told Jane Reid that Stuart had received a card like Jane’s mum Lana. A birthday card, daring him to play a game.’

  ‘I never saw it. The police told me about it. I expect it’s just marketing for a stupid computer game. Stuart certainly loved those.’

  ‘Stuart was into gaming?’

  ‘The bigger the guns, the better. Maybe it’s best he’s not around to influence this little one, after all.’

  ‘Just one final question, Libby, and then we’ll leave you in peace,’ said Bloom. ‘As far as you know, has Stuart ever suffered from depression?’

  Libby frowned. ‘No. Why would you ask that? Why does everyone assume he’s taken off because he was unhappy? He wasn’t unhappy. We were great.’

  ‘Did you believe her?’ Jameson asked as he and Bloom climbed into the back of a taxi. ‘When she said they were happy?’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  Jameson ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know. I want to. She seems like a lovely lady. It would be nice if they were happy, but …’

  ‘You think she might have her rose-tints on?’

  ‘I know you hate my gut feelings, Augusta, but something was off.’

  Bloom told the driver to head to Leeds station. ‘I only object to gut feelings that aren’t fully explained or explored, Marcus. If you have a hunch it’s probably for good reason. Let’s dig deeper.’

  Across the Pennines, Stuart Rose-Butler walked into The Principal Hotel, Manchester’s recently refurbished five-star option for businessmen and wealthy visitors. He stopped beside the full-size statue of a horse in the centre of the lobby with his hands in the pockets of his suit trousers. His newly acquired tattoo was covered by the sleeve of his Ted Baker shirt, the Breitling watch Libby had given him for his birthday just visible below the cuff. The tattoo was a half sleeve, a large melting clock face that had won him the previous round and boosted him to level two. He was on a roll.

  He watched the stairs and waited. He wasn’t a patient man, but he knew a bad choice would destroy his winning streak.

  A dark-haired woman in a suit descended into the lobby twenty minutes later. She was thin, scrawny rather than athletic, stressed rather than fit. Her make-up was heavy but neat and her tailored black suit looked expensive. There were no rings on her fingers. Stuart reckoned this wealthy forty-something hadn’t seen any action in the bedroom for a long, long time.

  As she walked towards the reception desk, her right shoe lost traction on the polished floor and she lurched sideways before quickly righting herself. She glanced around – had anyone spotted her ungraceful movement? – and her gaze halted at the man with his hands in his pockets standing perfectly still.

  Stuart smiled. He could stop a woman in her tracks when he smiled right. And everything banked on him doing it right.

  11

  ‘Hello, Seraphine. How are you?’

  Dr Bloom was sitting as before: hands clasped in her lap, back straight and feet and knees squeezed together.

  Seraphine took her seat opposite and mimicked that posture: back straight, legs together, diary held in her lap. The sparse
little room contained only their two chairs, a small table in between them with a water jug, two glasses and a box of tissues, and a low cabinet with two deep drawers.

  ‘I started the diary for you,’ Seraphine said, holding out the book.

  Bloom shook her head. ‘I don’t want to see it, Seraphine. You can talk to me about what you write, but the diary is for your own private reflections. No one should read it but you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So you can be totally honest with yourself. If we know another person is going to read what we write we tend to moderate the content. For a diary like this to be of use you need to write the truth.’

  Seraphine placed the diary back in her lap. This changed things. She had been planning to use the diary to show Dr Bloom just how normal she was. But if the woman was never going to read it … Seraphine couldn’t see the point of it.

  ‘Have you been thinking any more about your experience with Darren Shaw? Or your discussions with the police?’

  Seraphine shrugged. She was confident that the police were convinced that she’d acted in self-defence. There would be no benefit in repeating her story here.

  ‘You heard that Mr Shaw is recovering well, I take it? How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Relieved, obviously.’ Seraphine knew she was supposed to feel relieved. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him,’ she added.

  Dr Bloom was silent. She stared at Seraphine with a sort of blank expression. Seraphine couldn’t work it out at all.

  ‘It will help my case too, the police said.’

  ‘Of course. Without a death, murder becomes attempted murder, manslaughter becomes grievous bodily harm.’

  ‘But I was only defending myself. He’s a pervert. He attacked us.’

  ‘And that’s exactly what that is: your defence.’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘I believe you acted calmly in a very stressful situation. I also noted that you described the incident in a matter-of-fact way; there was no drama or emotion. But I can also see that you really don’t like it when anyone suggests that Mr Shaw is the victim.’

  ‘Because I was the victim. Me.’ Seraphine shuffled in her chair and looked out of the small window. ‘He was lucky I didn’t really hurt him.’

  ‘That’s an interesting thing to say.’

  Sometimes this happened. People pulled her up on specific words or sentences. She didn’t understand why.

  ‘I heard that when your teacher came to your aid in the sports hall she described you as surprisingly calm,’ Dr Bloom said. ‘The police suspect this was due to shock.’

  Seraphine remained silent because there was no question to answer.

  ‘But what I’m most interested in is Claudia’s account of events. Have you been told what your friend said?’

  ‘How do you know all this? You said you didn’t work for the police.’

  ‘I don’t, Seraphine. I work for you and your family. Your mother told me.’

  Of course her stupid mother would fuss about everything in front of the psychologist; anything to get some attention. Seraphine took a deep breath to suppress her rage. This was not the place for it.

  ‘Do you know that Claudia disputes your statement?’ asked Dr Bloom. ‘She says that you attacked Mr Shaw before he had showed any interest in you.’

  Seraphine smiled. She had been through all of this with PC Watkins. ‘I think Claudia suffers from that thing people get for their abusers. She doesn’t like the idea that he wanted me too.’

  ‘Stockholm syndrome?’

  ‘Is that what kidnap victims get?’

  Dr Bloom nodded. ‘They form an attachment to their aggressor. So are you saying Claudia’s account is wrong?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She also recalls you saying, “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” to Mr Shaw. Is that incorrect too?’

  ‘No,’ replied Seraphine. ‘I said that.’

  ‘Why?’

  Seraphine shrugged. ‘It’s what people say. It’s a saying.’

  ‘Were you suggesting that you are his size?’

  Seraphine smiled her sweetest smile. She had practised it in front of the mirror. ‘Obviously not. I’m a girl.’

  ‘I didn’t think you meant it physically.’ Bloom poured water from the jug into the two glasses. ‘Do you think about the incident much?’ she asked.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Seraphine didn’t understand. She shook her head.

  ‘Tell me what you think about when you remember it. It’s not a trick question, Seraphine. I’m just trying to understand what stood out to you about the experience.’

  The blood. The thick, red, glistening blood. There was so much blood … ‘I think of him on the floor.’

  ‘After you stabbed him?’

  Seraphine nodded. ‘He was wriggling around on the shiny wooden floor. His hand was gripping his neck. I think he was trying to stop the bleeding.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Then his hand flopped on to the floor and he went still. I could see where the blood was coming from – it was spilling from the side of his neck – but I couldn’t see the actual hole.’

  ‘Did you want to see the hole?’

  Why wouldn’t I want to see the hole? ‘I wanted to know if it was smooth or ragged.’

  ‘Why did you want to know that?’

  Seraphine frowned. She had hoped Bloom would understand, that she was more intelligent than your average normal. But maybe not. ‘Because it’s interesting.’

  Dr Bloom nodded. She got it now. ‘And how often do you think about the incident?’

  All the time. It’s the most fascinating thing that’s ever happened to me. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Did you think about helping him at the time?’

  ‘He didn’t deserve any help.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s a pervert. A rapist.’ Seraphine couldn’t be sure, but she thought she detected the briefest of smiles on Dr Bloom’s lips.

  12

  Harry Graham’s Opticians was a stylish double-fronted shop in the Clifton area of Bristol. It looked more like a photographer’s studio – with its dove-grey window frames and thin white lettering – than a clinic.

  Bloom and Jameson arrived just after five in the afternoon, as the dark-haired receptionist in red FCUK glasses was clearing up her desk. The inside was as stylish and minimalist as the exterior. Glasses were displayed like jewellery in cases that hung on the walls and fronted the receptionist’s counter. She called for her boss, who emerged from an office at the back of the store.

  Harry Graham was a tall, slender man with fair hair and a soft West Country accent. ‘Come through,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘This won’t take long, will it? I have to pick up the children.’ As he led Bloom and Jameson into the spacious office at the back of the building, the phone on the desk rang. He held up his index finger apologetically and answered it. He had a brief, terse conversation about contact lens deliveries and then hung up abruptly. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘We appear to be having some supplier issues this week. That’s the third cock-up in as many days. I don’t know how these people run a business.’ He shook his head and let out a sigh. ‘Ever had one of those weeks?’

  ‘Frequently,’ said Bloom with a smile. ‘We’ll try not to take up too much of your time. We were hoping you could supply some more information about your wife, Faye. We’ve discovered a few other individuals who’ve gone missing under similar circumstances and we’re speaking to the families to see if there’s a link that might help us find out what’s happened to them.’

  ‘You said you were private investigators?’

  Jameson answered, ‘Of a sort. We’re helping out because I know one of the families involved.’

  ‘What do you think’s happened to them?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Truthfully?’ said Bloom. ‘We don’t know. We don’t think this game that was mentioned in the birt
hday card is a marketing ploy; there are no gaming or tech companies taking responsibility. So we’re trying to find a link between the missing people. We’re hoping this will shed some light.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Look. This is going to sound awful, but I’m going to be totally honest with you. I was relieved when Faye disappeared. We aren’t happy together. We haven’t been for years. We should have called it a day a long time ago, but the children are still so young, so you don’t, do you?’

  ‘Do you think Faye chose to disappear?’ Jameson asked.

  ‘I did, yes. That’s why I didn’t push it with the police. I reported her missing after the first week, but I expected she’d turn up when she was ready.’ Harry rubbed his right eye. ‘She’s not been happy for a long time. I tried to help her with the children and talk to her about things, but …’ He stopped, dropped his hand to his side and looked at them both. ‘I don’t think she liked being a mother. She loved the kids, don’t get me wrong, but that day-in, day-out routine and the responsibility, it made her … oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘Frustrated?’ said Jameson.

  ‘More than that. It made her …’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘I’m just going to say it. It made her vile. Not a nice person to be around. She was always angry and short-tempered, everyone and everything annoyed her – particularly me, it seemed. She was always saying that her life would be so much better without me in it and … well … I must sound like the worst husband. I know my children are missing their mum, but I think this space is good for all of us.’

  ‘So, having children changed Faye?’ asked Bloom.

  Harry nodded. ‘Before Fred, Faye loved travelling and trying new things, not what you’d expect from an accountant. She was incredibly good fun, everyone always wanted her at a party.’ He smiled, trying to make light of his low self-esteem. ‘She was totally different before. And the awful thing is I’m not even sure she wanted a family. I know I did, but I can’t remember now if she wanted that too …’

  ‘You think she had children to make you happy?’ asked Jameson. Bloom was always impressed that he could ask such direct and personal questions without sounding rude or intrusive. It was something about his tone.