A Wayward Game Read online

  “What about Miss Meath-Jones? When did she arrive?”

  “Let me think – must have been early in 2006. She was expecting, though it was still too early to see. Didn’t make a fuss or anything; just appeared one day, and stayed.”

  “And what was your impression of her?”

  “Well, she was different. A nice girl. Would always stop and have a chat, ask you how you were, that kind of thing. Always seemed a bit lonely to me. A bit confused by the world, like she couldn’t really understand what she was doing here, or what the meaning of it all was. Not at all like Sallow.”

  “They seemed like a mismatched couple, then?”

  “Well, yes; but I’m only going on what I saw, so it’s not fair to make assumptions. Besides, the nature of the job was that you turned a blind eye. Residents’ affairs were none of your business, at least not unless they involved faulty boilers or broken radiators. Some things, though, you can’t help but notice.” Mr Walsh lowers his voice slightly, as though he’s afraid of being overheard even here, in his own home. “There were arguments, quite often; the neighbours complained about them sometimes. Sallow shouting his head off, that kind of thing. Diane didn’t shout back, apparently, but she must have been upset. I remember one evening she appeared in the lobby and sat down there, crying quietly. I asked her if she was all right. She said she was, but she’d just needed to get away for a while. I brought her a glass of water, and then she just dried her eyes, got up, and went back upstairs. Poor girl. It was like her heart was broken.”

  “Did you ever have reason to think that Mr Sallow might actually have hurt Diane? Physically, I mean?”

  “Well, I never saw anything to suggest that he had. I mean, bloody hell, if I had, I’d have bloody well given her the train fare to go back to her mother or something. Not worth staying with someone, is it, if they just make you miserable.”

  “You were on duty the evening before Diane went missing, I understand.”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you see anything of Mr Sallow or Miss Meath-Jones that evening?”

  “No. The last I saw of her was the Friday before. She came down in the afternoon to see if there was any post for her, and stopped to chat for a few minutes. Seemed happier, she did. Mentioned that they were going off to Dorset for the weekend.”

  “She seemed happier, you say?”

  “Yes. Smiling, laughing. Seemed to have put all the bad stuff behind her. That was what I hoped, anyway, for her and the baby.”

  “But you didn’t see her on the Sunday evening.”

  “No. But there was nothing odd about that, you know; I just supposed that they’d parked down in the garage and gone up to their apartment in the lift. That was what they would have done, if they’d come back late and they were tired. One thing I did think was strange, though—” Mr Walsh hesitates and frowns.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it’s probably nothing, but early the next morning – I was just about to go off duty, I remember, so it must have been nearing six o’clock – I was making some tea out in the office when I heard someone coming in through the front doors. That was pretty unusual, so early in the day, so I stuck my head out of the office door and saw Mr Sallow walking towards the lifts.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “And you told the police this?”

  “Yes, of course. Sallow told them that he couldn’t sleep and he’d gone out to buy some cigarettes from the convenience store around the corner. Open 24-7, that place. Does a roaring trade, thanks to the residents of Lexwood. It’s funny, though: he looked a mess. Normally, he was smart; even if he was off work and just going for a walk, he’d be well-dressed and groomed. That morning, he was bloody dirty: dirty hands, dirty clothes, hair all over the place.”

  “My God.” My mouth is suddenly dry, and I feel a chill snake down my spine.

  “He told the police he fell over on his way back. Could be true, I suppose.”

  “Yes, it could be.” I look into Mr Walsh’s shrewd blue eyes. “You don’t believe that, though, do you?”

  “No.” Mr Walsh says simply. “No, I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well – and remember, love, I didn’t tell you this – there was mud on his clothes. And there was no grass or bare earth anywhere between Lexwood House and the convenience store. And even if there had been, it was midsummer and there hadn’t been any rain for about a week. So no, that made no sense to me at all.”

  I sit silently for a moment, trying to take all of this in. In a sense, it’s a shock. And yet, in another sense, it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. I never believed Sallow’s story, and to hear my doubts echoed by Mr Walsh only confirms that I was right.

  “Do you remember the next day?”

  “Not much of it, no. I came off duty at six, when Martha – my colleague, you know – arrived. I exchanged a few words with her, and then came home. I slept until mid-afternoon, and then went back to Lexwood for the next night’s shift. But when I arrived it was bloody pandemonium. Police cars parked outside, a couple of journalists just beginning to sniff around, people hanging around in the lobby and the phone ringing off the hook. Martha was white, poor thing, trembling. ‘Didn’t you hear, Will?’ she asked. ‘Miss Meath-Jones has gone missing. Disappeared out in Bucklock Wood, poor thing.’” Mr Walsh gives an almost theatrical little shudder. “Do you know Bucklock? Bloody sinister place, I always thought. I used to take the grandchildren out there sometimes, just for little walks and things, but I never much liked it. Strange atmosphere – brooding, you know. I knew then that whatever had happened to the poor girl could hardly be good. I’ll never forget that night – answering the telephone, watching policemen come and go and more journalists beginning to appear outside, and hoping against hope that somehow she’d come walking back through the door at any moment.”

  “And how did Mr Sallow behave, following Diane’s disappearance?”

  “Hard to say. A cold fish, that Sallow. Never gave much away. Mind you, some people are just like that. They don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves, but it doesn’t mean they don’t have them.” Mr Walsh sighs. “Strange, though, the way he just carried on as normal. Hardly missed a day of work. Hardly ever at home, in the weeks and months that followed. Work commitments, I expect.”

  A charitable view. I wonder whether Mr Walsh has heard the rumours about Sallow’s lifestyle, about the wild weekends he enjoys with his City friends. Remote country houses, champagne and coke, prostitutes on hand for all who want them. This was the kind of fun that Sallow revelled in before he met Diane, and he returned to it within weeks of her disappearance. Not the reaction of a man who’d lost the woman he loved, you might think.

  I say none of this, of course; I simply nod, and say, “I expect so. Is there anything else you can tell me, Mr Walsh? Anything at all?”

  “No, I doubt it.” Mr Walsh puts a large, blue-veined hand to his forehead and closes his eyes. “There’s not much more I remember, truth be told. People say that age affects the memory, but if you ask me what happens is this: you store up so many memories, a whole lifetime’s worth, and it becomes very hard to categorise them, or search through them and retrieve the one you want. And, of course, there are some things you don’t want to think about – like what might have happened to that poor girl. There are enough terrible things in this world. You don’t have to go looking for more.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr Walsh,” I say, and begin to stand up. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine, love,” Mr Walsh says. He leads me out of the room, and back down the narrow corridor. “Call again some time, if you like. I’m here most days. When will your article be appearing?”

  “That depends on how my research goes, and whether my editor is sufficiently impressed by the end result. It may not run at all.” A plausible and suitably vague statement, which should address his doubts when an article fails to mater
ialise. People grumble about journalists, I’ve found, and dismiss the media, but few are able to resist reading the papers when they touch directly on their lives or experiences.

  “Well, good luck. Remember, though – you didn’t hear any of this from me.”

  “I won’t forget, Mr Walsh.” He holds open the front door, and I step outside. As I do so, I quietly press the “Stop” button on the tape recorder that has been whirring steadily inside my pocket throughout. “Thank you for all your help. Goodbye.”

  I walk out into a grey noon and head back to my parked car, feeling suddenly elated. I’ve learned something new – not enough to change anything, perhaps, but enough to lend strength and conviction to what I already thought. And if I can find out one more new fact, I can find out many more, until there are enough, perhaps, to reopen this case. I unlock my car, slip into the driving seat, and begin the journey back to Spitalfields.

  As I drive, I notice a grimy grey Honda following close behind. Occasionally I lose sight of it during the journey, but it always reappears, slowly creeping after me through the London traffic. But by the time I reach home it has gone for good, and I think no more of it as I lock the car and walk back to my flat.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Later that afternoon, I log on to www.whathappenedtodiane.org to see what people have been discussing since my last visit. There are a few additions to old threads, none of them of much interest. But as I scroll down the page, I notice a new thread, entitled “Time to move on?”, started by an occasional poster, called – appropriately – Lurker. The stats beneath his avatar show that he has posted only thirty times, despite being a member of the forum for three years.

  Hi all,

  I’ve been wondering recently whether it’s time we moved on and stopped picking away at this story. I’ve mentioned my own theory about Diane’s disappearance before: I believe that she was dejected, probably suffering from antenatal depression or some other mental disorder, and either killed herself or left of her own free will. If she killed herself, then she’s hardly unique. If she walked away from her former life, why then should we attempt to hunt her down? What gives us that right?

  Perhaps she’s out there somewhere, living a new life. There have been a few reported sightings, after all – unconfirmed, certainly, and perhaps mistaken, but nevertheless . . . In any case, she’s gone, and this forum won’t bring her back.

  Why, eight years on, are we still chasing her memory? Isn’t it time to leave her be?

  I type out a reply:

  You state that Diane perhaps killed herself, but the fact is that no body has ever been found, despite extensive searches. Southeast England is a pretty small corner of the world, and densely populated, and I find it hard to believe that a woman desperate and distraught enough to commit suicide would also be cunning enough to select a place where no one would ever discover her. If she is dead, the fact that no body has been recovered suggests that somebody went to great lengths to conceal it, which in turn suggests that it could hardly have been a suicide.

  If she left of her own free will, on the other hand, we have to accept that she did so without money, without a passport – without anything, in fact, other than the clothes she was wearing. We have to accept that she walked away, leaving the dog she cared for and the man she loved, without saying a word. We have to accept that she did not contact either friends or family members. We have to accept that she left despite being pregnant, and therefore in need of medical supervision.

  All of this is not to say that it’s impossible, of course. It may be that she had antenatal depression, and wasn’t thinking clearly. Perhaps she even took her own life, and just happened to do so in a place so remote that her body would never be found. The point, though, is that there is no evidence to suggest that she did any such thing. There is, on the contrary, evidence to suggest that she was harmed by James Sallow – incomplete evidence, insufficient evidence in legal terms, but evidence nonetheless. Should we forget an injustice, Lurker? Should we tell ourselves that, because it happened eight years ago, it’s of no further interest?

  Your suggestion that she might have been suffering from some unspecified mental disorder is little short of a deliberate slur, by the way. Diane was never examined by a qualified psychiatrist, and any speculation about her mental state remains just that – speculation. If she was simply unhappy, that might have said far more about her relationship with Sallow than her own psychological wellbeing.

  Diane must have felt horribly alone in those final weeks and months. And I want to make some gesture, however small, to show that she wasn’t, and isn’t. I care about her. I’m angry about what happened to her. She wasn’t just another stranger. I wish I could do something tangible to make things better, and I’m aware that this forum is a poor substitute. I’m also aware that to be so concerned about the suffering of someone who’s been gone for eight years makes little sense. I know that I’d do well to extend that sympathy to people who are still here, and might benefit from it. I know all of this, and I reproach myself for it. But this is how I feel, and my feelings in this case are stronger than my reason.

  Diane was my friend, and I will never forget her.

  A few minutes later, a reply appears – not from Lurker, but from Phillip, the newbie.

  I agree, Kittyminx. I never actually met Diane, but I feel like I knew her. Even if she killed herself or simply left, she must have been really miserable to do that, and I wonder why she felt that she couldn’t turn to anyone. And yet it makes sense, too. When the old villages died, the idea of community died too, at least in any meaningful sense. In a city, everyone is a stranger. The internet is one of the few things that can recapture some of that old feeling of brotherhood, and it’s a poor substitute for the real thing.

  Suffering is one of the few things that cuts right across divides. Suffering is something we all understand. And yet we all continue to suffer, and many of us do so alone. Viewed in general terms, it’s an abstract idea. It’s when you focus in on someone in particular that their suffering becomes real, tangible. Sometimes – and I know how sad this is going to sound – someone like Diane, someone you never knew in reality, just comes to life. Her suffering becomes real, and it makes her real too.

  There’s another issue, Lurker. Whatever happened to Diane – whether she was harmed by somebody else, or killed herself, or simply walked away – there has been no resolution in this case. A family has gone without answers. Quite possibly, justice has been denied. And that’s not the sort of thing that we should forget about.

  Lots of people deserve better than they get, of course. But Diane was one the few we know about. I couldn’t help her before, but I want to help her now, even if it’s just by remembering her. It sounds trite – it is trite – but it’s true. Her suffering has made her real to me.

  ~

  The water rains down on us, soaking our skin and hair, filling the bathroom with warm mist. Outside thunder growls in the distance, and flashes of lightning throw the city skyline into stark relief. The storm rides in on a cold wind from the East Coast, stripping the summer night of its warmth. I hold Neil close beneath the shower, revelling in the feel of his chest hair tickling my breasts, his belly against mine, his stirring penis pressing against my thigh. We hold each other for a long time, kissing, and I feel his tongue slip shyly between my lips and linger there. I kiss him back, pulling him tighter against me, dizzy and desperate with need.

  Eventually I break away from him and step back slightly, keeping my hands on his shoulders.

  “I’d like to wash you all over,” I say. “Would you like that too?”

  He gazes at me, his hair dark with water, his body shining.

  “Yes, Mistress,” he murmurs.

  I take the showerhead from its holder and go to stand behind him, feeling my pelvis slide over his wet buttocks.

  “Tip your head back,” I say, and he obeys. I point the showerhead so that the water runs over his hair, soaking it, and then re
place it in its holder. I take a bottle of shampoo from the shelf, squeeze some into my palm, and begin to lather it into his hair. A sharp citrus scent fills the bathroom as I gently massage his scalp. I watch as the foam slides down the back of his neck and over his back. Then I wash it away, tilting his head back so that the soap doesn’t get into his eyes.

  “I want to put conditioner on your hair,” I tell him. “I want your hair to be soft.”

  He murmurs his assent, and I reach for the conditioner and smooth it over his hair. He stands still while I work it into his hair and then rinse it away. Then I reach for the shower gel, lather some between my palms, and begin to soap his shoulders and back, rubbing my hands over his flesh and muscles, letting my fingers trace the length of his spine. My hands stray down to his buttocks, and I wash them gently, and then crouch down, sliding my hands down his thighs, his knees, and his calves.

  “Lift up your right foot,” I tell him.

  He raises his foot and I wash it, stroking the hard skin on his heel, and then place it back down.

  “Give me your other foot,” I say. He obeys, and I glance up at him as I wash it. He is standing with his hands on the shower wall, with his head turned to one side. Beads of water run down his face, and his wet hair is plastered to his scalp; his expression is one of sweet, dreamy peace. I stand, running my hands back up over his body, and kiss his cheek.

  “Turn around,” I whisper. He turns to face me, and I kiss his neck and jaw. Then I lather some more shower gel between my palms, and begin to wash his chest, running my fingers over his nipples and through his chest hair before lifting his arms and washing his armpits. I move my hands further down, stroking his torso and pelvis before I finally reach the dark thicket of his pubic hair, and the strong, stiff length of his cock. I wash him there, stroking him, feeling him, and he murmurs something beneath his breath and lets his head tip back slightly, so that the spray from the shower mists his face. The sight of him awakens a deep, hot need in me, an ache of desire.