The Shadow at the Door, page 3
I glanced at the desk.
At the games, the headset.
All of it was tucked away in the corner, and when Seb was seated and facing the monitor, absorbed in Call of Duty, his back faced the door and most of the window.
That made the idea conceivable, just about.
But, again, it didn’t explain how the window was secure when Maggie had come up to look for Paul – unless I was willing to believe something much more troubling.
That Paul really had come out this way.
And his son had helped cover it up.
5
‘Did Paul ever have any run-ins with anyone?’
I was back downstairs, in the heat of the conservatory. The sun had skittered behind clouds but it was still warm; while I’d been upstairs, someone had brought in a fan and now it was doing rotations, back and forth.
‘No.’ Maggie shook her head. ‘Paul was quiet, understated, but he was fun. Like I said earlier, he wasn’t the type to play big, elaborate practical jokes, and he wasn’t the type of man who would ever choose to be front and centre of the action, but he had a great sense of humour.’ She looked at Katie. ‘Didn’t he, Kay?’
A smile traced Katie’s lips. ‘It depends if you like dad jokes.’
But it was said with affection.
‘He was just a really kind person,’ she added.
‘How did he find working in sales?’
Maggie could see where I was heading. ‘You mean, you can’t be kind and gentle if you’re a salesman?’ It was her turn to smile. ‘I know, it seems an alien concept to me too, but Paul seemed to manage it. He started out at a showroom down in Leatherhead but he hated it there. They sold these rusted-out old bangers and he had to stand on the forecourt and pretend they were brilliant. That always made him uncomfortable. That was part of the reason he went for the job at Tarrington. Paul told me that, within the second-hand car industry, they’d always had a good reputation – honest, no sales crap, no hard selling, you know the sort of stuff.’
‘And from there he worked his way up?’
‘He was a good salesman – a successful one, I mean – because he didn’t bother with the usual rubbish. People warmed to him and they trusted him not to screw them over. That was what got him the numbers, and eventually got him promotions.’
‘So no run-ins with anyone at work?’
‘No.’
‘He didn’t mention any difficult customers?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Would he have done, do you think?’
She nodded. ‘Definitely. Even as the kids got older, we’ve always had the rule that we sit down to dinner together, as a four. Dinner is where we tend to thrash things out, get things off our chests. Of course, we talk about lots of other things as well, but Paul would leave his work at the dinner table if he could, even if he’d had a bad day. He hated bringing his work home. Once we’d eaten, we’d just settle down in front of the box, or maybe he’d help the kids with their homework, or he’d go upstairs and play Fifa with Seb – he was terrible at it, but he made himself learn the basics because he said it would only be a few years before both the kids had left home.’ She paused, a tremor passing through her throat, because her new reality had come into focus: eventually, the kids were still going to leave home.
And now it would only be her left behind.
I gave her a moment, watched her wipe her eyes again, waited as Katie brought a box of tissues over, then said, ‘What about a social life? Did he go out with mates?’
‘A little here and there,’ Maggie said.
‘He didn’t have lots of friends?’
‘No, it wasn’t that. There was a whole crowd of them that grew up going to Fulham games at Craven Cottage, so he’d meet up with them and go along to home games on a Saturday. He’d meet up with a few of the guys at other times too, although a lot of them started their families later than us, so they’re a bit more tied down. He’d have work events, the occasional dinner – he wasn’t a social at all. What I meant was that he generally preferred quiet nights in. He liked to read as well. The dream for him was a holiday with the kids somewhere nice and hot where he could sit in the shade at the pool, with a big beer and a good book.’
I changed direction. ‘When was the last time the police were in touch?’
Maggie took a long breath, as if the answer hurt, and then Katie said, ‘Mum is too nice to say, so I’ll say it for her: it feels like they’ve totally forgotten about us. In fact, they probably have. The last call we had from anyone was – what, Mum? May?’
Maggie nodded. ‘Late May, yeah.’
Over six weeks ago.
‘What did they say?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ Maggie continued. ‘They just told us they were still looking for Paul – but it felt like a lie and that’s clearly what it was, because we’ve heard absolutely nothing since.’ She stopped, obviously trying to control her frustration. ‘Look, I know they have a tough job, but I honestly believe that part of the problem we’ve had with them is trying to convince them that it actually happened how we said it did. I mean, I called them about an hour after Paul went upstairs. That’s how seriously I was taking it.’
‘You only waited an hour?’
‘Yes. I knew something was up. I mean, I’ve been proven right, haven’t I? But I just knew. Paul disappearing like that. It wasn’t normal. So that’s why I called the police so soon after – and initially they were really good about it. In fact, they sent someone around straight away. I remember thinking that was one tiny crumb of comfort, because it meant they were taking it as seriously as we were – as we needed them to. But then, when this guy, this detective, started asking us questions, I could see it changing. He just looked at Katie and me like we were insane.’
I turned to Katie. ‘You came home from your friend’s?’
‘As soon as Mum called me.’
‘I remember saying to him,’ Maggie went on, ‘“This is what happened – Paul went upstairs and he disappeared,” and the guy was just, like, “I’m sure he did.” I think, because it seems so bizarre and unlikely to them, they’ve basically written it off as some minor domestic thing. Like he got pissed off with us all and just walked out.’
‘You said this guy was a detective?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Uh, Fox,’ Maggie said. ‘Darren Fox.’
I wrote down his name. I didn’t plan on calling him – not unless I had no other choice – but it was useful to build a trail from the night Paul vanished. I’d noted Fox’s name down for another reason too: it was highly unusual for the Met to send anyone out in circumstances like this, especially after only a few hours. Usually, they’d ask the family to come to the station and fill in the missing persons report there. In fact, off the top of my head, I struggled to recall a single time I’d ever heard of this happening, and I’d definitely never heard of a detective being asked to do the initial form-filling, unless the victim happened to be especially high profile. The donkey work was always done by uniforms, then, if alarm bells started ringing, that was when it got kicked up the chain. I circled Darren Fox’s name and said to Maggie, ‘This detective – had you ever met him before? Ever heard Paul talk of him?’
‘Paul? Why would he be talking about a policeman?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘Again, I’m just thinking aloud here.’
Maggie shook her head. ‘No. Never.’
‘Okay. And Paul left his mobile phone behind, is that right?’
Maggie nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t take anything – an iPad, a laptop?’
‘No.’
‘What about Seb?’ I asked. ‘He definitely didn’t hear anything?’
‘No,’ Maggie said again.
‘He didn’t hear his dad out on the landing?’
Or actually in his bedroom.
‘No, he was playing his game,’ Maggie said.
‘He’s at school today, I guess?’
‘Yeah. He finishes at three thirty, but he’s got football from four until six. Did you want to speak to him? I’d be happy to bring him to you. You’re only in Ealing, right?’
‘Do you think he’d maybe have ten minutes after school?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m sure he would. It’s a school football match, so all he’ll be doing is hanging around there until it starts. I can text him and ask him to meet you.’
‘Great.’
‘At the front of the school?’
‘Wherever suits him.’
‘I know he’ll want to help you,’ Maggie said.
I just nodded. I guess we’ll see.
6
Seb Conister was every inch the fifteen-year-old boy: he followed a wave of other kids out of the school gates, one shirt tail out, his tie loosened, his shoes frilled with mud. On his back was a plain blue rucksack with graffiti – in what looked like white Tippex – all over it. He stopped, looking for me, and when I raised a hand, he trudged over, his dark fringe falling in front of his eyes.
‘Hi, Seb. I’m David.’
I held out a hand to him and he shook it, tentatively.
‘Where’s the best place for us to talk?’
He glanced over his shoulder, to the crowds pouring out of the entrance, but I didn’t see anything suspicious in it: not only was it likely to be embarrassing for him to have an adult waiting outside, especially in his fourth year of senior school, he was probably also keen to avoid questions among his peers about why. Maggie had told me that Seb had taken his father’s disappearance hard, that he’d been bullied about it at school as well, and my being here could exacerbate both of those things.
There was a teachers’ car park at the side of the school with a low wall circling it. I suggested we move there, where he was unlikely to be seen by any of his mates, and where he could still keep an eye on the football pitches.
‘Thanks for talking to me, Seb,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Mum said I had to.’ He looked up at me from under his fringe. ‘I’ve got football at four.’
‘I know. I won’t make you late, I promise.’ He glanced from me to the football pitches as if he didn’t believe me. I asked, ‘Has your mum told you much about me?’
‘She said you find people.’
‘That’s right. People like your dad.’
‘Are you as useless as the police?’
‘I wouldn’t be standing here if I thought I was.’
‘So they’ve just given up?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I hope not.’
‘But they have.’
‘I think they’ve hit a dead end.’
‘And you’re going to find Dad, are you?’
‘I hope so.’
He just shook his head.
‘You don’t think I can?’ I asked him.
‘I don’t know. But it’s a bit fucking late now.’
He looked up at me again. He acted like he didn’t care about me taking on his father’s case, or wasn’t affected by the failure of the Met to find Paul, but he did. It was laced to the anger in his words. He was a kid who was hurting, who’d been hurt repeatedly since April, and he didn’t know how to handle it. I thought again about the idea that he had some knowledge of his father’s disappearance, that he may somehow have been involved, and – here, now – it suddenly felt less credible. He didn’t seem like a boy who was harbouring a secret. He seemed like a boy who was grieving.
‘Your mum said you didn’t hear anything that night?’
He shook his head.
‘You had headphones on?’
‘Headset.’
‘Headset,’ I corrected myself. ‘When did you realize something was up?’
‘I don’t know. When Mum came in, I guess.’
‘Your dad hadn’t been into your room before that?’
He looked at me like I was trying to trick him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course he didn’t come into my room.’
I changed tack. ‘Were you and your dad close?’
He shrugged again and this time I waited him out. When I didn’t ask a follow-up question, his eyes shifted to me and he seemed so young for a second: a kid, scared and confused, wanting to hit out at someone, anyone, at anything, but not exactly certain why.
‘He was my dad,’ he said softly.
I didn’t say anything.
‘I don’t know if we were close or not.’ He shrugged yet again: it was a defence mechanism, a way to cope. ‘We had arguments about all sorts of shit – mostly about how much time I spent playing games – but, you know …’ He halted.
He was my dad. I loved him.
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘At dinner.’
‘So you finished dinner and then went upstairs?’
‘I had to wash up. Mum and Dad always make us do chores.’
‘Where did your dad go while you were washing up?’
He opened his hands out. I don’t know.
I didn’t blame him for not remembering: not only was I asking him to go back in his life three months, but what his dad and his mum were doing in the minutes and hours after dinner that night wouldn’t have seemed remotely important at the time. It was just routine, and we look least closely at the people we know best.
‘Can you remember what your dad was like in the weeks before he disappeared?’ I got out my notebook and flipped to a page I’d filled with the answers Maggie and Katie had given me to the same question. He just seemed normal, Katie had said. He was just Paul, Maggie had added afterwards. He never changed. Every day he was just solid. Dependable. He never panicked about anything, hardly ever lost his temper. He would always see clearly. I’d underlined that last part, because somehow it seemed important: was he seeing clearly the night he went missing? Was that why he vanished so suddenly? What could have been the catalyst?
‘He was normal,’ Seb answered, echoing his sister.
‘He didn’t seem quieter? Angrier? More emotional?’
He shook his head.
‘You don’t remember him saying anything to you?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like maybe he was worried about something?’
‘No.’ Stark, definitive.
From a building at the edge of the football pitches, boys started to emerge. Seb noticed them and scooped his bag off the floor. It wasn’t zipped all the way up and I could see an orange kit inside.
‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. He got down off the wall.
‘If you think of anything,’ I said, ‘here’s my number.’
I handed him a business card.
He took it, studied it for a moment and then glanced at me. This time, there was something different about him. I couldn’t put my finger on what, but it passed across his face like a change of light, and – even though he already had his bag over his shoulder, and even though he knew he was going to be late for his football match – he didn’t move. Instead, he gently rocked from foot to foot, as if uncertain.
‘Is everything okay, Seb?’
‘I saw someone,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The night Dad went missing.’
I took a step closer. ‘Who did you see?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, his voice trailing off. He’d been staring at the floor, but now he looked up. ‘It was before Dad went missing. I was in my bedroom, waiting for my friends to get online, and I looked out and saw a guy outside the house.’
‘You didn’t know who the guy was?’
‘No. It was too dark.’
‘You haven’t seen him since?’
‘No.’
I wondered for a moment whether it had been Darren Fox, the detective who’d come to the house that night, and whether Seb had got his times mixed up. Maybe he’d been mistaken; maybe he’d looked out and seen the man outside the house after Paul went missing, not before. But, if it had been, Seb would have recognized the cop as soon as he came inside the house.
‘So what was this man doing?’
Seb shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘Just standing there?’
‘Yeah. Just standing on the opposite side of the road.’
‘Could he have been waiting for someone?’
Seb’s eyes shifted again, out to the football field, and his expression dissolved. ‘This is why I didn’t say anything,’ he muttered, ‘because he could have been waiting for someone.’
‘But you don’t believe he was?’
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘What do you think he was doing?’
‘I think he was watching our house.’
7
On a normal day, Wimbledon to Ealing should only have taken me forty minutes, but it wasn’t a normal day: traffic was backed up all along Gunnersbury Avenue, so it was after five thirty when I finally got home, hot, frustrated, and still thinking about what Seb had told me. I pulled on to the driveway to find the FOR SALE sign had fallen over for the hundredth time: it seemed a pretty accurate metaphor for the entire selling process. I’d had a slew of offers since putting the house on the market back in January, but only one – in March – had come remotely close to the asking price; I’d accepted that, and everything had gone like clockwork until early June when, a week shy of exchanging contracts, the buyer suddenly pulled out.
I righted the FOR SALE sign and headed to the house.
It wasn’t that I hated it here – it was the house that my wife, Derryn, and I were going to start a family in, and her memory was still written into every surface – it was just that I’d had a case that had tainted some of those memories. It had tainted them so profoundly I couldn’t get past them any more, and selling and starting over again somewhere else – albeit without the woman I loved – felt like the next best option.
On the floor, in the hallway, was a plain, brown A4 envelope. I picked it up. Written on the front was Raker. There were no other markings, but I knew what it was even before I ripped it open: a missing persons report, two months of mobile phone statements for Paul Conister, and the same for the landline at the house too.
