22
Ursula Gray emerged from the elevator into the cool, air-conditioned lobby at 40 Bank Street just after 5.15. I was right across the foyer from her, leaning against the glass front. Three or four men followed her out and they were all looking at her. It wasn’t hard to see why. Not only was she beautiful, but she was immaculately dressed. Her blonde hair hung loose at her shoulders now, not in a ponytail like earlier. As soon as she was out of the lift, she took her phone from her handbag and started checking it.
‘Ursula?’
When she heard her name, she glanced towards me, automatically closing in on herself. It was a natural defensive movement. She didn’t think she knew me, and – even though the foyer of the building was thick with other office workers – she couldn’t be sure what I wanted. I held up a hand to tell her everything was fine and, as I took another step towards her, there was a flicker of recognition in her eyes. We’d never met but Esther would have given her my name and it didn’t take much work in Google to find details of my previous cases and pictures of how I looked.
‘I’m David Raker.’
She chose not to reply initially, but then she seemed to change her mind, as if her silence was some sort of indication of guilt. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You do.’
‘I’m pretty sure I don–’
‘You were with Esther Wilson in the park today.’
A momentary pause. Nothing in her face. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I know who you are, Ursula. You know who I am. I don’t care what you’ve done, all I care about is Sam Wren.’
No response.
‘I’m trying to find out where he went.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
I didn’t bother replying to that: she saw the answer in my face. ‘Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?’
We found a bar on South Colonnade. On the walk over, Ursula didn’t say much. Maybe she was working out a plan. That was the downside with cold-calling people who had something to hide: they automatically felt the need to suppress and create because they hadn’t prepared and were scared about saying the wrong thing.
I ordered a beer and she asked for a glass of wine.
‘Julia Wren has asked me to find out what happened to Sam.’
She brushed some hair away from her eyes but didn’t say anything.
‘I think you can help me.’
‘How?’
I took a copy of Sam’s phone records out of my pocket and unfolded it in front of her. ‘This shows that you two called each other 97 times between 7 January and 2 September last year, and you sent each other 186 texts.’
A flutter of panic for the first time. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know what I’m talking about,’ I said, and turned the phone records around so she could see her number, his number, the minutes they’d spent talking and the texts they’d sent. ‘I don’t care what it was that you and Sam were doing. I don’t. Really. But I’ve been paid to find out what happened to him – and that’s what I’m going to do.’
The bar was crowded now, music and laughter and mobile phone conversations in the background – but all I got from Ursula Gray was silence.
‘Ursula?’
She shook her head. ‘I … I don’t know where to …’
‘Were you sleeping with Sam?’
She reached out for her wine glass and slid it towards her. No indication that she was or wasn’t. No indication she’d even heard the question. But then she shivered – as if a long-dead memory had crawled its way out of the ground – and looked up. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, taking a sip from her glass, her eyes fixed on a space off to my left. ‘I wanted to be with him.’
‘Did he want to be with you?’
‘At the time I thought he did. But at the end …’ She smiled momentarily, but it wasn’t a smile with any warmth and, for the first time, her defences were down.
‘You started seeing him in January last year?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did it begin?’
‘Michaelhouse were doing some work with I2, and he was seconded across to my office. He trained me, I trained him, we sat next to one another and forged a good friendship. There was flirting too, I guess.’ Another smile, this time more genuine. ‘A lot of flirting. And then, one night just before Christmas, we all went to the same party – this event over at the North Quay site – that Esther had got us tickets for. I’d just split up from my boyfriend, Esther didn’t know much about Sam’s personal circumstances, and I didn’t bother to ask. We flirted, we got drunk. That was how it began.’
‘Did you sleep together that night?’
She glanced at me, a mixture of embarrassment and incredulity. And then reality seemed to kick in and she realized that their secret wasn’t a secret any more.
‘No, we didn’t sleep together that night.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘We just kissed.’
‘You already knew Esther?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve known her for years. She’s one of my best friends. We went to university together, did the same course, lived in the same house.’
‘Did she know about you and Sam?’
‘No. Not during the time it was going on.’ She looked down into her wine glass. ‘I told her after Sam went missing, though. I hated not being able to tell anyone. Bottling it up only made it worse. So I told her, but made her promise to keep it to herself.’
Which was why she’d lied to me: to protect her friend.
I backtracked. ‘How did Sam react the day after you kissed?’
‘He was cold as ice,’ she said distantly, replaying the morning after in her head. ‘He didn’t talk to me for a couple of weeks. That really hurt. But then, slowly, he started to come back round, and one day at lunch we got chatting about what had happened.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he liked it.’
‘That was when the affair began?’
‘Yes.’ She traced a finger through the condensation on the side of her wine glass. ‘That was when it began. He came back to my place after work one Friday evening.’
‘And after that?’
‘After that …’ Her eyes flicked to me and away: more embarrassment, but not about the affair, or the idea of it, but about having to reveal details of their sex life to a stranger. ‘Are you asking me how often we had sex?’ she said finally, trying to paint me as some kind of voyeur.
‘I want to understand why Sam left.’
She sighed. ‘We would do it every day at work. We found an empty office on the forty-sixth floor in Sam’s building and we’d go there.’
‘What about evenings?’
‘Sometimes, if he convinced her he was working late.’
‘Weekends?’
‘No. Never weekends.’
That tallied with what the phone records showed: there were no conversations between Sam and Ursula on Saturdays and Sundays. ‘Why not weekends?’
‘He wanted to be with her.’
‘It sounds like he was conflicted.’
‘He was. I think he always loved her, even when we were doing what we were doing. He told me a couple of times he wondered what life would be like with me, if we were a couple, but that was about as far as it went. I wanted him more than he wanted me. I …’ A pause. ‘I felt something for him. I thought he felt something for me. But now I can see the relationship for what it was. I can see what he wanted from it.’
‘Which was what?’
‘Sex,’ she said, as if the answer was obvious. ‘I was like a bloody schoolgirl; so wrapped up in it, I couldn’t see the difference.’
‘Did he ever talk about his sex life with Julia?’
‘A little.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he didn’t fancy her.’
For a man, Sam didn’t have much of a sex drive, Julia had said to me.
‘Did he say why he didn’t fancy her?’
‘No.’ She brushed more hair away from her eyes. ‘He obviously loved her. I could see that after a while; can certainly see it now. But he used to say – when it came to sex – she didn’t do it for him.’
‘In what way?’
‘In any way.’
I wrote that down. It seemed weird that he would feel like that about Julia – and yet still commit to getting married.
‘Do you think he cheated on her before he met you?’
‘No.’
‘How come?’
She looked out through the windows of the bar. ‘He was ballsy and confident in his work, single-minded, which was why I was attracted to him in the first place. But he wasn’t like that at all in bed. Not to start with, anyway. He seemed almost … inexperienced.’
‘How?’
A frown cut across her face, but it was more a look of discomfort than anything else. ‘Maybe “inexperienced” is the wrong word,’ she said, ‘because that suggests he didn’t know what he was doing. He definitely knew what he was doing. But there was always …’ She faded out, and then looked up. She wasn’t going to finish. I didn’t know if it was because she couldn’t articulate what she meant – or she was hiding something. There seemed to be a hint of a half-truth in her eyes, a flicker, a shadow, but not enough for me to build an accusation on.
‘There was always what?’ I pressed.
‘I think he was twisted up over what we were doing.’
‘He felt guilty about cheating on Julia?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that why you think he cooled things off towards the end?’
She seemed surprised I knew about the change in their relationship, but the phone records showed the calls and texts between the two of them had started to die out from 2 September. The relationship had been burning itself out. ‘In the last two or three months, he’d tell me he was busy over lunch, or pretend he had a meeting, or had to work late,’ she said, not exactly answering the question, and I decided not to jump in but come back to it later. ‘He just changed.’
‘Changed how?’
‘Became different. Preoccupied.’
‘Did you ever talk about it?’
‘I never got the chance. He became very quiet, really highly strung and stressed out. It was never like that before. He was easy-going and fun.’
This was returning to the same place all conversations about Sam seemed to retreat to: he was a nice guy, he was easy-going, he didn’t have any reason to leave, but he changed in those last few months. The minor details were different, but everyone was saying the same thing. His finances, his affair, how he felt about Julia, everyone had a theory, but no one had an answer.
‘Nothing else sticks with you?’ I asked.
She glanced at me, down to her wine, then back up. A frown formed on her face. ‘There was this one time …’ She paused again, trying to recall the details; rubbed a hand across her forehead. ‘It was about two or three months after we started seeing each other. He came back to my place for a couple of hours and we …’ She looked at me. Had sex. I nodded for her to continue. ‘Anyway, he started to ask about my previous relationships.’
‘What did he ask?’
‘It was weird. He wanted to know the details. Like, all the details. He wanted to know how long I’d gone out with each of them, how many times I’d slept with them, what our sex life was like, that kind of thing.’ She paused, forefinger and thumb pinching the neck of her glass. ‘I only really thought about it after he disappeared, because it never struck me as odd at the time. We weren’t married, we were just having sex. Him wanting to know what I’d done, what I liked, it was all a part of it; part of the affair. The excitement. When it’s taboo, when it’s risky, when people see it as wrong, you’ll do anything. Try anything. Because it doesn’t matter any more. All the stuff you’ve always wanted to do, you just …’ She looked at me, shrugged. ‘You just do it.’
‘So why did it feel weird when he asked?’
‘It was just strange coming from him.’
‘You pegged him for a straight arrow?’
She nodded. ‘Definitely.’
I looped the conversation around to a point we’d left unfinished earlier. ‘How did you react when he started cooling things off?’
‘React?’
‘Did you just accept it?’
She shrugged. ‘I could see myself becoming a bunny boiler, the psycho bit on the side, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t bear the silence; going from all-in to all-out.’ She stopped; looked downcast. ‘So, no, I didn’t just accept it.’
‘What did you do?’
She glanced at me, a reluctance in her face. ‘I started following him.’
‘When was this?’
‘Things started to change in early September, and by the middle of October I wasn’t getting anything from him: no calls, no texts. I found that very hard.’
‘So you started following him at the end of October?’
‘End of October, beginning of November.’
‘How many times did you follow him?’
‘Only twice. The second time I started feeling ridiculous. I was angry with him – jealous and hurt, I suppose – but I got a dose of clarity halfway through the evening the second time and that was when I left.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘Both times, it was just down there, to the Hilton.’ She was pointing over my head, in the direction of South Quay. ‘He just sat there in the bar by himself.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Nothing. Just drinking. Like he was deep in thought.’
‘That was it?’
‘That was it.’
Deep in thought. But about what?
‘You never told Sam you followed him?’
‘No. He would have flipped.’
‘And done what?’
‘He wasn’t violent, if that’s you mean. We only ever had one fight in the time we were seeing each other. But he wouldn’t have taken kindly to me following him.’
‘What was the fight about?’
‘It was a Friday night,’ she said, remembering it instantly. ‘August, in the weeks before he started getting weird. He was in the shower and his phone went off. It was right there next to me on the bed, so – without even thinking, really – I glanced at the display to see who was calling. It was just an automatic reaction. I saw the name, it didn’t mean anything to me, so I just assumed it was a client of his. When he came back out, I told him his phone had gone off and he was fine about it. Really relaxed. Then he checked to see who’d called, and it all changed.’
‘Changed how?’
‘He went absolutely crazy. Started accusing me of snooping around in his phone, of going through his private things. It just came out of nowhere. I tried to tell him I hadn’t done anything, that I hadn’t looked at his messages, that I didn’t even know who the guy was who’d called him, but he wouldn’t believe me. I’d never seen him like that.’
‘Who was the caller?’
‘Some guy called Adrian.’
‘No surname?’
‘It just said Adrian.’
I noted it down. He definitely wasn’t on Julia’s list, which meant she didn’t know about him, and although I didn’t remember seeing an Adrian in the phone records, it didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Spike had got me eighteen months of calls and texts from Sam’s phone, and – in the first run-through – I’d concentrated on repeating numbers and the people who’d contacted Sam the most. Adrian was a reason to go back to it.
‘Did you ever find out who this Adrian guy was?’ I asked.
‘No. Sam was too busy screaming in my face. I was determined not to sit there and take it, but I couldn’t fight back. He just blitzed me; completely shouted me down.’
‘Did he apologize?’
‘The next day, yeah. But a couple of weeks after that he started backing away. That was the end for us. That was the moment things really changed.’ She paused, one of her eyes blurring. ‘And then four months later he was gone.’