“So how do you know the man you know as Jacob Mackenzie?” asks Detective Inspector Robson.
I can’t think straight and wonder if I shouldn’t go and wake Leon up to translate my muddled thoughts into coherent words. But then again, perhaps it’s best that he stays where he is. What would he make of what is being implied?
“H-he’s a client,” I say. “I’m a psychotherapist.”
“And why do you think his name is Jacob Mackenzie?” asks Robson.
I look at her blankly. “Because that’s what he said his name was,” I say, wondering what other reason there could be.
“And this is definitely the man you know as Jacob Mackenzie?” she asks, showing me the picture again.
I nod. “So that’s not his real name?”
The detective shakes her head. “No, it appears not, and we’re wondering why he would use an alias.”
“You and me both,” I say tartly.
“So your relationship with Mr. Talbot…” says the officer. “Was purely professional?”
“Of course!” I say, almost choking on my words. “I don’t know why you would think any differently.”
“It’s just that we’ve managed to link him to a flat not too far away from here…”
My breath catches in my throat; I know what’s coming.
“A flat that seems to be owned by you and your husband.”
I imagine Leon walking in right now. How would I possibly explain myself? To him, or the officers standing in front of me?
“Erm, yes,” I say, going over to the door and closing it.
The pair of them look at each other. “Is your husband here?” asks Robson with raised eyebrows.
“Y-yes,” I stutter. “He’s upstairs sleeping.”
“Might he want to join us?” she asks.
“No, there’s no need,” I say quickly. “Jacob’s a client who rented our apartment when he needed somewhere to stay.”
Detective Robson tilts her head to the side. “So you do share more than a professional relationship?”
Tiny beads of sweat instantaneously spring to the surface of my skin, making me feel hot and uncomfortable.
“He needed help and I was in a position to give it to him,” I say. “Though it was all within the realms of our working relationship.”
“Can you tell us why he was seeing you?” asks Harris. “The problem you were treating him for.” The little man has an unpleasant smirk across his face that I feel like slapping off.
“I’m not in a position to breach client confidentiality,” I say tightly.
Robson sits down next to me. “We believe Mr. Talbot might be in danger, so it would be really helpful if you could tell us anything you know, so that we might be able to help him.”
I’ve watched scenes like this play out on TV and wonder if this is the point where I demand a lawyer.
“Am I being treated as a suspect?”
“Not at all,” she says. “We’re just trying to form a clearer picture of his life in the hope it will help us ensure that he doesn’t come to any harm.”
I know what’s happened to him, so how can I possibly keep that to myself if it’s going to be the only way of finding him? In this instance, I deem it my right to waive Jacob’s confidentiality in good faith, and, in this instance, I hope he’d agree with me.
“I specialize in domestic abuse,” I start. “Many of my clients are trapped in relationships where they’re being mentally or physically abused. Sometimes both.”
Robson nods. “Is that why Mr. Talbot started seeing you?”
I look at her through narrowed eyes, my faculties slowly returning.
“Jacob was being abused by his wife,” I say, leaving it there. I don’t want to say any more than I need to.
They exchange a look of surprise. “Emotionally, you mean?” says Harris.
I take a deep breath. “Yes, and physically,” I say.
He almost laughs. “Have you seen Mrs. Talbot?”
Robson glares at him and turns to face me. Harris clears his throat awkwardly.
“He left because he was in fear of his life and I gave him a place to live while he sorted himself out.”
“And you weren’t planning on living there with him?” steams in Harris, like a bull in a china shop.
“No!” I say resolutely.
“Have you been to the property since Mr. Talbot moved in?” asks Robson.
My mouth dries up as I consider how much I should tell them. Do they need to know I was there last night? That I was so worried about his well-being that I went there, let myself in with the spare key and found his phone, yet no sign of him?
They’ll want to know why I didn’t call them then. I’m wondering that myself.
“No,” I lie, unsure of what I need to save most, myself or my marriage.
“In your professional capacity,” says Harris, “do you honestly think Mr. Talbot was justified in being in fear of his life?”
“What’s your name again?” I bark, incensed by his attitude, both toward me and the man I know as Jacob.
“Er, Harris,” he stutters, suddenly not so cocky.
“Well, maybe you’d do well to revisit your training manual on domestic abuse,” I seethe. “His wife was attacking him and threatening him on a daily basis.”
“I apologize for my colleague’s glib and insensitive comment,” says Robson, seemingly genuinely.
I nod my reluctant acceptance. “I think you should be speaking to his wife.”
“She’s the one who’s reported him missing,” says Robson.
I snort. “He left her. That doesn’t mean he’s missing. They’re two very different things.”
“Was she aware that her husband was seeing you?” asks Robson.
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head, trying to fit the jigsaw pieces into place. “He was so careful.”
They give each other a sideways glance. “Careful?” says Robson.
I force myself to take a deep breath, to slow myself down, because every word I say seems to shine the light of suspicion on me even further.
“He went to great lengths to hide it from her,” I say, feeling a weight bearing down on my shoulders, making me feel like I’m being restrained. “He quite literally went out of his way to get here, so that she couldn’t follow him.”
“Do you know why she might have been following him?” Robson asks, her colleague seemingly on mute. That’s probably the best place for him.
“Because she needed to know where he was,” I say. “She needed to be in control and when she didn’t feel as if she was, she’d go to extreme lengths to get him back under her command.”
“Did she ever threaten him?” asks Robson.
“Yes,” I say. “She’d often tell him that if he ever left her, she would hunt him down and kill him.”
“So when was the last time you saw Mr. Talbot?” asks Harris. “When was his last appointment?”
I flinch, knowing that they’re not one and the same thing. I take a moment to decide which version I should give them, knowing that the further down this rabbit hole I take myself, the harder it will be to get back out.
“His last appointment was on Monday,” I say.
“So, three days ago?” he asks unnecessarily.
I count the days myself; anything to give me more time to work out what the hell is going on here.
“Yes,” I say.
“And how did he seem to you? Any different to how he normally is? Did he talk about how he was feeling?”
“If you’re asking me whether it’s possible he might have harmed himself, then no, I don’t think so. He was in a good place; happy to be in the flat and enjoying his new job.” My brain is going at a hundred miles an hour, desperately trying to filter the information that will help find Jacob, yet keep myself from being in any way implicated in his disappearance.
“Though he did call me later that evening,” I add, in an effort to emphasize the gravitas.
Robson’s eyebrows shoot up. “To say…?”