He didn’t reply but held her gaze and waited, patiently. She noted the quality of his three-piece tailored suit and his Mediterranean tan, and she was quite sure from just a cursory glance that his pale-blue tie was pure silk.
Although his continued silence was a little awkward, she didn’t feel threatened. He was attractive, well groomed, and something about him felt familiar. Maybe she’d met him in Europe on a buying trip, but then how would he have known where to find her? No, that’s just silly, she thought.
‘What can I do for you?’ she asked, politely.
After another pause, the man opened his mouth and began to speak.
‘Hello, Kitty, it’s been a long time.’
She was puzzled. Nobody called me Kitty except for my father and . . .
Her stomach dropped like she’d fallen thirty storeys in a split second.
CHAPTER TWO
CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-five years earlier
5 June, 4.45 a.m.
My eyes stung like they’d been splashed with vinegar. In the space of twenty-four hours, I’d barely closed them. My whole life revolved around waiting for Simon to come home.
I’d gone to bed at midnight in the same clothes I’d worn all day, as if putting on my pyjamas would mean accepting it had drawn to a close without him. And as willing as I was for it to end, the thought of living through a second day like that frightened me.
I’d left our bedroom door ajar so I wouldn’t miss the sound of the telephone’s ring or a policeman’s knock. And I lay perfectly still on top of the quilt, because being trapped between sheets and blankets might cost precious seconds in the race to get downstairs. I desperately wanted to sleep, but I was so anxious that the slightest crack or creak had me on tenterhooks, in case Simon was dashing across the landing to tell me it’d all been a silly misunderstanding.
I imagined how he’d hold me tighter than I’d ever been held before, and those horrible twenty-four hours would become a bad memory. Those long, long hours since I’d last shared my bed with him. Already, I missed hearing him whistling ‘Hotel California’ to himself as he mowed the lawn, or watching him catch ladybirds in marmalade jars with Robbie. I missed feeling his warm breath on my neck as he slept. Where was the man who’d hugged me as I cried myself to sleep and begged God to bring back my little boy?
My eyes were still open when dawn broke. It was a new day but I still ached from the torture of the last.
8.10 a.m.
‘Where’s Daddy?’ asked James suddenly, his eyes looking past the kitchen door and towards the hallway.
‘Um, he’s gone to work early,’ I lied, and swiftly changed the subject.
I’d tried my best to pretend everything was normal when the kids woke up. But as they finished their toast and packed books inside bags, my hugs lasted longer than usual as I tried to feel Simon inside them. Paula had volunteered to take them to school for me while I poured my fourth coffee of the morning and waited for Roger.
‘That’s just going to put you more on edge,’ she said, pointing to the mug then wagging her finger like a schoolma’am.
‘It’s the only thing keeping me sane,’ I replied, and paused to stare at my hands to see if they were still wobbling. ‘What if he doesn’t come back, Paula?’ I whispered out of James’s earshot. ‘How can I carry on without him?’
‘Hey, hey, hey, I will not allow you to think like that,’ she replied, holding my hand firmly. ‘After the hell the two of you have been through, Roger will move heaven and earth to bring him home.’
‘But what if he can’t?’
‘You mark my words, they will find him.’
I nodded because I knew she was right.
‘I’ll take Emily with me as well if you like,’ she suggested, already pulling the pink stroller from the cupboard under the stairs.
‘Thank you,’ I replied gratefully, just as Roger arrived, accompanied by a stern-looking uniformed policewoman he introduced as WPC Williams. Paula ushered the kids out of the back door before they saw my visitors. We sat at the kitchen table and they took out their pens and pocket notebooks.
‘When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs Nicholson?’ WPC Williams began. I didn’t like her scowl when she said ‘your husband’.
‘Two nights ago. He wanted to watch News at Ten but I was tired, so I kissed him goodnight and went to bed.’
‘Do you remember what time he joined you?’
‘No, but I know he was there.’
‘How? Did you see him or talk to him?’
‘No, I’m just sure he was.’
‘But it’s possible he might not have been? I mean, he could have actually left that night?’
‘Well, I suppose so, yes.’ I wracked my brains to recall if I’d felt Simon at all during the night, but I drew a blank. Then WPC Williams changed her direction.
‘Was everything all right with your marriage?’
‘Of course,’ I replied, defensively.
‘Did Simon have any money problems? Did he show signs of stress at work?’
‘No, nothing at all.’ I didn’t appreciate the way she referred to him in the past tense.
‘You haven’t considered the possibility there might be someone else?’
That caught me by surprise. It had never crossed my mind, not even for a second. ‘No, he wouldn’t do that.’
‘I think Catherine’s right,’ added Roger. ‘Simon’s not that kind of guy. Family means everything to him.’
‘Only it happens more often than you think—’
I cut her off forcefully. ‘I told you, no. My husband does not have affairs.’
‘Has he ever disappeared before?’
‘No.’
‘Even just for a few hours?’
‘No.’
‘Has he ever threatened to leave?’
‘No!’ My hackles were up and my head buzzed. I glanced at the digital clock on the oven and hoped the questions would end soon.
‘Have there been any family problems lately?’
Roger and I glanced at each other and I felt my throat tighten.
‘Only what I told you about in the car,’ Roger replied for me.
‘Right. And how did Simon deal with that?’
I swallowed hard. ‘It’s been a tough fifteen months for all of us, but we’ve managed to get through it. He was very supportive.’
‘I can only imagine. But you don’t think it has anything to do with why Simon left?’
‘Stop saying he’s left!’ I snapped. ‘My husband has gone missing.’
‘That’s not what Yvette meant,’ Roger replied, glaring at his tactless colleague. ‘I’m sorry, Catherine, we just need to look at all possibilities.’
‘You mean you think it’s a possibility he could have walked out on us?’
‘No, no, I don’t. But please bear with us. We’re almost done.’
The questions finished after a long half-hour, when all the avenues we’d explored ended in cul-de-sacs. Roger asked for a recent photograph of Simon, so I pulled out a padded envelope of pictures I’d yet to place into albums from the kitchen drawer.