Bram, Word document
After Rav and his sidekick had gone, I poured myself a vodka large enough to stun a farm animal and took a shower to scrub away the day’s toxins. The ingratiation and the avarice. The cold sweats. The strain. I’d arranged what I knew would be at best a distraction, at worst the introduction into my freakshow existence of another variable, another complication, another opportunity for regret.
The doorbell rang. In the hall mirror I looked passably human, if you didn’t peer too closely.
‘What a beautiful house, Bram!’ my guest exclaimed. She wore black – for sex not for mourning – but it might have been the latter as far as I was concerned.
‘Funnily enough, you’re not the first to say that today,’ I said. I could tell there was something weird going on with my face, not as bad as once before, in front of Fi, when I’d thought I was having a stroke, but bad enough for my guest to notice.
‘What’s the matter? You look upset. Has something happened?’
‘No, nothing.’ A smile, the broadest I could muster, pushed the cracks to the edges. ‘Just a tiring day. Come in and let’s have a very large drink.’
‘I like a man with a plan,’ Saskia said.
*
‘The clocks go back tonight,’ she said later, in bed, and it was inevitable that I would wish they could go back far longer than an hour. That they could take us back to September, undo everything that had been done. Maybe earlier than that. How much earlier? When I’d slept with that girl from work years ago, perhaps. Was that when the bindweed had started to grip?
Jodie, she was called. She was young, only twenty-three or something crazy like that. I remember the feeling I had as I drove home from the hotel the next day, not guilt – at least not real guilt, as I now know it – but more a need to acknowledge my own disgrace. To mark the passing of one era to the next.
‘If you could choose, how far would you turn back the clock?’ I asked Saskia. ‘I don’t mean hours, I mean months or even years. Where would you stop?’
‘I wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t do regret. Seriously, it’s one of my life philosophies. Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you’ve suddenly realized I’m an alien.’
‘You’re not the alien,’ I said. ‘I am.’
I kissed her again, not only because that was why she was here but also to end the conversation, which was getting maudlin and in danger of giving me away. She must have sensed some new element of yearning, though, because she broke off and said, ‘What is this, Bram?’
‘What’s what?’
‘This. Tonight.’
Oh God. Already. ‘What do you want it to be?’ I said.
She sighed, clearly understanding that I’d used this line before, that it was the only answer I was likely to give. At least she’d known what she was dealing with coming here tonight: a soon-to-be-divorced philanderer with a criminal record. The published version of myself I felt almost nostalgic for now.
Really, it was amazing I’d lasted as long as I had.
33
Friday, 13 January 2017
London, 3 p.m.
Police constables Elaine Bird and Adam Miah have arrived and all available seating at the Vaughans’ kitchen table is taken, every one of their moving-day tea mugs now in use. Lucy has asked Fi’s advice about the central heating system, because it’s starting to get draughty (apparently there’s even the possibility of snow tonight) and it seemed churlish not to show her how it worked.
The movers have long gone, their vans leaving in convoy. David wasn’t so flustered as to forget their tip and Fi imagines them in the pub spending it, saying to one another, ‘That was a weird one, wasn’t it? Who was that other woman? The one they couldn’t get rid of?’
The formal state of affairs is this: Bram is not missing, or, rather, an adult has a legal right to disappear himself and there is not yet any good reason to believe this particular one is not safe and well and exactly where he wants to be. After all, they haven’t even checked his second residence (he’s not going to be there kicking back with an episode of Game of Thrones, Fi can tell them that for nothing) or he might be with another family member.
‘There’s only his mother,’ Fi says. ‘I’ve tried, and he’s not with her.’
‘A friend, then, or a work colleague? And you might ring around the local hospitals.’
David Vaughan says he personally volunteers to put Bram in hospital, if he is not in there already, but he’s misjudged his audience and the joke is cooly received.
‘If you still haven’t located him by Monday,’ PC Elaine Bird tells Fi, ‘and you have good reason to think he might have come to harm, get back in touch.’
The same circumspection is applied to the group’s house-sale crisis. Like Bram, the proceeds of the sale are not technically missing, or even in dispute, not until deposits into his account are inspected. No fraud has taken place, at least not until it has been logged with Action Fraud and referred for investigation to Falcon, the Met’s fraud and cybercrime unit. Meanwhile, if there is any suspicion that either of the solicitors have been negligent, the aggrieved party might consider contacting the Solicitors Regulation Authority. (That’s what Fi is now, the aggrieved party.)
‘Conveyancing fraud is on the rise,’ PC Miah says. ‘You’ve probably seen it in the news lately, have you? We’ve just issued a statement urging estate agents and solicitors to be more vigilant, especially when sending bank details via email, which is when fraudsters tend to intercept. Typically, it happens when a tenant is in the property and they’ve never met the owner, so they’re less likely to question visits by agents and surveyors.’
‘This is different, though,’ David points out. ‘This has been done with the co-operation of one of the owners.’
‘We don’t know that for sure,’ Fi objects. ‘Like Merle said, Bram might have been acting under duress.’
‘That’s why we called you,’ Merle tells the officers. ‘This house fraud and Bram’s disappearance are clearly linked. We’re worried he might be the victim of professional criminals.’
‘We’ve been through this,’ David says. ‘We met the guy at the open house. No one had a gun to his head. All the documents and questionnaires were signed by him. It will be simple enough to get the signatures verified, won’t it?’ he asks PC Miah.
‘If and when we decide to investigate, yes.’
‘He must have let our surveyor in as well,’ Lucy says. ‘He came in December, I can check the date.’
‘I’m sure when you hear from your solicitors, they’ll be able to shed light on the situation,’ PC Bird tells them, and it seems to Fi it’s as if she and her colleague are mediating a dispute about parking or loud music rather than responding to a report of serious crime.
‘But if they don’t,’ David insists, ‘you can’t expect us to wait months for it to be referred and investigated, can you? We need to know who has the right to live in this house now. Today and tomorrow and the foreseeable future.’
‘Fi, obviously,’ Merle says.
‘Then give us back our two million,’ David snaps. Lucy gives him a look as if to say, Don’t get nasty. When all of this is resolved she’ll be our new neighbour. We’ll want to invite her to our barbecues and Christmas drinks. Her kids might babysit ours.
Fi looks around the table and has the perverse urge to laugh. Not just chuckle but scream. It’s surreal, absurd. The fact is they have no facts. Bram is missing, the solicitors are unavailable. It’s as if they’ve made the whole thing up. No wonder the officers are so keen to depart, kindly advising a follow-up call on Monday ‘when we know more’.
Lucy and Merle see them out together, uneasy co-hosts, and no sooner has the front door closed than David’s phone rings. ‘Finally, Rav!’ he exclaims and leaves the room.
‘Rav is the estate agent,’ Lucy explains to Fi and Merle.