Local Gone Missing(29)

His wife gave him a look but started pulling the pint.

“Sorry, Charlie. What were you saying?” Dave moved them both down to the shallow end of the bar near the toilets.

“Well, all I’ll say is that you might as well put your pension under the mattress if you don’t invest it cleverly. It’s what I’ve done.”

“Oh, where have you put yours?”

Charlie took a slow mouthful of his drink.

“Come on.” Dave smiled winningly. “We’re mates, aren’t we?”

Charlie put his glass down carefully, then nodded to himself and lowered his voice so Dave had to put his head closer. “Listen, old man, this is completely confidential but I belong to a small private investment company—I help run it with some old chums from the City. We put money in and lend to companies who can’t get short-term bank loans. At a premium rate. We’ve done rather well, actually.”

Dave listened as Charlie trotted out figures and interest rates while up the bar Doll tutted about being rushed off her feet.

When Dave was finally guilted into helping out, Charlie finished his drink and looked around.

“Excuse me.” A voice at his side interrupted his flow of thought.

“Sorry. Are you trying to get through?” Charlie turned sideways to let the customer get to the bar.

“Thank you. I see we were at the same school,” the good-looking stranger said.

Charlie felt for the tail end of his tie hanging out of his pocket. “Ah, the old alma mater. What house were you in?”

Two drinks later he and Kevin Scott-Pennington were thick as thieves. Charlie had told him he’d been involved in the same line of business. “Digital technology is so fascinating. I was on the periphery, of course. The financial side, not the genius brigade.” He grinned.

“The problem, naturally, is money,” Kevin told him. “Investors have no patience but these things take time to mature.”

“?’Course.” Charlie nodded. “Research and development are the beating heart of any innovative industry.”

“Well, mine needs a defibrillator. . . .”

“Ha!” Charlie put a warm hand on Kevin’s arm. “Look, old boy—I may be able to help.”





Twenty-one


MONDAY, AUGUST 19, 2019



Six days earlier





Dee


Cal and his dad have gone down to the beach early to watch the surfers—Cal wanted me to go too but I said I had to go to work and Liam went all moody. He’s still sulking about me going to London on my own. Honestly, it’s like having another child sometimes.

He was so sweet when I told him about Phil dying—he’d never met my brother but he hugged me tight and said how sorry he was. He tried to get me to talk about Phil, asking me about when we were kids, but I couldn’t go there. How would I stop once I started? It would be like pulling at a thread that could unravel me.

I pushed him away and told him it was something I had to deal with myself.

“Why are you shutting me out?” he said. “I feel like you’re keeping stuff from me.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” I said, and he went all quiet.



* * *



—

When I let myself into the Lobster Shack, the owner, Toby Greene, is standing barefoot on the cold tiles in the bar; his face is all slack and lost. I don’t think he even knows I’m here. He’s spooning coffee beans into the grinder but his hand is shaking and sending them skittering like black beetles across the counter.

He doesn’t respond when I say hello and jumps when I open the dishwasher. “Dee! I didn’t hear you arrive. I wish you wouldn’t creep about like that,” he mutters to himself as he walks away.

I’m rubbing up the stainless steel fittings with some baby oil when he reappears and picks up the forgotten espresso. He sits at one of the tables with his head in his hands. He’s taking a lot of those homeopathic things for anxiety. I see new ones all the time in the bathroom. But they—and the empty red wine bottles in the bin—don’t seem to be doing him any good.

His husband, Saul, is singing upstairs. Then comes down in a new outfit: tight trousers showing off his thighs and a shirt covered in palm trees. “What do you think? Nice for the holiday?” he says to Toby. Nothing.

“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Saul snaps.

“Great,” Toby says, and shuffles off upstairs.

Saul raises his eyebrows for my benefit. “He’s throwing another strop today. What do you think, Dee?”

“You look great,” I say. “When do you go?”

“End of the month. I’m so excited.”

I know Saul and Toby’s trip isn’t really a holiday but I don’t say anything. They’re going to have a surrogate baby in America. I saw the brochures in Saul’s bedside cabinet months ago and now there are sleep suits behind the towels in the airing cupboard. Six of them in different colors and patterns, still on their little padded hangers. I found Saul on the landing the other day, looking guilty and stuffing them back in. And there’s a cloud mobile in its box under the spare bed. It’s a shame Saul has to keep the baby things secret but I don’t think Toby’s ready to play daddies in front of people.