Where the Missing Go(22)

‘Mrs Harlow? DI Nicholls. This call to the charity, from Sophie …’

‘Morning. And how are you?’

‘Fine. Now, did anyone hear you take the call?’

‘I told you all this already.’ I prop myself up, glancing at the clock: it’s past nine. Not so early after all. That will be the pill. ‘Well, Alma was on the shift with me that night. She’d gone out. But I told her immediately after, when she got back into the office.’

‘And how long would you say the call took?’

‘I don’t know. It felt like a long time but—’ I know how time can play tricks. ‘A minute, two?’

He pauses. ‘How many people work on this helpline, would you say?’

‘I don’t know. Shouldn’t you ask them?’

‘Just a guess,’ he says. ‘An estimate.’

I twist my mouth. ‘Fifty?’ Maybe more. Not everyone can hack it for long, they’re always looking for new volunteers. And of course we’re not full-time.

‘How many are normally on, would you say?’

‘I don’t know – three?’ I like it on a Saturday night, when it’s just me and Alma: that’s quite enough sociability for me.

‘And how often do you shift there?’

Now I see where he’s going. ‘I know, I’ve thought about this myself. It was so fortunate I picked up. Just think … If I’d missed that call. But – I guess it could have been anyone,’ I finish.

‘Yes. Quite the coincidence, really,’ he says. ‘And is it always that quiet – just you on your own?’

‘No,’ I say, ‘not at all, but Saturday nights, that’s when they can get away with just the two of us. It’s not a very big set-up, the helpline. There’s a call-waiting system.’ We don’t normally need to use it.

He nods. ‘That’s what the charity told me.’ So he has been checking up. On me?

‘So have you found the call?’ I say.

‘We’re still looking into it.’

‘Because I had a thought …’ I tell him about the pregnancy test that might have been Sophie’s; that her friend Holly’s mentioned it to me.

‘And you think a pregnancy scare would … what? Have made her run away?’

‘It sounds stupid, put like that,’ I say. I can feel my face heating up. ‘No, I don’t. I just thought I should – let you know. In case it had been a factor.’

‘Ah, well, of course. It’s good to know,’ he says, his voice neutral. ‘But I would suggest that you don’t try to take investigations into your own hands. That’s rarely … helpful.’

‘OK, well. It was just a chat, really, I—’

‘Thanks, Mrs Harlow.’ And he hangs up.

I’m still annoyed when I head out – the phone call distracted me, and then I realised I had to rush. But the GP surgery’s not far, just the other side of Vale Dean, in Amberton. I’m not supposed to go too long without a check-up recently.

Maybe that was the biggest shock of all: realising that life doesn’t stop. That you have to keep on keeping on, and not just in that stiff-upper-lip way I’d vaguely imagined: managing a smile while people offer you sympathy. I mean in the way of just keeping up with all the tasks and chores that life offers: bills, insurance claims, keeping food in the cupboards, doctors and dentists and the rest of it.

‘Kate,’ says Dr Heath, as I sit down in the chair by his desk, ‘you look so tired.’

‘Oh thanks,’ I say. ‘Never tell a woman she looks tired!’ I sound like some coy auntie at a Christmas party. ‘It always means you look terrible.’

‘No,’ he says. His pleasant face is serious. ‘I don’t mean that.’

‘No, of course not, I was just joking.’

He’s nothing special, Dr Heath – tall, glasses, that no-colour hair that’s not fair or dark – it’s not that. I just don’t like having a male doctor. Not for the first time, I think I should ask to switch to a GP who’s not my age. Someone nearing retirement, or straight out of medical school. Preferably female.

Or maybe it’s not that. Maybe he just knows too much about me.

‘So how are things?’ he says, interrupting my thoughts.

‘All right,’ I say slowly, avoiding his gaze, looking at the photo he has framed over his desk: a glittering night-time cityscape. He lived in Sydney for a while, he told me once: I think he understands why I can find village life difficult. ‘I’m still using the pills.’

‘And how’s that working?’

‘They help, definitely. I had a couple of bad nights, recently.’

‘Bad nights?’

I take a deep breath. ‘There’s been a lot going on. I’ve told you that I work at this helpline, sometimes?’ He nods. And then I explain, quickly, about Sophie’s call to the helpline. I try not to sound too emotional about it. I’ve got to seem reasonable, in front of him.

He listens, frowning in concentration. ‘Of course, well, I can see why you might be struggling. That’s understandable.’ He looks at his computer screen. ‘And you’re not mixing the medication with alcohol in any way? You’re absolutely sure about that?’