Where the Missing Go(77)

‘Fine, I’ll go on my own.’

‘No, it’s OK, I’ll help you. Just— Just slow down.’

Now he pulls out of the drive carefully, looking both ways. I want to scream; hurry up, hurry up, my right knee is jiggling with anxiety. ‘So he was definitely going this way?’ I ask again.

He’s turning left out of the drive onto the road, thoughtful. ‘Yes, this way, along to the park.’

‘Maybe he’s gone there? There’s places you can go in the deer park, it’s so big …’ What did Lily say? They used to go the park, the young people.

‘It’s a straight road,’ he says, ‘no turn-offs, so we’ll just see him parked up, if that’s where he gone. Or if he’s coming back this way, we’ll see him too. Keep your eyes peeled.’

He sounds so reassuring. But my mind’s racing. The door to the house was left open, I walked in. Does that mean Nicholls was just here? Moving her, rushing maybe, so he didn’t lock up? Should I just call 999 now, try to tell them their detective on my case has been deliberately muddying the truth?

‘If I call the police, will Nicholls hear it on his radio?’ I don’t know how it works. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ I say, my voice half a sob.

‘Tell me what you know.’ His calmness calms me. Now I try to explain, as quickly as I can, what I know. It’s a relief to unburden myself of the load of my knowledge, what led me to that empty attic, where I found the drawings on the back of the door. ‘And it’s all connected, this Jay, I mean Nicholls, I think he did something to Nancy and then hid Sophie away, persuaded her somehow to do what he wanted. He grew up here, it’s all tied into that.’

I keep my eyes ahead, not wanting to catch a look of disbelief. ‘Do you believe me?’ I turn my head, at last.

His face is grim. ‘Yes. Yes, I do. I shouldn’t, but I do. At least – something’s not right, at the very least.’

I lean back in my seat. ‘The police – I don’t know, I don’t know how he’s got so involved in this, in the investigation, but he’s everywhere. I can’t wait for them to wake up. If he’s moved her – it can’t have been far …’ If he’s done something else – if I’ve scared him into doing something stupid – no, don’t think like that. ‘If we catch him up – if he’s gone to the park – then we’ll know what he’s up to.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I think that would be wise. We’ll just see where he’s gone, for now, to make sure. Then we can call the police.’ I’m so relieved that someone is taking me seriously – no exclamations, no incredulous questions, just acceptance.

For a moment I’m spent; exhausted. We fall silent. The rain’s coming heavier now, lashing down against the windscreen, the wipers going. It’s almost cosy in the car, and I’m struck by the scene’s complete normality. We could be a couple on the way to the supermarket, were if not for the speed he’s going at; the hedges brush against my side of the car. He’s concentrating as we bomb along on the winding country road. My pocket’s buzzing against my thigh – I slip out my phone and glance down: a voicemail. Automatically, I click to listen and put it to my ear, my arm against the window.

‘Hello,’ says the woman’s friendly voice. ‘This is Valerie from Amberton Surgery. With regard to your enquiry about Mrs Green’s prescription.’ Lily. I hear papers shuffled. ‘Now, her records all appear to be absolutely fine’ – so it’s nothing urgent, I’m about to hang up – ‘but the surgery manager does ask could you give us a call when you’ve a mo. Dr Heath shouldn’t really have her on his register, if he’s next of kin, so she just wants to check – oh’ – a little laugh – ‘that’s a note for me, not for you, sorry. But do give us a call when you can. Bye!’

I click to hang up – and catch his eyes darting to mine. ‘Who’re you on the phone to? I thought you wanted to wait to call the police, together?’

‘I do, it was just a voicemail.’ I drop the phone back to my lap. So she’s fine, her records are fine, well they would say that, that doesn’t answer anything at all, typical. But next of kin. With Dr Heath? What relationship could they have? She’s an aunt maybe, a cousin? They’re so cautious, doctors, all this confidentiality about records and the most mundane of things. Don’t get distracted.

‘So when we get there,’ I start. ‘So when we get there …’ and I can’t finish my thought.

There’s no reason Lily would know he’s my doctor. But he’s had every chance to tell me that he was hers, I asked him outright. I told him about Lily’s pills, that I was worried, and he said he’d look into it.

I glance at him, intent on the road. In profile his face loses its open friendliness.

I don’t really know him. The thought crosses my mind, out of nowhere.

But I don’t. All his concern for my family, solicitous enquiries after my wellbeing, my health, have helped create a sense of intimacy, of history, since we moved here. And yet. He knows a lot about me. I don’t know him, only that he came here after time away, abroad. But where was he before that?

I stare at the wet road ahead.

Dr Nick is related to Lily. And so he’s the person who has been giving her medicine that is making her confused. Forgetful. Unsure of what’s going on near her. In the house she once looked after.