What She Left Read online

  I wracked my brains, trying to remember what Helen had said about the course she was going on. Something about effective social media for small businesses? Had she said where it was? I didn’t think so. I tried Helen’s phone one more time, to no avail. I began to feel a little anxious then, and started to run. I’d planned to just get on the Tube, but I couldn’t bear the idea of being stuck underground, even if it was for only twenty minutes, so I jogged to the taxi rank. Miracle of miracles, there was no queue and within seconds I was in a black cab and we were gliding through Camden on our way north.

  Once I was in the taxi, I began to calm down. It had to be a misunderstanding. Maybe the course had gone on late. She did love her courses, I reminded myself. She was always doing them, learning about something new. She’d done several, one about starting a blog, and a few about search engine optimisation and basic computer coding.

  Lara’s house turned out to be quite near ours – maybe three or four minutes closer to the school. The front fence was unpainted and the little garden was a profusion of wild flowers. I kicked a football out of the way and rang the doorbell. Lara opened the door, a pretty woman with a narrow, freckled face and a tangle of red curls. I vaguely knew who she was and had heard Helen talk about her. She was a single parent, I recalled. She ushered me in and we went through to the back of the house where my girls and her two kids were eating around her big wooden kitchen table. An older woman, I assumed her mum, was sitting at the table, chatting to all the kids. She smiled kindly at me. They’d given the children what we would have called ‘tea’ when I was little – fish fingers and smiley-face oven chips, which Marguerite was enthusiastically dipping into a massive puddle of ketchup. Miranda was sitting up straight, cutting her fish fingers into neat squares with her knife and fork and eating as she’d been taught. The girls usually ate dinner with us a little later – proper, adult food served in the dining room. On any other day, this would have been considered quite a treat.

  ‘Hey, girls!’ I said, and my voice sounded bright and fake, like a children’s television presenter. They both looked up.

  ‘Daddy,’ said Marguerite, in the babyish voice she uses when she’s tired, and she jumped down from her chair and ran to me. I scooped her up and cuddled her. She curved into my arms, her plump arms and legs still soft. She’s lovely to hold, and I took a moment to hug her and sniff her hair, which smelled of the strawberry shampoo Helen liked to use on the girls. Whenever I hug Miranda, which she will sometimes reluctantly allow, she’s all sharp angles – pointy elbows and narrow, bony limbs. ‘Finish up your food,’ I said, gently putting Marguerite down, ‘and we’ll head home.’

  The girls continued eating, and Lara drew me out of the kitchen and into the living room.

  ‘Any news of Helen?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. I’m absolutely certain she’ll be at home when we get there.’ I smiled at her, and she looked at me oddly. I suppose it must have seemed as if I were trying to reassure her. I didn’t know what to say. ‘Come on, girls,’ I called. ‘Let’s get going!’

  It took fifteen minutes of faffing to gather the girls’ school bags, jumpers and shoes from the chaos of Lara’s living room. We thanked her and her mum again and left the house to walk home. As we turned the corner out of Lara’s road, a name came to me. Crystal Spectrum. They were the people who ran the internet courses Helen went on. I stopped in my tracks, ran a quick search on my phone and came up with a number for them. It was late, but there was a chance someone was still there.

  Eventually a crisp-voiced woman picked up. I gave my name. ‘My wife, Helen, was booked on to a course on social media today—’ I began, but the woman cut me off.

  ‘Helen Cooper? I know her well. She’s attended a lot of courses here. I’m Diane, the director of Crystal Spectrum. Hang on a minute. . .’ I could hear her typing, accessing records on her computer. ‘Oh,’ she said, and she sounded surprised. ‘Yes, she was booked on the course this morning, but she was a no-show. That’s not like her.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely sure. There’s even a note here that the trainer got our receptionist to ring her. There was no reply.’

  ‘What time was she due to get there?’

  ‘We started at eleven,’ Diane said, and then she added hesitantly, ‘I do hope everything’s okay.’

  So did I. I thanked her and rang off. So Helen could have gone missing as early as eleven that morning. What could have happened? The girls were looking up at me curiously, so I popped my phone in my pocket and walked us home.

  I could see the girls were getting worried, so I tried to look and act cheerful. I chided myself for being a worrier and freaking them out. It was a beautiful, balmy evening, sunny and still, the kind of summer evening where Helen would serve dinner on the patio outside – grilled salmon, new potatoes and a salad with her homemade dressing. I imagined us walking into the house and seeing the patio doors flung wide, with music drifting from the kitchen radio; Helen, wearing her duck-egg blue skirt, feet bare and hair caught up in her trademark ponytail, would turn and smile as she carried the salad bowl outside.

  We turned into our road, and I could see Helen’s Prius parked in the driveway, just as it always was. I began to believe my own fantasy. I could practically smell the salmon. Helen might be a little annoyed that the girls had already eaten, but Marguerite at least would be up for a second meal.

  I put my key in the door, but it refused to budge. Whenever one of us was at home, we’d only use the Yale lock. We’d only lock the mortice if everyone was out. I took a deep breath and sorted through my keys to find the correct one, unlocked the mortice and then the Yale and the door swung open.

  The moment I stepped inside, I knew she wasn’t there. The air was dead and silent. There were no dinner smells and no music and the doors out to the patio were locked. There was no Helen to turn and smile, a dish in her hand and her blue skirt swishing round her smooth, tanned legs.

  As if someone had forcibly punched me into another time, I was hurled back to that other night, five and a half years ago, when I stepped into an empty house for the first time. I couldn’t help myself. My knees just gave way, and I found myself kneeling on the hall carpet in the dark, with my daughters standing beside me. Marguerite came to me and patted my shoulder, but, unexpectedly, it was Miranda who began to cry, in high, quick sobs.

  ‘Daddy, get up!’ she said sharply. ‘Get up!’

  I didn’t get up. I fumbled in my pocket and brought out my phone. I dialled 999.

  ‘Which emergency service do you require?’ said a tinny voice on the other end. ‘Police, ambulance or fire?’

  ‘Police,’ I said. ‘Police. My wife is missing.’ And then I began to cry.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sam

  They asked me a lot of questions on the phone. When had I last seen Helen? Was this out of character? Had I rung her friends? I know they have to ask the same questions of everyone, to find out if it’s a genuine missing person or simply the kind of chaotic household where people come and go and disappear, but I wanted to scream with frustration. In the end they must have believed me because they said they’d send some officers round.

  I knew I had to do something with the girls. They were glued to my side, wide eyed and scared, and it was getting late. Marguerite would usually have been in bed by 7.30 and Miranda by 8.30. I certainly didn’t want them around when the police arrived.

  ‘Listen, girls,’ I said, as calmly as I could manage, ‘it’s time for baths and bed.’

  ‘We can’t go to bed,’ Miranda said. ‘How will we sleep?’

  ‘You need to try. Tomorrow is another day, and you’ve got school. I’ll go and run the bath,’ I said as decisively as I could manage. I broke one of Helen’s unbreakable house rules and put on the television to distract the girls while I got things organized.

  While I was filling the bath, it occurred to
me to call Mrs Goode. She’s our next-door neighbour, a softly spoken woman in her early seventies. She adores the girls and always chats to them, and she’d often babysat for us in the past. Perhaps she would come and sit with them, if they were still awake when the police arrived? I turned off the taps, and, calling to the girls, stepped out of the front door and crossed the shared driveway to knock on Mrs Goode’s door.

  I explained everything as quickly as I could, and she grabbed a cardigan and her handbag and followed me across to our house. She was calm and cheerful, and her presence instantly made me feel better. She bustled the girls upstairs. I stood on the landing and listened to her singing them a silly song, which they’d clearly heard before because Marguerite joined in with the chorus.

  I laid out the girls’ pyjamas. While they were in the bath, Mrs Goode met me on the landing.

  ‘The police will have questions,’ she said. ‘They’ll want to know what she was wearing, what she had with her. You might want to check.’

  ‘I have no idea what she was wearing,’ I said, desperately. ‘I left early. . . I had to get to the office. . .’

  ‘A floral dress, the one with the big forget-me-nots on it,’ said Mrs Goode. ‘I saw her go out. About nine-thirty, maybe? The floral dress, and she was carrying a blue handbag. Do you know the one I mean?’

  I thought I did. Helen had a lot of handbags, but there was one, a bright royal blue, which she liked to use when she wore the forget-me-not dress. It was big and squashy, more casual than most of her bags. She usually went for a more rigid, satchel-style bag, better for keeping everything she needed neatly compartmentalized.

  ‘So, the floral dress, the blue bag. . . did she have anything else with her?’

  ‘Nothing. She was walking. I assumed she was off to the station. Going into town, probably?’

  That sounded right, if she was going to the course. But 9.30 would be early to leave if she was only due there at eleven. Maybe she’d had another appointment, one I hadn’t known about? I wished I could see her schedule, but, unlike me, she didn’t use an electronic diary – she had a black leather Filofax, her constant companion, which I was certain would be in her handbag.

  ‘I don’t know if she came back, though,’ said Mrs Goode suddenly. ‘She might have come home and changed and gone out again. I went to Sainsbury’s and then had lunch with a friend.’

  I could hear the girls talking in quiet voices in the bath. I walked into our bedroom, which, naturally, was immaculate, the duvet smooth, the pillows plumped. I opened the wardrobe, and all Helen’s clothes were neatly hung. I stared at them helplessly. Everything looked as it usually did, but who was to say if something was missing? I couldn’t see the forget-me-not dress, but if she had come home and changed, she’d have put it in her laundry basket, wouldn’t she? I opened the white wicker basket. It was empty, apart from a few jumpers and silk shirts, items she usually hand-washed. As I leaned over the basket, there was a sudden wave of Helen’s scent – the delicate floral perfume she wore, the sweet cocoa-butter aroma of her body lotion and the warm, spicy smell of her skin.

  Mrs Goode found me sitting on the edge of the bed, looking into the open laundry basket.

  ‘Any luck?’ she asked. I stared at her blankly. ‘Can you help me get the girls out of the bath? Teeth and so on?’

  I nodded and got up. We went through the motions and got the girls into bed. Marguerite didn’t want to sleep in her own room, so I let her snuggle in with Miranda. Miranda would never normally have agreed to this, but she was happy to scoot close to the wall and let her little sister in beside her. I put on the soft nightlight and let the girls choose a bedtime story. Helen had been reading them a chapter of Anne of Green Gables each night, but they chose a picture book, an old favourite we’d read to them hundreds of times when they were much smaller. I lay across the bottom of the bed and read to them, keeping my voice soft and low. Marguerite’s eyelids grew heavy and she dozed off quickly, but when I looked up I saw Miranda’s wide, dark eyes, so like her mother’s, watching me closely. I didn’t have anything to offer her. No answers at all.

  At that moment the doorbell rang. The police. Mrs Goode, who had been watching quietly from the doorway, said, ‘You go. I can sit with Miranda.’

  I squeezed Miranda’s hand and she gripped back tightly. Then I rose and went downstairs to talk to the police.

  The officers were so young. I felt like my dad, moaning about how coppers were all still wet behind the ears these days, but in all seriousness, the man looked about twelve. He clearly didn’t need to shave more than twice a week, and the woman was a fresh, round-faced girl who looked like she hadn’t quite grown out of her adolescent softness.

  I brought them into the living room and we went through everything I’d already told the officer over the phone. Helen was a very reliable person, she had no history of drug or alcohol abuse, she had no financial problems, no history of mental illness, she wasn’t taking any medication. This was entirely out of character. They asked to see a photograph of her, and I took down the one we keep on the mantelpiece – Helen and the girls at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower, taken at Christmastime last year. Helen is wearing a green coat, and her cheeks are pink from the cold. She’s bending down, her arms around the girls, and they’re all laughing at me.

  ‘And these are your daughters?’ the female PC asked.

  ‘Yes, Miranda is eight and Marguerite is six.’

  ‘And you were alerted that your wife was missing because she didn’t collect them from school?’

  ‘Yes. I was supposed to do it, but I was called out of town. I left her a message. . .’

  ‘But she didn’t confirm that she’d received it?’

  ‘No,’ I said reluctantly. Both police officers looked disapproving. They clearly thought I was negligent and Helen wasn’t much better.

  ‘Has she ever done that before? Failed to collect them?’

  ‘Never,’ I said adamantly.

  ‘What do you do for a living, Mr Cooper?’

  ‘I work in advertising. I’m a client relationship manager.’

  She didn’t ask me anything further, but she wrote down what I’d said.

  The male PC looked sceptical. ‘And you earn enough doing that that your wife doesn’t need to work?’

  ‘We do all right,’ I said, aware that I sounded defensive. ‘Helen takes care of the girls, and the house. She does some courses. She’s very involved at the school. Everyone knows her. She’s always organizing things and working for the Parents’ Association.’

  They asked for a list of family.

  ‘Helen’s an only child,’ I said, ‘and both her parents are dead. I can give you my parents’ details – but I’ve already spoken to them and they haven’t heard from her.’

  ‘So no family at all on her side? No cousins? Grandparents? Aunts or uncles?’

  ‘An elderly uncle in Vancouver, but that’s it. I’ve never met him – he wasn’t well enough to attend our wedding.’

  ‘What about friends?’ the female PC asked. ‘You say she was involved at the school.’

  ‘Yes, she’s very popular. We have spreadsheets of names and addresses. I can mark the people I’d say Helen is closest to.’

  ‘That would be helpful. What about other friends? Old friends from school or university? Old work colleagues? Anyone spring to mind?’

  I wracked my brain. ‘No one springs to mind. I mean, no one that she’s seen recently. We met at work. She joined the company just after she moved to the UK – she’s originally Australian. She left a few years ago, and she hasn’t really stayed in touch with those people, but I’ll give you any names I can think of.’

  ‘And friends of yours as a couple?’

  I jotted down a quick list of our closest friends.

  They asked me, as Mrs Goode had predicted, what Helen was wearing and I told them my best guess. They asked if she had any distinguishing marks – scars, tattoos, that sort of thing. I almost smiled at the idea o
f Helen having a tattoo. ‘She does have a scar though,’ I said. ‘Her left earlobe has a raised ridge on it. When she was a teenager, she accidentally had an earring torn out, dancing at a music festival. It’s quite distinctive.’

  The female officer nodded and noted it down. She asked me to describe it, and I saw her draw a small, childish sketch of an ear, with a visible scar running vertically through the lobe.

  ‘Do you have any good, recent photographs you could let us have?’ asked the male PC. ‘One that doesn’t have your kids in it?’

  I remembered then that I had taken a picture of Helen on my phone at a party some weeks before, wearing the floral dress. They asked me to email it to them. That was the picture they showed on the news and put in the papers – Helen walking towards me, holding two glasses of wine. When she saw I was taking a picture, she wrinkled her nose and smiled at me. Her hair was loose on her shoulders. She looked beautiful.

  Then we went over what she would have with her. I could only guess what would be in her bag – her phone, purse and Filofax. Make-up, perhaps? A notebook and pen for her course? I told them that as far as I could see, all her other clothes were there, but it was difficult to tell. Who could give an accurate inventory of all of their partner’s clothing? Helen probably could of mine, but as she did the majority of the washing and ironing, that wasn’t surprising. All I could say with certainty was that there were no obvious gaps in her wardrobe.

  ‘What about identification? Travel documents?’

  ‘According to our neighbour, she walked to the Tube. She didn’t flee the country.’ I checked myself. Being sarcastic with the police probably wasn’t helpful.

  ‘Your neighbour?’

  ‘Mrs Goode. She’s upstairs with the girls right now. She’s the one who saw Helen leave the house around nine-thirty this morning.’