Chapter 52
NATHAN
PC Forrester is probably in her late twenties and has blonde streaks in her dark hair. She’s staring at me with an unamused expression on her face while I repeat the same facts over and over again.
“What made you realise the woman in the house was not your stepmother?” she asks.
“Like I said, nothing in particular. She just seemed… different.”
“And she told you she was Claire Blackburn?”
At this point I’m so tired I don’t even remember.
The events of last night come and go like distant waves in a sea of anxiety.
After I persuaded Claire to let me call the police, they came bowling in and whisked us both off to the station for questioning.
I sat on a hard plastic chair for hours, waiting to be interviewed, and just as the clock began to strike 6 a.m., Forrester called me in.
“Yes, she told me she was Claire Blackburn,” I say. “I believe she did.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I thought I was giving a statement, not being interrogated,” I snap.
She scribbles something down in her notebook.
“Look,” I say. “Someone needs to be out there searching for Faye. This isn’t like her. She didn’t come home.”
“We’re looking into that, Mr Mathis.” She smiles, but it’s tight-lipped and seems almost sarcastic.
“I can’t reach my stepmother,” I reiterate. “Do you understand that this is very strange? And she has dementia. She’s vulnerable. Anything could have happened.”
“I understand the severity of the situation. We’re doing everything we can,” she says. “Now, have you been in touch with your sister to find out if she knows of your mother’s whereabouts?”
“Stepmother.” I correct her and she raises an eyebrow. “No, Penny’s away at some spa in the middle of nowhere. No signal.” I pause. “Actually, I feel like she should be home by now. She didn’t say what day she was coming home but—”
“Do you know the name of this spa?”
“Fuck. No. It’s somewhere in Northumberland, I think. I can’t remember.”
“Your sister’s fiancé is called Tim Crowley, is that right?”
I nod. “Yes. But she’s not with him at this retreat. She’s with friends.”
“All right. Wait here for a moment, Mr Mathis.”
As she leaves, her previously sarcastic smile turns warmer.
Perhaps she’s starting to pity me. Well, whatever works to actually get her out there, looking for Faye.
What if this maniac, Magnus Blackburn, has mistaken Faye for Claire?
After seeing how scared Claire was, Faye could be in real danger.
Or what if she’s collapsed somewhere in the middle of nowhere, struck by an episode?
The thoughts go round and round in my head, knocking into one another, no room for the next.
I look up as Forrester re-enters the room, frowning now. “We’re not finding anyone called Tim Crowley registered in the area. Could Timothy be a middle name? Or a nickname?”
“I don’t know. It could be.” Another fly in the ointment. “I’ve only met him a couple of times.”
I think about some of the lads I met at UCL with way too many nicknames. Usually to hide some ridiculous double-barrelled name. Peregrine Houghton-Taylor springs to mind. Everyone called him Mark and to this day I have no idea why.
“I’ll keep checking,” she says, disappearing again. “Why don’t you head into the waiting room. I’ll let you know if I need you again, but please don’t go anywhere for now.”
As I head back into the grey reception filled with uncomfortable chairs, I flop down into one of them and text the latest news to Jessica. I called her as soon as I got here, hours ago. She’s worried sick and just as desperate to know where Faye is as I am.
A few minutes later, I notice a tall policeman wearing a suit walk down the corridor. He’s leading a woman who’s pushing a pram with one hand and holding a toddler with the other into an interview room. She looks at me with concerned eyes as she passes, before the door shuts behind them.
I pace around, shoving my hands in my pockets, then removing them. My shirt is sticky, and I need a shower. The station is muggy. I feel like a caged animal.
It’s just like the atmosphere of Mum’s funeral.
Every other time I’d been in a church, it’d been cold.
But on that day, the heatwave penetrated the cold stone floors and wooden pews.
I remember Dad pulling at his shirt collar.
I remember the sweat across my forehead, my grandmother’s hot hand on my cheek and the quiet flapping of paper as the congregation fanned themselves.
It’s not a memory I like to revisit. Nor are the months before she died when she’d smile at me from her hospital bed and tell me that everything would be okay.
I felt betrayed by those words back then.
I thought she meant she would get better.
But “everything will be okay” never meant that she wouldn’t die.
It meant I’d carry on without her. That one day I would find happiness again and everything would turn out all right.
But as a four-year-old, I didn’t understand all that.
And here I am again, facing losing another mother.
“Mr Mathis?”
I look up and see the tall detective in the doorway. “Yes.”
“My name’s DS Oliver. Would you like to report your stepmother missing?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do.” DS Oliver glares at me and I check my exasperation.
“Sorry, I’m just very worried. Has Claire Blackburn told you that her stepson attacked her?” I ask.
“Yes,” DS Oliver says. “She has been interviewed. We’re trying to find Magnus Blackburn at the moment. His wife is talking to us right now,” DS Oliver says.
“Okay,” I say, and some of the tension trapped in my body finally releases.
“We have your number. The best thing you can do now is head home and get some rest.” The way he says this makes it clear it’s an order, not a suggestion.
“Right. Well, please call me later with an update.”
DS Oliver nods, and I am dismissed.
As I walk out of the police station, I pick up the phone to call Penny for the hundredth time.
It rings and rings.
“Come on, come on.”
“Hi.” Her bright voice sparkles down the line. “This is the voicemail of Penny Mathis. You know what to do!”
“Fuck’s sake.” I hang up and make my way over to my car, completely unsure of my next move.