Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📕

‘Have there been any changes to the policy that you’re aware of?’

‘All the details are on here. I checked everything this morning. There’ve been no changes.’

‘Can I get a copy of that?’

She goes back to her printer to photocopy the sheet of paper. A lonely tear drops down her face. ‘I’m not like you, Eva. I can’t cope with all this.’

‘You can, and you will. You have to keep strong.’

‘But it’s been more than forty-eight hours now. And there’s still no word from him.’

Nine

Back at the station, I call the kids to say goodnight. Isabella spills a mouthful of mother guilt. ‘I miss you tonight, Mummy,’ she says in the cute voice that she seems to save for moments like these. ‘Daddy’s grumpy. He’s hidden our iPads. I wish you were here.’

‘Where’s Mel?’

‘Sick. She had to go home.’

Oh, no. This is all I need. Although it rarely does, I hate it when this happens. I always try and arrange cover, but not even a tried-and-tested childcare plan is foolproof. Even Mary Poppins sometimes needs a spoonful of medicine. ‘If you are the best-behaved children in the world for Daddy tonight, I’ll take you to school in the morning and pick you up.’

‘Do you promise, Mummy?’

‘I promise. Now go and kiss Daddy and tell him you love him.’

‘Can we go for special ice creams after school tomorrow, then?’

‘Yes, we can, sweetheart.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

I call Jim to tell him to call Mick – a friend of ours who lives alone in a two-bedroomed flat in the adjacent road. A retired actor, he drives a cab at the weekends for beer money and will always help us out with lifts when he is available. We met him when we first moved into our house, and Jim needed a ride to a hospital appointment. When I’m working lates, he often comes over to play poker with Jim and a couple of their mates, and he’ll always help out when he can.

‘Stop panicking,’ Jim says. ‘I’ve already called him. He’s stopping by soon.’

I catch up on paperwork, then try and focus on the Jason Harper case, but knowing Jim is on his own with the kids does nothing for my concentration.

Neither does Rob’s hunger. ‘I’m popping out for food. Want anything?’

I shake my head. ‘Your appetite is the size of an industrial hoover.’

I wander over to the kitchen area and make myself a strong black coffee, my mind drifting to Marc. Did he borrow that five grand from Pete on the pretence of a short-term borrowing arrangement, only to use it to run off with another woman? And what about that fifteen hundred pounds?

I search National Rail Enquiries for trains to Cambridge. The Tube Marc took on Monday must have departed around four o’clock. The quickest route would have been the Underground up to King’s Cross, then a dash for a British Rail train to Cambridge. Assuming no delays, and he legged it from the station or took a cab, it would have taken about an hour and a half in total. Yes, it is possible he made it to Cambridge Market Square by 6pm to withdraw that money. But why?

After some hesitation, I pull up the Police National Computer. I pause and glance over my shoulder, knocking my knuckles together. It’s pretty busy in here tonight. A cluster of detectives are huddled at a workstation, others are busy on the phone. Gossiping Gloria – one of the admin team – nods over at me and adjusts her tortoiseshell glasses. Turning back to the screen, I bite down on the knuckles of my index fingers and think for a while. Another glance over my shoulder, and I see Gloria has joined the gathering at the workstation. I take a deep breath and type Marc’s details into the PNC. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but that twisty feeling in my gut, that usually means I’m right, tells me I’ll find something. It doesn’t take long. It pops up like a Freddie Krueger jack-in-the-box. I scan the details and gasp. Last month, Marc received an eighteen-month driving ban and a fifteen hundred pound fine for being under the influence of alcohol while driving a motor vehicle. I reread the entry several times. Sasha told me she always drives everywhere these days, but she never mentioned anything about this. Maybe she’s too embarrassed. Maybe she doesn’t know.

I search some more, but there’s nothing.

I trawl through his social media accounts. He’s on LinkedIn, “Seeking a new opportunity in the IT Security Industry”, but there’s nothing more that provokes me to investigate further. With a few exceptions – which arouse nothing of interest – all his connections appear to be people in similar roles. I can’t find him on Twitter or Instagram. He has a Facebook page, but hasn’t posted since New Year when he put up a picture of Sasha, Ralph and the kids, wishing all his friends and family, “All the best for the year ahead”. I flick through other posts, scrolling back a few years, but they only show the typical traits of a family man: pictures of him cheering on Harry in a rugby match, sailing with Hannah and George on Lake Windermere, date night with Sasha.

So why the hell has he walked out?

Later in the evening, a call comes through on the arrest of a drug dealer we’ve had on surveillance, and he’s on his way to the station. I prepare for the interview, and this takes up the rest of the shift. It’s gone midnight before I leave, and I sigh with relief when I get in the car. I’ll still be working, but at least I have three days away from the station, although a job like this never gives you real time off.

As I put my key in the ignition, my phone beeps. It’s Sasha asking me to call her when I can. I find her number and tap it.

She answers straight away,