The Missing Husband. Amanda Brooke
to be patient and understanding, but the comment festered, I suppose. Then, the night before he left for Leeds, he asked me to get up at an ungodly hour to give him a lift to the station. I’d been waiting and waiting for him to accept this pregnancy and our baby, to start fussing over me, and this was the final straw. What annoyed me most of all was that he couldn’t understand why I was so upset with him for asking for the lift.’ Eyes stinging with frustrated tears, Jo put her hand to her temple as if she could ease the pain of the memory.
‘How bad would you say the argument was? In the heat of the moment insults and allegations are often the weapons of choice and the cracks in a relationship can be blown wide apart. Is there anything you might have said which could have tipped David over the edge, if he was contemplating leaving?’
Jo had a feeling that Martin was talking from experience. ‘No, nothing like that and I know it sounds like our relationship was on shaky ground, but it wasn’t, not really. He loved me. Loves me.’
Martin pretended not to notice Jo wince at her use of the past tense again. ‘Was that the last time you spoke together?’
‘Yes, although he did leave a voicemail message.’
Jo tried to keep her hand steady as she held her mobile in the palm of her hand and switched to speakerphone. The ever-present knot in her stomach tightened a little as she prepared to hear David’s voice echo off the living-room walls for the first time since their argument.
Having heard the message countless times before, Jo knew every word and every sigh by heart but it was her analysis of those sounds that constantly changed.
‘So you’re still not speaking to me then?’ he clipped. The hiss from the sigh he released sounded taut with exasperation now, rather than the resignation she had first heard. ‘You’re so damn stubborn.’ There was another pause and the sound of movement. David was running his fingers through his hair. ‘You want things your way and you want them now. Well, you may not believe me but I have been thinking about the future. In fact, I haven’t been able to think of anything else and you’re in for one hell of a shock, Jo, because I’ve been making plans.’
The tone of voice was familiar; it was the one he used to tease her. It ought to have sounded playful and full of promise, but as Jo looked towards Martin, they both heard only the threat.
‘And before you say it, yes really,’ David was saying. There was another pause. Was he waiting for his wife to read between the lines? ‘I’d better go into the seminar now but I’ll see you later. Assuming you want me to come home, that is.’
After the message ended abruptly, it was Jo who spoke first.
‘Do you still think it’s worth exploring other lines of enquiry?’ she asked weakly, unsure how she wanted Martin to answer. Did she prefer to hear confirmation from a third party that her marriage was indeed in tatters or, worse still, for him to tell her there was a real chance that David was at the bottom of a ditch or floating in the Mersey?
‘At this stage, yes.’
The policeman looked around the room then shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I can’t believe how spotless your house is,’ he remarked. ‘There’s a strong smell of bleach …’
Steph re-entered the room, moving so fast that the two cups in her hand slopped over her hand, but she seemed not to notice the scalding liquid as she glared at DS Baxter. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting for one minute that my sister had anything to do with David’s disappearing act! She’s bared her soul to you, for God’s sake!’
Jo gasped as the implications of Martin’s comments hit her. She wasn’t sure what surprised her more, the realization that she was one of the lines of enquiry or the unabashed look on the policeman’s face. Martin might not be the worn-out detective she had imagined but he clearly had enough years of experience to remain open-minded, if not a little cynical. What didn’t surprise her was the fact that Steph had been eavesdropping, but with her whole life about to be brought under scrutiny, her lack of privacy was something she was going to have to get used to.
The pencil moved across the page in long, sweeping curves, softly sighing as the figure began to take shape. Next came a series of scratches that brought the drawing into sharp focus and Jo refused to let anything else invade her thoughts. It was Saturday and David had been missing for three days and no one, not even the police had found any trace of him yet. It was as if he had been erased off the face of the earth and while Jo was tempted to summon him back into life with the sweep of a pencil, she was determined to remain grounded. She was forcing herself to carry on as if her life hadn’t been shattered.
‘How does it look so far?’ she asked with as much enthusiasm as she could summon.
‘Shouldn’t a wicked stepmother have a fancy wig or a big hat?’ asked her niece.
Jo and Lauren were sprawled out on Lauren’s bed with paper cuttings scattered around them for inspiration. Before replying, Jo settled her gaze on her niece’s flowing locks. ‘We could always get your mum to style your hair into a beehive – she’s good at that sort of thing.’
‘Do you think she would let me dye it? I was thinking maybe blonde.’
‘Who ever heard of an evil, blonde queen?’ Jo said, then picked up a cutting from a magazine and wafted it in front of Lauren. ‘Red hair is most definitely on-trend.’
‘Yeah, and there I was thinking you’d cut out pictures of models with red hair deliberately,’ Lauren said. ‘I don’t care how on-trend it is, I’m fed up being a ginger minger.’
Jo reached behind her head to grab her ponytail. It was long enough to swipe across Lauren’s face. ‘And is that what I am?’
‘You dye your hair.’
‘Only because I had the misfortune to be born with boring brown hair like your mum,’ Jo explained. Lauren’s ginger gene was rooted in her dad’s side of the family.
Lauren’s lips tightened to a thin line and she chose not to deign her aunt with a response. The fifteen-year-old liked to act as if she had a fifty-year-old head on her shoulders but that was often the point, it was only an act. Lauren’s maturity was like a new outfit she was struggling to grow into.
Jo stood her ground. ‘I’m in no mood to argue, Lauren,’ she warned. ‘We’ll add a headpiece but that’s as far as I’m willing to go.’
Rather than a counterattack, Lauren dropped her head and a flush rose in her cheeks. ‘Are you sure you’re up to making it now?’
Jo tapped a pencil against her chin as she took another look at the design she and Lauren had been working on. She had a flair for creativity that was distinctly underused in her choice of career. She might create policies and procedures, rules and regulations but even deciding which font to use in her reports was beyond her control; Nelson’s Engineering had set rules on branding. That was why she always jumped at the chance to put the creative skills she had acquired from her mum to good use whenever she could. ‘You’ve given me harder projects in the past,’ she said, deliberately misunderstanding her niece. ‘The owl and the pussycat costume was a particular challenge.’
Lauren had been seven when Jo had dressed her up as a black cat and built a cardboard boat complete with owl to hang around her middle. She had won first prize at the school fete, but the memory wasn’t enough to raise even a smile. ‘That wasn’t what I meant. Mum said we could hire something from a fancy dress shop.’
Jo failed miserably at her own attempt to smile, managing only to make her chin tremble. She swallowed hard and willed her emotions not to give her away. ‘What else do I have to do Lauren, except wait for news?’
‘You have the baby to look after.’
‘Oh, little FB doesn’t need any help from me