I Know Who You Are. Alice Feeney
but when I slow down she pokes her fingers in my back to tell me to hurry up. Adults are always doing that – saying things with their hands or eyes instead of their mouths. There is no rail, so I put my hand on the wall. It’s covered in tiles that look and feel the same as the corks that come out of my daddy’s wine. My brother used to thread them with cotton to make me cork crowns and necklaces, and I would pretend to be a princess.
I’m busy looking down at my feet to make sure I don’t fall, but something like a shadow high above makes me look up. It isn’t a cloud or the moon or the stars, though. Instead, a tall, skinny man at the top of the stairs is smiling down at me. He’s funny looking. He has three bushy black eyebrows, the third resting on top of his lip, his skin is white like a ghost, and when he smiles I can see that one of his crooked front teeth is made of gold. I scream. I didn’t mean to. I remember that I was supposed to be quiet, but I’m so scared the scream comes out all by itself. I try to turn back down the stairs, but Maggie is in the way and won’t let me pass.
‘Stop that noise at once,’ she says, twisting her hand around my arm so tight it feels like a burn. I don’t want to go any farther up, but she won’t let me go back down, so I’m left feeling a little bit stuck. I don’t want to be here, wherever this is. I’m tired and I want to go home.
I look back at the man standing at the top of the stairs. He’s still smiling, that gold tooth of his twinkling in the darkness like a rotten star.
‘Well hello there, little lady. I’m your new dad, but for now, you can just call me John.’
London, 2017
‘You can just call me Alex,’ she says with a childish grin.
‘Thanks, but I’d rather stick with Detective Inspector Croft, if that’s okay,’ I reply.
She’s waiting for me outside my front door when I get back from my morning run. They both are. Her middle-aged sidekick says very little as usual, making the kind of mental notes that are so loud they can almost be heard. It isn’t even seven o’clock.
‘I have a lot to do today,’ I say, fumbling for my keys and opening the front door, trying to hide us all inside as soon as possible. I don’t know my neighbours, I couldn’t tell you any of their names, but I’m of the belief that while the opinions of strangers shouldn’t matter, they often do.
‘We just wanted to update you, but we can come back another time—’
‘No, sorry, now is fine. I have to be at Pinewood in an hour, that’s all. It’s the last day of filming, I can’t let them down.’
‘I understand.’ Her tone makes it clear that she doesn’t. ‘Did you run far this morning?’
‘Not really, 5k.’
‘Impressive.’
‘It’s not very far.’
‘No, I meant it’s impressive the way you’re just carrying on like normal: running, working, acting.’ She smiles.
What the fuck does that mean?
I hold her stare for as long as I’m able, then my eyes retreat to the face of her silent partner. He towers over her, must be twice her age if not more, but never says a damn thing. I wonder if all her bravado is just her way of trying to impress this man, her superior.
‘Are you just going to stand there and let her speak to me like this?’ I ask him.
‘Afraid so, she’s my boss,’ he replies with an apologetic shrug. I look back at the young detective in disbelief, and notice that her smile has disappeared.
‘Have you ever hit your husband, Mrs Sinclair?’ she asks.
The hallway feels smaller, seems to turn a little, catches me off balance.
‘Of course not! I’ve never hit anyone. I’m very close to making a formal complaint—’
‘I’ll get you a form from the car before I go. We went to the Indian restaurant you said you visited with your husband the last time you saw him . . . ’ She reaches inside her bag and takes out what looks like an iPad. ‘The place has security cameras.’ She taps on the screen a couple of times, before holding it up. ‘Is this you?’
I look at the frozen black-and-white image of us, surprisingly clear and crisp. ‘Yes.’
‘Thought so. Did you have a nice time?’ She taps the screen again.
‘How is this relevant?’
‘I was just wondering why you hit him?’ She turns the iPad around again, her childlike finger swiping and scrolling through a series of images. They show me slapping Ben across the face before leaving the restaurant.
Because he accused me of something I didn’t do and I was drunk.
I feel my cheeks burn. ‘We had a silly row, we’d been drinking. It was just a slap.’ I’m mortified by the sound of my own words as they leave my mouth.
‘Do you slap him often?’
‘No, I’ve never done that before, I was upset.’
‘Did he say something to offend you?’
Successful actresses are either beautiful or good at acting. Seeing as you are neither of those things, I keep wondering who you fucked this time to get the part.
Ben’s words that night have haunted me; I doubt I’ll ever forget them.
‘I don’t remember,’ I lie, too ashamed to tell the truth. For the last few months Ben and I lived permanently in the shadows of suspicion, a mountain of mistrust caused by a molehill of misunderstanding. He thought I was having an affair.
Alex Croft looks at her sidekick then back at me. ‘Did you know that a third of the phone calls we receive about domestic violence in this city are made by male victims?’
How dare she?
‘I’m late.’
She ignores me and takes a pair of blue plastic gloves from her pocket. ‘There was a receipt in your husband’s wallet for the petrol station on the night you last saw him. We’d like to take a look at his car, if that’s okay?’
‘If you think it will help.’
She appears to be waiting. I’m not sure what for. ‘Do you have his keys?’
They follow me into the living room. ‘Have you looked into the stalker yet?’ I take Ben’s car key from a drawer and form a protective fist around it. I’m not sure why.
She stares at me hard, skips more than just a beat before answering.
‘You still think a stalker might have had something to do with your husband’s disappearance?’
‘I don’t see how you can rule it out—’
‘Is that your laptop?’ She points at the small desk in the corner of the room. I nod. ‘Mind if we take a look?’ My turn to hesitate now. ‘You said it started with emails? We might be able to trace who sent them. Bag it up, Wakely,’ she says to the other detective. He obediently puts on his own set of gloves, removes a clear plastic bag from his inside pocket, and takes my laptop.
‘Mrs Sinclair?’
I stare at her outstretched hand. ‘Yes?’
‘Your husband’s car key. Please.’
My fingers reluctantly uncurl themselves, and Inspector Croft takes the key. It leaves an imprint on the palm of my hand, where I’d been holding on too tightly. Before I get a chance to say anything, she’s walking back out to the street, and it’s all I can do to keep up with her.
She