‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I want to talk to you for a minute.’

‘Of course.’ It isn’t so much a request as an order and I follow her to the kitchen table for our meeting. She pours herself a glass of wine and takes her customary chair with the sheepskin. Resisting the urge to fetch alcohol for myself, I crumple into the seat opposite. ‘Is it about the bank account? I saw you’ve switched the direct debits.’

‘Yes, the paperwork will arrive in the next few days to close that account. I have no intention of being liable for any overdraft you decide to run up funding her.’

I swallow my exasperation. ‘I’ve just told you we’re not together.’

‘It’s none of my business,’ Clare says, curtly. ‘This isn’t about that.’

‘Okay.’ It must be about who gets what, then. Furniture, books, coffee cups: which provenance can be proved, whose claim is greater. Exhausted doesn’t begin to describe how I feel at the prospect of negotiating this. Just keep everything, I think. When it comes down to it, it’s mostly all hers anyway.

‘When I was home, I talked to Piers about all this and he had some interesting thoughts,’ she says, her tone warming a degree or two.

Well, I wasn’t expecting that. Piers is her cousin, a twice-divorced accountant who is not noted for his interesting thoughts about anything, least of all male-female relationships. ‘You mean about us?’ I say, doubtfully.

‘No, not about us. There is no us.’ She lifts her glass and the veins on the back of her hand glow blue on pale skin, river lines painted on old wood. I think of Melia’s skin, so fresh and youthful, and feel a surge of conviction that the choice I’ve made is predestined. However magical I imagine my affinity with Melia to be, I’m hardwired to prefer youth, it’s as simple as that. An old goat like me might still procreate with her, but not with Clare. (For the record, I don’t have plans to procreate, full stop.)

For just a moment, I think I hate myself as much as the woman watching me does.

‘I mean about Kit,’ she says. ‘I know you think drugs might be a factor in this vanishing act of his, but we think maybe there’s something else going on.’

‘Like what?’ My eyes narrow. Vanishing act? Instantly, I’m alert.

‘I don’t know yet, but Piers thinks it might be financial and knows someone who can help. One of those forensic accountants who can reach out to people better placed to find out stuff that’s supposed to be, you know, protected.’

‘You mean a hacker?’ I feel my breathing alter. ‘You want to “reach out” to a hacker to dig some dirt on Kit? Are you serious?’

She taps her nails on the wineglass. ‘I don’t mean invade his privacy for the sake of it, just get a picture of what’s been going on. Piers says money is the number one reason why people go missing, behind crime generally.’

Nerves make me scoff at this. ‘Well, he’s an accountant, so that’s the only perspective he has on human nature. What about crimes of passion?’

‘Isn’t that what we’re trying to disprove, for your benefit?’ she says, and I recoil from the sudden arctic chill in her tone. ‘Maybe this will unearth something that supports your drugs theory. Big cash withdrawals, say, activity that shows he was trying to get money, but couldn’t, leaving him exposed to criminals. I don’t know what this person will uncover, but it would be good to set the police off in a new direction – away from you.’

I’m nodding now, vigorously, demonstrating my gratitude. ‘That’s true, but shouldn’t we let them do that through their own legal means?’

‘We should, but we can’t be sure it will actually happen. They’re gathering evidence to prove the hypothesis they’re pursuing, not the one we are.’

The one in which I’m the suspect. I get it. ‘How long will it take?’

‘Piers said his guy should have something for us within forty-eight hours.’

‘Forty-eight hours?’ They’ve already set this in motion, I realize, shocked. And, unless this shady character owes Piers a favour, they must be paying through the nose for him to work so quickly at this time of year. It strikes me that she might in fact be scheming with Piers and his associates to incriminate me, not Kit. But then she’d hardly be briefing me on it now, would she?

Unless this is a more elaborate sting of some sort? All that stuff about clearing my name in order to save her reputation: for all I know, she could be working with the police and feeding me lines scripted by them. At the edge of my paranoia lurks that name again, Sarah Miller, and I extinguish it. Focus. ‘How much is all this costing?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says. ‘We’ll call it a goodbye gift.’

Sensing sincerity, I reach for an expression of grateful humility. ‘Thank you. If it turns something up that might help me . . .’ I falter. Everything I say now has the uncomfortable ring of testimony – to be quoted back to me at a later date. ‘I mean, if it helps us find Kit, then wow, okay. Thank you, Clare.’

She says nothing, just peers at me with cold curiosity, as if she doesn’t recognize me anymore. ‘He’s not on any missing persons sites yet, I checked them all earlier. Any idea why?’

‘The police said they weren’t issuing any details yet.’ It seems to me she’s doing more detecting than the detectives are. And there I was imagining her this weekend in a Scottish slough of despond, weeping and inhaling whisky.

‘Why on earth not? Shouldn’t they be appealing for witnesses?’

‘You would have thought so, but they specifically asked me not to talk about it with anyone while they updated their bosses. I think it’s because of the possible drugs connection. And that’s a point, Clare: if this involves their organized crime unit, say, then we should be very, very discreet about these enquiries we’re making.’

Two words stand out there: organized crime. She hears them, all right, but she doesn’t back off. ‘I’ll pass that on.’

As she leaves the kitchen, wineglass replenished, I say, very casually, ‘Can I just ask, do you have plans for Tuesday evening? New Year’s Eve?’

She rotates, glowering. ‘Are you serious? What d’you have in mind? Dinner and a romantic stroll along the river to watch the fireworks? Or do you mean you want me out of the way so you can party with your new love?’

I aim for an expression of polite neutrality. ‘I just told Dad I might be free.’

In her face there is dismay, then righteous satisfaction. ‘You’ll have to go to him, then, because I’m staying in and I can’t face socializing. I’m sure you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.’

‘Of course. Sorry.’ But my apology, like all the others, is profitless. Too little too late.

33

30 December 2019

Monday morning arrives as a blessed fucking relief, frankly, with Clare and me both due at work and indecently keen to get there. She leaves just before seven and her mug is still warm from her coffee when the doorbell rings.

To my great consternation, DC Merchison stands on the step, legs planted apart, ID brandished, as if I don’t already know who he is. He’s clean-shaven, smart in a blazer and what looks like a cashmere sweater. A Christmas present, no doubt.