Girl on the Train Page 12

  doors locked. I’ll give her a ring and find out what she’s up to.”

  “I think we should call the police.”

  “And say what? She hasn’t actually done anything—”

  “She hasn’t done anything lately—unless you count the fact that she was here the night Megan Hipwell disappeared,” I said. “We should have told the police about her ages ago.”

  “Anna, come on.” He slipped his arms around my waist. “I hardly think Rachel has anything to do with Megan Hipwell’s going missing. But I’ll talk to her, OK?”

  “But you said after last time—”

  “I know,” he said softly. “I know what I said.” He kissed me, slipped his hand into the waistband of my jeans. “Let’s not get the police involved unless we really need to.”

  I think we do need to. I can’t stop thinking about that smile she gave us, that sneer. It was almost triumphant. We need to get away from here. We need to get away from her.

  RACHEL

  • • •

  TUESDAY, JULY 23, 2013

  MORNING

  It takes me a while to realize what I’m feeling when I wake. There’s a rush of elation, tempered with something else: a nameless dread. I know we’re close to finding the truth. I just can’t help feeling that the truth is going to be terrible.

  I sit up in bed and grab my laptop, turn it on and wait impatiently for it to boot up, then log on to the Internet. The whole process seems interminable. I can hear Cathy moving around the house, washing up her breakfast things, running upstairs to brush her teeth. She hovers for a few moments outside my door. I imagine her knuckles raised, ready to rap. She thinks better of it and runs back down the stairs.

  The BBC news page comes up. The headline is about benefit cuts, the second story about yet another 1970s television star accused of sexual indiscretions. Nothing about Megan; nothing about Kamal. I’m disappointed. I know that the police have twenty-four hours to charge a suspect, and they’ve had that now. In some circumstances, they can hold someone for an extra twelve hours, though.

  I know all this because I spent yesterday doing my research. After I was shown out of Scott’s house, I came back here, turned on the television and spent most of the day watching the news, reading articles online. Waiting.

  By midday, the police had named their suspect. On the news, they talked about “evidence discovered at Dr. Abdic’s home and in his car,” but they didn’t say what. Blood, perhaps? Her phone, as yet undiscovered? Clothes, a bag, her toothbrush? They kept showing pictures of Kamal, close-ups of his dark, handsome face. The picture they use isn’t a mug shot, it’s a candid shot: he’s on holiday somewhere, not quite smiling, but almost. He looks too soft, too beautiful to be a killer, but appearances can be deceptive—they say Ted Bundy looked like Cary Grant.

  I waited all day for more news, for the charges to be made public: kidnap, assault or worse. I waited to hear where she is, where he’s been keeping her. They showed pictures of Blenheim Road, the station, Scott’s front door. Commentators mused on the likely implications of the fact that neither Megan’s phone nor her bank cards had been used for more than a week.

  Tom called more than once. I didn’t pick up. I know what he wants. He wants to ask why I was at Scott Hipwell’s house yesterday morning. Let him wonder. It has nothing to do with him. Not everything is about him. I imagine he’s calling at her behest, in any case. I don’t owe her any explanations.

  I waited and waited, and still no charge; instead, we heard more about Kamal, the trusted mental health professional who listened to Megan’s secrets and troubles, who gained her trust and then abused it, who seduced her and then, who knows what?

  I learned that he is a Muslim, a Bosnian, a survivor of the Balkans conflict, who came to Britain as a fifteen-year-old refugee. No stranger to violence, he lost his father and two older brothers at Srebrenica. He has a conviction for domestic violence. The more I heard about Kamal, the more I knew that I was right: I was right to speak to the police about him, I was right to contact Scott.

  I get up and pull my dressing gown around me, hurry downstairs and flick on the TV. I have no intention of going anywhere today. If Cathy comes home unexpectedly, I can tell her I’m ill. I make myself a cup of coffee and sit down in front of the television, and I wait.

  EVENING

  I got bored around three o’clock. I got bored with hearing about benefits and seventies TV paedophiles, I got frustrated with hearing nothing about Megan, nothing about Kamal, so I went to the off-licence and bought two bottles of white wine.

  I’m almost at the bottom of the first bottle when it happens. There’s something else on the news now, shaky camera footage taken from a half-built (or half-destroyed) building, explosions in the distance. Syria, or Egypt, maybe Sudan? I’ve got the sound down, I’m not really paying attention. Then I see it: the ticker running across the bottom of the screen tells me that the government is facing a challenge to legal aid cuts and that Fernando Torres will be out for up to four weeks with a hamstring strain and that the suspect in the Megan Hipwell disappearance has been released without charge.

  I put my glass down and grab the remote, clicking the volume button up, up, up. This can’t be right. The war report continues, it goes on and on, my blood pressure rising with it, but eventually it ends and they go back to the studio and the newsreader says: “Kamal Abdic, the man arrested yesterday in connection with the disappearance of Megan Hipwell, has been released without charge. Abdic, who was Mrs. Hipwell’s therapist, was detained yesterday, but was released this morning because police say there is insufficient evidence to charge him.”

  I don’t hear what she says after that. I just sit there, my eyes blurring over, a wash of noise in my ears, thinking, They had him. They had him and they let him go.

  • • •

  Upstairs, later. I’ve had too much to drink, I can’t see the computer screen properly, everything doubles, trebles. I can read if I hold my hand over one eye. It gives me a headache. Cathy is home, she called out to me and I told her I was in bed, unwell. She knows that I’m drinking.

  My belly is awash with alcohol. I feel sick. I can’t think straight. Shouldn’t have started drinking so early. Shouldn’t have started drinking at all. I phoned Scott’s number an hour ago, again a few minutes ago. Shouldn’t have done that, either. I just want to know, what lies has Kamal told them? What lies have they been fool enough to believe? The police have messed the whole thing up. Idiots. That Riley woman, her fault. I’m sure of it.

  The newspapers haven’t helped. There was no domestic violence conviction, they’re saying now. That was a mistake. They’re making him look like the victim.

  Don’t want to drink anymore. I know that I should pour the rest down the sink, because otherwise it’ll be there in the morning and I’ll get up and drink it straightaway, and once I’ve started I’ll want to go on. I should pour it down the sink, but I know I’m not going to. Something to look forward to in the morning.

  It’s dark, and I can hear someone calling her name. A voice, low at first, but then louder. Angry, desperate, calling Megan’s name. It’s Scott—he’s unhappy with her. He calls her again and again. It’s a dream, I think. I keep trying to grasp at it, to hold on to it, but the harder I struggle, the fainter and the further away it gets.

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 24, 2013

  MORNING

  I’m woken by a soft tapping at the door. Rain batters against the windows; it’s after eight but still seems dark outside. Cathy pushes the door gently open and peers into the room.

  “Rachel? Are you all right?” She catches sight of the bottle next to my bed and her shoulders sag. “Oh, Rachel.” She comes across to my bed and picks up the bottle. I’m too embarrassed to say anything. “Are you not going into work?” she asks me. “Did you go yesterday?”

  She doesn’t wait for me to answer, just turns to go, calling back as she does, “You’ll end up getting yourself sacked if you carry on like this.”
>
  I should just say it now, she’s already angry with me. I should go after her and tell her: I was sacked months ago for turning up blind drunk after a three-hour lunch with a client during which I managed to be so rude and unprofessional that I cost the firm his business. When I close my eyes, I can still remember the tail end of that lunch, the look on the waitress’s face as she handed me my jacket, weaving into the office, people turning to look. Martin Miles taking me to one side. I think you should probably go home, Rachel.

  There is a crack of thunder, a flash of light. I jolt upright. What was it I thought of last night? I check my little black book, but I haven’t written anything down since midday yesterday: notes about Kamal—age, ethnicity, conviction for domestic violence. I pick up a pen and cross out that last point.

  Downstairs, I make myself a cup of coffee and turn on the TV. The police held a press conference last night, they’re showing clips from it on Sky News. Detective Inspector Gaskill’s up there, looking pale and gaunt and chastened. Hangdog. He never mentions Kamal’s name, just says that a suspect had been detained and questioned, but has been released without charge and that the investigation is ongoing. The cameras pan away from him to Scott, sitting hunched and uncomfortable, blinking in the light of the cameras, his face a twist of anguish. It hurts my heart to see him. He speaks softly, his eyes cast down. He says that he has not given up hope, that no matter what the police say, he still clings to the idea that Megan will come home.

  The words come out hollow, they ring false, but without looking into his eyes, I can’t tell why. I can’t tell whether he doesn’t really believe she’s coming home because all the faith he once possessed has been ripped away by the events of the past few days, or because he really knows that she’s never coming home.

  It comes to me, just then: the memory of calling his number yesterday. Once, twice? I run upstairs to get my phone and find it tangled up in the bedclothes. I have three missed calls: one from Tom and two from Scott. No messages. The call from Tom was last night, as was the first call from Scott, but later, just before midnight. The second call from him was this morning, just a few minutes ago.

  My heart lifts a little. This is good news. Despite his mother’s actions, despite their clear implications (Thank you very much for your help, now get lost), Scott still wants to talk to me. He needs me. I’m momentarily flooded with affection for Cathy, filled with gratitude to her for pouring the rest of the wine away. I have to keep a clear head, for Scott. He needs me thinking straight.

  I take a shower, get dressed and make another cup of coffee, and then I sit down in the living room, little black book at my side, and I call Scott.

  “You should have told me,” he says as soon as he picks up, “what you are.” His tone is flat, cold. My stomach is a small, hard ball. He knows. “Detective Riley spoke to me after they let him go. He denied having an affair with her. And the witness who suggested that there was something going on was unreliable, she said. An alcoholic. Possibly mentally unstable. She didn’t tell me the witness’s name, but I take it she was talking about you?”

  “But . . . no,” I say. “No. I’m not . . . I hadn’t been drinking when I saw them. It was eight thirty in the morning.” Like that means anything. “And they found evidence, it said so on the news. They found—”

  “Insufficient evidence.”

  The phone goes dead.

  FRIDAY, JULY 26, 2013

  MORNING

  I am no longer travelling to my imaginary office. I have given up the pretence. I can barely be bothered to get out of bed. I think I last brushed my teeth on Wednesday. I am still feigning illness, although I’m pretty sure I’m fooling no one.

  I can’t face getting up, getting dressed, getting onto the train, going into London, wandering the streets. It’s hard enough when the sun is shining, it’s impossible in this rain. Today is the third day of cold, driving, relentless downpour.

  I’m having trouble sleeping, and it’s not just the drinking now, it’s the nightmares. I’m trapped somewhere, and I know that someone’s coming, and there’s a way out, I know there is, I know that I saw it before, only I can’t find my way back to it, and when he does get me, I can’t scream. I try—I suck the air into my lungs and I force it out—but there’s no sound, just a rasping, like a dying person fighting for air.

  Sometimes, in my nightmares, I find myself in the underpass by Blenheim Road, the way back is blocked and I cannot go farther because there is something there, someone waiting, and I wake in pure terror.

  They’re never going to find her. Every day, every hour that passes I become more certain. She will be one of those names, hers will be one of those stories: lost, missing, body never found. And Scott will not have justice, or peace. He will never have a body to grieve over; he will never know what happened to her. There will be no closure, no resolution. I lie awake thinking about it and I ache. There can be no greater agony, nothing can be more painful than the not knowing, which will never end.

  I have written to him. I admitted my problem, then I lied again, saying that I had it under control, that I was seeking help. I told him that I am not mentally unstable. I no longer know whether that’s true or not. I told him that I was very clear about what I saw, and that I hadn’t been drinking when I saw it. That, at least, is true. He hasn’t replied. I didn’t expect him to. I am cut off from him, shut out. The things I want to say to him, I can never say. I can’t write them down, they don’t sound right. I want him to know how sorry I am that it wasn’t enough to point them in Kamal’s direction, to say, Look, there he is. I should have seen something. That Saturday night, I should have had my eyes open.

  EVENING

  I am soaked through, freezing cold, the ends of my fingers blanched and wrinkled, my head throbbing from a hangover that kicked in at about half past five. Which is about right, considering I started drinking before midday. I went out to get another bottle, but I was thwarted by the ATM, which gave me the much-anticipated riposte: There are insufficient funds in your account.

  After that, I started walking. I walked aimlessly for over an hour, through the driving rain. The pedestrianized centre of Ashbury was mine alone. I decided, somewhere along that walk, that I have to do something. I have to make amends for being insufficient.

  Now, sodden and almost sober, I’m going to call Tom. I don’t want to know what I did, what I said, that Saturday night, but I have to find out. It might jog something. For some reason, I am certain that there is something I’m missing, something vital. Perhaps this is just more self-deception, yet another attempt to prove to myself that I’m not worthless. But perhaps it’s real.

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of you since Monday,” Tom says when he answers the phone. “I called your office,” he adds, and he lets that sink in.

  I’m on the back foot already, embarrassed, ashamed. “I need to talk to you,” I say, “about Saturday night. That Saturday night.”

  “What are you talking about? I need to talk to you about Monday, Rachel. What the hell were you doing at Scott Hipwell’s house?”

  “That’s not important, Tom—”

  “Yes it bloody is. What were you doing there? You do realize, don’t you, that he could be . . . I mean, we don’t know, do we? He could have done something to her. Couldn’t he? To his wife.”

  “He hasn’t done anything to his wife,” I say confidently. “It isn’t him.”

  “How the hell would you know? Rachel, what is going on?”

  “I just . . . You have to believe me. That isn’t why I called you. I needed to talk to you about that Saturday. About the message you left me. You were so angry. You said I’d scared Anna.”

  “Well, you had. She saw you stumbling down the street, you shouted abuse at her. She was really freaked out, after what happened last time. With Evie.”

  “Did she . . . did she do something?”

  “Do something?”

  “To me?”

  “What?”

&nbs
p; “I had a cut, Tom. On my head. I was bleeding.”

  “Are you accusing Anna of hurting you?” He’s yelling now, he’s furious. “Seriously, Rachel. That is enough! I have persuaded Anna—on more than one occasion—not to go to the police about you, but if you carry on like this—harassing us, making up stories—”

  “I’m not accusing her of anything, Tom. I’m just trying to figure things out. I don’t—”

  “You don’t remember! Of course not. Rachel doesn’t remember.” He sighs wearily. “Look. Anna saw you—you were drunk and abusive. She came home to tell me, she was upset, so I went out to look for you. You were in the street. I think you might have fallen. You were very upset. You’d cut your hand.”

  “I hadn’t—”

  “Well, you had blood on your hand, then. I don’t know how it got there. I told you I’d take you home, but you wouldn’t listen. You were out of control, you were making no sense. You walked off and I went to get the car, but when I came back, you’d gone. I drove up past the station but I couldn’t see you. I drove around a bit more—Anna was very worried that you were hanging around somewhere, that you’d come back, that you’d try to get into the house. I was worried you’d fall, or get yourself into trouble . . . I drove all the way to Ashbury. I rang the bell, but you weren’t at home. I called you a couple of times. I left a message. And yes, I was angry. I was really pissed off by that point.”

  “I’m sorry, Tom,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”

  “I know,” he says. “You’re always sorry.”

  “You said that I shouted at Anna,” I say, cringing at the thought of it. “What did I say to her?”

  “I don’t know,” he snaps. “Would you like me to go and get her? Perhaps you’d like to have a chat with her about it?”

  “Tom . . .”

  “Well, honestly—what does it matter now?”

  “Did you see Megan Hipwell that night?”

  “No.” He sounds concerned now. “Why? Did you? You didn’t do something, did you?”

  “No, of course I didn’t.”

  He’s silent for a moment. “Well, why are you asking about this then? Rachel, if you know something . . .”

  “I don’t know anything,” I say. “I didn’t see anything.”

  “Why were you at the Hipwells’ house on Monday? Please tell me so that I can put Anna’s mind at ease. She’s worried.”

  “I had something to tell him. Something I thought might be useful.”

  “You didn’t see her, but you had something useful to tell him?”

  I hesitate for a moment. I’m not sure how much I should tell him, whether I should keep this just for Scott. “It’s about Megan,” I say. “She was having an affair.”

  “Wait—did you know her?”

  “Just a little,” I say.

  “How?”

  “From her gallery.”

  “Oh,” he says. “So who’s the guy?”

  “Her therapist,” I tell him. “Kamal Abdic. I saw them together.”

  “Really? The guy they arrested? I thought they’d let him go.”

  “They have. And it’s my fault, because I’m an unreliable witness.”

  Tom laughs. It’s soft, friendly, he isn’t mocking me. “Rachel, come on. You did the right thing, coming forward. I’m sure it’s not just about you.” In the background, I can hear the prattle of the child, and Tom says something away from the phone, something I can’t hear. “I should go,” he says. I can imagine him putting down the phone, picking up his little girl, giving her a kiss, embracing his wife. The dagger in my heart twists, round and round and round.

  MONDAY, JULY 29, 2013