Tom Leonard has been found.

That little voice has been niggling at me for days, saying the only place he’d be discovered was in a ditch because I’d killed him. But that’s not true. He wasn’t found in a ditch and he’s not dead. The police force for the area has posted a short article saying that he is ‘safe and well’ and ‘reunited with his family’.

At least it wasn’t his blood that was on my bonnet. I keep searching for his name and find that a few news sites have covered the update, more or less verbatim from the police release.

The replies are predictably vicious.

‘Wot a waste of taxpayer money.’

‘If the tossers gonna kill himself why dont he just do it?’

And so on.

There are a couple of replies along the lines of, ‘So glad he’s safe’ – but they’re the minority.

I’m on the work computer, shielded from view because of the dividers between the desks. I check over my shoulder anyway and then log in to Facebook. There was a time when it had been blocked from our network – but the lads on the other side of the office complained that some of the companies with whom they were dealing had Facebook pages they needed to access. It sounded suspiciously like nonsense – but Graham went for it and unblocked all social media.

I find Olivia’s page and scroll through her recent posts. It’s only recently that she accepted my friend request, for which I don’t really blame her. When I was her age, the last thing I’d have wanted was my mother checking up on me.

She has more than five hundred friends, which always surprises me because it’s rare she mentions anyone other than Tyler. I keep scrolling and clicking until I find the page she’s set up for Find Tyler.

The truth is, I rarely post on Facebook and predominantly use it to spy on other people. I feel a bit better about myself when I can see that someone down the road, or an old school acquaintance, is in the middle of self-inflicted drama. There’s someone named Julie who lives a couple of streets over. We met at the swimming pool one time and had a coffee. That’s enough to become friends online. Her daughter was only fifteen when she got pregnant and I couldn’t help but think that at least things weren’t that bad with Olivia. It’s reassuring that there is always someone in a shoddier situation than me; that I’m not the worst parent out there.

I’d never admit to that, of course.

There is a downside of living vicariously through others, though – and that’s when somebody’s clearly having a better time. Of course, some are smart enough to make it look as if every day is better than the last. It’s the game Natasha plays with the endless selfies and pictures of nights out and celebrations. From the outside, her life is never-ending joy but even I’ve heard her arguing with people on the phone. Nobody’s life is that perfect. I know that – but I still feel that twinge of envy when I see photos of some friend who’s off in the south of France, or living it up in some American diner. I’d love to see the emerald lakes of Canada, or spend weeks drinking by a pool in the Med. Dan and I have had holidays, of course, but, because of his teaching job, everything is planned with meticulous monotony. Never anything during term time; never anywhere he might run into a student. He prefers quiet, modest affairs. Perhaps I did, too, at one point. I suppose that if a life is spent comparing it to others’, there will only ever be one winner.

The Find Tyler page has fifty-one members and the only major posts have been left by Olivia. The most recent one from this morning is a slight rewording of the one before. Olivia says that Tyler was last seen on our road at a little after nine o’clock on Saturday night. She lists a few places that he hangs around and asks if anyone’s seen him. There’s a photo of him that I’ve never seen before. It’s striking because he’s so… well… attractive. He’s in a park, wearing skinny jeans, no top and a leather jacket. His skin is pasty – but he is British, after all. He’s staring into the distance like a model in a catalogue or a rock star on an album cover. I find myself staring, wondering how the young man with the filthy black hair and no job can be the same person.

I scroll to the comments and immediately wish I hadn’t. The very first one reads, ‘I hope he’s dead’. The name is ‘John Smith’, but when I click his profile, there are no other details. I assume he’s one of the trolls who leave offensive remarks on memorial pages for dead kids or fundraising pages for someone with cancer. There’s always someone who can’t help themselves – and I know Olivia will see it sooner or later.

After hunting through the page for a couple of minutes, it’s clear that nobody’s admitting to knowing very much and all the work has been done by Olivia.

There isn’t much else to see so, through habit, I have a quick look at Natasha’s page. She went for a jog this morning. #winning #crushedit

Having wasted a decent chunk of time, I get back to work. There’s been no enquiry from Declan, let alone an offer, so I send him the standard email asking if there’s anything else I can help with.

There’s still nothing from Luke, either. After getting me out to the hotel for no apparent reason, it seems pretty clear he, or I suppose she, never existed. It’s all a bit odd. I wonder if it was a rival from another company trying to waste my time – or, of course, a rival from the other side of the desk.

#cow

Other than that, things are picking up. One of my clients has renewed for a further two years and they seem happy to pay an increased fee. I’ve even received an email thanking me for providing such good assistance over the past twelve months.

I forward the invoice request onto Graham and there’s a moment where it feels as if the cloud is lifting. The memory of that field is fading, Tom Leonard is safe and well, Olivia and I are getting on, the separation is finally going to happen. As awful as it sounds, I always feel better in the days after the anniversary of Wayne’s death. After visiting his grave each year, it feels like a new start – even more so this year.

There is a worry about Jason, though. The fact he seems to be stalking the house is bad enough – but there was something about the way he said ‘people get what they deserve’ that left me cold. Was he talking about himself? Someone else?

Me?

He was released from prison a little over a week ago and it’s only since then that odd things have been happening. He could have got hold of the key for our house via Ellie and let himself in. Perhaps he smashed the window as a diversion in case someone noticed things had been moved around? Perhaps something is missing – but we haven’t noticed yet?

He might’ve found out I was staying in the hotel and then…

I remember his ankle tag. He has to stay at Ellie’s overnight and I presume there’s some sort of monitoring to make sure that happens.

It doesn’t make sense – but then little of what’s happened in the previous few days does. How did I end up in that field? Was I drunk? Did I drive drunk? I’ve never done that. Never, ever. I wouldn’t. Not after what happened to Wayne.

And then there’s Tyler, whom I keep forgetting. My daughter’s boyfriend who’s been missing for five days.

I spend the rest of the afternoon following up an overdue payment, chasing down a new lead and then arranging an appointment for next week. I also help Claire pick a hotel for a conference she’s attending next month.

It doesn’t sound like much – and I suppose it isn’t – but this is the reality of my day-to-day job. This normality feels good.

My journey home is mercifully uneventful. There is no blue car following and, even if there had have been, there’s a calmness that I’ve not felt for days. It feels like a different person who overreacted and raced along those country roads.

It’s when I park in the garage and the door closes behind me that the apprehension starts to creep into my stomach once more. When I get into the house, I call out Olivia’s name but there’s no reply. I even shout for Dan, despite knowing he has a parents’ evening. The house is empty but it’s hard to forget walking in through the double doors and sensing that something wasn’t quite right.

I check the back door but there’s no glass on the floor this time. After that, I make a point of putting my work pass, car keys and house keys in the drawer of miscellaneous things. After closing the drawer, I reopen it to double-check they’re still there.

All is well.

Then the doorbell sounds.

I’m nervous at first, assuming it’s Frank back to start shouting again. There’s no Dan this time, and I can’t be lucky enough to have Jason walking past a second time – unless he really is stalking the house.

I edge towards the hall, wondering if I could get away with pretending there’s nobody in. The garage doors shield my car and there’s no reason to assume the house is occupied. I slip along the hallway wall until I’m close enough to the peephole.

It’s not Frank – it’s Mr Rawley from across the road. Mr Curtain-Twitcher. I open the door but not too far. Don’t want him to think there’s an open invitation.

We exchange a few niceties – the weather’s getting cold, his grandkids are growing fast, the usual – and then it’s on to business.

‘I was just making sure everything was all right after…’

He tails away but I’m not letting him off that easily. Whatever I say will be halfway around the town before I’ve closed the front door.

‘After what…?’ I reply.

‘After, um…’ he swirls a hand. ‘After this morning.’

‘This morning…?’

Even if I do say so myself, I’m doing an amazing job of appearing clueless.

‘The, erm, incident on your driveway…’

‘Ohhhhh, right… I didn’t know you’d noticed anything.’

He squirms awkwardly on the spot, which is perhaps a little harsh. I’m bad enough at living through other people but he’s in his seventies. If it wasn’t for the neighbourhood watch programme and a bit of day-to-day gossip, he’d not have much going. This will be his highlight of the month.

‘It was a bit a loud,’ he replies. ‘I was about to call the police.’ He hesitates and then jumps back in: ‘On your behalf, of course. Didn’t want things getting out of hand.’

‘No, you’re right. Thanks for keeping an eye out. Good job it didn’t come to that.’

‘Your man seemed very angry.’

‘He’s not my man but, well… yes. Sorry about the noise. I hope it didn’t wake you. If it’s any consolation, he did wake me.’

Mr Rawley says he’s up at half past five every morning – ‘have been since 1973’, he adds, without specifying what happened in the year that made him start getting up so early.

I put a hand on the door, signalling that the conversation might be over, when Mr Rawley takes a half-step forward: ‘So, um… who was he?’

Things are awkward now. I don’t particularly want everyone on the street gossiping about me and, more importantly, about Olivia. But I also don’t want to fall out with the bloke across the road. He’s a nice man, even if his life is a little empty.

Whenever I’m asked that clichéd survey question, ‘What’s your greatest fear?’ I always reply ‘spiders’, simply because it sounds good. In truth, I don’t particularly mind spiders, nor any creepy-crawlies. My greatest fear is what’s in front of me right now. It’s growing old and lonely. It’s being ill and having no one who cares. It’s waking up in the morning and not knowing what to do with myself.

‘My daughter’s boyfriend is missing,’ I reply. ‘That was his father. He’s upset about his son, obviously – and he was wondering if we knew anything.’

‘Oh… well that’s a turn-up.’

At first I think he says ‘turnip’ and it takes me a second or two to figure it out.

He continues: ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Probably not. Her boyfriend’s name is Tyler. The last place he was seen was on our road on Saturday night. Sometime around nine o’clock. He’s got longish black hair and is usually wearing a leather jacket.’

‘Oh… him. I’ve seen him around a few times with your Olivia.’

‘Did you see anything on Saturday?’

Mr Rawley pouts out a bottom lip and glances upwards. ‘I don’t think so… I can ask around some of the neighbours if you want. Perhaps help put up a few posters…?’

I wonder why I never thought of that. Olivia’s grown up in the digital age. Her first thought is always going to be social media and the internet – but knocking on a few doors on the street should have been the first thing to do.

‘That’s really kind of you,’ I say. ‘I think I’ll do that with Olivia, though.’

‘Of course. Is there anything else I can do?’

I’m about to say ‘no’ when another thing that should have been obvious occurs to me.

‘Someone broke a window at the back of our house on Tuesday,’ I reply. ‘It might have been nothing but I was wondering if you saw anyone hanging around…?’

Mr Rawley scratches his head, as if the movement of his fingers might nudge the grey cells along. ‘Tuesday,’ he mutters to himself. ‘Tuesday… Tuesday…’

‘It would have been between about midday and six.’

I’m half expecting him to bring up Jason – the bloke in the military jacket – but he starts to shake his head.

‘Tuesday’s the day that I’m at bridge in the afternoon.’

‘Right.’

‘I did see your Dan on the way out, though.’

I’ve almost started to close the door when this stops me still. ‘You saw Dan on Tuesday?’

‘Right. I was getting into my car to head to bridge club. I waved but I don’t think he saw me.’

‘This was in the morning…?’

A shake of the head: ‘Lunchtime.’ He clearly sees the confusion in my face, adding: ‘Everything’s all right, isn’t it?’

‘Of course, yes.’

‘He was doing his running – with all the tight clothes and that. I don’t know how he does it.’

‘He’s marathon training,’ I reply.

Mr Rawley starts to back away as he looks at his watch. He mentions something about ‘having to get back’ and then we go through the motions of saying goodbye. It’s never simple. I tell him to say hi to his children for me; he says he’ll ask around about Tyler ‘just in case’. We each hope the other has a good evening. He reminds me it’s supposed to be cold tomorrow – and finally, mercifully, that’s that.

I close the door and then press back against it, trying to remember precisely what happened on Tuesday. It takes a moment for the memory to come – but I know I’m right. After he’d noticed the broken glass on the floor, I asked Dan if he’d been home for lunch. He specifically said he didn’t leave school until after five.

Why would he lie?