Our House by Louise Candlish (16)

16

‘Fi’s Story’ > 01:01:36

Have I considered alternative theories about Bram’s disappearance? Believe me, I’ve considered everything. Even the police acknowledge that his continued absence might be owing to circumstances unrelated to the house fraud, that he might never have got as far as being a fugitive from the law. He might have been killed in a brawl and his body hidden, or he might have gone on a drinking binge and fallen into the river – you wouldn’t last five minutes in the Thames in January temperatures. We’re talking about someone with a volatile temperament here; we’re talking about a heavy drinker.

I know it sounds awful, but when the police ask me what Bram was like, really like, what made him tick, the first thing I think of is the boozing. I don’t remember a day when he didn’t drink. Mind you, that didn’t make him unique on Trinity Avenue. There were men – and women – who would come home from work and within an hour have inhaled a bottle of wine. I used to think it was pure luck that their fix of choice happened to be a socially acceptable one, but then I realized it was their fix of choice because it was socially acceptable.

(I say ‘their’ but I mean ‘our’: it’s not like I’m teetotal myself.)

One of Bram’s little quirks was that he disliked lime; he joked that it was an allergy and that this was where Leo got his allergies from, but in fact it was to do with some epic tequila session when he was a student. He mocked alcohol-free lager, he mocked Dry January, he mocked mocktails; he mocked anything that didn’t have alcohol in it.

I realize I’m using the past tense, which I shouldn’t do. But you see why I’m so certain that if he is dead then he won’t have died sober?

*

I know now that September was a significant time for Bram and his misdemeanours, but my own crime-related concerns during this period were about the wave of incidents that had suddenly swept Trinity Avenue.

First, one of the tenants in the flats on the corner of Wyndham Gardens returned from holiday to discover his place ransacked by people renting it in his absence through some Airbnb-type website. Though avid in our interest, we all agreed he probably shouldn’t have been subletting in the first place.

Deeper sympathies were extended to Matt and Kirsty Roper soon after when they were burgled in broad daylight. Kirsty was one of us, hers a misfortune we could get on board with: a side gate left on the latch while the family nipped out to the garden centre; the alarm not activated (they were only going to be gone twenty minutes); a Stonehenge of laptops and other devices left enticingly on the kitchen table; a barking spaniel that the neighbours had been trained to ignore – it was a perfect storm of elements that might have broken over any of us.

‘The police think he must have been watching the house,’ Kirsty told us. ‘In a way, that’s the most upsetting bit.’

Gripped by the drama, her son Ben, Merle’s Robbie and my Leo formed a detective society, meeting in our playhouse to hypothesize. I delivered biscuits and juice to them, at no time pointing out that their meeting place had itself once been the scene of a crime of sorts.

There was no news of the culprits being caught and soon Kirsty reported that the police had decided not to investigate. ‘They haven’t got the manpower. They have to prioritize real crimes.’

‘Burglary isn’t considered a real crime?’ I said.

‘You know what she means,’ Alison said. ‘Murder. Assault. Rape. The kidnapping of our infants. The kind of thing that gets on Crimewatch or The Victim.’

Though I did know what she meant, I personally thought breaking and entering a most unsettling violation. The idea of criminals soft-footing around my house, touching the boys’ possessions, seeing how we shared our lives (or didn’t, in the case of Bram’s and my separate bedrooms): it was not so much an invasion of privacy as of the soul.

Bram, Word document

If I can just keep my job, I thought, riding the lift up to the HR department on Monday morning and thinking it couldn’t climb high enough as far as I was concerned, that I’d happily stay in that little mirrored box for hours, days, perpetually between places, between problems. If I can somehow keep all of this a secret from Fi. If those poor people in the car pull through and the police close their investigation owing to lack of evidence, then I’ll never sin again. I’ll become a missionary, I’ll be celibate, I’ll—

‘Bram?’ Saskia said.

I started. I hadn’t noticed that I’d exited the lift, navigated the corridor, reached her desk.

‘Did you want me?’ she prompted, with an impressive game face. She wondered perhaps if I was a simpleton, employed here on some minorities quota.

‘Yes, sorry. I’ve got your contract,’ I said.

‘It’s your contract, but thank you.’ She gave me a small smile as she took it from me, prim but pleased.

I cleared my throat, reached for the prepared lines. ‘As you’ll see, there’s some personal information I’ve disclosed and I wanted to chat to you about it face to face. Can we . . .?’

‘Of course.’ Professionalism not quite veiling human curiosity, she led me from the open-plan area into a nearby meeting room and discreetly pushed shut the door. We sat opposite each other, the contract and Saskia’s notebook on the table between us. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Well, it’s the bit about motoring convictions . . . The thing is, Saskia, I’ve received a driving ban.’

Received: it didn’t seem like the right word, you received an award or praise, something desirable, whereas this was something so undesirable that the person I was saying it to was compelled to take written notes.

‘I see. Well, given your sales role, that could be problematic. When did this happen?’ she asked.

‘In February.’ The truth.

‘February? That’s seven months ago!’

‘I know and I’m really sorry I didn’t declare it straight away. To be completely honest, I haven’t even told my wife yet. I’ve been covering up the fact that I’ve not been able to drive.’ Perhaps it was the relief of the thing, or simply the intimate dimensions of the room, the comfort of her body heat, but I began to get more confessional than I’d planned. ‘There was this one time, it was awful. She was at the window of our house, expecting me to go off somewhere in the car and I unlocked the door, got in the driver’s seat, just sat there pretending to fiddle with the heating, until she moved away. Then I got out and caught the bus.’

Actually, this was not such a bad thing to confess; it was the sort of story you might remember if called to testify in a court of law. (‘Was it your understanding that Mr Lawson had continued to drive?’ ‘No. But I do know he was pretending to to his wife.’)

I swallowed. ‘I was like one of those blokes who’s been made redundant but keeps putting on his shirt and tie and leaving the house every morning to go to work.’

This addition was more regrettable: it might give her ideas.

‘Oh.’ Saskia blinked and I saw that her lashes were weighted with mascara. It took a moment because my sensibilities were rerouted, but the signs were there for me to read: that lavish eye makeup, the snugly fitting shirt with the pendant signalling the entry point to the hidden cleavage; poking from under the table, heels an inch higher than was comfortable. Not inappropriate, but with a defiant message for those who cared to receive it: I’m a professional, but no less female for it. No less single.

‘I should say my ex-wife,’ I said, surer of myself now. ‘Not that there’s any reason you should know, but we’ve split up. It’s all been a bit of a nightmare and I suppose . . . I suppose I just didn’t need there to be yet another thing I’ve done wrong.’

It was quite a betrayal to imply that Fi had been unjustly on my case, when she’d in fact been more generous than any cheated wife I’d ever heard of, but needs must and to my relief Saskia was regarding me with the beginnings of compassion.

‘Sounds like you’ve got yourself into a bit of a tangle. I’ll have to check the files, but you don’t have a company car, do you?’

‘No, I use my own.’

This was the one pinprick of sunlight in my stormy sky: when I’d joined the firm I’d opted out of the standard sales perk in favour of the cash alternative. The Audi was privately owned and registered to Fi and me at Trinity Avenue; if the police came calling, they would have no need to involve my employers.

‘Used,’ I corrected myself. ‘Obviously I’ve made no claims for fuel since February.’ I’d taken the hit myself, paid for petrol in cash so Fi wouldn’t question any debits from our joint account.

‘How have you been getting to your appointments? You can claim for train travel and taxis, you know, assuming Neil signs them off. Or has he arranged a driver for you?’

I said nothing and she smothered a grimace.

‘You have told him, Bram, haven’t you?’

‘No. You’re the first person I’ve told.’ I could feel myself doing it, giving her the look that said, you’re the first because you’re special. I let the moment extend, glanced very briefly at the pendant on her breastbone. Borderline sexual harassment of an HR executive of all people was insanity by most people’s standards, but mine no longer bore any relation to most people’s.

‘You’ll need to tell him,’ she said, finally. ‘Would you like me to be present?’

‘No, I’ll be okay. He’s not in today, so I’ll do it tomorrow.’

Having finished her notes, Saskia carefully placed pen on notepad. ‘It’s at his discretion whether this will have an impact on your future here. Sales roles do require you to have a current driver’s licence.’

‘I know.’ I sighed. Another look, this more lingering than the first. ‘But I’m glad I’ve come clean.’

I kept using that term, both in speech and in my mind. It was starting to feel disingenuous.

‘Fi’s Story’ > 01:05:34

It was only days after the Ropers’ burglary that another Trinity Avenue resident, an older woman who’d been recently widowed, was the victim of a scam worrying enough for Merle to get straight on the phone and arrange for a community police officer to come and talk to us – and for me to phone Bram at work. ‘Did you hear what happened to Carys?’

‘Who?’ he said.

‘You know, the lady at number sixty-five? Teaches piano? She was ordering a new bank card and her call to the bank was intercepted by scammers. They phoned her back and got her to divulge her pin and then they sent a courier to her house to pick up her old card. By the time she realized, they’d almost emptied her account. Thousands, apparently.’

There was a delay before he spoke. ‘Banks never send couriers to pick up old cards.’

‘We know that, yes. It just shows how convincing they must have been. Alison says even the couriers don’t know they’re in on a scam – they’ve just been booked for a regular job. Poor Carys was distraught. I’ve already phoned Mum and Dad about it and you should tell your mum as well.’

Another pause, then, ‘Why?’

He was beginning to frustrate me. ‘Because these fraudsters obviously prey on older people! You know, they’re more trusting than we are, not so confident to challenge a change in procedure.’

‘Right.’

I frowned to myself. ‘You don’t seem very interested in this, Bram. I think we all need to be really vigilant if criminals are operating in Alder Rise.’

He gave a weary sigh. ‘Come on, Fi, Carys was just a bit gullible. Everyone knows you never give pin numbers or passwords over the phone. Let’s not get carried away.’

I felt a surge of indignation. Though he’d never been community-spirited (except in the alcoholic sense), I’d always felt certain of his respect for my efforts, but the way he was dismissing poor Carys’s ordeal was flippant, almost arrogant. ‘This kind of crime is on the rise, apparently. We got a booklet from the police.’

‘The police have been round?’ He sounded startled.

‘No, it came through the door. It tells you about all the current scams, how they work, how you can protect yourself.’

‘Sounds more like a catalogue to me. If we didn’t know how to rip off our neighbours before, we will now.’

‘Bram!’ It was a while since he’d been obstructive like this. Since our new arrangements had begun, he’d been, as I’d told Polly, meekly obliging. ‘How can you make a joke of this? The victims are our neighbours, ordinary hard-working people like us.’

‘Sorry, I’m a bit distracted, just waiting to go into a meeting with Neil. Of course we must all be vigilant. We could be in the grip of some Ukrainian crime ring. Or Nigerian. I don’t know who our underworld enemies are these days.’

I’d had enough of this. I had work to do myself. ‘Anyway, the reason I’m calling is there’s a meeting with a community officer tomorrow evening at eight so I wondered if you could stay a bit late with the boys while I go along?’

‘Sure.’

I ended the call. He was preoccupied, that was obvious, and I presumed there was something going on in his private life. Maybe I thought I’d even have a casual look around the flat on Friday evening for signs of female habitation. I certainly wasn’t going to ask him outright because that way lay the fraught waters of emotional complication, maybe even the temptation to swim back downstream.

Yes, of course I wish I’d asked. I wish I’d demanded to know.

Bram, Word document

‘Jesus Christ, Bram,’ Neil barked, ‘how the fuck did that happen?’

I readjusted, pulled the hangdog face he was expecting, not the haunted contortion I’d seen reflected in the glass wall of his office moments earlier.

‘Was it in one of those new twenty-mile-an-hour zones? I thought they weren’t enforceable yet?’

‘No, it was out of town, mostly.’

‘ “Mostly”? There speaks a serial offender.’

His response bordered on admiration, which reminded me of something the instructor had said on my speed awareness course: ‘Would you be so quick to tell your mates if you’d been caught drunk-driving instead of speeding? No? And yet they’re equally life threatening.’ And she’d caught my eye, mine especially.

‘So what’s it been like, not driving?’ he said.

‘You get used to it – it’s already been a while. I’m really sorry for not saying anything sooner, mate. What I need to know is, is it going to be a problem? Work-wise?’

‘Technically, yes, a big problem. But since it’s you . . .’ As improperly as Saskia had been proper, Neil now laughed. ‘You muppet. We’ll just get one of the interns to drive you around. Till when?’

‘The middle of February. That would be great, Neil, thank you. Just on the days when the routes between calls are a bit awkward. I’m happy getting the train to and from home.’

‘Happy? You’re kidding, right? I wouldn’t get on one of those commuter trains if you paid me. I’d rather rollerskate in.’

‘They’re a nightmare,’ I agreed. ‘Constantly delayed. I was almost late for the conference last week.’

Another seed scattered, but I needn’t have bothered because he was too busy singing the lyrics to ‘Breaking the Law’ to notice. I had never been more grateful to have such a clown as my direct superior. There weren’t enough David Brents left in the working world.

‘Five points if you can name the band,’ he challenged me.

‘AC/DC?’

‘Judas Priest.’ He was pleased with the victory. ‘What did Fee Fi Fo Fum say, then? About the ban?’

He’d met her several times: family parties, dinners with his wife Rebecca, birthday drinks in the Two Brewers. Once, when Fi was a bit stressed, she’d found us smoking and hissed at me like I was some juvenile offender. I’d seen the look of shame on Neil’s face before it rearranged itself into laughter.

‘I haven’t told her yet,’ I said.

He whistled. ‘Well, good luck with that. I’m guessing it’s going to affect your new henhouse arrangements, is it?’

‘Not henhouse. Bird’s nest.’

‘Sorry, bird’s nest. Clipped your wings a bit, I would have thought.’ He cackled, never more amused than by himself. ‘They’ll grow back. You know she’s been in touch with Rebecca? Rallying the sisterhood. She sent her the link to that podcast and now they tweet together when they listen. What’s it called again?’

‘The Victim?’

‘That’s the one.’

The Victim was a cheap, sensationalist bit of entertainment with which Fi and her crowd had developed an obsession. Every episode, a new victim – invariably female – gave her unvarnished account of some terrible injustice, safe in the knowledge that there was to be no opposing argument, no investigative reporting, nothing that might contradict her version of events. Instead, listeners were invited to draw their own conclusions. ‘There but for the grace of God go I,’ Fi said by way of explanation (she liked to listen to it while ironing the boys’ school uniforms).

‘Goes on for hours,’ Neil said. ‘Just one woman slagging off some man. It’s never woman-on-woman, is it? And what if it’s not true, just someone venting? Doesn’t that make it slander?’

‘Hmm, yeah,’ I said, no longer really listening. Why was there no further news about my victims? How long could people remain unconscious before their chances of recovery faded? Was it less disastrous for me for the mother and child to die, removing any risk of their identifying me, or to recover and reduce the severity of the criminal charges brought against me if I was identified? (Assuming the driver of the Toyota hadn’t made a report – and if he hadn’t already then surely he must have decided not to at all.)

Scrub that, I know how it sounds. I wanted them to live, of course I wanted them to live. If I thought my life was somehow worth more than theirs, I wouldn’t be writing this now; I’d be somewhere far-flung, beyond extradition.

Lost in some savage place where only the damned take their pleasures.

‘Fi’s Story’ > 01:09:04

To my surprise, when I returned from the community meeting at Merle’s on the Wednesday evening, Bram was standing in the front garden under the dripping magnolia. There was a large rain puddle on the paving stones and he seemed oblivious to the fact that one of his feet had sunk into it.

‘Why are you out here in the dark? Keeping a lookout for burglars? I don’t think we’re in any danger with a police officer still on the premises two doors down.’ I noticed he was smoking, which answered my question for me.

‘Meeting go okay?’ he said.

‘Yes, really good. They gave us these special pens with forensic fluid to mark all our valuables, so if they’re stolen and get recovered, they can be returned to us. I’ll get the boys to do it, they’ll enjoy that. And we’re going to get new signs that say “Criminals Beware: this is a policed neighbourhood”, or something like that.’

‘Sounds useful.’ His tone was mechanical.

‘I didn’t know you were smoking again.’

He didn’t answer, which was fair enough; I had no jurisdiction over him now and in any case he’d stepped outside. The boys were upstairs in bed, their lungs safe.

‘Thanks for staying late. Are you coming in?’

‘No, I’ll just finish this and then go.’ He startled at the sound of Merle and some of the other neighbours coming from the house to say their farewells to the police officer at the gate.

‘You look a bit uneasy,’ I said. ‘Guilty conscience?’ As our eyes locked, I kept my expression free of challenge. ‘Your teenage brush with the law, I mean. What else?’

His face flickered with some emotion I couldn’t track. ‘Oh. Right.’

It was sly to bring this up, a schoolboy conviction for cannabis possession almost thirty years ago. He’d been unlucky to have just had his eighteenth birthday and qualified for adult prosecution.

He looked away, ground out the cigarette and kicked it into the deepest part of the puddle as if expunging all evidence of it. Of course, I interpreted that as symbolic of a desire to expunge far greater transgressions than a sneaky smoke.

‘I’ll head off then,’ he said. He really did look wretched.

Don’t waver, I told myself. Remember the playhouse. He didn’t stop to think how wretched that would be for you, did he?

I noticed he took a left at our gate, not the right that would have taken him in the footsteps of the police officer and the most direct route to the Parade and the park, but I didn’t dwell on why.