LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Four

      Okay, so the first on my list would be Dan. I wouldn’t ever say that he was like a father to me: he came onto the scene when I was hitting my twenties. Although Dad had upped sticks and remarried by then, we stayed in touch, and he did his paternal duties to the best of his ability. There was no gaping hole there and I had no desire for another father figure. Thankfully Dan didn’t attempt to patronise me by insinuating himself into my life. That’s not to suggest there was conflict there – although we enjoyed a good debate, holding opposing views on many issues, it rarely strayed towards heat. We gradually learnt that we shared several traits: an unfashionable respect for the Beckhams, a crossover in early punk CD compilations, a distrust of online shopping and, of course, we both loved my mum, Rosamund.

      I couldn’t understand where he had disappeared off to?

      It was so unlike him.

      But I was going to sort it. I was determined. After I left Mercurial I drove over to Leigh.

      Dan’s flat was on the third floor of a large 1920s block with stunning views over the Thames Estuary to Kent and beyond. It wasn’t massive: two large bedrooms, a contemporary kitchen/diner and a lounge with a balcony just big enough to squeeze on a round table and two small chairs, three at a push if I happened to pop in. The first time I visited I was impressed by the minimalist interior. Later I discovered his style was a product of divorce and OCD, rather than fashion statement.

      Over the past few years he’d chosen his furniture carefully, with an eye on simple classic design, and as a consequence his flat had a groovy, contemporary vibe that was quite charming.

      That afternoon though, I was surprised by what I found. Not that there was anything immediately concerning, well not anything I could put my finger on straight away. In the kitchen Dan’s laptop sat on the work surface half open. It wasn’t plugged in and the battery was flat. Next to it was a three-quarters full, stone-cold cup of coffee with a thick skin on the top.

      It wasn’t like Dan not to clean up after himself.

      I crossed the kitchen and entered the lounge. The TV was on, volume way down low. Perhaps he had returned and gone out?

      Maybe he was here? Asleep in his room? The bedroom came off a central hallway. As I pushed it open, I tentatively called out his name.

      I felt intrusive entering his bedroom, but once I was assured no sounds of life came from within, I opened the door wide.

      His bedroom was in a state of mild disarray. But I mean, mild. In my place it would be considered tidy; the duvet was jumbled up loosely in a mound at the end of the bed. Some of the drawers from the large mahogany chest had been pulled out and not pushed back in.

      So, although it was more chaotic than Dan liked, it didn’t resemble a robbery. The laptop was in full view and the plasma TV that hung on the wall hadn’t been touched.

      Perhaps he’d been searching for something. Or packed in a hurry.

      But it just didn’t feel right.

      Like most recovering depressives, since Dan had learnt to control his moods, everything else under his rule was managed efficiently and tightly too. He was as likely to leave this mess as he was to miss an appointment with his doctor. Or with my mother, for that matter.

      Could an old infirm relative have needed him? Family crisis?

      Then why not let Mum know?

      Why not send a message at least? It was selfish not to.

      Anger tightened my brow.

      Remembering Sally’s request, I stomped into the bathroom. A quick scan revealed an unusually tousled cabinet. At the back, on the bottom shelf, there were two bottles of Dan’s regular medication. I stuck one in my bag and closed the bathroom door.

      I felt odd leaving the place all messed up like that, so I nipped into the kitchen, closed the laptop, stowed it away under the sink and washed up the mug.

      As I was locking up on the landing the neighbour’s front door opened a few inches.

      ‘Who’s that?’ The voice belonged to an old, well-spoken woman. Through the crack I could vaguely make out sleek white hair, and elegantly bespectacled blue eyes.

      ‘I’m Sadie, Rosamund’s daughter.’

      The door trembled then opened to the length of the

       security chain.

      The smell of grilling bacon wafted out into the hall.

      Dan’s neighbour squinted through the gap. ‘Where’s your mother?’

      I gave her a taut explanation and the blue eyes softened a little. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

      ‘Thank you,’ I said. Standard response.

      The woman regarded me with what I assumed was pity, then she sniffed and lowered her head and said, ‘I’ve heard things, you know.’

      Most of us tend to gloss over non sequiturs like this but as a journalist, when people come out with lines like that, I’m always straight in there, probing. You usually find they’re spoken in unguarded moments – when the conscious, or the conscience, is struggling with the subconscious mind, and not guarding the ‘truth lobe’.

      ‘What things? Do you know where Dan’s gone, Mrs … Sorry, I don’t know your name?’

      I held out my hand and took a step towards her. It completely backfired. The woman took a step back and her door slammed shut.

      I

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