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Ava’s body breaks slowly from his as she lets herself be turned, guided away. Matt hands her over, feeling like he’s abandoning her. But she is pregnant and she can’t be out here searching in the pouring rain.
He is about to take to his bike again but finds himself standing at the Lovegoods’ front door, peering into their wide, generous hallway. The house is so much bigger than his and Ava’s. From upstairs he can hear Neil chatting to the cop, who looked no older than eighteen.
Before he really knows what he’s doing, Matt is tiptoeing into the house. A moment later, he is staring through the glass window of their kitchen door. But in the work site there is nothing, only the typically neat display of Neil’s tools resting against the wall, his tool bag, the usual coffee-spattered mugs on top of the washing machine next to a filthy-looking kettle and a half-eaten packet of digestives. The space is going to be amazing – he can see that. Beyond, the absent back wall gives onto a garden no more than scrubby long grass, a dilapidated shed. This too will be landscaped, no doubt, transformed as is the way around here.
He creeps back towards the front door but is caught by Neil and the police officer returning downstairs.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to have a quick look.’
Neil rests his hand on Matt’s shoulder and together they step back out onto the street.
‘Cheers,’ the cop says.
‘No worries.’ Neil claps him briefly on the shoulder.
The cop crosses the road. Matt follows him with his eyes – watches him lean his head to one side, the way he pinches his jacket to bring his radio nearer his mouth.
‘Yeah, Sarge,’ he hears him say. The rest trails away.
‘Matt? Matt?’ Neil is staring at him. ‘I was saying shall we split up and meet back here?’
‘Yeah, sorry, yeah. Might be better. I’m going to try the towpath again.’
‘OK. I’ll head to Kingston, check Bushy Park.’
Matt stumbles towards his bike and climbs on. Heads off, as if to answer a calling, towards the river.
By early evening, it seems, the whole town is out looking for Abi. Teams of people rummage through grass in the Ham Lands, volunteers comb the towpath, search the park in long, slow lines. The air rings with her name. Acquaintances and strangers alike walk with sober expressions, their skin paling with the hours. Women weep, wipe at their eyes with white paper tissues, comfort each other in the distress they cannot help but share.
Matt cycles through them as through a mourning, murmuring sea. It is 7.30 p.m. Under a darkening sky, he reaches home just as next door’s car reverses onto their drive. Outside Matt’s house, a policewoman is still standing sentry, the same one from two hours ago, when DI Farnham gave a brief statement to the crowd of journalists, which has now, thankfully, dispersed.
‘Hi.’
He turns to see Johnnie Lovegood’s wife getting out of the far side of the car. She is tall, taller than he thought, her grey hair cut short, swept back.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, walking towards him, a tissue clutched in her hand. ‘We just spoke to the policeman at the end of the road.’
‘Yeah, thanks. It’s—’
‘Is there anything we can do? Your wife, is she… Can I… Does she need company?’
‘The family liaison officer is with her. Thanks though. Her name’s Ava, by the way. I’m Matt.’
‘Matt. Hi. I’m Jennifer, and my husband’s Johnnie. Lovegood. Do you need anything at all?’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Johnnie has got out of the car and is striding towards him. He too is taller, somehow, his hair the creamy pale orange of a former redhead. He stretches for a handshake but appears to reconsider. There is a thick silver bangle on his wrist. ‘The police officer said she went missing first thing this morning?’
‘Yeah. Just after I left for work. They think she might have got as far as the river, but they’re still following up leads.’
‘So, what, she just wandered out?’
Matt nods. ‘Looks that way.’
‘Right, right.’ Johnnie shakes his head. ‘God, how awful. I’m so sorry. Do you need anything? I can run up some posters in the morning.’
‘Thanks. I’ll let you know.’
‘You must be exhausted,’ Jennifer cuts in, and he notices only then her soft Irish accent. ‘We’ll let you go. I’m sorry we haven’t… y’know… before now. I’ll drop my number in tomorrow morning, OK? Just in case there’s anything… anything at all. Please. Don’t hesitate.’
