Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

holds it to her pallid cheek. ‘Marc made this in his first year at secondary school, all those years ago.’

I pick up a red marker. Twiddling it with my fingers, I gesture to the whiteboard. ‘What does he use this for?’

Her head jerks around. She raises her eyebrows. ‘That’s usually full of his scribbles: computer code and all his gobbledygook. Stuff I don’t understand. Where’s all that gone?’

‘When did it last get wiped?’

She thinks for a moment. ‘I usually only come in here to hoover. I did the housework on Sunday morning. I can’t remember if it was clean then or not.’

‘Try and think. Can we log into his computer?’

‘Go ahead.’ She pulls out the desk chair. ‘You know more about these things than me. I wouldn’t know what to look for.’

I power up the Dell. The tower hard drive whirs at my feet. I wait hopefully, despite sensing what I’m about to find. I shiver with that chilly suspicion I often get when I start an investigation and a suspect leaves me cold.

‘What’s that face for?’ she asks.

‘This computer has been restored to factory settings.’

Five

‘What does that mean?’ she asks.

‘All the data – personal files, programs, profile – has been wiped.’

‘What, everything?’

‘Every single thing. Looks like the drives have been cleared too.’

‘Why would Marc have done that?’ She’s thinking the same as me, I’m sure. It’s as if he has tried to destroy all evidence of his previous existence.

I shrug. ‘Where would he keep a USB stick if he had one?’

‘No idea.’

I look around. A desk organiser occupies the corner, similar to the one I have at home. It has several sections. In mine, I keep our USB. I use the Cloud these days but keep ours for old times’ sake. It stores Jim’s and my chequered history. I rummage around the safety pins and treasury tags but fail to find what I’m looking for.

‘I’ve often seen him with a laptop when he’s sitting with the kids in the kitchen. Where’s that?’ I ask.

She scans the top of the desk and the shelves. ‘It’s not here.’ She looks underneath the desk and pulls open the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, searching fruitlessly inside. ‘He usually keeps it on the bottom shelf. He must’ve taken it.’

‘I don’t think he had it with him when I saw him come out of the station. It wouldn’t have fitted into the holdall he had with him, and he wasn’t carrying anything else.’

‘You’re right. It wouldn’t fit into that holdall he took.’ She looks me directly in the eyes. ‘Where is it then?’

‘He could’ve left it somewhere.’

‘Wait a minute. It was here on Monday. I think. No, actually, I’m sure of it. I’ll ask Harry. He sometimes borrows it.’

My phone beeps. It’s Rob.

Do you need rescuing?

I text him back telling him to carry on with the revision.

Sasha glances at her watch. ‘Ralph’s appointment. I need to get going. Will you come with me? Please. Have you got time?’

I don’t, but I’ll find it.

She grabs her keys and phone, and I follow her and Ralph over to the house diagonally opposite hers, mouthing to Rob, I’ll be five minutes. A discreet sign saying, Pen’s Parlour hangs above the door to the studio, and to the side sits a family of concrete dog statues. Sasha presses the buzzer, and a bell chimes the theme tune to Lassie. I throw her a look. At least she manages a quick chuckle with me.

‘Hiya. You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you until five,’ Penelope says, flustered, as she opens the door, treating us to the strong smell of coconut.

‘Oh, I thought I was due at four-thirty. We changed it, remember?’

A bearded ginger-haired man steps out. ‘Sasha,’ the man says.

‘Tom, not seen you for a while.’ Sasha introduces me to the pair of them. ‘Tom lives in the house over there, remember me saying? The graphic designer. He’s one of Marc’s jogging partners.’

Tom nods at me before abruptly disappearing. I’m not sure if Sasha notices he doesn’t have a dog with him.

‘Who else does Marc go jogging with?’ I ask Sasha.

‘Pete, sometimes – Pen’s husband – and Art too. They all try to be a bit healthy around here.’

‘Tell her what we call them,’ Pen says to Sasha.

Sasha smiles despite the effort. ‘The MCB. The Midlife Crisis Brigade.’

Pen crouches down to make a fuss of Ralph. Her fake gold, giant earrings swing like pendulums with each move of her head. ‘How’s my beautiful baby boy?’ She ruffles his fluffy coat. ‘Who’s overdue a visit with aunty Pen-Pen?’

Pen’s parlour is something else. Triangular bunting, crafted with pictures of different breeds of dog, runs from corner to corner across the ceiling. At the end of the room, a pink picket fence sections off an area with Groom Room, stencilled in pink, on the wall. It’s divided into three gated areas from which a cacophony of barking dogs fills the room. Pen is something else too. She wears her hair in an immaculate bun, and she’s dressed in black trousers and a shocking pink tunic and trainers. They perfectly coordinate with everything else in the room – the walls, chairs, towels, even the black and pink striped appointments book sitting on the small reception desk.

‘You OK, honey?’ Pen asks, straightening her uniform. The first few buttons are undone, exposing the top of her thick cleavage. ‘You don’t look your normal zesty self.’ She prepares to tackle Ralph’s overgrown coat.

Sasha’s tears surprise me. Pen too. They appear to spring out of her eyes before she can stop them. ‘Give me a sec,’ Pen says and whisks Ralph off to the Groom Room. ‘Now, now you little beauties, settle down.’

I snatch a tissue from a box on the desk and hand it to Sasha.

Pen returns and squirts some antibacterial gel into her hands, rubbing them together. ‘Tell Pen all about it.’

‘Marc’s gone.’

‘Gone? Where?’ Pen asks, frowning.

‘He’s left us.’

Pen’s jaw drops. ‘Dear Lord. That I would never have guessed in a million years. When?’

Sasha