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

she’s just finished an hour of yoga and eaten a kilo of spinach. ‘Marc has gone.’

‘Let’s go inside,’ I say, dreading what’s to come. After ten hours poking around into the life of suspected criminals, I’m done in. Actually, suspected isn’t the right word. We know the two brothers we’ve had under surveillance for the past four months for their unabating involvement in crime are as guilty as the Krays. We’ve just got to nail the scum.

‘We can’t. The kids are there. I can’t talk about this with them around.’ She gulps down tears. ‘Come with me.’

When she turns her back, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, preparing myself for the deep water I’m about to dive into. I follow her into her clinic. It’s a spacious room with a skylight roof. Soothing music plays from a wireless speaker filling the room with a sense of relaxation. Not for long, I guess.

Anatomy pictures cover the whitewashed walls. The human body illustrated in every form – the skeleton, muscular system, nervous system, internal organs, joints and ligaments. I’ve seen her refer to them regularly during Jim’s physio session to reinforce a point she’s trying to make. One of them explains the working of the digestive system, the guts displayed raw and twisted like hers must be at the moment. She sits on her saddle stool and passes me a scrap of paper.

It doesn’t take long to read the single paragraph scrawled upon a folded piece of paper informing her that he’s had enough. He’s sorry, but he wants out of his life, and she mustn’t come looking for him. The chill in his words snowballs all kinds of thoughts through my mind. What happened to the respect that twenty-plus years of marriage and three kids should reward? Was he really so unhappy? Is there another woman?

‘If I didn’t know his handwriting so well, I would say someone else wrote this,’ Sasha says.

The torture on her face is killing me. I reread the note, before handing it back to her.

‘OK. Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me what’s happened these past few days?’

Her legs bounce furiously. ‘He went out last night. I don’t know where. He wouldn’t tell me.’ She shrugs. ‘He never goes out without telling me where. And never on a Sunday. I tried calling him, but he didn’t pick up. God, it’s hot in here. My fan has broken.’ She stands and reaches to open a window. The catch jams. ‘Blasted thing,’ she says. ‘Marc was meant to have fixed this.’ She tugs at it until it opens. A police siren wails in the background.

She paces the room. ‘He got home after midnight. I was in bed. When I questioned him about what he’d been up to, he said something about a potential business connection, and that he was tired and would tell me in the morning. But when I woke up, he’d already gone out again.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Around six. And let me tell you, my husband’s a night owl. Only an emergency would get him out of bed that early.’

‘Where did he go?’

She throws her arms around as she strides up and down the studio. ‘No idea. I never got to ask him. I had back-to-back appointments all day. One client texted me to say they were running late, so I went to grab a sandwich, but he still wasn’t back. I tried calling him between clients, but it kept going to voicemail. Then this afternoon, after I finished my last client, I went to look for him, but he was gone. Like, gone, gone.’ She shakes her head, continuing to pace the room. ‘The holdall he uses for work trips isn’t in his wardrobe. He’s taken a handful of clothes and his wallet, and, from what I can tell, that’s it.’

It takes a lot to make me speechless. I guess this is a lot.

‘He’s left his phone. I heard it ringing in the bedroom when I tried to call him again this afternoon. I don’t understand it. He wouldn’t do this to Harry in the middle of his A levels. He adores his kids. They are everything to him.’ Her hand slaps against her forehead. ‘Oh, God, and it’s Harry’s eighteenth on Saturday. We’re meant to be having a get-together. You are still coming, aren’t you?’

Is she thinking this will still go ahead? I nod and make a mental note to source a gift.

‘It was meant to be family and family friends only, but Harry’s invited a few of his school mates now.’ She stops pacing and slumps in her seat. Her elbows drop to her knees and her head into her hands. Her troubled eyes look up at me. ‘You don’t think he’s found someone else, do you?’ Her arms circle her middle as if she’s trying to contain her pain as she sways backwards and forwards. ‘He wouldn’t, would he?’

‘Don’t jump to conclusions. It’s not helpful.’

‘Eva, you have to help me find out where he’s gone.’

I inwardly sigh. I should be used to delivering news people don’t want to hear. Many times, I’ve had to convey brutal accounts to suffering families, but this one’s up there on the difficulty scale. ‘I can’t,’ I say, clenching the corners of the bench. ‘He came into the station earlier.’

‘What! You saw him? What was he doing there?’

‘I bumped into him on his way out and followed him to the Tube.’ I pause and bite my lip. ‘He doesn’t want to be found.’

‘What’s that meant to mean?’

‘He was interviewed, and he clearly stated that he doesn’t want to be found. The police can’t do anything, not against his wishes. So, my job won’t allow me to help you.’ I explain some more, but she’s not listening.

‘The police have to find him. He’s gone missing.’

I shake my head. ‘They don’t. He’s not deemed a missing person. If you try and file a missing person’s report, they’ll tell you what I’ve just told you. I’m sorry, but