“But there must be some interesting stuff in all that, right?”
“Yeah, interesting is definitely the word for it.”
Zara frowns. “If it’s that pointless, can’t they get someone else working on it other than you guys?”
“Not really, Zee. There’s never enough of us, even when nothing’s happening. We can outsource to other stations but that still means transferring information and making a bunch of outgoing calls for every incoming call we receive.”
“Uh-huh.” She nods and slides onto the kitchen table bench. Chris can tell she’s desperate for information. She must have had a slow day. She leans forward on her hands in a parody of an attentive schoolgirl.
“You know I can’t actually tell you any details, Zee. You know that.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.” She pouts provocatively.
“Stop it.”
“Can’t help it,” she says, and changes tack. “Look, honeybun, I am trying really hard, you know how hard I work, I’m trying to pip a lot of people to the post here. And this story is an absolute gift to me. Nothing happens here and then suddenly this happens right on our doorstep. I hate to bring it up again but we stayed here, Chris, we didn’t move to London, we stayed here and that’s all great, honey, but if this story can raise my profile then I can get a better job. A national paper. I wouldn’t have to move, we wouldn’t have to, I could write from here and just go in to the city once or twice a week. Writing for real, not just this local piecemeal shit I’m doing right now. So, please, Chrissy, throw me a fucking bone, okay? I’ll be good, I promise.”
Chris shakes his head slowly. “Unbelievable.”
“I know, okay. Before you say it, I’ve heard it before, Chris, you’ll lose your job, blah, blah, blah, loss of trust. You won’t, Chris. You won’t lose your job. Police talk to press all the time. That’s life. It’s not like I’m asking you for the nuclear codes or anything, I just want a vague update on what’s going on with this case. Something that I can package up nicely and sell to editors. I’m doing as much research and tracking on this as you are, honey, I’m on message boards all day, Twitter feeds, you name it. If we share information then surely everybody wins, right? What do you think?”
Chris sits down slowly opposite her, palms on the table, weighing up all she’s said. He does worry he’s held her back. That someday she’ll hate him for it. “Okay.” He pauses, then lets out a low groan. “Something. Oh God, okay. This is what I can tell you. But don’t go crazy with this, okay? You promise?”
He knows with absolute certainty that he can’t ever mention Marni. But he can give his wife something.
“I promise.” Zara purses her lips, trying to mask her moment of pure triumph.
“Okay.” Chris pauses, thinking it through one last time. It should be okay to tell her this. “The doctor they sent up today, Dr. Lewis, she’s a specialist from London. She was hired by…well, let’s put it this way, our orders at the station are now coming in from slightly higher up the food chain than before.” Zara’s brows knit together. “It looks like the government has stepped in on this in some way,” Chris clarifies. “They’re trying to keep everything locked down up here around this guy for some reason. And before you ask, I don’t know what the reason for that is. I have no idea.”
Zara nods thoughtfully.
Chris continues. “And this fucking hotline has completely swamped us, Zee, there’s too many calls to process. Too many leads. Ever since the story broke. We’ve got people calling saying he’s an illegal immigrant, people saying he’s their missing husband or missing son, people saying he looks like an actor they recognize from TV, people saying they saw him in Scotland the day before—you name it, people are saying it.” He stops, noticing Zara reach for her mobile phone. “So don’t write anything about the station, Zee. You can write about other stuff but not the station. We’re handling it.”
“Sure, no problem. I’ll leave you guys out of it.” She rises, leans over the table, and kisses his forehead in one quick motion. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you,” she singsongs as she dances back to her laptop.
Chris sighs. He lets his forehead rest flat on the table in front of him for a second. As she wanders back in he raises his head to look up at her.
“And, Chris hon, you can’t say any more about this government thing, can you?” she asks. Chris lets out another groan.
“No, okay, don’t worry,” she adds hastily. “But this doctor. Who is she? I mean, has she done anything like this before? Has she worked for the government on anything else?”
Oh shit. Not Marni. He raises his head now. He thought if he gave Zara something to go on, she’d be happy. “I don’t know,” he replies. “I don’t know if she has. But I doubt it.”
Zara looks up sharply at this. “Why do you doubt it?”
“I don’t know,” Chris flounders. “I guess, she’s young, ish. Well, about my age.” Shit, he thinks. “And, I don’t know, she just seems…well, as in the dark about this as everyone else. From what I sensed…meeting her today.”
Chris is a bad liar, he knows this. Better to just avoid questions in the future, he thinks. Thankfully, Zara seems satisfied by his awful answer and wanders out of the kitchen. He lets the tension in his shoulders release and gently rests his head back down on the tabletop.
He wonders if Emma has worked for the government before. Because it’s incredibly strange that they chose her for this job, considering her history up here. Whoever assigned her must have known what happened, and surely they’d realize how much the press finding out would harm the investigation, wouldn’t they?
But the press won’t find out, he tells himself. He’ll make sure of that. But if someone else recognizes her, he wouldn’t be able to control that. Hell, he recognized her right away. But then, he would, wouldn’t he, he’d spent the formative years of his life staring at her and her brother across classrooms and playing fields. Other people might not have looked so hard, they might not see Marni’s features hidden in Emma’s adult face. There’s no way Zara will see it. Emma Lewis doesn’t look anything like Marni Beaufort, that’s for sure, not anymore.
* * *
—
Later that night, while Chris is brushing his teeth in the bathroom, his mobile phone receives a text message. Zara leans across the bed and checks it. There’s no name for this contact on his phone, just a number she doesn’t recognize.
Sorry to text so late. Would it be possible to get a list of past employees at Waltham House? I can’t say why just yet but I think it might be helpful. Also, might have to rain check that drink. Snowed under.