Do Her No Harm Read online

  I haven’t bothered to dress up for today’s meeting and the perfectionist in me hates my failure to make a formal effort, but it is too late to worry now; my boyfriend jeans and slick-backed hair will have to do. I roll through south London and eventually close in on my destination. Heavy clouds hang overhead, covering the capital in a too-thick blanket, the city strangely humid for winter, and I step over smashed green glass to get inside. The pub itself – a pokey post-war affair – is a vision in wood: the furniture, the walls, even the pool table at the back, all of it is mahogany-inspired, the smell of beer stuck to every surface. It feels strange being here before lunch.

  *

  I spot Chad towards the back. He’s wearing a pale-yellow polo tucked into dark jeans and a black mac hangs like a shadow on the back of his chair. His brown belt is pulled a notch too tight over his thicker-than-he-thinks waistline and a pair of clunky white trainers glow from his feet, his cell-phone holstered to his hip as if it’s a pistol. I will myself to be positive: Chad Cummings is going to find out what happened to my friend and, even though he looks like he wouldn’t be able to solve the mystery of a missing cat, it’s not only my money motivating him to do the best job he can. If he can find out what happened to the MISSING WOMAN WHO WANTED TO HAVE A BABY, the BATTERSEA BEAUTY WHO MARRIED HER UNIVERSITY SWEETHEART, he’ll be a hero. I raise my hand as I approach.

  ‘Hi Chad,’ I say, noting his leather briefcase-suitcase wheeled into position behind him, handle still high.

  ‘Hi!’ he booms. Then, ‘Is everything all right?’ His expression changes; he’s not used to seeing me without make-up.

  ‘Fine,’ I reply, curtly, though I spot my deflated reflection in a teak-framed mirror opposite and wonder if it’s the truth. From a distance, the healthy plump of my face belies me – the result of a few surgical enhancements that make me look better than I feel – but, look closer, and you’ll see my hair is brittle from over-washing, my eyes underlined with grey buckets, my lips chapped and bitten. I pull my stare from the mirror, grab the seat opposite Chad, and fall in.

  He looks down, realising his faux pas, clearly weighing up whether to backtrack and compliment me on something else instead. Thankfully, he decides not to.

  ‘Wanna get to it?’ he asks.

  ‘Gladly.’

  Chad whacks a photograph on the tabletop and spins it round. I look at a grainy CCTV image of a woman getting into a car and, though it doesn’t show her face, you can see one of her hands on the door, one of her legs stretching into the interior. If I saw the next frame she’d be sitting pretty in the passenger seat. Though the inhabitants are blurred, the number plate of the vehicle shines luminous yellow, an EU flag at the side, ‘PL’ underneath.

  ‘Check the date stamp,’ Chad says, leaning back.

  ‘The night she went missing,’ I mutter, frowning, but my forehead barely moves.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And you’re sure it’s her? Do you know who she’s with?’ I ask.

  ‘Could be her.’

  ‘Could be?’

  ‘I spoke to a former officer on the case, managed to get this. This CCTV image was their first real lead, but the line of inquiry went cold. Darn shame. They gave up on it, in the end. Do you recognise the vehicle?’

  The barman comes over – he wouldn’t usually but the pub’s empty and he’s looking for something to do.

  ‘What can I get you?’ he asks from a slight distance, black apron tied to his waist, bushy eyebrows meeting in the middle. I wait for Chad to order first.

  ‘Pint of real ale,’ he replies, and I wonder if he’s made a mistake by ordering alcohol this early – it makes him stand out – but the barman doesn’t flinch.

  ‘Sparkling water,’ I add, forcing a smile, covering the photograph with my arms.

  I pluck it from the table when the barman leaves, bringing it close.

  Immediately after Tabby went missing, the police followed the theory that she disappeared of her own accord. There was no break-in, they said, no struggle, and the fact that she’d taken her phone and a few possessions meant she ‘must have planned her escape.’ At first, I agreed with the theory – she’d told me herself she wanted to move abroad – then days passed, weeks, and I still hadn’t heard from her. If she’d run away, she would have found a way to get in touch with me to let me know she was safe. To me, at least, it didn’t add up. When that story fell flat, the papers shifted their focus onto Rick. Why had he kept so quiet? Why wasn’t he out searching for her? Why wasn’t he acting like a normal husband? Eventually, after weeks of pressure, Rick went public. He reiterated that he didn’t know any more than we did. When he woke up on the morning of 22nd August Tabby was gone. He never offered any more than that, never guessed or speculated about where his wife was, never ruminated on the possibilities, never showed any real emotion, or worry, or care.

  If you ask me, I think he killed her, disposed of her body, did a decent enough job to make sure she was never found, then set about playing the victim. Why? I think he wanted her gone so he could start over. Tabby had told me she suspected there was another woman in Rick’s life – not that he’d admitted it to the police – so I knew Rick was hiding something from them. I wanted Chad, among other things, to find out if my theory had weight.

  ‘This supports the police version then… that she ran away of her own accord. That she planned it.’ I pause. ‘Where’s the number plate from?’

  ‘Poland.’

  I push the photograph back towards him. ‘Tabby didn’t know anyone from Poland. I don’t think it’s her.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  I look up at him, hopes rising. ‘Are you about to tell me different?’

  Chad shakes his head and my body sags anew.

  ‘What about Rick’s other woman?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ he replies. ‘It’s difficult to find someone without a name. I can only trail Rick and hope he leads me to her. But he hasn’t…’

  I can tell by the way Chad’s eyes skirt off to the side that he doesn’t believe Rick’s other woman exists. He once asked, ‘What if Tabby made her up so she didn’t feel guilty about leaving Rick? There’s no evidence of another woman besides what Tabby told you… don’t you think that’s a little odd?’

  I plait my fingers and jut out my chin.

  ‘Where has he led you, then?’

  Chad sighs as he reaches into his case, popping the catch open and reaching within. ‘He goes to work, he catches the bus to and from, he goes to the gym, he comes home.’ He fingers out a wedge of logs, all handwritten. Date and time in the left column, location in the middle, notes on the right. There are precious few observations: blue shirt, black tie – that kind of thing.

  He’d produced a similar set of observations the previous time we met. I feel my fists clench and try to keep calm because I really want this to work out, but what Chad’s been doing – following Rick in and out of the shadows – is pitiful. I could do that myself.

  ‘Investigations take time,’ he says, picking up on my dissatisfaction.

  You don’t understand, honey. This is the game, darling. Gotta be patient here, angel.

  ‘It’s been almost five years since she went missing,’ I say, tense. ‘Two years went to the police, and nearly three years to you… and still we’re nowhere.’

  I sigh as I say it – more false starts and empty promises. It had been the same with the police investigation, I’d put my faith in their considerable resources and been let down. I’d turned to Chad when the leads dried up, but perhaps I should have taken matters into my own hands earlier, shouldn’t have left it for so long in the incapable palms of too many incapable men.

  Chad ruffles his lips and exhales like a shire horse.

  ‘I get it. Three years. It’s a long time. And, you know, maybe we should take a break for a few months. I don’t want to keep taking your money when I know I’m not about to uncover anything new, it’s not fair.’

  Excuse me?
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  ‘I like you, Annabella, you’re a good person, but you deserve to know that this case is dead. You’re not going to find what you’re looking for, no matter how hard you hope for it.’

  My eyes crack as he lets me down. For the first time I see the game he’s been playing for what it really is. This is what he does, pounces on the friends and families of missing people at their lowest ebb and drains what’s left.

  ‘Rick’s clean. I’ve followed him for years and he hasn’t so much as exceeded the speed limit.’

  He reaches across and touches my skin with slimy fingers.

  ‘It’s time to move on, Annabella. It’s time to put what happened to Tabitha Rice behind you.’

  Tabby

  Five Years Ago

  I shift from foot to foot as I fumble with the key, my hands slippery.

  ‘Not now,’ I gasp as the lock jams. I press my weight against the frame and push hard, re-aligning the lock and freeing the door. Was it already open? It’s just gone ten and the surgery technically opened an hour ago. My nose enters first, ears pricked for signs of life from within – I’m praying the lack of commotion on my phone means I haven’t been rumbled – and step gently into the building.

  ‘Hello?’ I call quietly, waiting for a cavalcade of where-were-yous and you-should-have been-here-an-hour-agos, but hear nothing. The truth is, I was up late last night waiting for my husband to come home. Then I slept through my alarm. I’ve been doing that a lot recently.

  I breathe out as I sink into my office chair, my armpits slick, and feel the wheels bounce over the dark grout between the white tiles of the reception floor as I pull myself into the desk. Luckily no patients have arrived yet but, as I fire my computer into action, my forehead crunches with confusion when the system fails to recognise my log-in details.

  My desk phone rings and, reaching for the handset, I startle at a clipped knock at the surgery door. I’m jumpy this morning, anxious; I need to relax. Make a pot of mint tea or something. I buzz open the door, the sound of the mechanism echoing off the tiles, and watch the threshold intently, relieved to see Annabella on the other side. Her brown-blonde hair is poker-straight today, barely a strand out of place as she steps from the outside in. ‘Morning,’ she talk-whispers, noticing the phone in my hand, her voice light and fresh.

  ‘Morning,’ I mouth back, then put the receiver to my ear.

  ‘Tabitha, it’s Caroline.’ My heart beats a little faster. Caroline’s the owner of the surgery and I’ve been wearing her patience thin with my timekeeping recently. ‘Can I have a word? I’m coming down.’

  The colour drains from my cheeks as I check the number. Caroline’s dialling from her office upstairs. I swear under my breath.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Annabella asks, pulling up her sleeves, swirling a Mr Whippy of foam from the anti-bac dispenser into her palms. She’s clocked my sudden activity.

  ‘I was late, I was really late,’ I splutter. ‘And Caroline, she…’ I stop mid-sentence as I open the drawers beneath the desk, looking for my notepad, panicking, wanting something to hold, something to act as a barrier, but they’re all empty. Even my personal things aren’t there – the packet of chewing gum I keep on hand for breath-emergencies, the multi-coloured hairbands that litter every drawer, the half-peeled perfume samples I rip out of the surgery magazines – they’re all gone.

  ‘My things,’ I mutter, glancing up at my friend. ‘Bella, she’s moved all of my stuff.’

  This is a nightmare, this isn’t really happening, I’ll wake up in a moment, in bed, Rick breathing heavily by my side. I’ll get up and dress and arrive here on time, just as I should have…

  ‘Tabitha,’ Caroline announces, her heels striking the tiles as she moves into the sterile space, her angular chin pointed slightly upwards, the smooth contours of her heavily edited face fixed firmly on the bumps of mine. Her weave sways behind her, shiny black hair stretching long to her waist. We’re twenty years apart, but Caroline hasn’t aged a day since she turned thirty.

  ‘I’m very sorry, darling,’ she begins, and it’s then that the jigsaw pieces of this morning begin to tessellate. The reason why my computer wouldn’t log me in, the obvious explanation behind my empty drawers. Caroline probably arrived early, reasoning she’d give me one final chance to prove her wrong and, when nine became nine-thirty, she made the decision to fire me on the spot. I shiver with humiliation; I can’t bear to look at Bella. ‘This morning was your last chance,’ Caroline begins.

  ‘She was with me,’ Bella interrupts. ‘I had a home-visit this morning and needed help getting my equipment back.’

  Goose bumps bubble beneath the thick cotton of my uniform. Bella’s lying to save me, and Caroline knows it.

  Caroline’s eyes narrow. ‘Why wasn’t it in the calendar?’ she asks, her voice tight and distrusting.

  ‘Last minute,’ Bella replies. ‘I got the call this morning.’

  I nod at Caroline as she twists her dark gaze back towards me, my blue eyes shining with nervous tears. I didn’t mean to start making a habit of late nights and missed alarms. I don’t want to spend the small hours of each morning pondering my husband’s every move. I want to lead a normal life, stable and settled, to have a partner I can trust. Perhaps my foster mum had been right that getting married young was a mistake. Why the rush? If it’s meant to be, it will be.

  Bella steps forward, gaining in confidence, and my heart twangs, my memory flitting to the first time we met, the smile behind her aqua eyes as I’d welcomed her to Pure You. It’s not often you meet a best friend at work, but that’s what we are. We have our little routines – Thursday night dinners, every other Saturday night out, coffee every weekday at the café across the road, quick gossips during break-time, instant-messaging between patients. She even fits in with Rick and me; she isn’t jealous if I cancel our plans to spend time with my husband, she doesn’t judge me like so many other young twenty-somethings in the city for having a husband. And, the more distant Rick grows, the closer we become, the more time we spend together.

  ‘What’s more,’ Annabella continues, ‘Tabby has had this great idea. You have to hear it. We were going to tell you about it today, actually.’

  I swallow, my mouth dry, wondering what idea I’ve had.

  ‘She was telling me,’ Bella continues, ‘that she’s noticed how most of the aesthetic clinics round here just focus on the usual – Botox, fillers, IPL – but Tabby said she’d heard from a few customers that they’d love it if we also offered some beautician services.’

  Caroline’s gaze bores into my soul and I find myself waxing lyrical about a brain wave I never had. ‘A pedicure with your fillers, lash extensions alongside IPL… that sort of thing. I was thinking, if we bundled up the procedures, we could give discounts, really make it attractive to our clients.’ I smile, selling it with shiny teeth, jazz hands at the ready.

  Caroline grips the skin at the top of her nose and closes her eyes. I dart a look at Bella and mouth a thank you. She shakes her head quickly and it’s then that I realise this was her big idea. She’d spoken about something she was excited to run by Caroline the other day – this must have been it, and she’s using it to save me. She should be using it to get a promotion! I feel terrible but, at the same time, I need this job. I’m not sure I could cope with interviews and job hunting, with telling Rick I’ve been fired, with failure in my professional life as well as my personal.

  ‘Fine,’ Caroline retorts. ‘But this is the condition,’ she snaps, pausing. ‘Annabella, you’ve been asking for an assistant for a while.’

  ‘But…’ Annabella protests unsuccessfully, Caroline bulldozing her way through the conversation.

  ‘Well, here she is. She’s not very experienced but you seem to believe in her. Let’s hope you’re right to.’ Caroline turns to me. ‘Understood?’

  With that, they both leave to start the working day. Caroline will be in the office for another hour or so, then leave early to ‘work from home
’. Bella’s first patient will arrive imminently, and I’ll have to get through the day without an electronic schedule because Caroline’s frozen me out of the system. I put in a call to the external IT department, leave a message, then tug the cardboard box Caroline had packed for me out from beneath the reception desk, its bottom scraping across the floor, too heavy to lift. I begin putting my things back in their places, but end up throwing away most of it, a worrying amount of nothing but worthless junk from years of being sat in the same seat.

  By midday, I’m hunting for things to do – still logged out of my computer – the day’s patients slow and steady, a quiet weekday, the kind of day I long for when it’s Saturday afternoon and there’s barely time to breathe. I sort through the office post next, swiping my palm across my face, still reeling from what happened earlier, wondering how I’ll ever face Caroline again. I’d have to start looking for a new job, what Bella had done for me had given me a lifeline, sure, but Caroline didn’t want me here and that was the bottom line. I pick up the first envelope addressed to the surgery and edge my index finger into the top of the triangular fold.

  Job application: Dr Alex Daniels.

  We get a couple of these a week. Mostly they’re sent in over email but the ones that are posted are usually of a higher quality. I’ll find a smart covering letter and a sharp CV inside, then I’ll pass it up to Caroline and let her deal with it. But something about this application gives me pause. The photo.