Never Coming Back by Tim Weaver Page B

hundred and fifty thousand people went missing every year in the UK, so lots of people left for lots of different reasons. But the truth was, most missing persons cases were pretty mundane: teenage runaways, depressed middle-aged men, people in their twenties and thirties drowning under the weight of mortgages or unemployment, terrified of not being able to feed their kids. Often, the missing left without anything. They got up and walked away: wallets weren’t taken, bank cards weren’t touched, e-mails weren’t sent. It wasn’t the wallet that interested me, it was the way the house had been left.
    All the signs of being a family home.
    But none of the family.

11
    Healy arrived back a couple of minutes later, at twelve-thirty, rain running off his jacket, hair matted to his scalp. When he saw Emily he paused at the doorway, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was intruding on something. Then he seemed to realize it would now look even stranger if he backed out and closed the door, so he came in, shrugged off his coat and hung it up. He stank of booze and cigarettes, which meant he’d been at the pub since it opened. As far as first impressions went, it wasn’t going to win any awards.
    â€œColm, this is Emily.”
    He came over, his eyes switching between us.
    â€œColm’s a homeless Irishman I found wandering the streets.”
    â€œHa ha,” he replied, and shook hands with her. “Lovely to meet you, Emily.” There was warmth in his voice, and it was probably fake, but she wouldn’t have been able to tell. That was the thing with Healy: he could play the game with the best of them.
    â€œAre you visiting?” she asked him.
    â€œDavid’s been kind enough to rent me a room for a while.” He gave me a fleeting look. He’d offered to pay me rent countless times, but I’d always refused. Part of him, I’m sure, hated being a charity case, but he was realistic: he had no job, no savings, and he needed somewhere to stay. And, ultimately, if it wasn’t for Healy, I’d already be in the ground. “How do you two know each other?” he asked.
    I glanced at Emily.
    â€œWe were friends growing up,” she said.
    But he must have read something in her face—must have seen the real answer—because he made an
oh
with his mouth and started patting himself down, searching for his cigarettes. “Well, I’m going to leave you both to it,” he said, and when he looked at me I could see a trace of guilt in his eyes; some hint that he’d been doing something he shouldn’t have. I wondered what it was, wondered where he’d been since I’d got up, but let it go. I’d find out soon enough. Healy was a good liar, could evade and avoid, but I could read him better than anyone. I’d get to the truth.
    He shook Emily’s hand a second time and disappeared upstairs.
    â€œHe seems nice,” she said.
    Nice
wasn’t a word that got used much around Healy, but I agreedwith her and moved the conversation on. “So, did the police have any leads?”
    â€œNone they talked to me about.”
    â€œNo sightings of the four of them?”
    â€œThey said there were lots, but none that led anywhere.”
    â€œWho was your point of contact?”
    She paused, opened up her bag and started searching around inside, taking out a small, brown leather diary. “To start with, it was . . .” She found it. “Colin Rocastle.”
    I went to write it down and then stopped, pen hovering above the piece of paper.
Rocastle
. He was the detective leading the investigation into the body on the beach. I remembered Healy mentioning him the day before, when he’d called to say the cops wanted to speak to everyone in the village. Rocastle probably worked out of Totnes—there was no CID department in Dartmouth anymore—which explained why he was at both scenes. Then a second thought emerged: