Looking Good Dead

warmly, searching his face with her eyes. ‘If you want . . .’
    He gave what he hoped came over as a nonchalant shrug. ‘Just some things I threw on. I––’
    She was staring at his right shoulder. ‘Is the price tag part of the design?’
    He clamped his left hand onto his shoulder; immediately his fingers touched stiff card, attached to string. Under Cleo’s wickedly amused gaze he traced the string back under the jacket collar, cursing his carelessness. ‘Part of the design.’ He nodded. ‘Totally part of the design; it’s the new thing in jackets, that – umm, sort of – umm, off-the-shelf look.’
    She laughed, and he found himself laughing back. His nerves haddisappeared, and suddenly his head was full of stuff he wanted to talk to this woman about. But she got in first, as he tugged the tag free, balled it and dropped it in the ashtray.
    Swirling her drink in her glass, she said, ‘I’m curious, Roy. About your wife; is it something you talk about? Tell me if I’m being nosey and it’s none of my business.’
    He reached hesitantly into his pocket for his cigarettes. Technically he had given up, but there were moments when he still needed one. Like now.
    A waiter appeared with menus, two massive folded cards. Grace put his down without glancing at it, and Cleo did the same. ‘No, you’re not being nosey.’ He raised his hands a moment, a little helplessly, unsure where to begin his reply. ‘I’ve always talked about it openly, maybe too openly. I just want people to be aware – you know. I’ve always thought that if I talk about it to enough people, maybe one day I will jog someone’s memory.’
    ‘What was her name?’
    ‘Sandy.’ He offered the pack to Cleo but she shook her head. He took a cigarette out.
    ‘Is it true what – what people say? She just disappeared?’
    ‘On my thirtieth birthday.’ He fell silent for a moment, all the pain returning.
    Cleo waited patiently, then prompted, ‘On your thirtieth birthday . . . ?’
    ‘I went to work. We were going to go out with some friends for dinner in the evening, to celebrate. When I left home, Sandy was in a great mood; we’d been planning a summer holiday – she wanted to go to the Italian lakes. When I came back in the evening she wasn’t there.’
    ‘Had she taken her things?’
    ‘Her handbag and her car were gone.’ He lit the cigarette with the Zippo lighter Sandy had given him then gulped some more of his drink. Talking about Sandy didn’t seem right on a date. Yet at the same time he felt he really wanted to be honest with Cleo – to tell her everything, to give her as much detail as possible. Not just about Sandy but about his entire life. Something about her made him feel he could be open with her. More open than with anyone he could remember.

    He took a long drag on his cigarette, then blew the smoke out. It tasted so damned good.
    Frowning, Cleo asked, ‘Her handbag and her car? Were either of them ever found?’
    ‘Her car was found the next evening in the short-term car park at Gatwick Airport. But she never used any of her credit cards. The last transactions were on the morning she disappeared, one at Boots for £7.50, one for £16.42 from the local Tesco garage.’
    ‘She didn’t take anything else? No clothes, no other belongings?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘What about CCTV?’
    ‘There weren’t so many around then; the only footage we got was on the forecourt at the Tesco garage – she was alone and she looked fine. The cashier was an old boy; he said he remembered her because he always noticed the pretty ones and he’d had a bit of a laugh with her. Said she didn’t seem under any duress.’
    ‘I don’t think a woman would just walk out of her life, leaving everything behind,’ Cleo said. ‘Unless . . .’ She hesitated.
    ‘Unless?’ he prompted.
    Fixing her eyes on him she replied, ‘Unless she was running away from a wife-beater.’ Then she smiled and said gently, ‘You don’t look like a wife-beater to me.’
    ‘I think her parents still harbour a sneaking suspicion that I’ve got her buried under the cellar floor.’
    ‘Seriously?’
    He drained his glass. ‘I suppose they figure every other avenue has been exhausted.’
    ‘They actually accused you?’
    ‘No, they’re sweet people; they wouldn’t do that. But I see it in their faces. They invite me over for the odd drink or Sunday lunch to keep in touch, but what they really want is an update. There’s never much to