Shooting in the Dark

old dog grew in strength. Harvey turned into a large Victorian kitchen, the main feature of which was a solid-fuel range which was pumping out more heat than the space could handle. Within seconds of entering the room Marie was aware of a thin film of sweat on her forehead and upper lip.
    Emperor was a cross between a black Alsatian and a wire-haired terrier. A runt of a dog with tiny black eyes and chiselled features, not unlike his master. His chain had been hooked short to a metal peg on the wall so he couldn’t lie down. He avoided eye contact and gazed off into the middle distance, never betraying his optimism, the certainty that his day would come.
    ‘What d’you know about Isabel?’ Russell Harvey asked. His gaunt features and slack posture made him seem old, but he could not have been more than thirty-five. He had a wild crop of black hair on his head, and a day’s growth of beard. His eyes were quick and active, flashing as they measured Marie’s legs, her breasts and hair.
    ‘I was hoping to find her here,’ Marie said. ‘Or that you’d tell me where she is.’
    Russell Harvey was sitting on the edge of a pine chair. His body was wasted like that of a Muslim fakir or someone suffering from anorexia. His large, grubby trainers seemed grotesque in relation to his stringy muscles.
    ‘She was supposed to come yesterday,’ he said. He stared at the dog for a moment. ‘Thought you was her till Emperor started.’ He looked directly at Marie as if trying to penetrate behind her eyes. ‘Has something happened?’ Marie shook her head. ‘We don’t know. She went out the day before yesterday, and she hasn’t been seen since.’
    ‘She would’ve come here if something was wrong.’
    ‘You haven’t seen her?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Or heard from her?’
    He looked towards the windowsill, where the phone was unconnected. He plugged it into the socket and replaced the handset in its cradle. Then he put his head against the glass and closed his eyes. Marie moved closer to him, instinctively at first, perhaps to put an arm around him, offer some kind of comfort. But the angularity of the man, the odour that surrounded him, the sheer size of his despair all conspired to keep her at arm’s length. ‘We don’t know that anything’s happened to her,’ she said. She’s under pressure. Maybe she’s gone away for a few days? To rest, to think, to get some perspective on her life?’
    Harvey turned to face her. He looked at and seemed to speak to her breasts. ‘We were in love,’ he said. ‘That’s not pressure. We were going to live together. Everything was settled.’
    ‘For you, maybe,’ Marie told him. She refused to join him in his use of the past tense. It was as if Isabel Reeves was already dead and buried. ‘But Isabel still has to make the break with her husband. Whatever their relationship, that’s not an easy thing to do.’
    Harvey shook his scrawny head. ‘She wouldn’t’ve gone away without saying something to me. If she’s missing, he’s done her in. That’s what’s happened, mark my words.
    At the end of the day you’ll find he’s done for her.’ 1 ‘Who do you mean? Who’s done for her?’
    ‘Reeves, the husband, who do you think? He’d never let her go. He told her that.’
    Marie looked back at the man. His eyes were black holes. There was a quiver to his lips, the only sign of emotion in his face. But his arms were held out like a supplicant, arms that were thin and stick-like, closed at the ends by white-knuckled fists.
     
    You can only use your nose, Marie thought as she settled herself behind the wheel of the car. Some people can lie so convincingly that it’s impossible to tell. Lying is a talent. You either have it or you don’t. Russell Harvey was plausible; there was no denying that. But was he honest?
    It was not impossible that Isabel Reeves was locked in one of the upper rooms of that house. Maybe dead, which would account for his insistence on the past tense.
    She turned the key in the ignition and checked the wing mirror as she moved out into traffic.
    And another thing. What would a woman like Isabel Reeves see in a man like Russell Harvey? The guy was a stick insect. He didn’t shave, didn’t bother much with soap and water, and his house was a shithole. He looked at you, watched you with those sex-hungry eyes, so intently that his stare was almost tangible.
    Men did look at women, and women looked at men, too. Except there was a difference in the