You Are Dead

31

Friday 12 December

Jamie Ball sat on one of the sofas, laptop open, glass of red wine in his hand, alternating between his Facebook page and staring at the constantly changing images on the digital photo frame. There were a few landscapes, a picture of Logan’s parents’ dog, a happy-looking black labradoodle, and a photograph taken at their engagement party of both sets of parents and siblings, but most of the pictures were of Logan and himself.

He topped the glass up with a shaking hand. His tiredness was really starting to kick in, but instead of calming him, the alcohol seemed to be having the reverse effect, making him increasingly jittery, as if it were strong coffee, shrinking his scalp so tightly around his skull that pains were shooting down it. His eyes were raw and gritty and he could barely focus. Unconsciously he drummed the fingers of his left hand continuously on the coffee table.

His parents had invited him over, but he didn’t want to sit in their gloomy house. Logan’s parents and her sister and brother had all been very slightly cold and remote to him — not cold enough to sound actively hostile, but enough to hint to him that they were suspicious. A couple of his mates, concerned for him, had invited him out for company to the Coach House in Middle Street for the evening. It was a pub he had been to many times in the past — in happier days — with Logan. But for now he preferred to sit here, alone. He didn’t want any company at this moment.

He refreshed the Facebook page, where late last night he had posted the message, ‘Please help me find my missing beautiful fiancée, Logan’, beneath a row of photographs of her. He saw that another fifteen ‘likes’ had come in during the past half hour, as well as six new friend requests, in response to his post.

‘Good,’ he said, suddenly, to no one.

Then his phone rang. He jumped up and grabbed the receiver with his hand shaking so much it dropped and fell to the wooden floor, a piece of the casing breaking off. He knelt and picked it up.

‘I wonder if I could please speak to Mr James Ball?’ It was the voice of an elderly man, courteous but quite firm.

Few people called him James — he had been Jamie for as long as he could remember.

‘Yes, speaking, who is this?’ He’d already had several crank calls. One from a medium telling him she’d had a vision of Logan in the hold of a ship loaded with timber. Another from someone claiming to be a private detective, demanding one thousand pounds up front, but guaranteeing to find her. Yep, right.

‘I’m Logan’s uncle — my name is Jacob Van Dam. She may have mentioned me?’

‘Ah, yes,’ he replied. ‘Yes, she has.’ She had indeed mentioned her uncle, the psychiatrist, to him on many occasions, although she’d told Jamie she had not seen him for several years. He was the one famous member of her family.

‘I’m going to ask you a rather personal question about Logan, James, but I have a good reason for this, so please bear with me.’

Ball frowned. Was this shrink about to start playing some clever mind games with him? ‘OK,’ he said, guardedly.

‘Does Logan have a mark or words — maybe a tattoo — anywhere on her body?’

He was silent for some moments, wondering where this was going. ‘A tattoo?’

‘Yes. A mark or tattoo.’

‘No, she doesn’t.’

‘Are you absolutely certain? Perhaps on her right thigh?’

‘Yes, I am sure, there’s nothing there.’

‘What about any writing or script?’

‘No, she doesn’t have. Why are you asking, Mr Van Dam?’

‘I have a reason.’

‘No, she has no tattoo. OK?’ The man’s insistent voice was irritating him, and making him feel even edgier.

‘You’ve been very helpful, I’m sorry to have troubled you. Thank you.’

Ball stared into the receiver as the call ended. Into the tiny holes in the mouthpiece. What was that all about, he wondered?

Jacob Van Dam sat for a long time at his desk, in silence, deep in thought. In his opinion, Ball’s reaction had been that of someone distraught because his loved one was missing.

Nevertheless, he had the feeling he was hiding something. But what?