The Girl on the Train: Chapter 11

I wake with my head full of him. It doesn’t seem real, none of it does. My skin prickles. I would dearly love to have a drink, but I can’t. I need to keep a clear head. For Megan. For Scott.

I made an effort yesterday. I washed my hair and put some makeup on. I wore the only jeans I still fit into, with a cotton print blouse and sandals with a low heel. I looked OK. I kept telling myself that it was ridiculous to care about my appearance, because the last thing Scott was going to be thinking about was what I looked like, but I couldn’t help myself. It was the first time I was ever going to be around him, it mattered to me. Much more than it should.

I took the train, leaving Ashbury around six thirty, and I was in Witney just after seven. I took that walk along Roseberry Avenue, past the underpass. I didn’t look this time, couldn’t bear to. I hurried past number twenty-three, Tom and Anna’s place, chin to chest and sunglasses on, praying they wouldn’t see me. It was quiet, no one around, a couple of cars driving carefully down the centre of the road between ranks of parked vehicles. It’s a sleepy little street, tidy and affluent, with lots of young families; they’re all having their dinner around seven o’clock, or sitting on the sofa, mum and dad with the little ones squeezed between them, watching .

From number twenty-three to number fifteen can’t be more than fifty or sixty paces, but that journey stretched out, it seemed to take an age; my legs were leaden, my footing unsteady, as though I were drunk, as though I might just slip off the pavement.

Scott opened the door almost before I’d finished knocking, my trembling hand still raised as he appeared in the doorway, looming ahead of me, filling the space.

“Rachel?” he asked, looking down at me, unsmiling. I nodded. He offered his hand and I took it. He gestured for me to enter the house, but for a moment I didn’t move. I was afraid of him. Up close he is physically intimidating, tall and broad-shouldered, his arms and chest well defined. His hands are huge. It crossed my mind that he could crush me—my neck, my rib cage—without much effort.

I moved past him into the hallway, my arm brushing against his as I did, and felt a flush rising to my face. He smelled of old sweat, and his dark hair was matted against his head as though he hadn’t showered in a while.

It was in the living room that the déjà vu hit me, so strong it was almost frightening. I recognized the fireplace flanked by alcoves on the far wall, the way the light streamed in from the street through slanted blinds; I knew that when I turned to my left there would be glass and green and beyond that the railway line. I turned and there was the kitchen table, the French doors behind it and the lush patch of lawn. I knew this house. I felt dizzy, I wanted to sit down; I thought about that black hole last Saturday night, all those lost hours.

It didn’t mean anything, of course. I know that house, but not because I’ve been there. I know it because it’s exactly the same as number twenty-three: a hallway leads to the stairs, and on the right-hand side is the living room, knocked through into the kitchen. The patio and the garden are familiar to me because I’ve seen them from the train. I didn’t go upstairs, but I know that if I had, there would have been a landing with a large sash window on it, and that if you climbed through that window you would find yourself on the makeshift roof terrace. I know that there will be two bedrooms, the master with two large windows looking out onto the street and a smaller room at the back, overlooking the garden. Just because I know that house inside and out does not mean that I’ve been there before.

Still, I was trembling when Scott showed me into the kitchen. He offered me a cup of tea. I sat down at the kitchen table while he boiled the kettle, dropped a tea bag into a mug and slopped boiling water over the counter, muttering to himself under his breath. There was a sharp smell of antiseptic in the room, but Scott himself was a mess, a sweat patch on the back of his T-shirt, his jeans hanging loose on his hips as though they were too big for him. I wondered when was the last time he had eaten.

He placed the mug of tea in front of me and sat on the opposite side of the kitchen table, his hands folded in front of him. The silence stretched out, filling the space between us, the whole room; it rang in my ears, and I felt hot and uncomfortable, my mind suddenly blank. I didn’t know what I was doing there. Why on earth had I come? In the distance, I heard a low rumbling—the train was coming. It felt comforting, that old sound.

“You’re a friend of Megan’s?” he said at last.

Hearing her name from his lips brought a lump to my throat. I stared down at the table, my hands wrapped tightly around the mug.

“Yes,” I said. “I know her . . . a little. From the gallery.”

He looked at me, waiting, expectant. I could see the muscle flex in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. I searched for words that wouldn’t come. I should have prepared better.

“Have you had any news?” I asked. His gaze held mine, and for a second I felt afraid. I’d said the wrong thing; it was none of my business whether there was any news. He would be angry, he’d ask me to leave.

“No,” he said. “What was it that you wanted to tell me?”

The train rolled slowly past and I looked out towards the tracks. I felt dizzy, as though I were having an out-of-body experience, as though I were looking out at myself.

“You said in your email that you wanted to tell me something about Megan.” The pitch of his voice raised a little.

I took a deep breath. I felt awful. I was acutely aware that what I was about to say was going to make everything worse, was going to hurt him.

“I saw her with someone,” I said. I just blurted it out, blunt and loud with no buildup, no context.

He stared at me. “When? You saw her on Saturday night? Have you told the police?”

“No, it was Friday morning,” I said, and his shoulders slumped.

“But . . . she was fine on Friday. Why is that important?” That pulse in his jaw went again, he was becoming angry. “You saw her with . . . you saw her with who? With a man?”

“Yes, I—”

“What did he look like?” He got to his feet, his body blocking the light. “Have you told the police?” he asked again.

“I did, but I’m not sure they took me very seriously,” I said.

“Why?”

“I just . . . I don’t know . . . I thought you should know.”

He leaned forward, his hands on the table, clenched into fists. “What are you saying? You saw her where? What was she doing?”

Another deep breath. “She was . . . out on your lawn,” I said. “Just there.” I pointed out to the garden. “She . . . I saw her from the train.” The look of incredulity on his face was unmistakable. “I take the train into London from Ashbury every day. I go right past here. I saw her, she was with someone. And it . . . it wasn’t you.”

“How do you know? . . . Friday morning? Friday—the day before she went missing?”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t here,” he said. “I was away. I was at a conference in Birmingham, I got back on Friday evening.” Spots of colour appeared high on his cheeks, his scepticism giving way to something else. “So you saw her, on the lawn, with someone? And . . .”

“She kissed him,” I said. I had to get it out eventually. I had to tell him. “They were kissing.”

He straightened up, his hands, still balled into fists, hanging at his side. The spots of colour on his cheeks grew darker, angrier.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I know this is a terrible thing to hear . . .”

He held up his hand, waved me away. Contemptuous. He wasn’t interested in my sympathy.

I know how that feels. Sitting there, I remembered with almost perfect clarity how it felt when I sat in my own kitchen, five doors down, while Lara, my former best friend, sat opposite me, her fat toddler squirming on her lap. I remember her telling me how sorry she was that my marriage was over, I remember losing my temper at her platitudes. She knew nothing of my pain. I told her to piss off and she told me not to speak like that in front of her child. I haven’t seen her since.

“What did he look like, this man you saw her with?” Scott asked. He was standing with his back to me, looking out onto the lawn.

“He was tall—taller than you, maybe. Dark-skinned. I think he might have been Asian. Indian—something like that.”

“And they were kissing, out here in the garden?”

“Yes.”

He gave a long sigh. “Jesus, I need a drink. He turned to face me. “Would you like a beer?”

I did, I wanted a drink desperately, but I said no. I watched as he fetched himself a bottle from the fridge, opened it, took a long slug. I could almost feel the cold liquid sliding down my throat as I watched him; my hand ached for want of a glass. Scott leaned against the counter, his head bent almost to his chest.

I felt wretched then. I wasn’t helping, I had just made him feel worse, increased his pain. I was intruding on his grief, it was wrong. I should never have gone to see him. I should never have lied. Obviously, I should never have lied.

I was just getting to my feet when he spoke. “It could . . . I don’t know. It might be a good thing, mightn’t it? It could mean that she’s all right. She’s just . . .” He gave a hollow little laugh. “She’s just run off with someone.” He brushed a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand and my heart screwed up into a tight little ball. “But the thing is, I can’t believe she wouldn’t call.” He looked at me as though I held the answers, as though I would know. “Surely she would call me, wouldn’t she? She would know how panicked . . . how desperate I would be. She’s not vindictive like that, is she?”

He was talking to me like someone he could trust—like Megan’s friend—and I knew that it was wrong, but it felt good. He took another swig of his beer and turned towards the garden. I followed his gaze to a little pile of stones against the fence, a rockery long since started and never finished. He raised the bottle halfway to his lips again, and then he stopped. He turned to face me.

“You saw Megan from the train?” he asked. “So you were . . . just looking out of the window and there she was, a woman you happen to know?” The atmosphere in the room had changed. He wasn’t sure anymore whether I was an ally, whether I was to be trusted. Doubt passed over his face like a shadow.

“Yes, I . . . I know where she lives,” I said, and I regretted the words the moment they came out of my mouth. “Where live, I mean. I’ve been here before. A long time ago. So sometimes I’d look out for her when I went past.” He was staring at me; I could feel the heat rising to my face. “She was often out there.”

He placed his empty bottle down on the counter, took a couple of steps towards me and sat down in the seat nearest to me, at the table.

“So you knew Megan well then? I mean, well enough to come round to the house?”

I could feel the blood pulsing in my neck, sweat at the base of my spine, the sickening rush of adrenaline. I shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have complicated the lie.

“It was just one time, but I . . . I know where the house is because I used to live nearby.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “Down the road. Number twenty-three.”

He nodded slowly. “Watson,” he said. “So you’re, what, Tom’s ex-wife?”

“Yes. I moved out a couple of years ago.”

“But you still visited Megan’s gallery?”

“Sometimes.”

“And when you saw her, what did you . . . Did she talk about personal things, about me?” His voice was husky. “About anyone else?”

I shook my head. “No, no. It was usually just . . . passing the time, you know.” There was a long silence. The heat in the room seemed to build suddenly, the smell of antiseptic rising from every surface. I felt faint. To my right there was a side table adorned with photographs in frames. Megan smiled out at me, cheerfully accusing.

“I should go now,” I said. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” I started to get up, but he reached an arm out and placed his hand on my wrist, his eyes never leaving my face.

“Don’t go just yet,” he said softly. I didn’t stand up, but I withdrew my hand from beneath his; it felt uncomfortably as though I were being restrained. “This man,” he said. “This man you saw her with—do you think you’d recognize him again? If you saw him?”

I couldn’t say that I already identified the man to the police. My whole rationale for approaching him had been that the police hadn’t taken my story seriously. If I admitted the truth, the trust would be gone. So I lied again.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I think I might.” I waited a moment, and then I went on. “In the newspapers, there was a quote from a friend of Megan’s. His name was Rajesh. I was wondering if—”

Scott was already shaking his head. “Rajesh Gujral? I can’t see it. He’s one of the artists who used to exhibit at the gallery. He’s a nice enough guy, but . . . he’s married, he’s got kids.” As if that meant something. “Wait a second,” he said, getting to his feet. “I think there might be a picture of him somewhere.”

He disappeared upstairs. I felt my shoulders drop and realized that I’d been sitting rigid with tension since I arrived. I looked over at the photographs again: Megan in a sundress on a beach; a close-up of her face, her eyes a startling blue. Just Megan. No pictures of the two of them together.

Scott reappeared holding a pamphlet, which he presented to me. It was a leaflet, advertising a show at the gallery. He turned it over. “There,” he said, “that’s Rajesh.”

The man was standing next to a colourful abstract painting: he was older, bearded, short, stocky. It wasn’t the man I had seen, the man I had identified to the police. “It’s not him,” I said. Scott stood at my side, staring down at the pamphlet, before abruptly turning and marching out of the room and up the stairs again. A few moments later, he came back with a laptop and sat down at the kitchen table.

“I think,” he said, opening the machine and turning it on, “I think I might . . .” He fell silent and I watched him, his face a picture of concentration, the muscle in his jaw locked. “Megan was seeing a therapist,” he told me. “His name is . . . Abdic. Kamal Abdic. He’s not Asian, he’s from Serbia, or Bosnia, somewhere like that. He’s dark-skinned, though. He could pass for Indian from a distance.” He tapped away at the computer. “There’s a website, I think. I’m sure there is. I think there’s a picture . . .”

He spun the laptop round so that I could see the screen. I leaned forward to get a closer look. “That’s him,” I said. “That’s definitely him.”

Scott snapped the laptop shut. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. He sat with his elbows on the table, his forehead resting on his fingertips, his arms trembling.

“She was having anxiety attacks,” he said at last. “Trouble sleeping, things like that. It started last year some time. I don’t remember when exactly.” He talked without looking at me, as though he were talking to himself, as though he’d forgotten I was there at all. “I was the one who suggested she talk to someone. I was the one who encouraged her to go, because I didn’t seem to be able to help her.” His voice cracked a little then. “I couldn’t help her. And she told me that she’d had similar problems in the past and that eventually they’d go away, but I made her . . . I her to go to the doctor. That guy was recommended to her.” He gave a little cough to clear his throat. “The therapy seemed to be helping. She was happier.” He gave a short, sad laugh. “Now I know why.”

I reached out my hand to give him a pat on the arm, a gesture of comfort. Abruptly, he drew away and got to his feet. “You should go,” he said brusquely. “My mother will be here soon—she won’t leave me alone for more than an hour or two.” At the door, just as I was leaving, he caught hold of my arm.

“Have I seen you somewhere before?” he asked.

For a moment, I thought about saying, I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so.”

I walked away towards the train station as quickly as I could. About halfway along the street, I turned to look back. He was still standing there in the doorway, watching me.

I’ve been checking my email obsessively, but I’ve heard nothing from Tom. How much better life must have been for jealous drunks before emails and texts and mobile phones, before all this electronica and the traces it leaves.

There was almost nothing in the papers about Megan today. They’re moving on already, the front pages devoted to the political crisis in Turkey, the four-year-old girl mauled by dogs in Wigan, the England football team’s humiliating loss to Montenegro. Megan is being forgotten, and she’s only been gone a week.

Cathy invited me out to lunch. She was at a loose end because Damien has gone to visit his mother in Birmingham. She wasn’t invited. They’ve been seeing each other for almost two years now, and she still hasn’t met his mother. We went to Giraffe on the High Street, a place I loathe. Seated in the centre of a room heaving with shrieking under-fives, Cathy quizzed me about what I’d been up to. She was curious about where I was last night.

“Have you met someone?” she asked me, her eyes alight with hope. It was quite touching, really.

I almost said yes, because it was the truth, but lying was easier. I told her I’d been to an AA meeting in Witney.

“Oh,” she said, embarrassed, dipping her eyes to her limp Greek salad. “I thought you’d maybe had a little slip. On Friday.”

“Yes. It won’t be plain sailing, Cathy,” I said, and I felt awful, because I think she really cares whether I get sober or not. “But I’m doing my best.”

“If you need me to, you know, go with you . . .”

“Not at this stage,” I said. “But thank you.”

“Well, maybe we could do something else together, like go to the gym?” she asked.

I laughed, but when I realized she was being serious I said I’d think about it.

She’s just left—Damien rang to say he was back from his mother’s, so she’s gone round to his place. I thought about saying something to her—

But I’m really not in a great position to give relationship advice—or any advice, come to that—and in any case I feel like a drink. (I’ve been thinking about it ever since we sat down in Giraffe and the spotty waiter asked if we’d like a glass of wine and Cathy said “No, thank you” very firmly.) So I wave her off and feel the little anticipatory tingle run over my skin and I push away the good thoughts (

). I’m just putting my shoes on to go to the off-licence when my phone rings. Tom. It’ll be Tom. I grab the phone from my bag and look at the screen and my heart bangs like a drum.

“Hi.” There is silence, so I ask, “Is everything OK?”

After a little pause Scott says, “Yeah, fine. I’m OK. I just called to say thank you, for yesterday. For taking the time to let me know.”

“Oh, that’s all right. You didn’t need—”

“Am I disturbing you?”

“No. It’s fine.” There is silence on the end of the line, so I say again, “It’s fine. Have you . . . has something happened? Did you speak to the police?

“The family liaison officer was here this afternoon,” he says. My heart rate quickens. “Detective Riley. I mentioned Kamal Abdic to her. Told her that he might be worth speaking to.”

“You said . . . you told her that you’d spoken to me?” My mouth is completely dry.

“No, I didn’t. I thought perhaps . . . I don’t know. I thought it would be better if I came up with the name myself. I said . . . it’s a lie, I know, but I said that I’d been racking my brains to think of anything significant, and that I thought it might be worth speaking to her therapist. I said that I’d had some concerns about their relationship in the past.”

I can breathe again. “What did she say?” I ask him.

“She said they had already spoken to him, but that they would do again. She asked me lots of questions about why I hadn’t mentioned him before. She’s . . . I don’t know. I don’t trust her. She’s supposed to be on my side, but all the time I feel like she’s snooping, like she’s trying to trip me up.”

I’m stupidly pleased that he doesn’t like her, either; another thing we have in common, another thread to bind us.

“I just wanted to say thank you, anyway. For coming forward. It was actually . . . it sounds odd, but it was good to talk to someone . . . someone I’m not close to. I felt as though I could think more rationally. After you left, I kept thinking about the first time Megan went to see him—Abdic—about the way she was when she came back. There was something about her, a lightness.” He exhales loudly. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining it.”

I have the same feeling I did yesterday—that he’s no longer really talking to me, he’s just talking. I’ve become a sounding board, and I’m glad of it. I’m glad to be of use to him.

“I’ve spent the whole day going through Megan’s things again,” he says. “I’ve already searched our room, the whole house, half a dozen times, looking for something, anything that would give me an indication as to where she could be. Something from him, perhaps. But there’s nothing. No emails, no letters, nothing. I thought about trying to contact him, but the practice is closed today and I can’t find a mobile number.”

“Is that a good idea, do you think?” I ask. “I mean, do you not think you should just leave him to the police?” I don’t want to say it out loud, but we must both be thinking it: he’s dangerous. Or at least, he could be dangerous.

“I don’t know, I just don’t know.” There’s a desperate edge to his voice that’s painful to hear, but I have no comfort to offer. I can hear his breathing on the other end of the line; it sounds short, quickened, as though he’s afraid. I want to ask him if he has someone there with him, but I can’t: it would sound wrong, forward.

“I saw your ex today,” he says, and I can feel the hairs on my arms stand up.

“Oh?”

“Yes, I went out for the papers and saw him in the street. He asked me if I was all right, whether there was any news.”

“Oh,” I repeat, because it’s all I can say, words won’t form. I don’t want him to speak to Tom. Tom knows that I don’t know Megan Hipwell. Tom knows that I was on Blenheim Road the night she disappeared.

“I didn’t mention you. I didn’t . . . you know. I wasn’t sure if I should have mentioned that I’d met you.”

“No, I don’t think you should have. I don’t know. It might be awkward.”

“All right,” he says.

After that, there’s a long silence. I’m waiting for my heartbeat to slow. I think he’s going to ring off, but then he says, “Did she really never talk about me?”

“Of course . . . of course she did,” I say. “I mean, we didn’t talk all that often, but—”

“But you came to the house. Megan hardly ever invites people round. She’s really private, protective of her own space.”

I’m searching for a reason. I wish I had never told him I’d been to the house.

“I just came round to borrow a book.”

“Really?” He doesn’t believe me. She’s not a reader. I think of the house—there were no books on the shelves there. “What sort of things did she say? About me?”

“Well, she was very happy,” I say. “With you, I mean. Your relationship.” As I’m saying this I realize how odd it sounds, but I can’t be specific, and so I try to save myself. “To be honest with you, I was having a really hard time in my marriage, so I think it was a kind of compare-and-contrast thing. She lit up when she spoke about you.” What an awful cliché.

“Did she?” He doesn’t seem to notice, there’s a note of wistfulness in his voice. “That’s so good to hear.” He pauses, and I can hear his breathing, quick and shallow, on the other end of the line. “We had . . . we had a terrible argument,” he says. “The night she left. I hate the idea that she was angry with me when . . .” He tails off.

“I’m sure she wasn’t angry with you for long,” I say. “Couples fight. Couples fight all the time.”

“But this was bad, it was terrible, and I can’t . . . I feel like I can’t tell anyone, because if I did they would look at me like I was guilty.”

There’s a different quality to his voice now: haunted, saturated with guilt.

“I don’t remember how it started,” he says, and immediately I don’t believe him, but then I think about all the arguments I’ve forgotten and I bite my tongue. “It got very heated. I was very . . . I was unkind to her. I was a bastard. A complete bastard. She was upset. She went upstairs and put some things in a bag. I don’t know what exactly, but I noticed later that her toothbrush was gone, so I knew she wasn’t planning on coming home. I assumed . . . I thought she must have gone to Tara’s for the night. That happened once before. Just one time. It wasn’t like this happened all the time.

“I didn’t even go after her,” he says, and it hits me yet again that he’s not really talking to me, he’s confessing. He’s on one side of the confessional and I’m on the other, faceless, unseen. “I just let her go.”

“That was on Saturday night?”

“Yes. That was the last time I saw her.”

There was a witness who saw her—or saw “a woman fitting her description”—walking towards Witney station at around seven fifteen, I know that from the newspaper reports. That was the final sighting. No one remembered seeing her on the platform, or on the train. There is no CCTV at Witney, and she wasn’t picked up on the CCTV at Corly, although the reports said that this didn’t prove she wasn’t there, because there are “significant blind spots” at that station.

“What time was it when you tried to contact her?” I ask him. Another long silence.

“I . . . I went to the pub. The Rose, you know, just around the corner, on Kingly Road? I needed to cool down, to get things straight in my head. I had a couple of pints, then I went back home. That was just before ten. I think I was hoping that she’d have had time to calm down and that she’d be back. But she wasn’t.”

“So it was around ten o’clock when you tried to call her?”

“No.” His voice is little more than a whisper now. “I didn’t. I drank a couple more beers at home, I watched some TV. Then I went to bed.”

I think about all the arguments I had with Tom, all the terrible things I said after I’d had too much, all the storming out into the street, shouting at him, telling him I never wanted to see him again. He always rang me, he always talked me down, coaxed me home.

“I just imagined she’d be sitting in Tara’s kitchen, you know, talking about what a shit I am. So I left it.”

He left it. It sounds callous and uncaring, and I’m not surprised he hasn’t told this story to anyone else. I am surprised that he’s telling anyone at all. This is not the Scott I imagined, the Scott I knew, the one who stood behind Megan on the terrace, his big hands on her bony shoulders, ready to protect her from anything.

I’m ready to hang up the phone, but Scott keeps talking. “I woke up early. There were no messages on my phone. I didn’t panic—I assumed she was with Tara and that she was still angry with me. I rang her then and got her voice mail, but I still didn’t panic. I thought she was probably still asleep, or just ignoring me. I couldn’t find Tara’s number, but I had her address—it was on a business card on Megan’s desk. So I got up and I drove round there.”

I wonder, if he wasn’t worried, why he felt he needed to go round to Tara’s house, but I don’t interrupt. I let him talk.

“I got to Tara’s place a little after nine. It took her a while to come to the door, but when she did, she looked really surprised to see me. It was obvious that I was the last person she expected to see on her doorstep at that time of the morning, and that’s when I knew . . . That’s when I knew that Megan wasn’t there. And I started to think . . . I started . . .” The words catch, and I feel wretched for doubting him.

“She told me the last time she’d seen Megan was at their Pilates class on Friday night. That’s when I started to panic.”

After I hang up the phone, I think about how, if you didn’t know him, if you hadn’t seen how he was with her, as I have, a lot of what he’d said would not ring quite true.

I feel quite befuddled. I slept soundly but dreamily and this morning I am struggling to wake up properly. The hot weather has returned and the carriage is stifling today, despite being only half full. I was late getting up this morning and didn’t have time to pick up a newspaper or to check the news on the Internet before I left the house, so I am trying to get the BBC site on my phone, but for some reason it is taking forever to load. At Northcote a man with an iPad gets on and takes the seat next to me. He has no problems at all getting the news up, he goes straight to the site and there it is, in big, bold letters, the third story: MAN ARRESTED IN CONNECTION WITH MEGAN HIPWELL DISAPPEARANCE.

I get such a fright that I forget myself and lean right over to get a better look. He looks up at me, affronted, almost startled.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know her. The missing woman. I know her.”

“Oh, how awful,” he says. He’s a middle-aged man, well-spoken and well-dressed. “Would you like to read the story?”

“Please. I can’t get anything to come up on my phone.”

He smiles kindly and hands me the tablet. I touch the headline and the story comes up.

A man in his thirties has been arrested in connection with the disappearance of Megan Hipwell, twenty-nine, the Witney woman who has been missing since Saturday, 13 July. Police were not able to confirm whether the man arrested is Megan Hipwell’s husband, Scott Hipwell, who was questioned under caution on Friday. In a statement this morning a police spokesman said: “We can confirm that we have arrested a man in connection with Megan’s disappearance. He has not yet been charged with an offence. The search for Megan continues, and we are searching an address that we believe may be a crime scene.”

We are passing the house now; for once, the train has not stopped at the signal. I whip my head around, but I’m too late. It’s gone. My hands are trembling as I hand the iPad back to its owner. He shakes his head sadly. “I’m very sorry,” he says.

“She isn’t dead,” I say. My voice is a croak and even I don’t believe me. Tears are stinging the back of my eyes. I was in his house. I was there. I sat across the table from him, I looked into his eyes, I felt something. I think about those huge hands and about how, if he could crush me, he could destroy her—tiny, fragile Megan.

The brakes screech as we approach Witney station and I leap to my feet.

“I have to go,” I tell the man next to me, who looks a little surprised but nods sagely.

“Good luck,” he says.

I run along the platform and down the stairs. I’m going against the flow of people, and am almost at the bottom of the stairs when I stumble and a man says, “Watch it!” I don’t glance up at him because I’m looking at the edge of the concrete step, the second to last one. There’s a smear of blood on it. I wonder how long it’s been there. Could it be a week old? Could it be my blood? Hers? Is her blood in the house, I wonder, is that why they’ve arrested him? I try to picture the kitchen, the living room. The smell: very clean, antiseptic. Was that bleach? I don’t know, I can’t remember now, all I can remember clearly is the sweat on his back and the beer on his breath.

I run past the underpass, stumbling at the corner of Blenheim Road. I’m holding my breath as I hurry along the pavement, head down, too afraid to look up, but when I do there’s nothing to see. There are no vans parked outside Scott’s house, no police cars. Could they have finished searching the house already? If they had found something they would still be there, surely; it must take hours, going over everything, processing the evidence. I quicken my pace. When I get to his house I stop, take a deep breath. The curtains are drawn, upstairs and down. The curtains in the neighbour’s window twitch. I’m being watched. I step into the doorway, my hand raised. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I just wanted to see. I wanted to . I’m caught, for a moment, between going against my every instinct and knocking on that door, and turning away. I turn to leave, and it’s at that moment that the door opens.

Before I have time to move, his hand shoots out, he grabs my forearm and pulls me towards him. His mouth is a grim line, his eyes wild. He is desperate. Flooded with dread and adrenaline, I see darkness coming. I open my mouth to cry out, but I’m too late, he yanks me into the house and slams the door behind me.