should we do to help this person?’
The first time I’d ever come to watch him teach and I’d seen someone apparently hurt like this, I’d been shocked. That had soon changed into an appreciation of the special effects. I now knew Jason hired members of the local amateur dramatic society to play his various ‘victims’ and that he taped small bags of fake blood inside their clothing. These bags had little tubes that fed out to various parts of the body to make it seem like blood was leaking from their veins or dribbling from their mouth.
Jason suggested the class role-play the situation and as they did what he asked, I marvelled at how, not that long ago, he’d been the kind of person who would struggle to apply a simple plaster, let alone teach someone else how to perform CPR. In actual fact, his interest in first aid hadn’t come about till he was well into his twenties, after Barney had first gone missing. On a contract to repair a bridge on the Tees, they’d needed an extra first-aider on-site and Jason had been one of the men sent on a course. He’d loved every second of it and by the end of the first day he was smitten. Six months on and he’d started evening classes; one year after that he’d qualified. Despite the huge drop in salary, it wasn’t long before he’d jacked in the steel and turned to teaching full time.
The role-play exercise reached its conclusion and I watched as the actor got to his feet and went around the group introducing himself. It was funny. Even though everyone knew he’d been playing, there was still a real sense of relief he was OK.
As the class milled around, laughing and talking about what had just happened, I took the opportunity to get some fresh air and check in with the office.
Outside, I headed for the row of metal benches that lined the edge of the college, sat down and got out my phone. As well as a host of emails from clients, there were also a few messages from Yvonne. Written in the same curt tone, she took every opportunity to make it clear she was unhappy about my having today off. I knew she couldn’t discipline me for taking a day’s holiday, but I also knew that, as far as she was concerned, I should be working twenty-four-seven to try and get back on track.
I answered as many emails as I could and was thinking about returning inside when I became aware of someone watching me. Looking up, my eyes locked with a tall, jacketed man loitering by the smokers’ shelter. Hands thrust deep in his pockets, he had dark wavy hair and a way of standing, with his shoulders erect and his head held to the side, that I found familiar. It was Mark, the journalist who’d inveigled his way into our barbecue.
‘You’ve got some nerve,’ I said, stomping over to where he stood. ‘I assume it’s no coincidence you’re hanging around on the same day my husband teaches a class.’
He looked down at his feet and, for a moment, he seemed embarrassed to have been caught out.
‘I was hoping I’d bump into him.’ He scuffed his left shoe against the base of the smoking shelter. ‘But not for the reason you think. I wanted to apologise. I know what I did might’ve seemed wrong, but I stand by what I said. I really think an interview would help the search …’
‘Wrong! You know it seemed wrong?’
He held up his hands in defeat.
‘I get it, OK? You’re angry. And you’ve every right. But, like I said, I wanted to say sorry.’
‘So, what? You were hoping for something juicy? Some exclusive from behind the scenes?’
He looked off into the distance as though he hadn’t heard what I’d just said.
‘I’ve been looking into Barney’s disappearance. The days that followed. There are certain things, things Vicky did, that make no sense.’
‘You’re full of it. If this is your weird, roundabout way of baiting me into an interview, then I suggest you go back to journalism school.’
‘Ask him. Jason. Ask him if their marriage was as solid as they made it out to be back then.’
I started to walk away.
‘I mean it when I say that some fresh press could help Barney’s case.’
I stopped, marched back to where he stood and pushed myself so far into his face that he had to take a small step back, away