“So,” DC Rubin says finally, “you’re calling to report that you’ve found stolen property?”
“No,” I say. “It’s not stolen, as such. I mean it might be. I found it at my house and I was googling the address and I found out there might be a link to this missing guy.”
“And is the gentleman a relative of yours or a member of your extended family?”
“No, I never met him. Just found him on the internet. But I did go to meet his wife, or ex-wife, or widow, or whatever she is.”
There is a moment of silence on the line and I imagine the officer sighing and shaking her head.
“Are you calling to report a criminal offense, sir?”
“No,” I say. “Not exactly. I mean, there may have been. Mr. Parish disappeared a while ago.”
“But you’re not next of kin?”
“No.”
“Not actually a relative of this individual?”
“No, I’m not but—”
“Sir?” The detective’s voice is on the edge of impatience. “Just to clarify, does this relate to a current or recent incident, to the best of your knowledge?”
“It was a while back; I mean it happened twenty-plus years ago but—”
“Twentyyears?” she says. “Sorry, I thought you said just now that it was twentydaysago.”
“No, it’s from… a while back.”
In the background at her end, a male voice is calling a name.Tanya? Where’s Tanya?There is a pause for a minute, the sound muffled as if she’s put a hand over the receiver, before she comes back.
A note of exasperation is creeping into her voice. “So you think this item belonged to Mr. Parsons, do you?”
“Parish,” I say. “Adrian Parish. He lived in Kimberley, he had a dog called Woody, and he’s a missing person. He’s been missing for a while, as I said. I just thought it was curious that this thing turned up in my house and thought I should let the police know, that’s all.”
“Do you have any proof that the collar belonged to his dog, or in fact, that this gentleman is still actually missing and unaccounted for?”
“Well, no, not cast-iron proof, but I just thought it was something that the police should know about in case it might help to show where he went, what happened to him.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, sir, but are you a person who watches a lot of true crime on Netflix? Would you consider yourself a bit of an expert, something of an amateur investigator, perhaps?”
“No, not really.”
“And do you have any idea how many calls I get from people who think they are? From folks who think they know the job better than we do?”
“I really think there’s something more to this,” I say. “Something that’s never been uncovered.”
The sound at her end is muffled again.
“Right,” she says, her tone indicating the conversation is at an end. “Listen, we’re up to our necks in it here and I have to go. But thanks for getting in touch. Someone will look into it.”
She takes my name and number and says someone will call me back, cutting off the call before I can even say goodbye.
26
The interview doesn’t go well.
It’s one of those where you get a bad vibe right from the moment you walk in, from their body language, their faces, as you answer the first question. Where they don’t like you as a candidate and you don’t really like them either, but both of you have to string it out for at least another half an hour, to do the dance, go through the motions before it can be brought to a merciful end. Even though I know, deep down, that I would snap their hand off if they offered me the role just to be able to sleep at night when the first of those huge mortgage payments slides out of the joint account.
