Murder

This programme contains strong language from the start,

and scenes which some viewers may find upsetting.

That's what's in my head -

that somehow or other he's killed her.

She's been trying to tell me for months that she's in danger,

from him.

But I can't say that.

Apparently, that's defamation.

Apparently, she's just a missing person.

Apparently, he's got the lawyers and the money,

and, apparently, that's what matters.

'Emergency.

'Which service do you require?'

The first time we met,

bang, I saw the light.

The first time we met -

properly met -

she dumbfounded me.

'Caller?'

'Caller?'

She's a vessel of light, Arla.

Emitting light is what she does.

She just has panache,

mystique.

That clicky handbag and heels,

the perfect hair, never enough time.

And I'm...

Because of who Arla is, she doesn't...

she doesn't know the protocol.

She doesn't know how she's supposed to think and behave.

If I had a self image, which I don't really, but if you pushed me...

...I'd say it was a big, crashing torrent

of shitty, fucked-up brown water.

They don't listen.

They say she has a history

of dropping out of sight for a few days.

And I say, "Yeah, of dropping out of sight THERE."

So, if she isn't THERE...

...where is she?

It's not unusual for her to be gone.

She'll say she's coming for the week, and then,

Wednesday, she's gone.

And things aren't properly sorted between her and Alex.

It's complicated, so, I've never said,

"You said you'd be here. You've got to be here."

I've never...

taken that for granted.

He threatened to come round here once - Alex.

Threatened to come here and drag her home.

I said, "Where IS her home, though, Alex?"

'He says she's not there.

'But for all anyone knows, she IS there.

'Dead.'

The trend today is catastrophism.

Think the worst, it saves time.

Let's all cry wolf all the time, then nothing can ever go wrong.

That's the thinking.

All eventualities will always be covered all the time.

And if we all drop down dead, exhausted, chasing shadows,

well, at least we shan't be accused of dereliction of duty.

One 999 call doesn't make it a murder,

especially not an aborted 999 call.

Bloody trainers,

kids who won't go to bed,

late-arriving pizzas...

All urgent catastrophes.

Who else is it going to be?

Bryony Phelps, poster girl for the charity.

Rose from the ranks, lost soul found.

The girl's neurotic and overwrought.

Splashing it all over social media,

pointing the finger at Cotterall.

Tweeting, Instagramming, Facebooking.

And, generally working up a right old candyfloss of indignation

amongst the Tatler types. To which, my superiors are not immune.

But slapping a writ on her?

That smacks of more money than sense.

She said I was the one who could tell her the most

because I knew Arla at work and as a friend.

And as a client, too.

I'm living proof of what Arla is capable of.

I'm not saying they ALL turn out like me.

The kids we deal with, they don't always have the best start in life.

That's the whole point of Liferaft.

We were both at some horrible function at a gallery

and she was momentarily alone, looking at a painting.

So, I cascaded over to her and she just smiled,

and put out her hand and said that she was Arla

and that I was Dominic, wasn't I,

and that she was very pleased to meet me.

She said, "What do you think of the work?

"I think it's very... kinetic.

"Are you buying?"

I couldn't think of a single thing to say.

She would never have missed the AGM, never.

This organisation was everything to her.

I just told her that I'd only ever liked one painting in my life,

and that one turned out to be a fake.

I stole it from my dad

when I first left Abbedon.

After I fucked his second wife.

She was a fake, too.

A number of people have made it their life's work

to traduce Dominic's reputation.

Gossip columnists, journalists,

paparazzi, barristers,

ex-wife, ex-girlfriends,

ex-friends,

friends.

His mother.

To a good extent, he's brought it on himself.

But if people want to bandy my eldest son's name

around the nightclubs of Mayfair

just because some dizzy girl's gone walkabout...

...they have to be taught...

...there's a price to be paid.

'Hi, this is Arla. Talk to the beep.'

Where is she?

Arla Beckman, 35, US citizen.

Lived here most of her life.

Parents made a fortune in the fitness industry,

then sold up, turned philanthropist and set up Liferaft.

She runs the UK arm, big benefactor,

considered a great beauty.

Married to a banker, Alex... somebody.

Eton, Cambridge.

According to a magazine interview,

the landmark she'd most like to spend a night in is the London Eye.

Maybe somebody should look there.

Left work on Friday the 17th at 3:04pm.

Nice hours if you can get them.

"She was at Dominic Cotterall's house," she said. "I know she was."

I said "I know she was, too. He told me."

Spent the entire weekend there, left the Monday morning.

Little face fell a bit at that.

"And," I said, "there's been other instances in the past six months

"of her being incommunicado for three days or more."

Phone off, no cash withdrawals.

Lost weekends.

Face fell a bit further.

"Any idea where she spent those?" I said.

I didn't catch her reply at first,

I had to ask her to speak up.

Then I heard her.

"His," she said. "His."

He'd kidnap her,

abduct her.

There's no other way of putting it.

People don't realise the toll it takes on her, being good.

On anyone.

Everyone needs a release.

She was always saying that Dominic wasn't right for her.

He used to beg her, she wouldn't go otherwise.

Maybe I'm not her release any more.

He wasn't right for her - she told me.

Thoughts of him would creep up on her, though,

build up in her.

Or her defences would go down and she'd forget what he was like.

And she'd go back.

"What else did he tell you?" she said, "Dominic."

I said, "He told me you'd been round to his house

"a number of times in the last few months looking for Arla.

"That more than once she'd had to tell you to go away

"and, eventually, he'd had to threaten you with an ASBO.

"Is that right?"

She wanted to know all about Liferaft UK, and what we did,

and whether Arla had had any fights or arguments

with any of the people in the organisation,

or any of our clients.

I said it wasn't our clients they should be talking to, it was him.

She said they already had.

She said she'd talked to him at his house.

So, that lawyer can go fuck himself, thank you very much!

I said, "I suppose, there may have been one or two... grievances."

But they didn't come to anything.

In rehab, we had to write a letter to ourselves from our addiction.

"Shitface" - that's what my addiction called me.

Calls me.

It's calling me now.

I am the site of an addiction.

I'm a host body for narcotics, that's all.

I'm nothing but that.

I'm Shitface.

His reputation precedes him but I found him personable enough.

He invited me in, shook my hand.

There were reporters shouting to him from across the street.

No cup of tea, but that's not uncommon.

I said, "If you don't mind, I'd like to take this step by step."

He said all he wanted to know was where she was.

I said, "Ms Beckman arrived here on Friday evening

"and left on the Monday morning. Is that correct?"

He said it was.

I asked him how they'd spent their weekend.

He asked me if I wanted the lie or if I wanted the truth.

I said, "The truth."

He said "Indulging in sex and drugs and rock and roll."

"Without very much rock and roll."

I said, "When she left, what would you say was her state of mind?"

He said, "What do YOU think?"

I said, "At this stage, I try NOT to be thinking too much.