The Missing (13 page)

The fly zipped past me and out through the open window. Was it true what Mum had said? Was I blaming her for my own mistakes? A feeling was building inside me, one I hadn’t had for a long time, a kind of recklessness born of frustration and fatigue and just being fed up. I didn’t, on the whole, allow myself to be emotional often, and the strength of what I was feeling surprised me.

The floorboards creaked on the landing and I stiffened, waiting until I heard Mum’s bedroom door close. She had gone to ground as well. It was our tacitly accepted practice to stay out of each other’s way for a few days after a row. Nothing was ever resolved, or forgotten, but time passed. Time passed and there was no end in sight.

I sat down on the edge of my bed and thought about everything and nothing, about Charlie and Jenny and Dad and the rest, and reached no conclusion at all except that
something
had to happen, and soon. I wondered what it was I really wanted. I watched the clouds and let ideas drift through my mind until I settled on one thing that I longed for, something that, once I’d thought of it, I couldn’t put out of my mind, something that was within my reach, if I hadn’t misread the signs. I went and found my phone, checked the number I needed, and sent a short message without stopping for long enough to let myself second-guess what I was planning. And the reply, when it came, was simple: yes.

The light was draining from the sky when I let myself out of my room and slipped into the bathroom, stripping off my clothes and turning the shower on full. I stepped under it while it was still running cold and tilted my head back, letting the water rush through my hair for a minute or two. I moved slowly, deliberately, meticulous in washing my hair until it squeaked, the water running over me as my skin tingled. When I was finished, I wrapped my hair in a towel and worked moisturiser into every inch of my body until my skin gleamed like satin.

Back in my bedroom, I put on barely-there black chiffon underwear that I had bought in Paris what seemed like a lifetime ago, at the insistence of one of my friends, and had never worn. There had been no reason to. There had been no one to see that kind of thing since Ben. But I didn’t allow myself to think about Ben. And now was definitely not the time to start.

At the back of a drawer, I found a fitted black top with a plunging neckline and pulled it on, along with my favourite jeans, which were ancient, soft as suede. Flat sandals
on
my feet and a wide bangle on one arm were the last details. It was the right balance between looking good and trying too hard, I judged, looking at myself in the mirror critically before starting to work on my hair. After drying it, I pulled it all back into a low knot at the base of my head and clipped it. A few soft tendrils spiralled on either side of my face. I left them as they were. There was colour in my cheeks from the heat of the hairdryer, but there was heat within me too, a self-sustaining slow burn of determination and desire.

I took my time with my make-up, emphasising my eyes with dark liner and mascara so they looked huge, and dabbing just a little gloss on my lips. In the mirror my eyes were steady but wary. I looked different, even to myself. I looked like someone I hadn’t been for a long time. I looked like the person I should have been all along, not the pale shadow I’d become.

It was after ten by the time I was finished. Grabbing my bag, I hurried downstairs, not bothering to be quiet, and slammed the front door, some childish part of me hoping that Mum had heard, that she was wondering where I was going at that hour, and why.

I was dry-mouthed with nerves as I parked, refusing to listen to the little voice in my head that said I was making a fool of myself, that he would back off. He’d have to, some part of me knew. What I was planning was a bad idea in so many ways. I got out of the car and walked into the building decisively, taking the lift to the top floor as if I had every right to be there. I walked up to his door. Faint music was just audible from where I stood. I knocked
gently
and closed my eyes for a second. My heart was fluttering in my chest like a trapped bird.

When Blake opened the door, our eyes met and it was as physical a jolt to me as if I’d parried a blow. He was barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt, and his hair was slightly ruffled, as if he’d been lying down. He looked at me impassively for a moment that seemed to stretch for hours, then smiled and stood back.

‘Come in.’

‘Thanks.’

I stepped past him into the hallway, dropping my bag on the floor before going any further. To my right was the main room, an open-plan living room and kitchen, lit softly by a couple of lamps. Uncurtained floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a balcony that ran the length of the room. In daytime, it would make the most of the river view. The room was indefinably masculine, functional. There were no pictures on the cream-painted walls and it was minimally furnished: a vast brown sofa, a dining table and chairs, an intimidating music system and shelves of records and CDs. There were books, too, and I wandered towards them, skimming the spines for titles I knew. They were all nonfiction – history, biographies, even politics. I smiled to myself; Blake was a man who appreciated facts. It was no wonder he enjoyed his job. The kitchen was spotless; I wondered if he’d ever cooked anything in it.

‘The bedrooms and bathroom are on the other side,’ he said from the hall, where he was watching me. Whatever he was thinking was masked by his usual self-possession. It was as effective as a steel shutter at locking me out.

‘Very nice.’ I walked back through the room towards him. ‘Your parents were generous.’

‘Can’t fault my dad for that,’ he said with a grin. ‘He never held back when it came to money. Emotional support you could whistle for, but there was always plenty of cash.’

‘Lucky for you.’

‘If you say so.’ He looked around, as if seeing the flat for the first time. ‘Anyway, this is it. My inheritance. More of an investment than a home.’

It did look impersonal, like a stage set or a hotel suite. Somewhere Blake was prepared to leave at a moment’s notice, I guessed.

‘It’s very tidy.’

He shrugged. ‘I like to keep things neat. And I’m never here to make it untidy.’

‘Lucky that you were in this evening, then,’ I said lightly. ‘I was expecting you to say you weren’t free when I texted you.’

‘Vickers gave me the night off. He told me there was no point in being there if I was too tired to think.’

‘You do look tired.’

‘Thanks very much.’ He moved a couple of paces forward, into the living room. ‘Did you just come over to check the place out or can I get you a drink?’

I shook my head. ‘I didn’t come here to drink.’

‘I see. So it’s the conversation that brought you here.’

‘I wouldn’t say that either.’

We were standing a few feet apart by then. I moved closer to him, until he was within touching distance. The air between us seemed to crackle. I took another step
towards
him, so close that I could feel the heat of his skin through the thin cotton of his T-shirt, and waited, my eyes locked on his, for him to move. Slowly, deliberately, he trailed his fingertips down from the hollow at the base of my throat to the deep V of my top, feather-light contact that made me shiver with desire. I leaned into him, sliding my hands up his chest, and turned my face up to him for a kiss that started out as tentative, then grew deeper, passionate. He slid a hand around to the back of my head and freed my hair from the clip to let it fall down my back. He twined his fingers through it, holding a handful at the base of my neck, so that I couldn’t move away, even if I had wanted to. I pressed myself against him, sighing as he kissed my neck, his other hand exploring, the taste of him in my mouth, his heart thudding against mine.

I don’t know what it was that made him stop. Without warning, he grabbed hold of my upper arms and held me away from him. I felt dazed, as if I had been roused from a deep sleep. He was breathing hard and at first he couldn’t meet my eyes.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Sarah … I shouldn’t be doing this.’

‘Why not?’

He looked straight at me, obviously angry. ‘Don’t be obtuse. You know why. It’s unprofessional.’

‘It has nothing to do with being professional. It’s personal.’

‘It’s just—’ He broke off, struggling to find the words. ‘I just can’t.’

I waited for a second to see if he was going to go on,
then
stepped back. ‘OK. I get it. You could have told me not to come over.’

I kept my tone light, not confrontational, but he folded his arms and glared at me as if I’d attacked him. ‘I don’t always make the best decisions. Especially where you’re concerned, it seems. You’re a witness in the biggest case of my career. I can’t do this, no matter how much I might want to. I could lose my job.’

I dredged up a crooked smile. ‘It’s nice to know you want to, anyway.’

‘Don’t do that. Don’t be so humble.’ His tone was sharp. ‘I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw you. You don’t have a clue how men look at you, do you?’

He reached out and ran a finger down the side of my face, tracing the line of my cheek, and I closed my eyes for a moment. I felt tears sting the back of my throat and swallowed hard; I would not cry in front of Andy Blake. I had more pride than that.

I turned away from him and walked over to the window, pushing the hair back from my face. My cheeks felt hot. For a second, I stared at my face floating against the dark background, blurry and indistinct. Then I leaned against the glass, cupping my hands around my eyes, and peered out at the buildings opposite and the lights reflected in the river. ‘It
is
a great view,’ I said in an absurdly conversational tone, as if nothing had interrupted our discussion of the flat.

‘Fuck the view,’ Blake said violently, and crossed the room in a couple of strides, pulling me around to face him. He looked down at me with something like despair. Then
his
mouth was on mine again and I gave myself up to him willingly, wrapping myself around him when he lifted me up and carried me to his bedroom, helping him to take off my clothes and his. The world was reduced to his skin against mine, his hands, his mouth, and as I arched my back and cried out, I had no thoughts in my head, not a one, and it was bliss. And afterwards, he held me tightly, and I didn’t even know that I was crying until he wiped my tears away.

I know that I’m in trouble as soon as they tell me we are going to the police station. Every time Mum and Dad have been there since Charlie disappeared, they have left me with Aunt Lucy. I sit in the back of the car, behind my mother, and I think about saying that my stomach hurts. It’s not a lie. But I doubt that it would be enough to make Mum and Dad change their minds. There is something in their faces that makes me think that I am not going to get out of this, and at that thought, my stomach hurts more.

Someone is waiting for us at the station. When we walk in, my father holding my hand, a small woman with short hair rushes over.

‘Thank you for coming in, Laura, Alan. And this must be Sarah. We’re going to have a little chat, Sarah – would you like that?’

If I was braver, I would say no, but my father’s hand tightens on mine and I squeak something that sounds like yes.

‘Good girl. Would you like to come with me?’

My father pulls my hand forward so the woman can take hold of it, and she starts to walk away, drawing me behind her, heading for a plain white door. I look back over my shoulder to where Mum and Dad are standing, not touching, watching me. Dad’s face is worried. Mum has a dead look, as if I mean nothing to her. Suddenly, I am afraid that they are going to leave, and I try to twist my hand out of the woman’s grasp, leaning away from her, back towards my parents, crying, ‘Mum, I don’t want to go.’

Dad starts forward a pace and then stops. Mum doesn’t move an inch.

‘Now, don’t be silly,’ the woman says briskly. ‘I just want to have a talk with you in a special room. Your parents are going to be watching you on a little television. Come on.’

I give in, following her through the door and down a corridor, to a small room with an armchair and a very old, sagging sofa. There are toys in a heap in the corner – dolls, teddy bears, an Action Man with felt hair whose arms are thrown up over his head.

The woman says, ‘Why don’t you go and choose a doll to look after while we’re talking?’

I go over and stand by the pile, looking at the tangle of legs and arms. I don’t really want to touch any of them. In the end, I pick the one on top of the pile, a floppy doll with a smiling
face
and bright red wool hair, wearing a frilled dress with a flowery pattern. Her face is painted on, and the paint has gone grey around her mouth and cheeks.

I come back and sit down on the sofa, holding the doll stiffly. The woman sits in the armchair and watches me. She isn’t wearing make-up and her mouth is colourless, her lips almost invisible until she smiles. But she smiles often.

‘I haven’t introduced myself, have I? I’m a police officer, a detective constable. My name is DC Helen Cooper, but you can just call me Helen. I’ve got you to come here today to have a little talk with me about your brother, because we haven’t found him yet, have we? I just wanted to go through it with you one more time, in case you’d remembered anything since the police first talked to you.’

I want to tell her that I haven’t remembered anything, that I’ve tried, but she doesn’t give me a chance to speak.

‘This is a special room with cameras to record what you and I say to each other. There’s one there, up in the corner –’ and she points with her biro at a white, boxy camera mounted near the ceiling ‘– and one over there on a stand. And what we’re saying is being recorded, so other people can listen to what you have to say. Don’t worry about them, though, just talk to me normally, because we’re just having a little
conversation
, aren’t we? So there’s nothing to be scared about.’

I start to comb out the doll’s yarn hair with my fingers. It is stuck together in places with something that might be hardened snot.