Back in the bar, I notice a middle-aged woman pushing her phone under Eric’s nose.
‘No, love, I haven’t seen her,’ he says. He yells to Brando. ‘There’s a lady here who is looking for her daughter. Says she was in here on Friday night.’
Brando is carrying a crate of beers up the basement steps. He pauses to look at the phone and shrugs. The woman is wearing a mumsy floral dress and trainers. She looks vaguely familiar.
‘It’s my daughter,’ she says. ‘She was here with some friends. Nobody has seen her since.’
Brando is restocking the fridge.
‘The police aren’t interested because she hasn’t been missing for long enough,’ says the woman.
‘Long enough for what?’ I ask, moving closer.
‘To be called a missing person.’
I look at the picture on her phone and my heart somersaults.
‘Daniela,’ I say. Even as the word comes out, I want to catch it in mid-air and swallow it again. I look at Brando. ‘She threw up in the loos. Remember?’
Brando seems to find the memory. ‘We sent her home.’
‘She ordered a car. I saw her leave,’ I say.
‘Who was she with?’ asks the woman.
‘Nobody.’
She looks like she’s going to cry. ‘She was supposed to come to lunch on Saturday. She hasn’t called. And she didn’t go to work on Monday. She never misses a shift.’
I see similarities between mother and daughter, the eyebrows and hairline, the shape of her nose. She talks quickly. ‘She lives with a couple of her friends. Nurses. They were together on Friday night. They were going dancing. The others went ahead. Daniela was supposed to join them. Did you talk to her? Was she sick? I’ve called the hospitals. The police think Daniela must have gone home with someone she met – a date, I mean – but she has a boyfriend and she wouldn’t miss work.’
I tell her about finding Daniela’s phone and helping her outside. As I’m talking, she calls someone called Harriet and relays the information word for word.
‘Do you remember anything about the car?’ she asks.
‘No. It was a normal car. The driver took her to Stapleford.’
‘Why?’
‘That was her address.’
‘No. That’s where I live. Daniela hasn’t lived at home for two years. She shares a house in Rylands with Harriet and Alissa.’
‘But her driver’s licence,’ I say, less certain than before. The fluttering in my stomach has become a sick feeling.
‘I’m going to call someone. Wait here.’
Brando follows me into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Her daughter is missing.’
‘She’s probably run off with some guy.’
‘That was the same night as the police came in, asking questions about Maya Kirk.’
‘Who?’
‘The woman who was murdered.’
‘That had nothing to do with us,’ says Brando. ‘And they caught that guy. This is a random drunk girl who didn’t call her mum.’
‘She was here.’
‘And then she left.’
We’re speaking in loud whispers. Faces close. Arguing. My finger is hovering over the phone.
‘I don’t want any cops. It’s bad for business.’
He grabs my wrist. I jerk my hand away and summon the first name on my contacts list – the only one that matters. I press the green button.
Moments later, I’m outside on the crowded footpath alongside Daniela’s mother.
‘Did you just lose your job?’ she asks, shocked.
‘He’s an arsehole.’
‘Who are you calling?’
‘A friend. He’ll know what to do.’
41
Cyrus
Lying on a padded bench, my feet braced apart, I grip the bar above my chest and concentrate on a small water mark on the ceiling that is shaped like an elephant. Three short breaths and I lift. The bar doesn’t want to move at first, but slowly it begins to rise until my arms straighten. Three more breaths and I lower it towards my chest and lift it again. Sweat prickles, beading the birds that are tattooed on my skin.
Eight … nine … ten. When I cannot hold the weight any longer, I force myself to go on. I will not break. I will not fail.
This is what I do when I need to think, or to forget. Elias is getting out. I keep saying that he’s ‘coming home’ but this isn’t his home. It belonged to our grandparents. They gave it to me. Does he deserve half of this? Half of me?
I grew up without a family. I was the boy who survived. Set apart. Shunned. And when I grew tired of people pitying me, or whispering behind my back, I gave them something else to talk about. I drank. I took drugs. I cut myself. I stole. I vandalised. That’s why I can forgive Evie her mistakes. I have been in the back of that police car, being delivered home after some new destructive misadventure.
My phone is vibrating. Speak of the devil.
‘I need you,’ she says. ‘Someone else is missing.’
Headlights reflect on the dew-covered lawns of Stapleford. The two-storey brick houses all look the same, especially in darkness, each with a small front garden fenced off by hedges or wooden pickets. I find the number. Evie answers the door. A woman is standing behind her under the light.
‘This is Mrs Linares,’ says Evie. ‘Her daughter is Daniela.’
The small sitting room has too many pieces of furniture competing for space with a large flat-screen TV. The curtains match the sofa, which are matched by the cushions, which are the colours of the cut flowers on the mantelpiece.
Mrs Linares apologises about the mess. The place looks spotless.
‘I had to downsize after my husband left me,’ she explains. ‘I couldn’t decide what to leave behind, or to sell.’
‘When did you separate?’ I ask.
‘Oh, we’ve been divorced for eight years,’ she says, looking around the room. ‘I guess that makes me a hoarder.’
Evie tells me about meeting Daniela in the bar and helping her outside. Mrs Linares picks up the story, speaking in a rush. I make her slow down. Relax. Remember. Daniela hadn’t come home on Friday night. She missed work on Monday, without calling in sick; and she hasn’t answered her phone in four days.
‘I called the police first thing Monday morning. They said I should go to my nearest police station and file a missing person’s report. A sergeant took down my details, but I don’t think they’re taking it seriously. He said I should call her friends. I’ve done that. I’ve contacted the hospitals, clinics, shelters …’
‘Does she have a boyfriend?’
‘Martyn. He’s lovely. He keeps asking her to marry him, but Daniela says she’s not ready. I don’t know what she’s waiting for. Good men don’t come along like buses.’
Aren’t buses supposed to come all at once, I think, but say nothing.
‘Where was Martyn on Friday?’ asks Cyrus.
‘On a rugby tour in Wales. He came back on Tuesday. Since then, he’s been helping me make phone calls.’
‘Has Daniela ever gone missing before? Dropped out of sight for a few days?’
‘Never.’