A couple of days ago, over slices of cake at Kathryn’s house, she said, ‘Around 100,000 adults go missing in the UK every year.’
‘Oh gosh,’ said Kathryn, then we all stumbled through the resulting silence.
It made me think though. That’s a huge number. Missing people are like bobby pins; over time so many of them vanish, but where do they go?
When I popped over to our parents’ yesterday, she said, ‘Sex trafficking doesn’t just happen in foreign countries, you know, it happens in the UK too.’
Dad goes on long walks late at night. He says he’s thinking but I’m sure he’s looking for you. He came by my house the other night with his toolbox and walked around fixing things that didn’t really need fixing.
‘I’ve ordered you a security light,’ he told me.
‘I have one.’
‘This is better. Brighter.’
‘We don’t need it.’
‘It’s coming tomorrow.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘You don’t rent. You own. What’s the problem?’
‘No problem, but—’
‘Let me install the damn light, will you?’
I looked at our dad and I had that feeling again that he’s shrunk since you were taken. When we were kids, I thought even a bus couldn’t take him down. That childish belief he is indestructible hasn’t ever faded. Until now, when it seems all it would take is a strong gust of wind. Dad is practical, not emotional. If I take after anyone in our family, it’s Dad. If our roles were reversed and he appeared at your door late at night looking small and desperate to do something, to fix something, you would fling your arms around him and shower his face with kisses while he grumbled and half-heartedly pushed you away. But I am not you and you are not here.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘So, it’ll be here tomorrow.’
He nodded.
‘I’ll, uh, make lunch when you come over then, shall I?’
Another short nod. And there we have it. He fixes lights and I fix lunches.
The next morning, in the supermarket getting ingredients for his visit, I was stopped eleven times by people who recognised me. I assumed a new identity the day I went from Miss Fray to Mrs Archer, but that was a choice. I had no say in becoming that missing woman’s sister.
Like the letters, it was a mixed bag. Some wanted the inside scoop, sidling up close and talking in low conspiratorial voices to ask if there was any news. Others approached with a sympathetic head tilt and well-meaning smiles and wanted to tell me I was in their thoughts. It’s the criers I can’t cope with, middle-aged women with red eyes and dripping noses telling me how sorry they are, how awful it is. I become ironing-board-stiff in their arms, and they seem disappointed and confused I don’t dissolve with them. I’ve decided all food shopping will now be done online.
By the time our parents arrived, the tea was made and the biscuits were out. Mum adores the Waitrose chocolate biscuits I bring out for guests. As always, Dad moaned you can buy the same thing far cheaper in Lidl, but still took three from the tin and popped them on his plate. Dad hadn’t even got his screwdriver out before there was a knock at the door.
Christopher and Detective Inspector Ritter had news. The sketch they’d released to the public of your stalker had come up trumps. Someone spotted him walking past their house and called the police. He didn’t run this time. His name is David Taylor, he’s forty-one and he works as a handyman. As Jack was the only one of us to get up close and personal with David, he was called into the station to identify him this morning.
Mum started bleating again like a sheep calling for her lost lamb. ‘Elodie, Elodie. Did you find her? Where is she?’
She didn’t pick up on the stony atmosphere in the foyer. One look at Christopher told me they hadn’t found you.
‘We’ve questioned the suspect and searched his home,’ said Ritter. ‘Unfortunately, we couldn’t search his car. It’s missing.’
‘Missing?’ I asked.
‘Yes, Mr Taylor refuses to tell us where it is.’
‘But he could have her in his car,’ I said. ‘Elodie could be in his car.’
Ritter gave me a tight smile. ‘We’re doing everything we can to locate the vehicle.’
Christopher’s gaze flicked to Ritter’s. He cleared his throat. ‘Mr Taylor claims someone was paying him to follow Elodie.’
There was a shocked silence. Then a rushing torrent of questions. They told us if your stalker’s story is to be believed, the person who employed him did so through a ‘jobs for hire’ website and always paid in cash, leaving the money under a bin just outside the rugby field where there aren’t any cameras for miles. Apparently, the money was always left in an envelope with typed instructions, which David was told to burn after reading. The police will check his bank account to see if large sums of money have been periodically deposited, but it doesn’t necessarily prove his version of events to be true, especially since he didn’t keep any of the alleged notes. If he had planned to abduct you, he could’ve been setting up his cover story for months before he acted.