What I keep coming back to is this: she left the house with only her keys, which means she was planning to come straight home. Significantly, the last sent message in her phone was to me, this morning, reconfirming she’d meet me at 9.30 a.m.
A bird is singing chromatic scales in next door’s sycamore. ‘Help,’ I say, suddenly standing up. ‘Olly, please help me, I have to do something.’
‘Right, OK.’ He’s grateful for a task. Tink watches us quietly. ‘Look, let’s start by writing down a proper list of all the things that could have happened. I know we’ve been through all of them twenty times, but maybe writing it down would help.’
Illness, we write – maybe a post-chemo reaction, or, God forbid, a relapse of the cancer – or accident. But we agree it’s too late for a chemo reaction and too early for a relapse. An accident seems unlikely, on the short journey from nursery to our house, but, just to be sure, I called the Royal Free and the Whittington Hospitals earlier, and she hadn’t been admitted to either.
I propose abduction next but Olly, quite reasonably, dismisses it. ‘This is Hampstead Village,’ he says. ‘Why would you abduct Emma when you could grab a millionaire?’
Stalker, I suggest. After a pause, Olly asks to see Emma’s Facebook messages.
I leave the room and get her laptop. I set it down in front of Olly, and Tink comes to look over his shoulder.
Emma’s had a steady stream of messages since I last saw her inbox. Most of them are actually quite sweet, but there’s enough sexual and aggressive stuff in there to make Tink turn away after a while.
‘Fucking dark ages,’ she says.
Olly looks grim. ‘I might not have been quite so blasé about the dropped calls if I’d seen these.’
We agree I should tell the police about this, but the number they gave me rings out, even though I try it five, six, seven times.
As I press redial for the eighth time, something occurs to me. I cancel the call and pick up Emma’s phone, which I’m charging on the worktop. I open her messages with Jeremy again.
‘Look.’ I hand Olly the phone. ‘Look how many times Rothschild’s tried to arrange to meet her in London. Maybe he turned up? Maybe he turned up here and saw her in the street and . . .’
‘And what? Kidnapped her? In broad daylight? A well-known public figure?’
‘Olly. We’re talking about a man whose wife has disappeared without trace. Now it’s Emma who’s gone, and we know he’s been in touch with her in the last few days. Do you not think that’s significant?’
‘If you mean, do I think Jeremy Rothschild has done away with Emma and his wife, no, I don’t.’
Then he says, ‘But you should probably call him. Just to check.’
There’s a long pause after I tell Rothschild who I am. ‘Oh,’ he says eventually. ‘Leo. I wondered if you might call.’
‘Firstly, fuck you,’ I say. ‘Secondly, are you with my wife?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you with my wife? It’s a simple question.’
He says he isn’t, but he sounds unnerved.
‘Then this conversation is over,’ I snap. ‘Goodbye.’
‘I’d like to talk to you,’ he interrupts. ‘I had a call from Sheila this morning. I know you’ve uncovered some difficult information concerning me and Emma, in the last few days – would you be willing to come over?’
‘Are you serious?’
He pauses, as if trying to decide something. ‘Emma’s stopped communicating with me in the last few days,’ he admits. ‘I’ve been trying to talk to her about something. I . . . I thought perhaps I could tell you.’