“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Or an address? They’re good suits, it seems a shame for him not to have them. Maybe I could arrange for them to be couriered to him.”
The man laughs. “You could, but it might turn out to be a bit expensive. He’s gone back to New Zealand.”
My heart leaps—bingo. “Is that where he’s from? I detected an accent when he came in but I couldn’t quite place it.”
“Yes, he’s a Kiwi.”
“What about his brother? Maybe he would have Mr. Hunter’s contact details.”
“His brother? I don’t know anything about Mr. Hunter having a brother.”
“Oh—I was sure he said that his brother worked with him. Or maybe it was a cousin.”
“Not here, that’s for sure.”
“It might have been a few months ago now,” I persist. “I think Mr. Hunter said his brother used his surname as a Christian name, so he would have been known as Hunter. Mr. Hunter said he employed him as a security guard.”
“Really? I suppose I could check our records.”
“Could you? As I said, they’re expensive suits.”
“Give me a moment.” I wait, my mind still spinning at the confirmation that Carl’s surname is Hunter. “No, I can’t see anything, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll take his suits to the charity shop. Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”
I hang up and stand for a moment, puzzling it out. Why are there no records of Hunter having worked at the security firm when he wore a jacket with their name emblazoned on it?
And how am I ever going to find Carl in New Zealand? I can’t, I realize dully. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. I fetch my laptop anyway, google “Carl Hunter New Zealand,” but there are over 12,800,000 results. I try “Carl Hunter security New Zealand” but there are still 8,810,000 results. I type in his name, “New Zealand,” then the name of the security firm, and try images, but I find nothing.
Deflated, I wander into the kitchen, press my nose to the window. If I can’t find Carl, I can’t find Lukas. And if I can’t get to the truth, I’ll never be free.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I walk into the building where Paul Carr has his offices and head straight to the reception desk.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Carr, please.”
A young man a few years older than me looks up.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Can I suggest you make one?”
“No. I need to see him now.”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.”
“Can you tell him that Amelie Lamont is here to see him, please? I think he’ll want to speak to me.”
He sighs under his breath, picks up the phone, and presses a button.
I move away from the desk, trying to calm myself. I could have—should have—called first. But I was afraid that Paul would suggest speaking over the phone and I want to see him face-to-face so that I can gauge how much he knows. He’s the only person left who can help me.
“Amelie, how lovely to see you.” Paul is standing in front of me. “Would you like to come through?”
I follow him into his office, already apologizing. “I should have called first,” I say.
He smiles. “It’s not a problem.” He indicates two leather armchairs set in front of a low table. “I’ve arranged for Ben to bring coffee. How are you?”
I’m saved from answering by the coffee arriving. Paul serves us both, then sits back in his chair.
“How can I help?” he asks.
“I don’t even know if you can,” I say.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you?”
I realize then, that he can’t know what happened to me, because if he did, he wouldn’t ask such a question. And if he doesn’t know what happened to me, how can he help?
I can’t stop the tears of hopelessness that spring to my eyes. “When we first met, something had happened to me, something bad, and I can’t move on. I’ve been trying to block it out, tell myself I’m fine. But I’m not, and I’m scared that I never will be. There are things I need to know but there’s no one to give me the answers and it’s really hard. I’m twenty, and I feel so old. I’ve seen things that keep me awake at night, done things that keep me awake at night. I feel as if I’ve been used as a pawn in some game…” I stop, worried that I’ve said too much, and wipe my eyes on the sleeve of my sweater. “I went to the memorial service for Justine and Lina, and I saw someone there who I thought might be able to help me. But he pretended that he didn’t know what I was talking about, he preferred to make me think I was crazy.” I look at him and see the tail end of something on his face, something I recognize as anger. “You knew, didn’t you?” I say, resigned. “You knew that I went to the memorial service.”