Page 24 of Just Another Missing Person

Julia can’t bear it. She makes her excuses, leaves, but she can still feel the Super’s eyes on her back as she does so.

9

Lewis

Sunday morning, earlyish. You are now two nights missing.

We are in the station, waiting. I guess all we are doing is waiting, in all its various, torturous forms, now. We know we’re here to give detailed statements, but our bodies think we are here to be told the worst. I swear, I would feel no different if I was about to be taken into that meeting room and shot. Yolanda is next to me, our hands clasped tightly together.

Yolanda wasn’t answering her phone yesterday, after I heard the news from Molly. And so, when I got home, I had to tell her. She went through the exact same thought processes I had only half an hour previously: denial, there must be some mistake, surely she’s...

That night, last night, we didn’t go to bed at all. Like something fromThe Twilight Zone, we simply stayed up. Front door open. Waiting for you. Two, three, four o’clock in the morning. Nothing.

Yolanda and I first met when we got stuck in a lift together. A story you have always loved;Like something from a romcom, you once said. It was just the two of us for four hours, sitting top to tail, our backs against the walls, our feet stretched out in front of us, shoes off.

We ate the only thing Yolanda had—Werther’s Originals—and we listed our favorite everything: films, food, books, weather. We had absolutely nothing in common. She likes rich, salty Italian dishes and hiding her emotions. I don’t care about meals, will grab anything to fuel myself, and—as you know—I’m partial tofreaking out, as you would say. She likes Booker winners. I like Lee Child. She likes twenty degrees and sunny. For me, the more dramatic the better: give me a storm, twelve inches of snow, a heatwave so mad it melts the pavements and gets on the news. She likes thoughtful, subtitled films. I like stupid action thrillers.

But, nevertheless, we found, in that old-fashioned lift with its accordion doors, that we had that rarest of things: chemistry. I don’t mean flirtation—don’t panic—I just mean that spiced banter that propels a marriage forward, that makes you laugh in the middle of arguments, that makes you tolerate long hours and sleepless nights and snoring, and, too, the things you thought would never happen.

But, today, we don’t have it. We have nothing but the deep silence of the station.

Two burgundy rugs line the foyer, both scuffed at their ends. A moldering coffee vending machine used by criminals and people whose lives are in suspended animation sits in the corner. Benches with holes in the back like colanders. The surroundings add to the chaos. If you don’t already think you’re fucked, having to sit on a bench nailed to the floor will only add to thevibe, as you would say.

“Come through,” a copper says, poking his head around the door. He’s short, bald, and relatively young. I can’t help but hope he isn’t DCI Day’s right-hand man. I want someone strapping, or, no, perhaps a smoking alcoholic. Someonewho makes corkboard collages of leads and has brainwaves in the middle of the night.

We are led into a meeting room with a gray carpet which smells new. There are three chairs, an empty table and a white CCTV camera in the corner of the room. There’s absolutely nothing else except a female police officer wearing a suit, and using one sleeve to mop up a tea stain. She meets my eyes and nods.

This must be DCI Day, the lead on your case. Slight, blond, intelligent eyes. I hope it is. She looks kind and very stressed, an excellent combination for a detective. “DCI Julia Day,” she says, rising slightly out of her chair and reaching over to shake my hand. “Call me Julia.”

“DS Robert Poole,” the bald man says. His knees click as he sits down on the chair. Damn, so he is her sous detective. He uncaps his pen, evidently not wanting to waste any time. Julia does nothing except look at us carefully, her expression unreadable. “Interview commenced, nine thirty-nine. When did you last see your daughter?” Poole says, interrupting my thoughts about Julia.

“Three days ago. We don’t live together.”

“Okay?” Poole turns his eyes to Yolanda.

“I didn’t see her then,” she says softly, so softly I wonder if she regrets that. She was working late. You and I watchedSelling Sunset—the episode where Christine wears a black wedding dress. You turned to me and said, “Oh my fuckingGod, okay, we are watching an icon right now.”

“And when did you last hear from her?” Poole says to me. Still, Day hasn’t spoken. Her eyes are on Yolanda, whose long, dark plait has fallen from her shoulder. She’s fiddling with the end of it, not looking at anybody. Her hair’s alwaysbeen the same, that braid, but otherwise, the woman from the lift is long gone, right now.

“I texted her yesterday, about her coming over this Thursday, as she always does,” I say.

Poole’s eyes are on me. He isn’t writing anything down.

“Usually,” Yolanda corrects. “It isn’t every single Thursday, is it?” The muscle in her jaw twitches. She must be used to this, in a way, the precise nature of the questions. She attends many police interviews with her service users.

“How did she seem when you last saw her?”

“She was fine, normal,” I say. “Chatty.”

Day speaks, now, for the first time. Her voice comes out hoarse and cracked, at first, and she clears her throat. “What sort of person is she?”

“Er, she has a complete sense of self, doesn’t she?” I say to Yolanda.

“Yes, totally. She’s—ethical—”

“Left-wing—”

“Loves food. Funny.”

---