Page 27 of Just Another Missing Person

Day’s eyes flash at that. “Said in what context?”

“I overheard it—a romantic missive. But... sinister.”

“To you,” Yolanda says.

Day turns her mouth down like,Maybe, maybe not.

That’s the thing when you feel something emotionally. When you notice body language. When youknow it, but you can’t prove it. “When he said that, he had hold of her wrist really tightly, I saw it. He saw me looking, and he dropped it.”

“When was this?”

“A week and a half ago?”

“So, pretty much a week before she went missing,” Day says, her eyes on me.

“Yeah.”

“Did he?” Yolanda says, looking at me. Her perfume wafts around the room as she moves, musky, old-fashioned, and I’m surprised she’s put any on. “You never said he dropped it when he saw you looking.”

“Er, yes. I did. Why are you doubting that?” I ask, trying to keep my tone mild, but failing. My own wife doesn’t remember what I told her about our daughter.

“Look,” Yolanda says to Day. “I’m not trying to be difficult. But she was out late, alone. She could be—” Her voice becomes coarse, like she’s just knocked back a shot. “She could be—heldsomewhere, and we’d be focusing on—be focusing on—because you are fixated on—the way you sometimes get—”

As always, when Yolanda is worried it has a full-bodied effect on me. I push my chair back. Bloody hell.Heldsomewhere. That word implies something so sinister. Kidnap. Worse. “She’ll be fine,” I say, semi-hysterically. “Sheisfine.”

“We will look into all avenues,” Day says. “Just—was the relationship fast, Lewis?” Thankfully, she ignores Yolanda’s remark about my ability to obsess.The way I sometimes get.

“Yes. Definitely. From nought to sixty,” I say, not looking at Yolanda. “They went from having just met to him being, like... just a completely central part of her life.”

“Okay. And was that why she left her job?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “No. She was just—you know. Temping.”

“But she’s seen much less of her friends, too.” Day writes something illegible on Poole’s pad, at this. “Do you know the housemates—”

“But—DCI Day—” I interrupt.

“Call me Julia.”

“Julia—I’m painting a picture that doesn’t contain a lot of evidence, I know,” I say. I lean across the table earnestly, staring at the DCI, looking for answers. I notice suddenly that her fingertips are trembling. As subtle as a guitar string vibrating for just a few seconds after the song closes. “But I didn’t like what I saw.”

“Give us his details, we’ll get him in. We need the housemates in again, for formal interviews.” Day passes us a sheet of lined paper. “Write everything on there—all her friends, her boyfriend, anyone you think might’ve seen her over the past few weeks. Okay?”

“Okay.” I write his name down at the top.Andrew Zamos—boyfriend.

“Noted,” Day says, as I underline it. I add a handful of your friends, then pass it to Yolanda, who adds two more.

“DCI Day.” Her eyes turn to me. “What’re the odds, here?” I ask. Poole shifts uncomfortably in his chair, but I’m not interested in him. Like the frontman of a band, like a CEO, like a sportsperson, Day is clearly in charge here, like anybody with charisma usually is.

Outside, the rain intensifies, like marbles on a tin roof. It lends a chaotic kind of atmosphere to the interview.

“Lewis,” Yolanda says. But I can’t read her tone. Whether she wants the answer to this or not. I shouldn’t have asked without checking she wanted to know, but I couldn’t help myself.

“This is not the time for these questions,” Poole interjects. Immediately, I write him off as a gobshite.

“Ninety percent come home unharmed, at this stage,” Day says softly, doing me a favor by answering. I’m surprised to see her eyes dampen. She blinks, sips her tea to cover it.

Ninety percent. My shoulders fall as sharply as if somebody has pulled the skeleton clean out of me. Ninety percent. I can work with ninety percent. Ninety percent is good odds. It’s an A* in any exam.

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