Читать книгу I Know My Name: An addictive thriller with a chilling twist - C.J. Cooke - Страница 12

Lochlan: I don’t sleep all night. Gerda and Magnus decamp to the spare bedroom and I carry Max up to his bed and settle Cressida in her cot after another bottle. Then I turn one of the armchairs around to face the window, overlooking the street, and pour myself a glass of gin.

For hours I lurch between incredulity and devastation. Amazing how you can almost convince yourself of conversations that didn’t happen, of realities and explanations that promise to restore balance and bat away anguish. For a good half hour or so I almost manage to persuade myself that Eloïse told me she was going away for a conference and that I had simply forgotten. Desperation grows possibilities where none are usually found. I play out mental scenarios involving El falling down the stairs and banging her head, becoming disoriented and stumbling out into the street, a burglary gone wrong. Or maybe she became suicidal and couldn’t do it in front of the children. Each possibility is as bonkers as the other.

The thing is, Eloïse is absolutely the last person you would worry about doing something out of the ordinary. She’s the person who keeps us all together. If I lose my keys, a file, a document, Eloïse will intuit its exact location. She’s like a satnav for lost objects. No, more than that: she’s steady. I know, it sounds boring, but it’s true. Countless times I’ve come home to find someone in the house being consoled, counselled or geed up by Eloïse. She’s the sort of person people gravitate towards for reassurance.

Around five, the fear that accompanies thoughts of an abduction or burglary gone wrong makes me hold my head in my hands and force back tears. Finally, when exhaustion kicks in and my body shouts for sleep, I reach the absolute bottom of the well of self-questioning. She has left me. It’s the only answer to this most complicated of riddles, the only piece that fits the puzzle. As punishment for all the times I’ve put work before her and the kids, for all the times I’ve not listened or exploded over something small, she has left me, and most likely for someone else. It is why her phone and credit cards are all here. She’s been using another phone to talk to him. He has money. They’ll come back for the kids.

My vigil propels me through the spectrum of emotions. Anger, self-pity, sorrow, paranoia, a surreal kind of acceptance. Around six I hear Cressida begin to wail. I get up and make up a bottle, then take it upstairs to Cressida. Gerda is already stooping over the cot, trying to quiet her. She mutters to her in German.

‘It’s OK, Gerda,’ I say wearily. ‘I’ve got what she wants.’

Gerda turns and, without meeting my eye, takes the bottle from me. Then she lifts Cressida out of the cot and settles in the nursing chair to feed her.

‘There, there,’ Gerda says. ‘Mamie’s here. Take your milk, meine Süße.’

I lean against the cot woozily and watch Gerda as she feeds Cressida. I feel I ought to say something to her but don’t quite know what. After a moment Gerda says, ‘Seems only five minutes since I was feeding Eloïse like this. Cressida is the image of her.’

She looks up at me with narrowed eyes.

‘I need you to be very honest with me, Lochlan. Has Eloïse left you?’

Even though I’m well used to my grandmother-in-law’s thinly veiled contempt for me, her question – or rather, the sudden hardness of her tone – catches me off guard.

‘I don’t know,’ I mumble. ‘I’ve no idea where she is.’

She purses her lips and beholds me with that arrangement of her features which I’ve come to understand is designed for me and no one else.

‘You were one of the last people to see her, Lochlan. Did she seem …’

‘What?’

‘Well, I don’t know. You’re her husband. Have you been fighting again?’

‘No,’ I say, and I feel a spike of anger towards Eloïse for divulging our problems to Gerda. I know Gerda’s family, that she raised my wife, but I have had not unpleasant daydreams about Gerda kicking the bucket. And following swiftly on the heel of rage is the re-realisation that El’s missing. My wife is missing. Like people you see on posters, or on Crimewatch. And I have absolutely no answers, no map, by which to find her.

Gerda is pacing behind me, her arms folded.

‘Surely she must have said something.’

‘Like?’

She gives a hard sigh. ‘Eloïse would hardly just leave the children behind.’

‘I know that.’

She stops pacing.

‘Unless …’

‘Unless what?’

‘Well, unless you gave her some reason to leave the children behind.’

Her voice – nasal, clipped, withering – lands me back in the night El and I announced our engagement. Eloïse’s mother is out of the picture, having dragged El around England for most of her formative years in pursuit of heroin. She died when El was twelve. At that point, Gerda and Magnus stepped in and raised Eloïse, giving her a fantastic education and a strict home life. I had only met Gerda once by the time I asked El to marry me, and clearly I had somehow made a very poor first impression.

We were in the dining room of their home in Geneva, El switching between French and German as she showed off her engagement ring to a roomful of family friends and distant relatives. I was in a corner, fiercely attempting to abate my social inadequacies with gin, when I spotted Gerda taking Eloïse by the elbow and leading her into the kitchen. I followed, but when I reached the door I heard Gerda speaking in a tone of voice that suggested I’d better not interrupt. I hid behind the door and leaned towards the sound. She was speaking in English, presumably so none of the other guests would understand. But I did.

Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Eloïse?

What do you mean?

Well, you’ve only just met. Couldn’t you wait a little longer?

Eloïse laughed. We’ve been dating for a year …

Your grandfather and I courted for three years before we even thought of marrying. It’s a serious thing, you know. Very serious …

I know how serious it is, Mamie—

What does his father do?

I think his father is retired now. He used to work in the mines.

In the mines?

Does it matter?

A long sigh.

I’m sorry.

Sorry? For what, dear?

That you’re not as happy for me as I thought you’d be.

I stepped back, thinking that the conversation was over. But then Eloïse said:

This is about my mother, isn’t it?

Gerda straightened, affronted, and when she spoke her voice was louder.

Just … be careful, OK? I love you so, so much, meine Süße.

I love you too, Mamie.

Gerda comes back into focus, the bottle of milk almost finished and my daughter beginning to fall asleep in her arms. I clench my jaw, bracing for a row.

‘There isn’t someone else in the picture, is there?’ Gerda says slowly, still not quite looking me in the eye.

‘Someone else?’

She shrugs, as if this is an entirely reasonable thing to be asking me. ‘Another man. A lover.’

I bristle. ‘I hope not.’

‘And she definitely left all her belongings behind. Her credits cards, passports …’

‘Passports?’ The word is barely out of my mouth when I realise what she means: El has two passports. Her British one and her Swiss one from long ago. Gerda eyes me expectantly, so I say, ‘Yes’, though I haven’t located the Swiss passport. I’d forgotten that one. It’s bright red with a white cross on it, so shouldn’t be too hard to find. I make a mental note to ransack the house for it immediately, though El’s not used it in ages. I should think it’s out of date.

Gerda’s gaze skitters from mine. ‘You must have given her some reason to leave.’

Her words are like shards, designed to wound, but I refuse to rise to it. It’s precisely what she wants. Instead, I turn on my heel and walk out of the room.

Max is asleep in his pirate ship bed, surrounded by yellow Minions and clutching his quilt, thumb stuck firmly in his mouth. He’ll be bursting with questions when he wakes up, and I have no idea what to tell him. I can hardly tell him that his mother is still away taking flowers to a friend.

I check the filing cabinet in the spare room in which El keeps things like birth certificates and baby books, but there is no sign of her Swiss passport. It’s not in the drawer under our bed either. I can’t think of anywhere else to look. I have a brisk shower, and my mind turns to my emails and text messages, as well as Eloïse’s Facebook page and Twitter account. Both are full of queries, stickers, emojis: El, are you OK? Sad face. DM me! Shocked face. Where are you? I heard something’s up? Gravely concerned face. Hey, El, are we meeting up for lunch today? A heart.

I have text messages from our friends asking if they can do anything, and I scroll through them all, willing one of them to say something to the effect that Eloïse has been found.

I check my voicemail for the millionth time but there’s nothing from Eloïse. There is, however, an urgent message from my boss, Hugo, about an account – one of our biggest clients is furious about an admin error and is threatening to take his thirty million quid elsewhere. I send a quick email to Hugo, asking for clarification, and his reply pings back. Basically, I need to re-send a bunch of paperwork by special delivery to the Edinburgh branch, pray for a miracle, and Mr Husain and his millions should stay put.

Gerda pads downstairs in a grey cashmere robe, a cigarette and a lighter in one manicured hand, heading for the back garden. She stops when she sees me and looks oddly penitent.

‘Look, Lochlan. If Eloïse really is missing then we need to be devising a plan of action for her return.’

I continue rifling through the cupboard by the stairs for my briefcase. ‘That’s precisely why I’ve already spoken with the police.’

‘The police in this country will do nothing,’ she tuts. ‘We need to be proactive about this, Lochlan. We need to put a plan in—’

‘I am being proactive.’

She cuts me off: ‘—place to ensure that she’s not gone any longer than is necessary. Unless, of course, that’s what you want?’

What I want is to slap her. And in the same moment as I feel that ugly, tantalising impulse, I recall an argument with Eloïse that I ended by telling her she was just like Gerda. She asked me what the hell I meant, and I told her the truth: she had a tendency to twist my words and corner me with her own. Or she’d stonewall me. There’s no winning with passive-aggressive fighters. You’ve got to ignore them, for all you want to gouge their eyes out.

‘Will you be all right getting Max and Cressida their breakfast?’ I say calmly. ‘Cressie’s bottles have to be sterilised, and I think there are a couple of cartons of formula in the fridge. Max takes Weetabix and milk heated in the microwave for thirty seconds.’

‘You’re leaving?’ Gerda says, following me across the room. ‘Where on earth are you going?’

I grab my keys from the kitchen island. ‘Work, I’m afraid.’

‘Work?’

Gerda’s got a face like a bad ham. Good. I stride towards the front door, jump into my car and drive off as fast as I can.

Eloïse and I met eight years ago at a charity event in Mayfair to which I’d begrudgingly gone to wave the company flag. I’d already been to one too many of those sort of things, and although I’ve spent much of my life in London there’s enough Weegie in me yet to find the whole canapés and air-kissing malarkey worse than sticking needles in my eyes. Not only that, but I’d been informed that my ex-girlfriend Lauren was going to be there and I desperately wanted an out.

But then this beautiful woman got up on the platform. She was unassuming and sweet, a hand drawn across her waist to clasp the elbow of the other arm. She spoke quietly into the mic, introduced herself: Eloïse Bachmann. She was starting a crowdfunded project for refugee children who had wound up in the UK. The more she talked about the causes behind this project, the more she seemed to come alive. Her voice grew louder, her posture changed, and suddenly people were paying attention. When she finished, everyone applauded. Even in the bright spotlight I could see that she was overwhelmed.

It’s not that Eloïse isn’t beautiful – she’s slim, blonde and gorgeous – but back then, she wasn’t my type. She’s sensible and quietly confident, probably the smartest person I know. Back then I tended to be drawn to theatrical, insecure women who embarrassed me in the company of friends; the type that tended to slash my tyres after an argument. My relationships were like social experiments. I’d become cynical about love, saying it didn’t exist, that I didn’t even want it, when really I was a blithering idiot with an addiction to sociopaths. And then I found myself two feet away from the girl who had captivated a roomful of millionaires with her earnest passion, and I felt like I’d come home.

She took persuading. None of my old tactics worked. Eloïse wasn’t into fruit baskets or restaurants with dress codes. Neither am I, but I’d been moving in certain circles for so long that I’d assumed these things would woo her. In desperation I cornered a colleague who was friendly with Eloïse and asked her what I should do. ‘Take her to Skybright,’ she said simply. I had no idea what Skybright was. Turned out to be a café run by volunteers, where people could pay what they wanted for the food, enabling the homeless to eat there. I invited Eloïse and she accepted. Three months later, I proposed. She very sweetly said no. A month later, I tried again, on both knees. I knew that I had never, ever felt about another human being what I felt for her, and I wasn’t giving up. Luckily, this time she said yes.

We had two weddings – a real one, attended by the two of us, the priest and a couple of friends in one of Magnus’ properties, and one for our families back in England a couple of weeks later. We spent the next few years backpacking and sailing around the world. El’s a fantastic sailor. Magnus taught her – it was the thing that kept them close, much closer than El and Gerda. We lived in a little beach hut in Goa for months, waking up to the sunrise and swimming in the warm ocean before breakfast. Making love under the stars. We travelled down the Amazon, spotting anacondas and tribes washing in the river. We hiked along the Great Wall of China, then made our way to Australia, where we spent a month sailing around the Whitsunday Islands. I thought I’d struggle, coming home from all of that, but I was so much more in love with Eloïse after that time spent together that I’d have been happy anywhere, doing anything.

I must stress that I adore my children. I really do. I know that I’m a lucky man. But.

The life that we’d lived before Max came along drew to a screeching halt the morning he came into the world. Our spontaneous weekend breaks in New York or Venice: gone. A full night’s sleep: gone. Mental faculties: vamoosed. Whereas El and I had spent the previous four years of our relationship in a state of contented, loved-up bliss, now we only ever seemed to see each other at our worst. I learned that there was actually a spectrum of exhaustion, and I always seemed to have fallen off the far end. We started having fights about things like housework and money. We had more fights during Max’s first year than we’d had in our entire relationship.

I remember about six months into parenthood, both of us demented from sleep deprivation, I was standing in the kitchen making up a bottle and I said to Eloïse, ‘How does any couple stay together after having kids?’

It must have been about two in the morning. Eloïse had crazy bedhead hair and was wearing an old black T-shirt of mine stained with baby sick. It felt like all we did in those days was mop up – or occasionally, catch – bodily fluids, sometimes with our bare hands. ‘I don’t know how anyone stays sane after having kids,’ she said.

Of course, this was all par for the course. We had a group of friends over for dinner one night not long after and shared this story with them, and it turned out that it was a conversation every single one of them had had. Matt reached across the table, took Eloïse’s hand, and said: ‘Every woman thinks about leaving the father of her children. All it takes is for him to stay asleep while you deal with a screaming baby at three in the morning a few times and – boom! Divorce courts.’

I park in one of the staff spaces at the back of the building – it’s so early and yet there’s only a few spaces left. Some of my colleagues work literally a hundred hours a week, every week. They’ll take a fortnight off when it’s quiet and rent a yacht in the Caribbean. Few of them have young families, or if they do, they’re concealing the fact. I know two female colleagues are married but leave their wedding bands at home. Family is seen as a distraction in corporate finance.

The Smyth & Wyatt building on the Victoria Embankment is like something from Star Trek – Dean Wyatt spent ten million on revamping the place a couple of years ago so that the whole place would be made of glass and titanium, with leather couches imported from Italy and commissioned sculptures in the corridors. I get Dean’s ethos: if you spend every day here, from six in the morning until midnight, the place has to be pretty damn nice, and nice it is.

I race upstairs and unlock my office. I can hear someone calling my name, but I ignore it and log on to my computer. The thing loads up as fast as a tortoise on weed.

‘Lockie, boy,’ a voice calls. It’s Paddy Smyth. Paddy’s a Weegie, like me, though my accent has softened considerably: I’ve worked hard to graduate from Billy Connolly to Ewan McGregor. The London clients like it better.

‘You coming out for drinks, later?’ he asks.

‘Can’t, sorry. Got a bit of a crisis on my hands.’

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and ambles into my office, looking over the photos of my children on the cabinet opposite. ‘Yeah, I heard about the Dubai thing. I thought Raj was dealing with that?’

By ‘crisis’, I mean the fact that my wife is missing, but I don’t say anything more. ‘No, I’m not involved in the Dubai thing. I’ve got to sign off this paperwork for the Husain account ASAP.’

My computer finally loads. I type in my passcode and scroll through a list of folders. I see ‘Husain’ and click on it.

‘Oh, I saw you posted something on Facebook last night. Something about your wife. Eloïse, isn’t that right?’

I find a new folder in the one marked ‘Husain’, one my secretary has overlooked. I click on it and hit ‘print’. The printer whirrs into action.

‘Yeah,’ I answer, moving to the printer. ‘She’s … she didn’t come home last night.’

Paddy is standing right next to me, his eyebrows raised. ‘She didn’t come home?’

The crushing feeling in my chest is beginning to return. I wish he’d go away.

‘The police are involved.’

The printer screams out a sound and bright white text runs across the screen. OUT OF TONER. REPLACE IMMEDIATELY. It takes all my composure not to kick the machine.

‘Always running out of ink, these things,’ Paddy says. ‘You got another cartridge thingy?’

I glance at the office opposite where my secretary normally sits. She’s not there. It’s barely seven a.m. She doesn’t come in until nine. I am apoplectic.

‘Use my printer,’ Paddy says. ‘Email the file to yourself and open it up on my screen.’

‘I can’t,’ I say, tugging my tie loose. ‘These files have that new security thing on them that means I can’t email them forward. They’re locked into the computer.’

Which means, of course, that I have only one option: to unhook and unplug my enormous desktop and carry it all the way to Paddy’s office on the next floor. My phone is ringing and buzzing and chiming again, and by the time I set up the computer next to Paddy’s printer I have twelve missed calls, eleven voicemails, twenty-seven Facebook notifications and thirty-four tweets.

‘And a partridge in a pear tree,’ Paddy adds. ‘So tell me, has your wife left you?’

Paddy has had five wives and numerous girlfriends. He treats break-ups as inevitable and women like cars, trading them in every couple of years for a younger model. He’s sixty-three and is dating a twenty-four-year-old.

‘No, she has not left me,’ I say, plugging in the computer and flicking switch after switch. ‘We simply don’t know where she is.’

‘Didn’t she recently have a baby?’

‘Yes. A girl.’

‘So … who’s with the kids now? The nanny?’

I don’t have time to answer his questions. I finally get the thing hooked up and find the ‘Husain’ file. I click it and hit ‘print’, then silently beg God to let the document print. It does. I shove it in an envelope for the company courier and bring up my inbox to inform Mr Husain that all is well. I stop mid-email, and ask Paddy:

‘What time does the courier come?’

Paddy glances at the clock. ‘About eight. Why?’

We’ve recently had some new hires, and one of them was some knuckle-dragging kid covered in tats for company deliveries. Last week my secretary had to call him back because he left behind two packages marked URGENT. For the sake of forty-five minutes I could ensure that the form is picked up and sent off. I could even slip the guy a twenty-pound note and ask him to make this his first drop-off. I’m flapping. Before I realise it, I’m dialling my home number.

It barely rings before Gerda answers.

‘Eloïse?’

‘Hello? No, it’s Lochlan.’

A disappointed sigh on the other end.

‘Look, Gerda, I’m really sorry about this …’

‘And well you should be, Lochlan. I can’t imagine what kind of emergency forced you to go into work when your wife is nowhere to be found. What is going on?’

‘I’m coming home soon. I’ve got to get something sent off and then I’ll be there, OK?’

A pause. ‘Magnus is already driving around the area to see if he can find her. What time are the police coming?’

‘I’ll ring them shortly to update them, don’t worry.’

A resigned sigh. ‘All right.’

‘Bye.’

Eight o’clock comes and goes. Eight fifteen. I walk down to the foyer and pace, envelope in hand. Eight thirty. When the guy comes, I swear I’m going to ram the envelope down his throat. Forget a twenty-quid bribe. By the time it turns nine I am sweating bullets, my heart racing. Two of my colleagues have already walked in and asked if I’m ill. I nod. Yes, yes I am ill. It dawns on me that I expected this place to shake me back into competency, to prompt enough mental clarity to enable me to solve the mystery of my wife’s disappearance. The only clarity I’ve acquired is that I’m an idiot.

At nine fifteen I race back upstairs, intent on arranging a private courier. I should have done this in the first place. My secretary Ramona is at her desk. I go into her office. Ramona is a genius. She’s Chinese, raised by a Tiger Mother, plays the oboe at diploma level and can solve a Rubik’s cube in under five minutes. She’ll fix all of this.

‘What are you doing here?’ she says in a low voice. ‘I thought – didn’t I see something online about your wife?’

I nod and flap the envelope at her before explaining the situation with Mr Husain and the courier.

‘The courier left a message with Joan fifteen minutes ago,’ Ramona says. ‘He’s not coming in today. I was in the process of trying to find a replacement.’

I thrust the envelope into her hands. ‘Please, Ramona. Deliver this for me. I’ll pay you anything.’

She takes a step back and looks puzzled. ‘You want me to deliver it?’

I move to her computer and start looking up directions to the Cauldwell Building in Edinburgh. ‘Here, I’ll email you the fastest route. Did you bring your car?’

She shakes her head. ‘I always come by bike …’

‘OK, book a flight. Use my credit card.’ I take out my wallet and press a Visa card into her hand. ‘Just … whatever it costs, OK?’

Ramona looks a little dazed. I catch a ghostly reflection of myself in one of the glass panels opposite and realise I look like a madman. My tie is gone, my collar is open by three buttons, my hair is sticking up all over the place and I’m shining with sweat. Plus, I’m gripping my secretary by the upper arms.

A knock on the door, the tall, lanky figure of Dean Wyatt visible through the glass.

‘Everything all right in here, Lochlan? I heard shouting …’

I let go of Ramona and smooth down my hair. ‘Everything’s fine, Dean. In light of the fact that we’re down a courier, Ramona’s offered to hand-deliver a very important form this morning.’

He looks grave. ‘The Husain account?’

I nod. He raises a silver eyebrow at Ramona. ‘Good. This has been a very serious matter for the company.’ He flicks his eyes at me, a trace of disapproval there. ‘See you at the meeting in a half hour.’ He turns to leave, but I call after him. I step outside Ramona’s office and collar Dean in the passageway.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to take some time off,’ I say.

He turns slowly and looks deeply confused. ‘I’m sorry, Lochlan, but I’m not quite sure what you mean.’

I explain the situation at home, and I mention the police, but he simply shakes his head as though none of this is possible.

‘What about the Edinburgh branch? You can’t simply up and leave at a time like this.’

I make to answer, but there’s an LCD screen on a wall beside us and the noise is starting to rattle my head. The news comes on, and from the corner of my eye I spy my wife’s face. Both Dean and I turn to see a headshot of Eloïse enlarging on the screen until it is filled.

And in local news, charity campaigner and mother-of-two Eloïse Shelley went missing from her home in Twickenham yesterday. Her family and friends are desperately urging anyone with information to come forward.

Gerda pops up on screen. There’s a microphone in her face and she’s standing in the doorway of my house looking drained and wild-eyed. Her voice shakes.

‘She hasn’t been seen for over twenty-four hours. This really is extremely distressing and urgent. We’ve got two grandchildren, the youngest only twelve weeks old. We plead with anyone who has seen Eloïse to contact us immediately.’