Читать книгу Forward Slash - Mark Edwards, Mark Edwards - Страница 8

‘Do you think I should call the police?’ Amy asked Gary.

He pulled a face. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s a bit early? I mean, assuming the email was a wind-up, she could walk in at any moment. She probably will walk in at any moment.’

‘I’m not worried about looking foolish. I think I should—’

‘Call them. Yeah, well, maybe.’

She was seated on Becky’s desk chair, with Gary perched on the edge of the sofa, one leg bouncing back and forth, one of the most pronounced cases of restless leg syndrome she’d ever seen.

‘You can go now,’ she said. His expression made her realize she’d sounded dismissive. ‘I mean, if you need to.’

He checked his watch. ‘I suppose I really ought to get going – I’m playing five-a-side this morning … Will you be all right?’

‘Yes, don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’

‘If you hear anything, let me know, OK?’ He wrote down his mobile number for her on the back of a copy of Heat magazine, ripped it off and handed it to her.

‘Of course. Can you leave me the spare key?’

He gave her the key, went to leave, hesitated in the doorway as though he was about to say something else, then changed his mind. He was an all-right guy, Amy thought, despite his annoying little habits. It was a truism that people in London didn’t get to know their neighbours, and Amy’s main interaction with the people next door to her had been listening to passive-aggressive comments about her noisy bike, so Becky was lucky to have a friend living next door.

So, the police. This would only be the second time in her life she’d called them. In a flash, she was transported back to that moment – the bleak loneliness underpinning the utter panic and disbelief at what had just happened to her at the hands of someone she loved. She hugged herself for comfort and shook the memory away, as she had so many times before.

She was about to look up the number of the local station on the iMac when it struck her that the police might need to examine the computer, and any more activity she did on it could muddy the trail more than she had already. So she looked it up on her phone, then called them.

‘Camberwell Police.’

She took a deep breath. ‘I want to report a missing person.’

She waited while she was put through to somebody who identified himself as Police Constable Ian Norris.

‘How can I help?’

She cleared her throat to unstick the words. ‘I want to report my sister as missing.’

‘Can I take your name please?’

‘Amy Coltman.’

He asked for her address and phone number, which she gave him.

‘And your sister’s name?’

‘Becky … Rebecca Coltman,’ she said, and gave him her sister’s full address and date of birth.

‘How long has your sister been missing?’

‘Well … I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks, but I got an email from her last night.’

She heard an intake of breath at the other end of the line. ‘Last night?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did the email say?’

‘I know this sounds silly, and that it was only last night, but she said she was going away – going abroad – and that I shouldn’t try to find her.’

His tone changed entirely. ‘Right.’

Before he could say anything else, Amy said, ‘It’s completely out of character. I can’t believe she would go away like that and ask not to be found.’

‘She’s never done anything like this before?’

‘No. She went backpacking around Asia for her gap year but it was all pre-arranged.’

‘What about work? Have you checked with them?’

‘She’s a teacher. The school broke up for the summer holidays last Wednesday.’

‘Last Wednesday. Right …’ He paused, and she imagined him tapping details into his computer. She imagined him as the kind of bloke who typed with one finger, seeking out each letter as if for the first time.

‘What about friends? Family?’

‘Our parents live in Spain. I haven’t checked to see if they’ve heard from her yet. And I haven’t spoken to any of her friends yet.’ Despite what she’d said to Gary, she felt embarrassed now.

‘And have you been to her address?’ Norris asked.

‘I’m there now.’ Pre-empting his questions, she said, ‘It’s hard to tell if she’s packed up and gone away. But the door wasn’t double-locked. I can’t believe she’d go away without doing that.’

‘You’d be amazed, miss. Some people might as well hang a sign on their front door: “Burglars welcome”. What about her passport?’

‘Oh. I don’t know where she keeps it. Please, Officer Norris, I need you to take this seriously. There’s something … not right about the email. I’m sure something has happened to her.’

‘We take all reports of missing persons seriously, miss, I can assure you. Was there anything in the email that suggested that she planned to harm herself, or that she was being threatened?’

‘No. Let me read it to you.’

Before he could stop her, she read out the email, in a rush.

Norris didn’t respond immediately. Eventually, he said, ‘Here’s what I suggest, Miss Coltman. Why don’t you speak to your mum and dad, call some of your sister’s friends, and have a look for her passport? It sounds very much like Rebecca has gone away of her own volition. People do things that are out of character all the time, believe me.’

‘I know, but—’

‘I expect you’ll get another email in a day or two, or a postcard, saying she’s having a lovely time in Vietnam, wish you were here.’

She could feel him closing down the call, and she tried to hang on. ‘So you’re not going to do anything?’

‘I’m sorry, miss, but if she hadn’t sent the email it would be a different story. The fact is, though, that she did. She has clearly told you where she’s going and what she’s doing.’

‘But what if someone else wrote the email? Or forced her to write it?’

‘There’s no evidence of that, is there?’

‘No, but …’

She hung up, feeling utterly deflated.

As the call had gone on, her conviction that something had happened to Becky had become increasingly weaker. Norris was probably right. Becky had decided to go away. Her wheelie suitcase wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Maybe what she should be worried about was why Becky would do something so uncharacteristic. What had driven her to it?

She rubbed her face, feeling totally confused. More than that, though, she was sick with worry. Had Becky had some kind of breakdown?

She read over the email for the tenth time. And then it struck her. How could she not have seen it before – or maybe that was what had been niggling at her?

I’ve always wanted to visit Vietnam and Cambodia.

When Becky had returned from her gap-year travels, she had made Amy sit through all of her printed photos. Thailand, India, Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines – and Cambodia. She had bemoaned the fact she hadn’t got to visit Vietnam – for some complicated reason Amy couldn’t recall, involving trains and visas and a boy from Oxford – but she had definitely been to Cambodia. She had visited the Killing Fields near – what was it called? – Phnom something. The visit had affected Becky badly. She told Amy she’d had nightmares about it for weeks afterwards, about the families who had been brutally murdered. The children. In fact, it had disturbed her so much that she refused to talk about it further, said she wanted to forget she’d ever been. Now, when she talked about her time in Asia, she would list all the places she’d been, and she would miss out Cambodia.

But she had definitely been there. And even though she didn’t talk about it, or want to remember it, she herself would remember she’d been there. So why would she write, I’ve always wanted to visit Cambodia?

She picked up the phone, ready to call Officer Norris back. But she hesitated. She could hear his exasperated sigh in her head. There were a couple of things she needed to do first.

She went into Becky’s bedroom and looked around. The blinds were open and sunlight poured into the room. She heard a car pull up outside and rushed to the window to look out, hope flaring. It might be Becky coming home in a taxi. But it was a Royal Mail van, parking up behind Amy’s motorbike.

Where would Becky keep her passport? She opened her bedside drawer and found condoms, assorted jewellery, Vaseline, old keys – but no passport. She checked every drawer in the flat, along with the bookshelves, various boxes and chests, every place she could think of where her sister might keep her important documents. There was no sign of it.

Everything she did made her feel conflicted. Half of her wanted evidence that her sister had indeed gone away through her own free will. The other half wanted confirmation that her instincts were correct.

She sat back down at the computer and brought up Becky’s address-book program. She knew a couple of Becky’s friends from work, had met them at a party last year, here at Becky’s flat. Becky’s best friend from work was called Katherine, and Amy had spoken to her at some length about jewellery-making, Katherine’s hobby. Amy had been trying to get her to write a piece for the website. She was the obvious first port of call.

Amy dialled Katherine’s number, hoping she hadn’t gone away on holiday.

She answered after just a few rings. ‘Hello?’

‘Hi – is that Katherine?’

The other woman paused before answering. ‘Yes?’

‘This is Amy – Becky’s sister.’

Katherine’s tone changed. ‘Oh, hello. Is everything all right?’

‘I just wondered if you’d heard from Becky recently?’

‘No, I haven’t spoken to her since Wednesday, when we broke up. You’re making me worry. What’s happened?’

Amy was about to launch into it when she realized it would be much easier face to face, so she could show Katherine the email. Besides, she wanted to get out of the flat. It was making her feel even more antsy than she would otherwise, with every noise in the hallway making her jump; the hope that it was Becky coming back and then the return of the dread and disappointment when it wasn’t.

‘Can I come and see you?’

Katherine agreed, though Amy detected a hint of hesitation in her voice. Tough, she thought, leaving the flat and taking the spare keys with her. As she walked down the stairs, pressing down the helmet on her head en route, a door opened on the ground floor. ‘Er – hello!’ called a man’s voice. ‘Miss Coltman! Could I have a word?’

Amy stopped, surprised, her helmet as far down as her eyebrows. The man was in his forties, and very square – she could clearly see the vest through his blue nylon short-sleeved shirt. His thick brown hairline grew unattractively low on his forehead.

‘Yes?’

‘Yes. I need to talk to you again about the complaints we’ve had about noise levels coming from your … oh! I’m so sorry. I thought you were Miss Coltman.’

He squinted myopically at her and she lifted the helmet clear of her ears again so she could hear him better.

‘I am Miss Coltman – but I’m Amy, not Becky. Becky’s my sister.’

The man laughed in an embarrassed sort of way. ‘I do beg your pardon! You look so alike!’ He thrust out his hand. ‘I’m Damian Fenton, head of the Residents’ Association.’

‘Hi,’ Amy said, shaking it. It was clammy and felt like uncooked dough. ‘People do say we look similar, although I can’t see it, beyond the blonde hair. Have you seen Becky lately? I can’t get hold of her.’

Damian pondered. ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t. Not since … ooh … must have been last Tuesday? Yes, Tuesday, because that’s bin day, and I had to have a word with her about the fact that she always leaves the tops on when she puts milk containers in her recycling, and they don’t like that. And she has a bit of a naughty habit of putting plastic trays in too, and they really don’t like that, they’re supposed to go in—’

Amy looked at her watch. ‘I’m so sorry, Damian, I don’t mean to cut you off, but I’m late for seeing someone and I really need to get going, otherwise …’ She grimaced conspiratorially at him, having the feeling that unless she said something, he’d be in full flow for hours.

‘Right! No, no, I understand, I could talk till the cows come home, me. I do apologize. When you track your sister down, could you please ask her to pop down and have a word? Many thanks.’

He shot abruptly back into his flat before Amy could say anything else. She made a note of his flat number, thinking that a busybody like him might come in handy at some point.

Five minutes later, she was back on her bike, heading away from Becky’s flat down Herne Hill towards Brockwell Park. Katherine lived at the cheaper end of Norwood Road, the only end where a teacher could afford to buy. When Amy moved to London after leaving university, to take her first lowly job as a marketing executive at a publishing house, Becky had spent several weekends with her sister that included a riotous night out in Brixton and a hungover day at the Lambeth Country Show, the only low point being when she got whiplash on the waltzer. After finishing her PGCE, Becky had managed to get a job in the same part of London. Now she lived in Denmark Hill while Amy was in East Dulwich, off Lordship Lane. Amy couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

As she waited at the traffic lights on Herne Hill, her mind hopped frantically from the subject of Becky’s whereabouts – the word ‘disappearance’ kept trying to creep in but she was holding it at bay for now – to her To Do list. Site updates, customer emails, talking to a supplier, some pay-per-click ads, an interview with a local magazine …

Even on a normal day it would have been enough to send her spiralling into a mild panic, and she couldn’t help but curse Becky for putting her through this. If you’re happily browsing duty free at this moment while I’m chasing around London looking for you … She didn’t finish the thought. Because, really, that’s what she hoped Becky was doing. What was the alternative?

A white Audi cut her up as the lights changed and she raised her middle finger. Dickhead. She had a theory about people who drove expensive white cars. This theory didn’t stretch much further than thinking they were all dickheads, but they proved her hypothesis again and again.

She rode past the row of shops where, last year, somebody had beaten a woman half to death for no reason. To the right lay the beautiful park with views towards central London, the Gherkin and the Shard glinting in the sunshine. But she didn’t give any of that a thought today. She concentrated on the road ahead.

Katherine’s cottage was easy to find. Amy parked the bike outside and unzipped her leather jacket, expecting to see steam coming off her like a baked potato removed from a microwave.

Katherine opened the door and stepped forward to give Amy a kiss.

‘Would you like a cold drink?’ she asked, wiping her cheek. ‘I was sitting out in the garden. Come through.’

Amy followed her through the cottage, surprised by how messy it was: clothes spilling out of an open hall cupboard, dishes stacked in the sink, a layer of grime on every surface.

She stood on the small, square lawn and waited while Katherine searched for a clean glass. A Kindle lay face down on a metal table beside a packet of cigarettes. Katherine came out and made a big show of dragging a chair, filthy with cobwebs, out of the shed.

Amy sat down. ‘How are you?’

Katherine did not look great. Her auburn hair hung in greasy clumps and she was considerably thinner than Amy remembered from their previous meeting. She seemed nervous, picking up the pack of cigarettes and lighting one, taking a hungry drag. Amy didn’t remember her being a smoker either, though it was a detail she could easily have missed.

‘Yeah, I’m OK,’ Katherine said. ‘So happy school’s out at last. By June every year, I think if I have to mark one more piece of shitty Art homework I’m going to go berserk.’ She smiled with one corner of her mouth.

‘How’s the jewellery-making going? I still want you to write that article, if you get time.’

‘Oh. I haven’t made any new pieces for months. I’ve been too busy.’

‘That’s a shame. How’s your man? Clive, isn’t it? Is he here?’

Katherine’s expression didn’t change. ‘We broke up.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. He was a nightmare.’

If she’d known this woman better, Amy would have asked more, but thought it was best to move the conversation on. Especially as Katherine was acting like a junkie who couldn’t wait to get her next fix.

‘This was the email I got from Becky.’

Amy handed Katherine her phone and watched her read it, her brow furrowing.

‘That’s nuts,’ Katherine said.

‘I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks so. She never said anything to you about going away?’

‘No. Definitely not.’

‘She was OK on Wednesday at school?’

Katherine stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another. She stared into the garden and Amy turned to see what she was looking at. But she was staring into space, a peculiar smile on her lips.

‘Katherine?’

‘Huh?’

‘Are you all right?’ Amy asked.

Katherine blinked. ‘What? Yeah, I’m cool.’

She still had that look on her face, as if she found the whole thing amusing – or at least intriguing. She was swinging her leg in the same way Gary had been and Amy noticed that she had bruises around her ankles. ‘You were saying about Wednesday.’

‘Oh, yeah. We went for a drink after work – most of the younger teachers – to celebrate the end of term. Becky was there.’

‘For the whole night?’

‘Yeah. Well, we both left quite early.’ Katherine looked over Amy’s shoulder again and this time a black-and-white cat appeared, running past Amy and disappearing into the house. Katherine watched it go.

‘And how did she seem?’ Amy asked.

‘Normal. Fine. In fact, she was all excited.’

‘Excited? What about?’

Katherine crushed out her cigarette beneath a flip-flop. As she raised her leg, Amy spotted a fading yellow bruise on the inside of Katherine’s thigh. It looked like a bite mark. She looked Amy in the eye. ‘She had a hot date lined up for Thursday night. She was really looking forward to it.’