PC Mountford gives Cynthia a consolatory smile. “Right, okay, then. But if all is well with her, we’ll put a lid on all this, yes?”
“If Anna’s safe and happy, of course. You’ll never hear from me again,” Cynthia agrees.
“We’ll swing by there this afternoon,” the male officer promises. “We’ll be in contact, okay?”
A sprig of hope lifts toward the light inside Cynthia, in spite of the fact that she knows, in her bones, that her daughter won’t be at this new address, because her daughter isn’t ignoring her; she is long gone. And the seventy-two hours theyhadto make the most of thatknowledge passed weeks ago. Cynthia tries to push the statistics on missing persons from her mind.
She knows she shouldn’t say what she’s about to say but she can’t stop herself.
“And, if she’snotokay, if there’sno onethere, at this new address? I think you should look into who thisboyfriendis, because I’ve sure as shit never heard of him.”
Chapter 23
Putting a Name to a Face
When I open the door,I see a movie star on my doorstep.
Aoife Doherty turns and takes a heartbeat to size me up before giving me a breathtaking smile, an elegant dance of white teeth, sparkle, and instant intimacy.
“Oh my God,” she burrs, in an Irish brogue that half the world must be familiar with. “I am so sorry about the package. Melvyn’s chewed my ear off. I’m a liability—what can I say? You’ve had my parcel clogging up your lovely new place since you moved in.”
She looks genuinely mortified, and I wish old me, me from a few days ago, could be here to enjoy our much-anticipated meeting, but it takes everything I have left not to tell her in the nicest possible way to get lost.
“Melvyn?” I ask.
“Yeah, the postman, Melvyn,” she clarifies, like we’re old friends, and we know a lot of Melvyns.
She suddenly grimaces. “Sweet Jesus, is he not calledMelvyn? Have I just been calling him that? Where did I get fucking Melvyn from? Oh my God.”
I bark out a laugh in spite of myself, in spite of, or maybe because of, everything.
“I’m sorry if I woke you the other night, with the house alarm?” I feel unhelpful, embarrassing emotions rising up inside me and take a big breath to still them. Aoife studies me, and while I’m sure none of that was visible, she puts a hand on my arm.
“Oh God, yeah. I heard on the group chat. That’s the last thingyou need after moving. I was on location in Cumbria the other night. I didn’t hear a thing from up there.” She grins.
I force a smile. “Maybe a drink is fine. I need some company. I think I woke everyone else, though. Look, I’m really sorry, but I need to go,” I say, gesturing back into the house, leaving her to fill in the blanks: a Zoom call, a boiling pan, a pet-based emergency. Aoife raises an eyebrow, and I realize she’s probably not used to peoplenotwanting to talk to her. I grab the Jiffy packet from the hall table and hand it to her.
“Oh. Sure,” she concedes, taking her parcel and sliding it into her bag. “Thank you for this.” She smiles, her chin dipping to look at it, causing her glorious hair to fall forward across her face; she gives it a gentle swipe to clear strands out of her blue eyes. “Look, if you need anything, or someone to chat to, give me a message—my number’s on the group.”
And then she turns and leaves.
I watch her cross the street. She looks so strong and healthy and happy, so unlike the woman I remember from the video.
I think of that woman in the basement, her eyes wide. It is only when an older woman walks by pushing a buggy, a toddler inside carrying a yellow plastic toy mobile phone in its little hand, that I realize I don’t know how long I’ve stood here.
Closing the front door, I move back to the kitchen. There’s still no sign of Blue, so I sit to wait.
An email alert pulls my attention to my phone. I am surprised to see, for the first time in a month, a positive response to an application I have made. I grab my laptop and flop into an armchair next to the window in the living room.
A branding consultant at a fledging fashion house. I have researched them and they’ve got incredible reach via socials and have even managed to get stocked in a well-known London designer department store without a proper branding/marketing team. It’s exciting. But I have to force myself to feel that. I know I’d be great at this job, and usually I’d be really pumped at the prospect of taking something from the ground up.
I’m replying with possible interview and start dates when a car horn blares short and sharp outside. I instinctively rise in my seat, fingers still on keyboard, and look out over the top of my screen.
Down on the road, Aoife’s driver has pulled up. Double-parked outside her house, he honks again.
Aoife races out. She’s now resplendent in gold heels and a chestnut skirt-suit. She is followed out of her front door by a team of women in North Face fleeces and leggings with clear-plastic makeup bags strung cross-body.
Even from high up, she looks ethereal, perfect, gold-leaf eyeshadow and a slash of brown lipstick over her full lips. As I watch, she grimaces, fumbles her keys again, and storms back into her house. The other women erupt in concern, flustered, until Aoife bursts again out the front door, holding a crackled-gold Fendi Baguette aloft, tags still on.
