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“Hello, I’m trying to trace a security guard we employed last year and who was sent to us by your company. His name was Carl—I’m sorry, I can’t remember his surname.”
“Can I have the name of your company, please?” a woman asks.
“Yes, it’sExclusives.”
“Hold on a minute, let me check… I can’t find a contract in the name ofExclusives, I’m afraid.”
“Oh. He must have been sent by another company, then. Do you have any Carls at all on your books?”
“No, the only Carl we had was our director, Mr. Hunter, and he no longer works here.”
My phone slips from my grasp, clatters to the floor. Blood drains from my face. Dizzy, I push through to the kitchen, then out to the garden, gulping fresh air into my lungs. CarlHunter? What does it mean? Is it just a coincidence: two people with the same name, one a surname, one a Christian name? Or was Hunter the surname of the man I knew as Hunter? If it was, does it mean that Carl and Hunter were related? And if they were, is that what the kidnapping was about, payback not just for Lina’s murder, but also for Hunter’s?
My head feels as if it’s about to explode. I massage my temples, telling myself that it will be alright, I’ll get to the bottom of it, somehow. But how? Each time I think I’ve made a slight step forward, there’s always something to knock me back.
I go to the kitchen, retrieve my phone from the floor, stand for a moment, thinking. When I have a plan, I call the security company again, ready to disguise my voice so that the woman won’t know it’s me calling back. But this time a man picks up.
“Could you put me through to Carl Hunter, please?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, but he no longer works here.”
“Ah. That could explain why he hasn’t picked up his suits from us. He put them in to be dry-cleaned over a month ago. Do you have a phone number for him?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Or an address? They’re good suits, it seems a shame for him not to have them. Maybe I could arrange for them to be couriered to him.”
The man laughs. “You could, but it might turn out to be a bit expensive. He’s gone back to New Zealand.”
My heart leaps—bingo. “Is that where he’s from? I detected an accent when he came in but I couldn’t quite place it.”
“Yes, he’s a Kiwi.”
“What about his brother? Maybe he would have Mr. Hunter’s contact details.”
“His brother? I don’t know anything about Mr. Hunter having a brother.”
“Oh—I was sure he said that his brother worked with him. Or maybe it was a cousin.”
“Not here, that’s for sure.”
“It might have been a few months ago now,” I persist. “I think Mr. Hunter said his brother used his surname as a Christian name, so he would have been known as Hunter. Mr. Hunter said he employed him as a security guard.”
“Really? I suppose I could check our records.”
“Could you? As I said, they’re expensive suits.”
“Give me a moment.” I wait, my mind still spinning at the confirmation that Carl’s surname is Hunter. “No, I can’t see anything, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll take his suits to the charity shop. Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”
I hang up and stand for a moment, puzzling it out. Why are there no records of Hunter having worked at the security firm when he wore a jacket with their name emblazoned on it?
And how am I ever going to find Carl in New Zealand? I can’t, I realize dully. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. I fetch my laptop anyway, google “Carl Hunter New Zealand,” but there are over 12,800,000 results. I try “Carl Hunter security New Zealand” but there are still 8,810,000 results. I type in his name, “New Zealand,” then the name of the security firm, and try images, but I find nothing.
Deflated, I wander into the kitchen, press my nose to the window. If I can’t find Carl, I can’t find Lukas. And if I can’t get to the truth, I’ll never be free.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
