Songbirds(18)

When I got off the phone, I looked around and saw that the dinner plates from the night before were still in the sink unwashed, and the ones from breakfast were piled up on top of them. Dust had gathered on the furniture and the marble flagstones.

It was only 9 a.m., but I felt like I’d already had a full day. I’d woken up early, left a message for Keti to tell her I’d be taking the whole day off, made breakfast for Aliki – finding a jar of her favourite fig jam in the cupboard felt like a small victory – and rushed Aliki off to school.

Now, I went to Nisha’s room and gathered what I needed: her passport, her contract, the locket and the lock of hair. I was going to the police station.

I drove to Lykavitos station at Spyrou Kyprianou, an old white building with blue shutters. I’d passed the building many times but had never been inside. I told the officer at reception that I wanted to report a missing person. The woman took down my name and asked me to take a seat, saying someone would be with me in a minute.

A minute turned to five, ten, twenty, half an hour. Phones rang in rooms along unseen corridors; occasionally an officer would pass by and wish me good morning. Footsteps on flagstones reminded me for a moment of all those hours I had spent in hospital waiting-rooms, praying for Stephanos: the intermittent whispers, the soft footfalls; disinfectant and coffee; smiles from distracted doctors. I would nod politely, but I found that I couldn’t smile, my hand resting on my stomach as the baby grew day by day, week by week, month by month.

‘Mrs Loizides?’

Looking down at me, as if from a great height, was a man in his sixties, taller than the average Cypriot, stomach spilling over his trousers, sleeves rolled up.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s me.’

He held out his hand, either to shake mine, or to help me to stand – for a moment I wasn’t sure, and hesitated.

‘Vasilis Kyprianou,’ he said.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I said, and shook his hand, and with a smile he led me down one of the corridors and into a small room with a cluttered desk, a filing cabinet and a fan that was blowing some paperwork to the floor. He rushed to scoop up the papers with large, clumsy hands, straightening them into a pile and plonking it back on the desk – whereupon, once again, when the fan arced back around, the paperwork flew back down to the floor. This time he left it and picked up a small cup of coffee and took a sip. He grimaced.

‘Cold,’ he said, noticing that I was looking at him. ‘Always.’ With the shades drawn, the office was dim, streaks of sun reaching through the dusty slats. He sat down, the light cutting across his face and highlighting his white stubble. He signalled for me to take one of the vacant chairs opposite him.

‘Loizides,’ he said. ‘Why does that name sound familiar?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Ah, it was an old colleague of mine. Yes. Nicos Loizides. We trained together. Do you know him?’

‘No. I don’t believe I do.’

He smiled and leaned forward on his elbows. His face reminded me of a red helium balloon that had begun to sag, those balloons that slowly deflate after a birthday until they are wrinkled and bobbing on the ground.

‘So, how can I help you today?’

I took Nisha’s things out of my handbag and laid them out on the desk. ‘My maid has gone missing,’ I said. ‘Her name is Nisha Jayakody. She is thirty-eight years old and she’s been missing since Sunday night.’

‘Today is Wednesday,’ he said, as if I didn’t know.

‘Yes.’ I opened the passport and placed it in front of him. I explained everything in detail: the trip to Troodos, Nisha asking me if she could take the night off, returning home, what we had eaten, what time we had eaten, how I had gone to bed leaving Nisha to take care of Aliki, and, how I had woken up in the morning to find that Nisha had gone. Finally, I explained that a reliable neighbour had seen Nisha heading out at ten thirty that same night.

‘She hasn’t taken her passport,’ I said, pushing it still closer to him, because he had not yet even looked at it. ‘If she had intended to leave, she would have taken this with her.’

‘Ha,’ he said simply, bringing the back of his hand to his mouth, wiping it as if he had just finished eating, and leaning back in the chair.

‘Where is she from?’ he asked.

‘Sri Lanka. She has been working for me for nine years. She has helped to bring up my daughter. Nisha would never leave without saying goodbye to her.’

There was a moment of silence. Then Officer Kyprianou sighed deeply, and looked me straight in the eyes, as if willing me to understand his thoughts, like I was missing some joke. Then he said, ‘It’s only been a few days. Why don’t you leave it and see how it goes?’

‘But she’s never done this before,’ I said. ‘I know something is wrong. Look’ – I tapped the locket and the lock of hair on the desk in front of him – ‘these are her most prized possessions. She wouldn’t even wear the locket for fear of losing it. It was a gift from her late husband. This is a lock of her daughter’s hair. She hasn’t seen her daughter for nine years, since she came here. She would never leave these items behind.’

He picked up the coffee again and took another dissatisfied sip, nodding his head as if to himself.

I wished I had a pin to burst his big, hollow head.

‘I was wondering if you could take down Nisha’s details, investigate—’ but he interrupted me before I had even finished speaking.