Where the Missing Go(36)

‘Probably. Yes, very likely,’ I say, as I see him perk up, ‘once my husband and I— Once my ex …’ I trail off, mournfully. This is so hammy. But on the scent of a big sale, he’s now eager to help.

‘Just give me a second,’ he says, typing slowly, two-fingered. ‘Ah … yes. Just a phone number. American.’ He reels it off for me, carefully, as I scribble it onto the brochure. ‘Have you got that?’

‘Got it.’ I smile again, a genuine one this time. ‘Thanks. Oh, and what’s her name?’

‘Sorry, I should have said. It’s Corrigan. Olivia Corrigan.’

At home I google the number, before I dial it. It’s a Canadian dialling code, not American, but that’s all I find out: there’s no exact match in the search results. I search for ‘Olivia Corrigan’ instead, but I lose patience as I click through the Olivia Corrigans who are too old, or too young or just unlikely: a former cheerleader in Oregon, a biochemist in Ireland. She might not still go by her maiden name over there.

What am I looking for, anyway? So they never actually sold the house, big deal. Before I talk myself out of it, I go to the phone and ring the number.

I’ve decided to be honest: I’m a neighbour and I’m trying to get in touch, to discuss the house. That could cover a lot of things. And then well, I’ll see how it goes.

I just have to know what happened to Nancy. This way, her sister can tell me and I will then know, as of course will be the case, that there is nothing that connects Nancy’s disappearance – departure, I correct myself – with my daughter’s, and this nagging voice in my mind will shut up again.

But the number goes to voicemail, an automated machine message.

‘Hello, my name’s Kate Harlow.’ I put on my best, most amenable phone voice. ‘I live at Oakhurst, next door to Parklands in Vale Dean. I believe you’re the owner? I wonder if you could get in touch.’ I leave the house phone number, saying it carefully, twice. ‘Thanks very much.’

Well, that’s done. She might not even be there any more. Maybe’s she moved.

But I can’t settle, moving about the rooms downstairs, flicking through the news programmes for the reassuring drone of politicians. When they finish, I find they’re re-running Jaws on another channel and end up watching it again. I’ve always loved monster movies, it’s reality that I can’t stomach on the screen: gritty dramas about break-ups and babies and everyday sadness.

Afterwards, I finally switch off the TV and admit what I’ve been waiting up for: for Nancy’s sister to call me back. This is silly, I tell myself, go to bed.

The wind is picking up tonight, I can hear it streaming through the trees outside. A late summer storm must be on its way, soon.

Making my way up the stairs, I jump as I see movement out of the corner of my eye. My heart’s racing even as I register the ginger fur: it’s just Tom, making a mad dash to the landing. He freezes in front of me, his eyes fixed on mine. He still gets these kittenish bursts of energy, rocketing about the house when the mood takes him.

Annoyed at my fear, I go deliberately up the stairs and pause at the window to pick him up. I make a point not to rush. ‘What are you up to now?’ I ask him. ‘You came out of nowhere, didn’t you?’

I keep smoothing his soft fur and look out over the garden, all shades of violet and grey in the night. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to how dark it gets out here. On the lawn, the light from the window forms a paler rectangle, my shadow framed within it, stretching out to where the rhododendron bushes blend together in one dark heavy mass. I need to get them cut back, they’re getting overgrown.

Another gust of wind comes now, swaying their boughs, the whole wall of leaves suddenly lifting and moving as one. And I notice, almost idly, that one patch of shadows doesn’t move in quite the same way, that one small corner of the mass isn’t ruffled by the wind.

It’s a shadow that, I see now, is not quite the right shape as the rest, a shape, pressed into the vegetation so you almost can’t see it, that is just about human-sized.

I keep very still. There’s nothing there. It’s a trick of the eye. It must be. Or just something the gardener left when he used to come, a piece of trellis leant against the bushes, a shape that’s just about to resolve itself into something entirely harmless, a bag of leaves propped on a dustbin.

And I keep telling myself that, that it’s all fine, even as my hand reaches towards the lamp on the side table and, with a click, the landing’s in darkness. There’s a second as my eyes adjust.

The movement’s quick – just a flicker, really. I almost miss it. It’s just a small white blur in the night, a pale upturned oval tilted towards the window. In fact, the moment’s almost over before I’ve time to catch up, to quite register what I’m looking at: what’s out there in my garden.

Then the face dips down and the figure slips further into the shadows. Whoever it was is gone.

I call 999 from the kitchen phone. I don’t care if it could wait till morning. Then I grab my mobile from where it’s been charging in a corner and retreat up the stairs, to my bedroom, where the curtains are safely shut. But it feels like a long fifteen minutes before I hear the slow crunch on wheels on the gravel.

They’re not officers I’ve seen before – both in their mid-twenties, the shorter one’s beard not masking the roundness of his face – but they’re confident and businesslike.