Woman Last Seen(95)

The water in the bath is getting cool now. I stand up and reach for a big towel that Fiona has had warming on the radiator. I climb out of the bath and wrap it around me as I carry on talking.

“Over time, I learned that it was easier not to feed either of them the answers they hungered after. When my father asked about my life with my mother, I simply said, ‘It’s boring, I don’t want to talk about it.’ I said that over and over again until he eventually stopped asking. After that, he barely spoke to me at all.” Fiona tuts. “With my mother I insisted, ‘I don’t remember.’

“‘But you must!’ she would yell, irritated. I’d shake my head. ‘Nope. Nothing, I remember nothing.’ I stayed stubbornly silent until she declared me useless. I learned to lock up both lives, build a wall between them.”

I finally dare look at Fiona. I stand dripping on the bathroom floor and hoping for some understanding, some forgiveness. She looks pale. She is biting her bottom lip. Her stress tell.

“So this is why living two separate lives as an adult hasn’t been as weird for you as it would be for others,” she comments. “Not as weird as it should have been.”

“I guess,” I admit with a shrug.



45


DC Clements


It is Tanner who draws her attention to the plasterboard on the ground. He impatiently kicks it as he strides toward the luxury building. “Bloody litter louts. I hate them. They have the right idea in Singapore. Two-hundred-and-fifty-quid fine for dropping a fag end or sweet wrapper. Crap like this would get a court appearance. Stringent enforcement.”

Clements looks up. She can see light bouncing and glinting on most of the windows above. But one, on the fourteenth floor, is opaque because it is open, and the light is being swallowed. It’s a possibility. She grasps at that because sometimes, a possibility is enough. “We need to get up to that floor,” she says.

The place is deserted, no sign of the concierge but they find his number, pinned behind the desk, conscientiously left for residents who might need his help. Within twenty minutes Alfonso is at the building and he is happy to let them in. He seems pleased to be needed. Irritated that the residents have sent him home.

“I saw that mess, wanted to sort it out, but they wouldn’t give me the time. Mr. Janssen said I had to get on my way ASAP.”

“Everyone is being asked to work from home now. I’m jealous,” says Tanner. “Don’t worry about it.”

“We’re glad you are here, though. Very grateful,” adds Clements.

The man straightens his shoulders, purposeful. “Well, the apartment with the open window belongs to the Federovas. Russian couple. Rarely here. Haven’t seen them for months. They have workmen in and out now and again. Doing it up. Haven’t seen many of those for a while, though, either. Normally Mrs. Federova emails me in advance because I sort out access. Can’t think why a window might be open. They may have loaned the place out to a friend, I suppose.”

“Can you let us in?”

“Happy to.”

They knock on the door of the apartment, out of courtesy, but there is no answer, so Alfonso presses the key code and the door swings open.

They swiftly walk through the rooms. The only thing that initially seems out of place is a typewriter and a pile of paper on the floor outside a bedroom door. They open that door. Clements’s eyes jump from one thing to the next, taking it all in in an instant. The hole in the wall, chains attached to the radiator, debris, empty water bottles, food wrappers, a stinking bucket of crap.

“Call it in, Tanner. We need to take prints, or maybe tests of the waste in the bucket; we need proof she was in here, but I think it’s—”

“A safe assumption.”

“I was going to say a decent lead. There’s no such thing as a safe assumption.” But Clements feels something scorch her belly: adrenaline. This is something. This is big. She has to admit, this is the closest you ever get to a safe assumption.

“No body, though. You think he’s done her in and got rid of her?” Tanner asks.

“I hope not, but we need to find Daan Janssen. Let’s pay him a visit right now.”

Alfonso is holding a handkerchief to his face. He looks pale, shocked. “I’ll take you up. I can let you in there too, if he’s gone.”



46


Fiona


Fiona is trying her best to be as sympathetic as possible. Kylie is her best friend. Well, she was; everything has changed irredeemably. It is very hard to see her beaten and broken body. Clearly, she’s been through a lot. Yet Fiona can’t help but feel just a bit irritated by Kylie’s continued self-justification of her bigamy. She wants to yell, “Own it!” Kylie has been alone for a week, locked up with nothing else to think about, yet she still does not appear sorry; she just wants to keep explaining why she’s done what she’s done. Fiona thinks about Mark’s pain, the boys’ fear, Daan’s anger. Why can’t Kylie see that what she has done is unforgivable, unjustifiable? Fiona bites her tongue and offers to bandage up Kylie’s hand. She straps it close to her chest, which means Kylie has to eat supper one-handed but as it’s the right hand that’s damaged, it doesn’t cause her too much of an issue.

Fiona has prepared a basic pasta dish with a jar of tomato sauce. She expected Kylie to be ravenous, but she is just listlessly picking around the edges of the hearty serving. Kylie is taut, brittle. It’s understandable but hard to negotiate. Fiona wants to feel on solid ground. She wants to be able to recognize her friend and their friendship; however, she isn’t sure she knows Kylie anymore. It’s disconcerting to have a stranger in the kitchen. Has she done the right thing in bringing her here after all?