The Family Remains(21)
‘Yes?’
‘Bunions. The female had bunions. And signs of wear in the knee joints. The sort of wear and tear often seen in intensively trained dancers, ballerinas. Could be something to explore? And also, some fabric fibres. Possibly from whatever the bones had been wrapped up in before they were transferred to the plastic bag. You never know. They might yield something we can use. Particularly if it’s an unusual fibre.’
‘Any signs of what might have been the cause of death?’
‘There’s that slight fracture to the left side of the skull, on the temporal.’
‘Caused by?’
She pauses briefly and I hear her exhale her breath. ‘Blunt force trauma.’
I close my eyes and sigh. ‘So – an act of violence?’
‘Yes. I would say that with ninety-nine per cent certainty.’
I feel the weight of this land hard on my shoulders. We are now officially dealing with a murder case. A murder case with barely any physical or circumstantial evidence.
But on the plus side, time is not of the essence. Whoever this poor woman was, she’s been dead for over twenty years. I can take my time. Nobody breathing down my neck. On the downside, this is the sort of case that could have me chasing shadows into corners for months and months and into infinity. This is the sort of case that nobody will be interested in. At least, not until I can find out who this girl might be.
Not until I can tell someone who it is that we’re looking for.
20
Phin’s place is across the other side of Chicago in a gentrified, upmarket, very unfunky area peopled by well-to-do young families with SUVs in their driveways. The houses are mainly Victorian red brick with bay windows and terracotta-tiled pathways. Phin’s apartment is a conversion in one of these; it’s on the second floor, up two flights of polished wooden stairs, nice art hanging from the communal walls and a brass chandelier dangling above the staircase from the top landing. Joe greets me barefoot, in blue shorts and a black polo shirt. Joe is very, very, very young. I cannot imagine how he can possibly afford to rent such a beautiful apartment. But then, I am not in a position to ask anyone questions about how they got where they are.
‘Hi,’ he says, allowing me to enter. His voice is a little high-pitched. If he were a dog he would be one that quakes and quivers, or one that sits in a bag and growls occasionally.
‘You are too kind,’ I say, making my voice sound as deep and honeyed as I can, to alert him to the fact that I am a fully grown man but also that he is safe with me. ‘I really, really appreciate you letting me come and talk to you.’
‘Can I get you a juice?’ says Joe, standing against the kitchen counter, one bare foot balanced upon the top of the other. ‘Soda? Water?’
‘Water would be great, thank you.’
I lean against the back of a sofa and glance around. It’s a beautiful apartment: lots of neutral colours, the odd bit of big-game-philia – etchings of tigers and elephants, watercolour maps of Africa. It’s absolutely nothing like my apartment, the apartment I had designed with Phin in mind, and once again I realise that I have been chasing a ghost all these years, living my life in the slipstream of a young man who doesn’t exist any more. But rather than dampen my need to find Phin, this realisation only serves to increase it. Joe passes me a glass of water and I say, ‘So, have you ever met Phin?’
‘No.’ Joe shakes his head. ‘I’ve never met him. I have spoken to him, though. He’s British, right, like you?’
‘Yes. Yes he is.’
‘I’ve seen photos of him, also; there are a couple in the apartment. So I knew what he looked like and he—’ He stops and his gaze flicks up to me and down again. ‘How well do you know him? I mean, are you like super-close?’
‘Well, yes and no. We knew each other as children and then I knew he’d gone to live in Africa and work as a safari guide. And we were all set to go and visit him – “we” being me and my family, his family – when he disappeared. And we’re all terribly, terribly worried about him.’
‘So, you haven’t spoken to him in a while?’
‘No. No. Sadly not. The whole family lost touch with each other for a very long time. This was meant to be a reunion. Of sorts.’
He throws me a nervous glance and says, ‘I hope this doesn’t sound strange, but there are a few photos of him in the apartment and me and my friends, we have this joke about him, because he’s kind of hot, you know, and kind of mysterious and we make up stories about him? You know? About Hot Finn, the Game Ranger. So that’s what rang a bell with Lyle, I suppose. When you were asking about him last night. I hope that doesn’t sound disrespectful?’
‘Oh God. No. Not at all. I totally get it.’
‘It’s just fun. You know.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I smile widely. ‘And how long have you lived here?’
‘Couple of years. Since I graduated. My parents pay for it. In case you were wondering.’
I shake my head firmly, as if the thought had never occurred to me. ‘And it’s just you here?’
‘Yeah. Just me. And the occasional sleepover. I mean – not that kind of sleepover. I mean, you know, like friends.’
I smile reassuringly. My goodness me, if you can’t sleep around when you’re twenty-two, cute as a button and living rent-free in a gorgeous one-bed apartment in a smart suburb of Chicago, then when can you? I want to tell him to crack on with it, stop with the platonic sleepovers and get busy. I want to tell him that this bit doesn’t last long, that it’s a beautiful blowsy rose which blooms and dies so quickly that you barely have time to catch your breath. But of course, I don’t. I just say, ‘And have you spoken to him lately? To Phin? Has he been in touch?’