The Girl I Used to Be(23)

I could hear the click of her mouse as she searched the database.

“Just a second,” she said. “Oh, I think I remember him. Nice-looking guy?”

I winced. “I suppose. Dark-haired. Tall.”

“Just a minute, the system’s slow,” she said. “I think I have him now. Do you want his number?”

“No, I’ve got that. Which company did he work for?”

“It says here he works for Barford’s.”

I nodded. That was the name I’d remembered. “Did he give their address?”

“No.” She was curious now and I could have kicked myself. “Why do you need his work address?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m just trying to get hold of him. Did he give a number for Barford’s?”

She read it out. “Is there anything I can do, Gemma? Where are you?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back in an hour.” I clicked the phone off before she could ask any more questions. I knew she and Sophie would be talking about me now, wondering what I was up to.

My call went straight through to a recorded message. “You are through to Thompson and Sons. All of our offices are closed today. Please call back between nine A.M. and five P.M. Monday to Friday.”

I stared at the phone and back down at my notepad. He’d said he worked for Barford’s, but this company was called Thompson’s. I looked them up online. They were a building company, and yes, their number was the same as the one he’d given us.

I checked Google, found the real number for Barford’s and called them. Luckily someone was on duty there and answered my call. Nobody by the name of David Sanderson was on the staff list.





FIFTEEN


THE STREET DAVID had said he lived in was a cul-de-sac, arching around a pretty piece of land planted with trees and flowers. The houses were double fronted, with smart gates and bright, well-tended gardens. I stopped just short of the house and looked around carefully. I thought of what David had said about not being ready to live in a house, preferring an apartment instead. These were family houses, exactly the opposite of what he’d wanted.

There was a red Toyota parked outside the garage and I realized I didn’t know which car David had driven when he came to see us. I have CCTV installed in our small private car park, ever since someone had parked there and scratched my car; I took out my notepad and wrote Check CCTV so that I wouldn’t forget.

My stomach tightened as I rang the doorbell. I didn’t know what I would say to him. What could I say? For a moment I thought of leaving, of running back to my car and going back to work, but then a figure appeared through the colored glass of the porch door and I found I couldn’t move.

A woman of about my age opened the door and immediately I panicked. Was she married to David? How was I going to ask him about the photo if she was there?

She glanced up and down the road as though wondering why I was there and whether I was selling something. “Hello?”

I pulled myself together and smiled reassuringly at her. “I’m looking for David Sanderson,” I said. “Is he at home?”

She frowned. “Who?”

“David Sanderson.”

“He doesn’t live here,” she said. “I’ve never heard of him.”

For a second I wondered whether she was lying, but then she leaned into the hallway and shouted, “Neville!” A few seconds later, a man appeared. He was about my height, fair-haired and stocky. “This woman wants to find someone called David Sanderson. Do you know him?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, never heard of him.”

“He gave me this address,” I said weakly. “He said he lived here.”

They looked at each other, clearly puzzled. “We’ve been here for more than ten years,” said the woman. “And we know all our neighbors. There’s no one in this cul-de-sac with that name, I’m afraid.”

The man agreed. “Sorry. You must have the wrong address.”

They looked so earnest and honest that I didn’t feel I could start quizzing them further, so I thanked them and went back to my car. I drove out of the cul-de-sac and back onto the main road, and then parked my car. I opened Facebook. There were quite a few men with the same name, but those with photos clearly weren’t him and those without lived in other countries. I checked Twitter and he wasn’t there, either.

He’d said he was in sales. Surely he’d be on LinkedIn? I checked, but the only David Sandersons there were clearly not the man I’d met. I entered his name into Google, but it was quite a common name and even though I scrolled through page after page, I couldn’t find anything about him at all. I sat back and closed my eyes, trying desperately to think. His phone number had rung out; it was impossible to leave a voice mail. My e-mails to him weren’t answered. He didn’t live at that address and he didn’t work where he said he had, that much was clear.

Just then my phone pinged in my hand, startling me. It was an Instagram message. I only use Instagram with a few people, and on the screen it said the message was from someone I don’t follow. I looked at the sender’s name; it was WatchingYou. There was a little cartoon figure next to the name, rather than a photo. I frowned and clicked on the message.

There didn’t seem to be anything there at first. I was just about to switch off my phone when a video appeared.