Half the World Away - [14]

Isaac comes into the kitchen and catches me staring into space. The jotter on the table is scored with numbers and notes, some words from the conversations I’ve just had.

‘Where’s Finn?’ he says.

‘On the trampoline. You could go out.’

He shrugs.

‘I’m going to come out soon and plant my flowers.’

‘Will you twirl me?’ he says.

‘OK.’

Outside Isaac lies on his stomach on the swing, arms and legs hanging out either side. I twist the swing round, winding the ropes together, he inches higher from the ground. When I let go, the swing unwinds fast, spinning him round, him yelling.

Then Finn wants a go.

They take turns. My stomach feels tense, knotted together like the ropes.

I replay the phone calls I’ve just made as I tap out the plugs of bedding plants and tamp them down into the troughs we have on two sides of the patio.

‘I messaged her on Saturday,’ Amy said. ‘I thought she might have her phone off if she was teaching. But she didn’t get back to me.’

‘And she usually would?’ I said.

‘Most times, eventually.’

The blackbird chinks again, insistent. And Finn sings ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’ at the top of his lungs. I stare at the lobelia, the petunias, the pink and white verbena and the fuchsias, and feel the dread grow in my chest. I set down the watering can, brush the worst of the compost from my hands before going in.

Nick has dismantled Lori’s bed and stacked it on the landing. He’s taking apart the bunk beds. ‘Great,’ he says, when he sees me. ‘You can give me a hand carrying the double mattress down.’

‘Nick,’ I say, ‘nobody’s heard from her. Nothing since the second of April. Eleven days.’

‘Right,’ he says slowly.

‘I’m really worried,’ I say, and the words spoken out loud make my legs weak. I take a breath, ignore the way my heart stutters. ‘I think something’s wrong,’ I say. ‘I think we should go to the police.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Penny, a friend I made way back when I used to child-mind her sons, comes to stay with the boys while Nick and I go to the police station. I’ve rung Tom back and told him I want to report Lori missing.

‘Do you really think it’s necessary?’ he says.

‘Yes.’

‘Fair enough.’ His voice sounds tight. ‘I’m in Dublin. I’ll be home later.’

I wonder about the woman I heard before. Is she travelling with him? Or has he been to visit her over there? If Lori were here I might know more.

Seeing people out for their weekend walks, pushing buggies, following kids on scooters and rollerblades, others sitting outside the Italian restaurant in their summery clothes as we drive by, feels unreal. A pretty façade plastered over an ugly reality.

The waiting area is small, tidy, half a dozen plastic seats on a rack bolted to the floor, and posters on the wall. There is a receptionist at the front desk. She wears a white shirt, dark skirt and small rectangular glasses perched halfway down her nose. ‘Can I help?’

‘We want to report a missing person,’ I say. My throat is dry and I sound whispery. I speak louder: ‘My daughter. She’s in China, missing in China.’

‘Right.’ She nods, as though people pop in every day with this sort of information. Though I suppose her training leads her not to react with shock or surprise to the things she hears. ‘Can I take your names?’ she says. She looks at me first.

‘Joanna Maddox.’

‘Date of birth?’

‘Eighth of September 1970.’

‘And your address?’

I reel it off.

‘And you are her mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you, sir?’

‘I’m her stepfather,’ Nick says, ‘Nicolas Myers, twenty-third of August 1968, same address.’

‘You’re married?’ she says to us.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I didn’t change my name this time.’

‘And your daughter’s details?’ She peers at me over the top of her glasses.

‘Lorelei Maddox – shall I spell it?’

‘Please.’

I do that and give her the date of birth.

‘So she’s twenty-three?’ she says.

‘Yes.’

‘And how long is it since you had any contact with your daughter?’

‘Eleven days,’ I say. ‘The second of April she posted a blog. And she Skyped with her dad the day before.’ Not even two weeks. Not very long at all, really. Am I being neurotic? Should I have waited? I expect her to send us away, tell us to come back when it’s been a month, but she says, ‘If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll see if there’s anyone upstairs can come and talk to you.’ She goes out of the door behind the desk.

We sit, not speaking. My toes are curled rigid in my shoes. Outside, wind plays through the trees and the shrubs and flowers along the side of the path; yellow forsythia, purple and white tulips, golden spurge shiver in its wake.

I start at a thump on the window. A bee the size of my thumb careers about and bangs the glass again, then zigzags away.

Perhaps there’s no one here, I think. It’s a weekend, after all. She’ll send us away. Tell us to try normal office hours. I hear the wall clock ticking. Two o’clock. Nine at night in Chengdu.

The receptionist comes back and says, ‘Detective Inspector Dooley will be down shortly.’ My skin turns to gooseflesh. Nick glances at me, sombre. He rubs his forehead and shifts in his seat.

Another five minutes, then a woman comes in through a door to the side of the waiting area marked ‘Staff Only’.