Half the World Away - [16]

We need to choose a recent picture of Lori. I run through the ones on the computer. Nick points to the snap at the airport. Lori and her backpack.

‘Her hair’s still pink in that,’ I say. I’m worried that people will notice the colour and that’s all they will notice so they’ll immediately disregard it because they don’t recall an English girl with pink hair.

There is one picture from her website, from her blog, that she sent just after arriving in Chengdu. She’s seated in a teahouse but there’s a clear view of her face. Her hair is an in-between length, without the pink. You can see her eyes are a mid-blue. She’s smiling – you can see her dimples. She’s wearing a lilac and cherry-red blouse, crinkly material that’s good for travel, easy to wash and dries in minutes. ‘This one I think.’

The doorbell rings and Tom is here. ‘What did they say?’ He doesn’t bother with any niceties as he steps inside.

‘We go back in tomorrow – there’s a list of stuff they need, all her details, passport number, bank account, phone, email, when we last heard from her, who we’ve spoken to. And a photo.’ I clear my throat. ‘Look.’ He follows me through to the computer. ‘This one?’ I say.

‘Fine, and then what?’

I repeat what DI Dooley has said. Tom is agitated: it’s visible in the way he holds himself, the set of his shoulders. Nick stares at the floor.

‘So we just wait?’ Tom interrupts me. ‘Why not go straight to the Foreign Office now?’

‘The police have to check it all out,’ Nick says, ‘make sure the information’s correct and clear before they involve the Foreign Office or the authorities abroad.’

‘You’ve given them most of the information,’ Tom objects, running his hand through his hair, turning away, then back again.

‘There are things they can verify that we can’t,’ I explain, ‘like when she last used her bank account or an ATM, where she was then. Like… I don’t know… phone records. They know what they’re doing.’

‘Bloody hope so.’ His shoulders drop, he exhales noisily. ‘I’ll come with you tomorrow,’ he says.

‘One thirty, the station on Elizabeth Slinger Road. Bring anything you have, your laptop, emails, texts, times you Skyped.’

‘Why is Tom here?’ Isaac has appeared, his face slack with sleep, scratching his belly with one hand, the other clasped at the back of his neck.

No one speaks for a moment. Then Isaac says, ‘Is Lori here?’ His face alert with excitement.

‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘Tom just popped in. And you need to get back to bed.’

‘Come on, Tiger,’ says Nick.

‘I want Mummy.’

‘Go on,’ I say. ‘Daddy will piggy-back you. I’ll be up in a minute.’

Nick crouches and Isaac climbs onto his back.

Once we’re alone Tom just stares at me. I don’t know what he wants and wait for him to speak. He stuffs his hands into his pockets. ‘She could just have taken that holiday,’ he says.

‘Yes,’ I say. But it’s more of a prayer than a belief.

Something has shifted. I half hoped that the detective would send us on our way, belittle our concerns, ridicule our fears. The fact that we were taken so seriously, attended to, and that the wheels will be set in motion to investigate, gives a cold, dense weight to my worries.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I’m an automaton at work, answering the phone, taking in absence notes and completed parents’ evening slips from the most organized families. I deal with little Martha Kentaway, who has a ferocious nosebleed.

At break I am suddenly self-conscious in the staffroom. Pam picks up on my stiffness. She stops her anecdote about a family barbecue and says, ‘Jo, are you OK?’

‘Not really.’ I place one hand over my mug. The steam from the tea is hot, too hot really, but I leave my hand there. ‘We’ve reported Lori missing.’

There is a collective double-take, a one-two punch of surprise, then a ripple of emotion. I see it in Henry’s eyes, in the way Zoë’s hand flies to her throat, and hear it in the soft exclamation that Sunita makes. Grace and Pam both speak together, asking questions.

‘No one’s heard from her since the second of April,’ I say. ‘We have to go back to the police station at half past one.’ I glance at Grace.

‘Of course,’ she says, ‘and if there’s anything we can do…’ Her mouth twists, a shrug, as if.

I can feel the rigidity in my neck, in my back, under my skin. Like those pieces of plastic they insert under shirt collars, keeping the thing in shape, invisible until you open the packet and lift the material up to remove it.

I’m back at the police station. Tom is late. Late for his own funeral. This trait is not amusing, if it ever was, or endearing. I apologize to DI Dooley, who asks me if I’d like to make a start or if I’d prefer to wait.

It’s a simple enough question but I gasp and stutter, not knowing what the right answer is. She puts me out of my misery: ‘Let’s give him another five minutes.’ She checks her watch. The bulky black dial looks too big for her wrist. She leaves me waiting in Reception.

I check my phone again for messages, though I would have heard the notification sound if Tom had texted me.

Last night, after Tom had gone, I looked up the Missing Overseas website, a salutary litany of British people who have disappeared, all ages, in places all over the globe. One had been missing for twenty years.