by Louise Voss
‘But the boiler was on and the front door wasn’t double-locked. She hadn’t said anything to her neighbour about going away, either. And then there was the thing about Cambodia in the email. She’s definitely been there before, so why say that she’s always wanted to go there?’
She went out into the sunny garden and sat down, sipping the steaming coffee. Boris stayed in the kitchen, unhurriedly eating his food.
Contradictory evidence. Her mind leapt from fact to fact and inserted a big fat but between each one. The door was unlocked but I can’t find her passport but the fridge was empty but …
The biggest but of all was the feeling in her gut: that cold, sick feeling that had been there since she’d read the email. That instinct, along with her knowledge of her sister – because this really was so unlike Becky – convinced her that something was very wrong. And she knew that sick feeling wouldn’t go away until she spoke to her sister and found out exactly what was going on.
Boris trotted into the garden, nails clicking against the paving, and sat at her feet. She stroked his smooth head.
‘I need to make a new To Do list,’ she said.
She opened the Notes app on her phone and thought for a moment. What did she need to do?
Call airports, she tapped on the tiny keyboard.
Call mum and dad. She knew she ought to do that now, but she was reluctant. The worst thing she could imagine – no, not the worst thing by far, but something annoying and upsetting – would be her mum coming over and getting involved. Her parents caused enough problems from Spain as it was.
Find the hot date.
That had to be the most important item on the list. She chewed the inside of her cheek, worriedly. Why hadn’t she brought the laptop home with her last time? She was going to have to go back to Becky’s flat to get it.
She tackled Item One first, starting with Heathrow, but they told her she would need to speak to the individual airlines, so she looked up which ones flew to Vietnam and Cambodia. She called Emirates, then Malaysia Airlines and Cathay Pacific. They all told her the same thing: nothing.
‘Our passenger lists are completely confidential,’ a bored-sounding Australian woman said. ‘We’d only be able to give that kind of information to the police.’
Amy thought about calling the police again. But her instinct was that she would need more information to go back to them with before they would take her seriously.
She pulled up outside Becky’s flat and went inside, carrying her crash helmet. She had been riding now for four years. The leather felt like a protective shell, the wheels made her swift and hard to catch. Half-cheetah half-tortoise, she thought, and suppressed a smile.
As she passed Gary’s door, he came out. ‘I heard your bike,’ he said. ‘Any news? I only got back about an hour ago – pub lunch with the footie lads.’
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Maybe she’s back home now. Shall we go and have a look?’
The flat was still empty.
Amy checked her watch. It was 6 p.m. ‘Nice day?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, not bad. To be honest, I lost us the match because I was worried about Becky. Kept looking at my phone to see if I’d had a missed call from you.’
Amy scrutinized him. ‘That’s sweet of you.’
He smiled his lopsided smile and ran a hand through his thick hair. His shirt, she noticed, was slightly too small for him and rose up to expose an inch of belly. She remembered his body from earlier. He had that thing going on – what was it called? A V cut. Those lines of muscle that ran in two diagonals from his abs down towards his groin.
She told Gary about her visit to Katherine and the hot date. ‘I came back here so I could take another look at Becky’s—’
‘Computer,’ he finished.
She was grateful to him for reminding her of his annoying habit and taking her mind off his abs.
‘Do you want a coffee?’ he asked. ‘I’ll make one in my flat and bring it through.’ He slunk off and she sat down with Becky’s laptop, pressing a button on the keyboard to bring it back to life.
She went straight to the ‘Old Emails Back-Up’ folder and scrolled through it, looking for interesting messages – particularly, anything connected to Internet dating.
It was an unknown world to Amy, something she had never tried, although she had been tempted a few times on cold nights in her flat when it was dark outside and the thought of having someone to watch TV with, to share her bed with other than Boris, filled her with yearning. But she was happy with her dog, for now, and too busy with her fast-growing business. That’s what she told herself.
‘You need to move on,’ she heard Becky say. ‘There are good men out there, Amy.’
It had been four years since ‘that thing’, as she called it in her head, on the very rare occasions it pushed its way into her conscious mind, and she knew in her stronger moments that Becky was right. For a while, she would start idly thinking about how she was going to find one of these good men. Since she had left her office job to work for herself from her kitchen table, working in a world peopled almost exclusively by women, there was little opportunity to meet any men, good, bad or ugly.
Then an advert for a dating site would come on TV and she’d think, ‘Should I?’
But she had heard so many horror stories about Internet dates. All her friends who had tried dating sites came back with funny or depressing stories about lack of chemistry, dull conversations and people who were almost always balder, fatter or shorter than their profile pictures suggested. Or worse, creepier. Her friend, Sally, the graphic designer who helped her with her site, had recounted how she had once pulled out a couple of hairs and left them on the carpet of a date’s flat while he was in the loo, just in case he murdered her and the police needed evidence she’d been there.
Someone had told her that 30 per cent of relationships start online these days, but she didn’t know any couples that had met through a dating site, let alone Facebook or Twitter. Nearly everyone she knew had met at work, or through a mutual friend.
There were numerous identical emails in Becky’s folder from CupidsWeb, with the subject line: ‘You have a new message!’
She clicked on a link in one of these emails and was taken to the Login page of the dating site. She didn’t know Becky’s password but, as she had access to her email, getting in was easy. She clicked on ‘Forgot Password?’, entered Becky’s email address and was sent an email with instructions on how to generate a new one. Seconds later, she was in, with full access to her sister’s sent and received CupidsWeb messages.
She soon became absorbed by the long list on the screen, dating back to May that year. She created a new Word document and copied and pasted any interesting messages into it, her pulse quickening as she concentrated on the task. Gary came back into the room and put the coffee down in front of her, a splash spilling over the lip of the mug, then stood behind her shoulder and watched. She could see his reflection in the screen but tried to ignore it. She didn’t like having a man standing behind her, watching what she was doing, but right now, she found Gary’s company more comforting than disturbing.
After ten minutes of copying and pasting, she sat back.
There were messages from fifteen men. She started to read through them, making sure that Gary wasn’t able to see. It was Becky’s private correspondence, after all, and she felt uncomfortable enough about reading it, without the added betrayal of Gary being privy to it too.
‘You look gorgeous in your profile pic. Is that really you, LOL?’
‘You’re a teacher! I used to fancy the pants off one of mine. I’ve had a thing about teachers ever since.’
Amy shook her head. She could collect together some of these emails and compile them into a guide: ‘How to Blow Your Chances of a Date.’ Rule 1: Use LOL, ROFL and LMAO at all opportunities. Rule 2: Be as creepy as fuck.
If she saw that the exchange of messages had not resulted in a date – usually when Becky
had sent them a message at the end of the flirtation to say she was too busy to meet up with them, sorry – Amy cut and pasted these into another document. These made up the majority, but there were a few exchanges that ended with the promise of a meeting. Amy wrote down their user names, real names (if indeed they were) and the dates of the correspondence.
‘I’d very much like to meet up. Where’s good for you? I work in Soho so we’d be spoilt for choice but there’s a very nice wine bar on Dean Street. How does that sound?’
All of the men with whom Becky had arranged a date appeared sane and, well, normal. But Amy knew from bitter experience that men who appeared pleasant and ordinary at first could be anything but.
She turned to Gary, who was checking his watch. ‘Take a look.’
He leaned forward and read the list of names aloud. ‘Ross – Rosski20; Shaun – Notthesheep; Daniel – DannyBoy? He gave her a puzzled look. ‘What exactly are we looking for?’
‘Becky had a date on Thursday night. I’m trying to find out who it was with.’
‘Well, all of these messages are from ages ago. There’s nothing about a date last weekend.’
‘I know. But if she’d already been on a date with this guy – starting back with one of these messages – they probably would have switched to arranging things by phone or text.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ He slapped his own forehead. ‘I’m an idiot. But you’re good at this.’
‘What?’
‘Investigating.’
‘I don’t think so.’
He smiled at her. ‘Yeah, you are. You’re clever. Becky’s lucky to have someone so smart watching out for her.’
She flicked her eyes up to his and couldn’t help but enjoy the praise, feeling it like warm sunshine on her face. But a moment later, the dark cloud returned along with a stab of guilt. What was she doing flirting – was it flirting? – with Gary, when Becky was missing?
She stared at the list and tapped the desk, thinking, wondering. Becky hadn’t been seen since Wednesday, and trawling through Becky’s computer was making Amy even more convinced that something awful had happened to her. There was nothing on there to suggest Becky had been unhappy or having problems. No weird emails. No gloomy Facebook status updates. Both Gary and Katherine said that Becky had seemed fine when they’d last seen her. Happy, in fact, according to Katherine. Excited.
Amy went over to Becky’s new iMac, opened the web browser and went on to Google, which showed a list of Becky’s recent searches. All of the searches were completely innocuous: Kate Middleton dress; Chinese takeaway SE21; Made in Chelsea. Nothing to suggest she was depressed or had any worries. Neither were there any searches about flights to Asia or accommodation over there.
No evidence at all that she had been planning to flee the country, nor that there was any reason for her to do so.
She needed to track down the hot date urgently. Because she could only think of two scenarios:
One: Becky had been in love with this guy but he had let her down, broken her heart and sent her into a wild tailspin, making her leave the country in a desperate bid to get away from him and forget him. Amy would have hoped that Becky might have confided in her, had this been the case – but she supposed that she never told Becky anything about Nathan, not until it was too late.
Two: He had done something much worse than break her heart.
‘What are you going to do next?’ Gary asked.
She shook her head, stood up and crossed over to the bookshelf, picking up the framed photo of her and Becky, hugging it against her chest. The flat seemed to be mourning its owner, the sunlight that washed the room felt cold, the sofa looked sad and empty. A peace lily drooped its head on the windowsill, and Amy went into the kitchen and filled a small jug, returning to water the plant.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘What do you think I should do?’
He flexed his shoulders and she could almost hear the muscles pop. ‘The obvious thing, I guess, would be to call the blokes she emailed.’
‘But I can’t do that. I can’t just call them.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because … for one thing, I don’t have their numbers, and for another … what if one of them has done something to her?’
Gary’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t think Becky’s been murdered?’
Hearing the word out loud made Amy’s eyes fill with tears and for a moment she was unable to reply. ‘I don’t know. But there has to be a chance. Someone sent that email, didn’t they?’ She told him about Cambodia.
Amy liked the way Gary’s eyebrows scrunched when he was thinking. ‘Maybe she’s blocked the Cambodia thing from her mind so much that she’s actually forgotten she went. Or she just made a mistake. It wouldn’t be hard to do.’
She stroked the leaves of the lily between forefinger and thumb. ‘I know that. But don’t you understand? I have to find out. If something awful has happened to her, even if the chances are really slim, I’m the only person who will look for her.’
‘You can see why the police aren’t being that keen, though, can’t you? They’re obviously just waiting for her to email you from Thailand or wherever. Probably happens all the time – people take off, and the police get brought in for nothing. Don’t you think you should give it a few more days? Otherwise, what are you going to do? Sneak around spying on all the dates she’s been on?’
She looked at him.
‘Amy. You can’t do that.’
‘But like you said, the police don’t want to know. They’ve made that clear already.’
Gary sat down on the sofa and rubbed his face with the palm of his hand.
‘OK. I understand. If it’s what you think you need to do.’
‘I’m going to try the police one more time, though. Just so it’s on record.’
Gary paused. ‘Fair enough. And if they won’t help you, I will. It’s not safe for you to do it on your own.’
‘But …’
‘Don’t argue, all right? I want to help you. I really like Becky. She’s a … mate. I’m not taking no for an answer.’
She noted his eyes had misted over as he’d delivered these words. ‘Thanks, Gary.’
His mobile rang.
He muttered an apology before answering it. ‘Hi. Yeah, sorry … I’ll be there in ten.’
Amy looked at him quizzically
‘Sorry, I’m meant to be meeting my mate for a drink. I’m already late. But call me if you need anything. And let me know what the police say. Are you going to stay here?’
‘Not for long. I ought to get back. Boris needs feeding.’
‘Is that your bloke?’
She laughed. ‘My dog.’
‘Oh. And do you, um, have a bloke?’
‘No.’ Amy spoke a little more curtly than she’d intended. Surely, he wasn’t trying to hit on her? That was the last thing she needed.
Gary walked over to the door, then hesitated and turned back.
‘I know what else you could do. You could put an appeal out, see if anyone’s seen her.’
‘What, like a poster?’
He grinned. ‘For someone who runs a website, you can be surprisingly old-fashioned.’
‘I guess I’m an old-fashioned kind of girl.’
‘I was thinking you could use social media. You do use Facebook and Twitter, right?’
‘I use them a bit. Facebook, of course, for keeping up with friends, and everyone keeps telling me I need to use Twitter for my business, but I don’t really have time.’
‘Well, I’ve got a friend who’s an expert at all that stuff. Social networking. Maybe he could advise you of the best way to go about it. I’ll give him a call, see what he says.’
Gary left and Amy went back over to the desk, tapping the names of the three men who had sent Becky messages into the Notes app on her phone. She called the police station and, after being passed around, was told someone would call her back.
She intended to go home but got drawn into
surfing through Becky’s web history, trying to find some clue. She logged into CupidsWeb again and trawled through profiles, read through Becky’s Inbox repeatedly. The room grew darker around her and she felt sleep tugging at her.
Soon, she was dreaming – that Becky was back, with a golden tan, telling Amy about the wonderful time she’d had in Cambodia. ‘I went to the Killing Fields,’ she said. ‘Lovely place. You should go sometime …’
She jerked awake, lifting her head from the desk. The room was almost dark, her neck throbbed and it took her a second to recall where she was, to remember that Becky was missing and to realize what the noise that had woken her was.
Somebody was unlocking the front door.
6
Becky
Saturday, 8 June
‘Wait for me, Kath, what’s the matter?’
How Kath can run so fast is beyond me, considering the amount of fags she smokes, but she seems annoyed about something and is doggedly jogging much harder than me. We’re on our third lap of Dulwich Park and I’m too knackered to speak. I stop, and bend over to put my hands on my knees, panting. A man riding one of those reclining cycles almost crashes into me. Katherine stops too, but continues to jog on the spot. She scowls at me.
When I get my breath back enough to speak, I straighten up, trying to rub a stitch out of my side. ‘What?’
Her shoulders slump a little.
‘Nothing – well, nothing that’s your fault anyway. Shit date the other night – he took me out to dinner, and I must have eaten a dodgy prawn. When I got home I spent the whole night puking my guts out. Still feeling a bit rough today.’
‘Oh, no! Poor you. Can’t believe you can feel that rough and run so bloody fast, though … Who was he? And what did you tell Clive?’
I walk over to a nearby bench and sit down on it. Katherine looks disapproving, but joins me, looking at her watch. ‘Might do another lap in a minute, but let’s have a rest anyway.’
She takes a big suck on her water bottle and hands it to me – as usual, I’ve forgotten mine. I feel dehydrated; crusty, like an empty hull.
‘So?’
‘Oh, yeah … It was just really disappointing. He’d seemed like such a laugh in his profile, and then on the phone – you know, one of those really confident, quirky guys who say outrageous things. Sexy.’
