Cut to the Bone

by Alex Caan

  And things had been fine. For a while.

  Until Justin Hope and his Special Operations Executive 3, unit without portfolio.

  She felt as though she was holding her breath under water, waiting to let her lungs fill – or rise to the surface. She had been in this post for three months, and she was still waiting.

  It was approaching 4 a.m. Kate closed her eyes, turned off the bedside light, counted the fifty states, their capitals. Sleep evaded her. She dialled Harris’s number.

  ‘Update?’ she said when he answered.

  ‘I’m with the parents now, just looking round Ruby’s bedroom.’

  ‘Call me when you leave.’

  In the silence, she thought she heard the baby monitor buzz. Kate raised herself on her elbow and stared at it. No light, no sounds. She let it go, closed her eyes. Even if she couldn’t sleep, she could rest them, and rest her limbs.

  She tried to picture where the girl might be. Was she alive? The parameters of probability said yes. Had she been in an accident? Or just in need of some alone time? People often were.

  Missing people were like a knife edge. Most came home, unharmed: blunt. Some didn’t, which cut to the bone. What was this going to be?

  Ruby Day. Who are you? Where are you? Why have you gone? And why is the commissioner looking for you?

  Chapter Five

  Detective Sergeant Zain Harris stood in Ruby Day’s bedroom, taking in her life.

  Her father – ‘Call me Mike’ – was in the doorway. The mother – ‘This is Laura’ – was sitting on the bed, brushing her daughter’s duvet cover, smoothing creases that weren’t there. Zain saw Mike’s eyes dart around, checking, looking. For what?

  Laura Day was dressed in a camel cardigan, white trousers. She had white-blond hair, pale-blue eyes. Mike Day had thick brown hair, gold-rimmed glasses. He was barefoot, wearing long shorts, a striped blue shirt over a white T-shirt. Zain thought they looked like a couple of people playing at being ‘the Days’. It was as though they had plucked images from a catalogue instructing what they should wear, how they should behave.

  Laura had a soft voice; she sounded tired. Her eyes were red, her skin blotchy. She kept swallowing when Zain was speaking to her, refusing a drink Mike offered her. Nerves? Fear?

  They had given him a short list of friends, including a boyfriend, Dan. Ruby was an only child, so not much family to mention. They said she didn’t have any medical conditions – nothing that required medication, anyway – that might put her in danger.

  ‘She has a lot of computers,’ Zain said, looking at Ruby’s desk.

  There was a desktop, a PC from HP, a netbook from Acer and a MacBook Air. He also saw a Kindle and an iPad.

  ‘Is she a developer?’ said Zain, eyeing stacked textbooks on HTML, XML and web design. The parents had said she worked from home, an online business.

  The Days exchanged looks. Mike took his phone from his pocket; it was a red Nokia Lumia. Zain watched him slide his finger over the screen, tap away. Music started, followed by the voice of a girl. She was welcoming people.

  Mike handed the phone to Zain. ‘That’s Ruby,’ he said.

  Hi guys, so welcome to my regular update. Can’t believe it’s been a week since I did this, but it has. And this time it’s a Ruby special, as in something a bit more personal. I got a message from someone and, yes, you shall remain nameless. I won’t go into the details, oh, hang on . . .

  Ruby picks up a piece of paper and waves it at the camera, before scrunching it up and throwing it over her shoulder.

  Anyway, the basic gist was, why do I bang on about having a positive attitude, and all that crap. Yes, people, that’s a kinder version of the word actually used. So why do I go on about this? Because you know, it’s still important. If everyday I log on and I say you can do anything, it’s not enough. Because there are still too many people that are living half-lives, and there are still too many of you that think they’re not good enough.

  And I know how that feels. I remember back in the day, when stuff was happening to me, how low someone can make you feel. Worthless. As if you are a waste of the air you breathe. And into that, if someone had said to me, everyday, that actually that’s not true. That I can do anything I want to, I would have loved it.

  So that’s what I’m doing now. Any of you feeling crushed by negativity, let me tell you this. You are strong enough to get beyond that state, and in your head, you can stay positive. And I’ll be that voice for you that I never had. So look at me, look right into my eyes now.

  Ruby zooms in closer, so her face fills the screen.

  And let me tell you this. You are not on your own, and you can do anything you absolutely want to. All of you watching this, take this message away. From me to you.

  Ruby had thick brown hair, glossy. She was attractive, but not beautiful; no model but definitely loved by the camera. Maybe it was the angle but she seemed to dominate the screen. It was her eyes, Zain thought: they were green, saucer-like, drew you in.

  ‘She vlogs?’ he said, handing the phone back. Mike nodded. ‘What else does she do?’

  ‘Vine, Snapchat, Instagram. But mainly YouTube proper,’ said Mike. ‘That’s her job. Lifestyle tips, make-up tutorials, fashion advice.’

  ‘That explains this,’ said Zain, pointing at Ruby’s dressing table.

  It was covered with make-up. Rows of polish, eye shadow, mascara, eye pencils. Bottles, pots, boxes, all sorts of items Zain had no clue about. The array of colours put him in mind of the counters he walked past in Boots, the overall smell like wax, mixed with cheap air freshener.

  Zain saw a webcam had been set up on top of the dressing-table mirror, connected to nothing, its wire hanging loosely.

  He looked over the bedroom walls, studied the posters.

  The closets had floor-to-ceiling mirrors for doors. In their reflection, he saw Mike subtly shake his head at Laura. In the lounge they had been fraught parents. In the bedroom they seemed on edge.

  He chided himself; he was doing it again. Making assumptions. He had to remember he was a regular cop now. He could ask questions; he didn’t have to fill in gaps, work through opaque lenses.

  Zain slid open the mirrored doors, revealing Ruby’s closet. It looked like backstage at a fashion shoot. It was a mess. He eyed some designer labels. Ruby must have a healthy allowance, he thought.

  ‘She gets given a lot. Because of her videos,’ said Laura. She sounded defensive. Was she seeing Zain’s judgement in his eyes?

  Zain smiled thinly, taking in designer clothes, accessories, shoes. It would be a teenage girl’s fantasy, he imagined. He closed the doors, hiding away the chaos.

  There were bookcases against another wall. Zain studied the spines. The titles gave away their content.

  The flat itself was in the basement of Windsor Court. Ruby’s bedroom had two windows. Zain shifted the blinds to look out onto a square courtyard, with a door leading off it. He looked up at the flats on higher floors. They were all in darkness.

  Along the windowsill were Disney figurines. There was a heart, squashed, made from rubber or Plasticine. It had sad eyes and a turned-down mouth. Next to it he saw several occult pentagrams. The same symbol appeared as pictures on the wall, patterned into a cushion cover.

  He turned back for another glance around the room. The posters, the books, the figurines, especially the make-up . . . they were all lined up, neat. OCD levels of neatness. Yet the closet . . . it was like rage, an artist experimenting in free fall.

  And something was missing. Paper. There was none. No bills, Post-its, notepads.

  ‘Is her passport here?’ he said. ‘Do you know where she keeps it?’

  Laura opened one of the closet doors. She moved aside bunched-up clothes, revealing a safe.

  ‘Do you know the combination?’ Zain said.

  ‘No,’ said Laura. ‘Everything is in here, though. Passport, bank documents, cards she’s not using. I think there is some jewellery she inh
erited from my mother, too.’

  ‘No clue what the code might be?’ said Zain.

  ‘She went for a walk, she didn’t abscond,’ said Mike.

  Zain suggested they go back to the lounge, letting the Days leave first. He bent down, on the pretence of tying his shoelaces, so he could scan the room from a lower level. Nothing.

  But then he caught sight of something, under Ruby’s desk. Left alone in the room, some instinct kicking in, along with a perverse drive to ignore protocol, he reached underneath.

  Pushed away from sight was a wastepaper basket. Made out of black metal wire, it was empty except for a shredded document. Zain reached in and pulled the shreds out, hiding them in his jacket pocket before joining the Days in the lounge.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Do you have any idea where she might have gone?’

  ‘No. It’s not like Ruby to disappear. I think . . . I don’t even want to voice my thoughts,’ said Laura.

  ‘We started calling the hospitals,’ said Mike. ‘If she’s had an accident –’

  ‘I can put an alert out for you,’ said Zain. ‘Save you having to go through red tape and petty bureaucrats.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Laura.

  ‘What were her precise words before she left?’ said Zain.

  ‘Just what we said earlier. She said she was going out,’ said Mike.

  ‘Out? Or for a walk?’

  ‘Yes, a walk. She said she was going out for a walk, that’s all,’ said Mike.

  ‘What was she wearing? When she left?’

  ‘We didn’t see her. We were watching a soap on TV, and she left without coming into the lounge,’ said Mike.

  ‘What was she wearing when you last saw her?’

  Mike looked to Laura.

  ‘Jeans and a black top. It had white stars on it. She also has a ring. It’s her birthstone, tourmaline,’ she said.

  ‘Was she wearing a jacket or coat? It’s freezing out there.’

  ‘She has a patchwork red and grey coat. And a black woollen hat,’ she said. ‘I presume she put them on before she –’

  ‘I understand she’s been missing since about seven-thirty.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Laura confirmed.

  ‘It would have been dark already by that time,’ Zain said. ‘Is it usual for her to take walks in the evening?’

  ‘Sometimes she does,’ said Mike. ‘Not often, but occasionally she takes the walk through St John’s Wood down to Regent’s Park and the back of London Zoo. It’s a nice walk, a safe walk; it’s a nice neighbourhood. That walk takes you past Lord’s Cricket Ground, too. Laura and I also do it, when it’s warmer.’

  Zain watched Mike’s mouth move, the words tumbling out. He was thinking how out of touch and deluded people became, believing that their Georgian houses, their cream and red mansions, their tree-lined streets and their proximity to affluence, could protect them. No one was immune from risk, ever. The only way to get through life was to not think about it.

  ‘How long is that walk?’ he said.

  ‘Maybe an hour. Sometimes it takes less, sometimes more.’

  ‘And she didn’t say she was going for a walk and then going out?’

  Hesitation.

  ‘No, she just said out for a walk. I think. Laura?’

  ‘Yes, I remember her voice. Only . . . is that just what we thought we heard, because that’s what she normally says? No, she would have told us if she was going anywhere else. If she’s back late from dinner, going to the cinema, any delay. She tells us. We know. And if we don’t, she has a tracker on her phone.’

  ‘An app,’ said Mike. ‘It feeds back her location. If you’re registered, you give people access, so they can see where you are.’

  ‘Why did she get that?’

  ‘It’s just an app; she’s into them. She thought this one was nifty.’

  Nifty? Zain was sure Ruby didn’t use words like that.

  ‘And she gave you access?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mike.

  ‘Voluntarily?’

  They exchanged those muted glances again. Were they prompting each other for answers? He had that sense again that they were playing a part, that their responses were scripted. He had to switch it off, this paranoia.

  ‘I can’t remember. Why is this an issue?’ said Mike.

  ‘Is the app still working? Have you checked?’

  ‘It says she’s at home. It hasn’t changed since she left.’

  The battery may have died, thought Zain. Or the phone was purposely switched off.

  ‘Have you been worried about Ruby?’

  ‘Of course. We are her parents. Do you have kids?’ said Mike.

  ‘I mean specifically,’ Zain said, ignoring the question. ‘Any over-zealous fans from her vlogging? Has she had any trouble with any individuals online?’

  Again the subtle, quick looks.

  ‘No,’ said Laura. ‘Nothing specific. Not that we know of, anyway.’

  ‘And if she decided to go clubbing with her friends for the night, or just wanted to take off, she would let you know? Or the app would let you know? What if she just wanted some alone time?’

  ‘She isn’t that sort of girl,’ said Mike.

  ‘I’m always surprised by how little parents know their children,’ Zain said.

  ‘Not us. Not Ruby. Why do I feel like we are on trial?’ Mike said, frowning. ‘Our daughter is missing – why aren’t you out looking for her? She could be lying injured somewhere.’

  Most people turn up, usually within hours. Ruby will, too. I’m trying to take this seriously. The response ran through Zain’s mind. He kept it to himself, though.

  ‘Knowing her movements, what she gets up to, who her friends are . . . all this helps us do exactly that.’

  Laura raised her eyes to her husband. He sighed, backed away.

  ‘So this walk . . . does she ever deviate from her usual route? Any cafés or places she might have stopped off?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not usually, no. She normally goes out and comes straight back. That’s why we were worried.’

  ‘What time did you start worrying?’

  ‘Maybe half nine? It’s unusual for her not to be back by then. We tried calling her about ten, just after the news had started. It kept going straight to voicemail. Then I went out to look for her.’

  ‘What time did you get back?’

  ‘Around midnight. Laura was contacting Ruby’s friends, people she knew.’

  ‘Mainly on Facebook,’ Laura said. ‘I don’t have their phone numbers. I sent messages to friends on her page.’

  ‘Her friends list isn’t private? From you, I mean?’ Zain asked.

  ‘She added me as a friend a while back, but with limited access. I can see her friends, but not her posts.’

  Even with limited profile view, Zain wouldn’t add his parents to his Facebook. If he had one.

  ‘What time did you call the police?’

  ‘Maybe half one? A few of her friends had replied by then. None of them had heard from her,’ said Laura.

  ‘You called the commissioner?’ Zain said.

  They didn’t register his words.

  ‘Justin Hope?’ he prompted.

  Again, nothing.

  ‘We called 999,’ said Mike. ‘And then you turned up.’

  And did sod all, was the end of that sentence, thought Zain. His mind was reeling, though. Why had an emergency call operative escalated this to the commissioner?

  ‘Has Ruby been depressed at all?’

  The bluntness of the question as it fell into the room, as the Days picked up on it . . . the way they reacted. They denied it, but Zain knew then that there was something. They were hiding something.

  Zain’s phone rang when he was back inside his car, warming his engine up.

  ‘Harris,’ he said.

  ‘Detective, I need you to do something for me,’ said the voice.

  Zain felt his insides tighten.

/>   Chapter Seven

  Kate flicked on the bedside lamp, checked the baby monitor again. A cough sounded from it. She held her breath, staring at the monitor, willing for it to cough again or be silent.

  A few moments later, she called Harris for an update, too impatient to wait for him to call her. He was eating, and driving.

  ‘Shawarma. Café Helen. It’s open all night. They do the best. Clubbers’ paradise,’ he said, sucking at his fingers. She heard him scrunch paper.

  ‘Should you be doing that while driving?’

  ‘I’m an expert at one-handed driving.’

  ‘So what did you find out?’ she said.

  ‘Ruby Day, only child of Mike and Laura Day. They live in a basement flat, pretty nice, walking distance to Little Venice.’

  ‘I already know all that, Agent . . . Detective Sergeant Harris. I sent you there,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, boss.’

  ‘What do the parents do?’ said Kate.

  ‘He’s a management consultant, she’s a home maker.’

  ‘Management consultant? Who for?’

  ‘He was quite vague on the details, said he’s freelance.’

  ‘How do they manage to afford a flat in W9?’

  ‘Not sure. Might be family money; Laura’s quite well spoken. Might be Ruby’s money.’

  ‘Ruby’s money? What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s a vlogger,’ he said.

  ‘Blogger?’

  ‘No. Video blogs. They call themselves vloggers. She does videos on YouTube, mainly.’

  ‘What does she do in these vlogs?’ said Kate.

  ‘Things aimed at teenage girls. General advice, especially about body image, make-up, relationships, how to deal with parents, the world. Navel-gazing teens, you know what they’re like.’

  Kate stretched herself under her bed sheets, wrapped them closer. Cold air was filtering through from somewhere; she needed to get that checked out. The house had central heating; it should be warm all night. Did she forget to set it?

  ‘What else does she do?’