Vanished

by Tim Weaver

  ‘Anything else about the victims?’

  ‘They’re both small men. I think I read one of them was only five-five.’

  ‘So?’

  He studied her. She wasn’t asking because she didn’t know the answer. She was asking because she was testing him. ‘So, smaller men fit his fantasy.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And they provide less resistance. He’s probably bigger than them, which is how he’s able to overpower them.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘The hair.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘He shaves their heads before he takes them and he leaves the hair in a pile at the end of their beds.’

  ‘Why do you think he does that?’

  Healy paused. ‘Maybe he’s trying to dehumanize them.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Perhaps he feels that, by removing their hair, he’s removing their dignity. Forcing them further into a position of inferiority. That’s how he would want them.’

  She started turning her mug, her mind ticking over. ‘You seem to know the case pretty well for someone who’s been working burglaries for five weeks.’

  ‘I’ve just overheard things.’

  A smile drifted across her face. She didn’t believe him. She’d seen right through the lie: with no one to go home to, he’d used the late nights to go through the Policy Logs and the HOLMES data. ‘Tonight, I want you to take copies of the victims’ files home with you – officially. I want you to read them, and I want you to know them better than anyone else out there.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Because tomorrow morning I want you in at 6 a.m. on the dot. If you’re even one minute late, you’ll be back to working burglaries.’

  ‘I won’t be.’

  She looked up at him. ‘You’ve got a lot to prove, Healy.’ He didn’t respond, because he didn’t agree with her, but he let her know he was willing to play ball. ‘I need you to be better than everyone else. You make one mistake and we’re both in the shit. So bring your wits with you, and whatever it was that used to make you good. Because from tomorrow, you’re working the Snatcher. And you’re going to help nail him to the wall.’

  20

  An hour later, there were only two members of I2 left to interview. The first, Iain Penny, was one of the dominant numbers on Sam’s records, and Julia had listed him as one of Sam’s best friends. He was in his late thirties, pale and tubby, but well groomed.

  I reintroduced myself to him and told him what I did. It was basically an exercise in making him feel good: how, because of his relationship to Sam, he was my best hope of finding him, how the rest of the office had said he was the person to speak to. He wasn’t much of a challenge to read: when he spoke it was without hesitancy, his eyes reflecting the words coming out of his mouth, all of which was a pretty good sign. I’d interviewed plenty of liars and eventually a secret started to weigh heavy, even for the good ones; Penny didn’t look like he had much to hide.

  ‘How long have you known Sam?’

  ‘He joined I2 before me,’ Penny said, ‘but when I started, I was put on the desk next to him and Ross asked Sam to kind of take me under his wing. We pretty much hit it off from the start. Sam was like the unofficial boss on the floor, so we all looked up to him and respected him, but he would muck in and help us out, and he’d always be there for you. That’s why we liked him.’

  ‘He was universally liked at I2?’

  ‘Yeah, definitely.’

  No one had said otherwise in the interviews that morning. In fact, the standard response, pretty much from the beginning of the case, was that Sam was a lovely guy.

  A lovely guy who lied to his wife.

  ‘You were his best mate at I2?’

  ‘That’s how I saw it,’ he said. He shrugged. ‘But then he upped and left without saying anything to me. This is a guy I’ve known for four years, a guy I used to socialize with, talk to and text all the time. My girlfriend and I used to get together with Sam and Julia on weekends; be round there for barbecues or out on the town. We went away for weekends with them, helped them move house when they bought that place in Kensington, looked after it when they were away. I thought we were pretty close. It always felt that way. But, like I say, maybe he felt differently.’

  ‘So it was a surprise when he disappeared?’

  ‘A complete shock.’

  ‘You never saw it coming?’

  ‘No. Not at all.’ He paused, but I sensed there was more to come. ‘He did change a bit towards the end. Not massively. I’m sure most people at I2 didn’t even notice. But I knew him better than most – and I could definitely see it.’

  ‘What do you mean by “change”?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just got quieter, you know? Sam always used to joke around, join in with the banter.’ He smiled. ‘He used to do a cracking impression of Ross, actually.’

  ‘And he wasn’t like that at the end?’

  ‘No. Definitely not.’

  ‘Did he ever confide in you as to why?’

  ‘No. Like I say, maybe he just felt differently to me.’

  After Penny disappeared back to his desk, I watched the last of I2’s employees come across the floor towards me. She was attractive: five-eight, slim, dressed in a tailored skirt suit, with shoulder-length black hair and dark eyes. She introduced herself as Esther Wilson, another name on the list, and when she said she was from Sydney, I put her at ease with some talk about the city’s beaches.

  After a few minutes I returned to Sam.

  ‘I didn’t know him that well,’ she said. ‘We used to go out – a big group of us – and I’d chat to him, like I’d chat to any of the guys on the floor. We texted a few times, mostly about work stuff. I knew him as a colleague, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything about him as a person; any family stuff. Only what I’ve heard about him since.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Obviously everyone talked about him a lot when he went missing. Everyone had a theory on where he might have gone, and why.’

  ‘What was your theory?’

  ‘I didn’t really have one. Like I said, I didn’t know his personal circumstances, so I’d just be speculating.’

  ‘So what would you speculate?’

  She shrugged. ‘I know Sam was pissed off when the pay freeze kicked in. We all were. It affected us all. But I think it got harder for Sam when his wife was made redundant.’ A pause. ‘Iain said she was laid off some time last year.’

  ‘Do you and Iain talk a lot?’

  ‘We work together. We both do a lot of business in Russia, so it’s not unusual for us to chat over coffee and after work. Him and Sam were good mates – I think he felt like he needed to offload on someone after Sam left. I was just around.’

  I made some notes. ‘What was Iain’s theory, then?’

  Movement passed across her face, and I could see the answer: that Iain had had a theory, but not one he’d shared with the other people on the floor. ‘You’d really be better off speaking to Iain,’ she said. ‘I don’t like getting involved in stuff like this.’

  ‘Stuff like what?’

  She shifted in her seat, her eyes flicking to me, then out through the window behind me. For the first time she looked uncomfortable. But then, a second later, she managed to completely change her expression, as if she’d raised a disguise. I wasn’t sure whether she was hesitant because she genuinely didn’t like office gossip, or because I’d strayed close to something and now she was trying to back away from it.

  ‘Ever hear Sam talk about a woman called Ursula Gray?’

  Her face remained impassive. ‘Ursula?’

  ‘Gray.’

  Another shake of the head. ‘No, I haven’t heard that name before.’

  Normally I could get a handle on people pretty quickly, but Esther Wilson was different. Phlegmatic. Cool. I thanked her and watched her go. When she got to her desk, she opened the top drawer, reached in and took out a packet o
f cigarettes. I scooped up my notes and walked to the door of the office just in time to hear her tell one of the others that she was heading out for a smoke.

  21

  Esther Wilson headed out of the big glass doors of One Canada Square. As soon as she was outside, she swung her bag across to her front and started to dig around inside, taking out her mobile. Then she crossed South Colonnade and headed towards Jubilee Park. I was eighty yards back, on the opposite side of the road, where the shade had formed in thin strips around the bases of the towers. Eventually, as she entered the park, the shade disappeared and I had to hang back and watch her cut across the grass and find a bench facing the Citigroup Centre. She was talking to someone on her phone.

  The call lasted about three minutes. After she was done, she remained where she was but kept looking back across her shoulder to Heron Quays. She seemed flustered. About five minutes after that, she glanced back again – around fifty feet to the right of where I was standing – and spotted someone, giving them a quick wave. The park and its approach was crowded, so it was difficult to zero in on who it was until another woman broke through, making a beeline for the bench. She looked about the same age as Esther and wasn’t too dissimilar in looks: slim and attractive, a little taller, but not by much. She had blonde hair, scraped back into a ponytail, a red skirt and a white blouse.

  The woman perched herself on the bench and Esther immediately launched into conversation. No smile, no greeting. The blonde didn’t seem perturbed, as if she expected it to be like that, which presumably meant she was the woman Esther had called. I moved a little closer, positioning myself against one of the park’s snaking stone walls, and got a clearer view of the other woman. If she’d walked here – if Esther had phoned her out of the blue in the middle of the afternoon – then her work must have been somewhere close by. That was backed up by the fact that she hadn’t brought anything out with her. No bag. No jacket. Esther thumbed open a packet of cigarettes and offered one to the woman.

  The conversation went on for a couple of minutes, the other woman eventually taking part. But mostly it was Esther talking. Finally, the blonde reached out, put a hand on Esther’s arm and spoke sternly and seriously to her. When she was done, she stubbed her cigarette out and then – looking at her watch – got up and left.

  I followed her, leaving Esther on the bench, back across the park in the direction of the docks. She wasn’t heading for the bridge across to the South Quay, so she had to be heading into one of the buildings running in an L-shape around Bank Street, right in front of us. The routes and grass verges of the park were busy so it became easy to merge with the crowds, but I kept a good distance just in case. On the other side of the park, she moved in a diagonal towards 40 Bank Street, a thirty-three-floor tower towards the corner of Heron Quays. I made up some of the distance between us and, as she entered the foyer, stepped through after her and followed her around, past the front desk, to the elevators. I didn’t look much like I belonged in the world of investment banking, but no one paid me much attention as I waited, just behind the woman, for the lift to arrive. Twenty seconds later, the elevator doors slid open and we both stepped in.

  I moved past her to the back. She didn’t even look up. By now she had her phone out and was scrolling through her messages. A couple of others shuffled into the space. One older guy – in a dark, expensively tailored suit – looked me up and down like I’d just crawled out of the sewer, but by the time the doors closed, everyone was facing forward, there was silence, and the space had filled with the choking stench of male aftershave.

  The woman was across from me, on the other side of the elevator, half turned, her hip against the side of the lift, her eyes fixed on her phone. Up close, she seemed older – early thirties – but she was still very attractive. There was a hint of Asian in her, in the shape of her eyes, in her nose and chin, but you could only see it if you looked hard.

  The elevator pinged, she looked up and, when the doors opened, she moved left and out of sight. This time I let her go. On the wall in front of me was the name of her firm: Michaelhouse Credit.

  Back out in the sun, I grabbed my phone, went to the browser and found Michaelhouse Credit on the web. Halfway down, they had a ‘Meet the Team’ page. The woman wasn’t on there. It was just management. I scrolled further down and found a list of partners: other financial firms in Canary Wharf that the company worked alongside.

  This’ll have to be my route in.

  I dialled the number for the company and waited for it to connect.

  ‘Michaelhouse Credit.’

  ‘Oh, hi. My name’s Alex Murphy and I’m calling from Credit Suisse. I just had a meeting with one of your team but she didn’t leave her name or contact details with me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir,’ the woman said. ‘Shall I put you through to the –’

  ‘She had blonde hair and was wearing a red skirt.’

  ‘Oh, that’s Ursula.’

  ‘Ursula. Right.’

  ‘Ursula Gray.’

  22

  Ursula Gray emerged from the elevator into the cool, air-conditioned lobby at 40 Bank Street just after 5.15. I was right across the foyer from her, leaning against the glass front. Three or four men followed her out and they were all looking at her. It wasn’t hard to see why. Not only was she beautiful, but she was immaculately dressed. Her blonde hair hung loose at her shoulders now, not in a ponytail like earlier. As soon as she was out of the lift, she took her phone from her handbag and started checking it.

  ‘Ursula?’

  When she heard her name, she glanced towards me, automatically closing in on herself. It was a natural defensive movement. She didn’t think she knew me, and – even though the foyer of the building was thick with other office workers – she couldn’t be sure what I wanted. I held up a hand to tell her everything was fine and, as I took another step towards her, there was a flicker of recognition in her eyes. We’d never met but Esther would have given her my name and it didn’t take much work in Google to find details of my previous cases and pictures of how I looked.

  ‘I’m David Raker.’

  She chose not to reply initially, but then she seemed to change her mind, as if her silence was some sort of indication of guilt. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You do.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I don–’

  ‘You were with Esther Wilson in the park today.’

  A momentary pause. Nothing in her face. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I know who you are, Ursula. You know who I am. I don’t care what you’ve done, all I care about is Sam Wren.’

  No response.

  ‘I’m trying to find out where he went.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  I didn’t bother replying to that: she saw the answer in my face. ‘Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?’

  We found a bar on South Colonnade. On the walk over, Ursula didn’t say much. Maybe she was working out a plan. That was the downside with cold-calling people who had something to hide: they automatically felt the need to suppress and create because they hadn’t prepared and were scared about saying the wrong thing.

  I ordered a beer and she asked for a glass of wine.

  ‘Julia Wren has asked me to find out what happened to Sam.’

  She brushed some hair away from her eyes but didn’t say anything.

  ‘I think you can help me.’

  ‘How?’

  I took a copy of Sam’s phone records out of my pocket and unfolded it in front of her. ‘This shows that you two called each other 97 times between 7 January and 2 September last year, and you sent each other 186 texts.’

  A flutter of panic for the first time. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about,’ I said, and turned the phone records around so she could see her number, his number, the minutes they’d spent talking and the texts they’d sent. ‘I don’t care what it was that you and Sam were doin
g. I don’t. Really. But I’ve been paid to find out what happened to him – and that’s what I’m going to do.’

  The bar was crowded now, music and laughter and mobile phone conversations in the background – but all I got from Ursula Gray was silence.

  ‘Ursula?’

  She shook her head. ‘I … I don’t know where to …’

  ‘Were you sleeping with Sam?’

  She reached out for her wine glass and slid it towards her. No indication that she was or wasn’t. No indication she’d even heard the question. But then she shivered – as if a long-dead memory had crawled its way out of the ground – and looked up. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, taking a sip from her glass, her eyes fixed on a space off to my left. ‘I wanted to be with him.’

  ‘Did he want to be with you?’

  ‘At the time I thought he did. But at the end …’ She smiled momentarily, but it wasn’t a smile with any warmth and, for the first time, her defences were down.

  ‘You started seeing him in January last year?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did it begin?’

  ‘Michaelhouse were doing some work with I2, and he was seconded across to my office. He trained me, I trained him, we sat next to one another and forged a good friendship. There was flirting too, I guess.’ Another smile, this time more genuine. ‘A lot of flirting. And then, one night just before Christmas, we all went to the same party – this event over at the North Quay site – that Esther had got us tickets for. I’d just split up from my boyfriend, Esther didn’t know much about Sam’s personal circumstances, and I didn’t bother to ask. We flirted, we got drunk. That was how it began.’

  ‘Did you sleep together that night?’

  She glanced at me, a mixture of embarrassment and incredulity. And then reality seemed to kick in and she realized that their secret wasn’t a secret any more.

  ‘No, we didn’t sleep together that night.’

  ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘We just kissed.’

  ‘You already knew Esther?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ve known her for years. She’s one of my best friends. We went to university together, did the same course, lived in the same house.’