When I Find You

by Emma Curtis

‘Tell that bitch to get lost,’ the old lady suddenly shrieks. ‘She’s a thief.’

  David’s reply is inaudible, but the door closes, the footsteps retreat, the car door slams and whoever the visitor was, drives away. I hang my head.

  When David comes back, he brings a bowl of cereal. He feeds me, and I eat like a baby, opening my mouth for more. I need my strength if I’m going to get out of here.

  ‘I need to pee,’ I say.

  He sighs, unties me and heaves me up, but my legs buckle. He tucks his arm beneath mine and supports me out of the room. I catalogue my surroundings, like I do with human attributes; the cobwebby landing with the dirty windows at either end, the two other doors, the threadbare green carpet down to the next floor. The television is on, canned laughter punctuating American voices. He guides me into a bathroom with a pink porcelain bath, basin and loo. The wallpaper has birds on it and a damp patch in the corner. The window is small, and the glass is obscured by a greying net curtain in front of which sits a shallow bowl of potpourri and an air freshener with rust around its base.

  David locks the door behind us, shuffles me backwards until the edge of the loo seat bites into my calves. I can feel the heat coming off him and I am so mortified and tense that it takes ages for my muscles to relax.

  At the sound of footsteps on the stairs we both go still. Someone rattles the door handle. I roar through the gag, but David yanks the flush, drowning me out. Then he slaps me. My cheek burns, and I want to cool it with my palm, but I can’t because my hands are tied, so I rest it against the wall instead.

  ‘Georgie?’ David says.

  ‘Who’s in there?’

  ‘Christ.’ He splays his fingers against the panels. ‘Tony. Go back downstairs, I’ll be out in a minute.’

  ‘I don’t know who you think you are, but I need to use the bathroom. You can’t just walk into people’s houses and use their facilities. I’ve a good mind to call the police.’

  ‘It’s David, Tony. I’m not done yet. I’ll come and find you.’ His voice has risen, and it sounds over-controlled. Fear slams back into me.

  ‘David, dear boy, when did you arrive? I must tell Georgie. She’ll be delighted.’

  David rocks his head, pounding it slowly and silently against the door; once, twice, a third time, as if he’s in despair. I take my chance, though I have no plan. I stand up, forgetting my knickers are round my ankles, and trip. David catches me, his hand like a vice on my arm.

  ‘That’s a good idea, Tony,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you do that? Ask her to put the kettle on.’ He turns and speaks to me in a whisper. ‘By the time he gets downstairs he’ll have forgotten what it was he wanted.’ He smiles and to my horror I realize that he’s pleading with me to see the humour in the situation.

  We listen to Tony’s slow progress, then David quietly draws the bolt and checks the coast is clear. He rearranges my clothes, and we go back upstairs, locked together like lovers. His body heat is almost feverish, and he reeks of sweat.

  ‘This is unsustainable,’ he says, tying my wrists to the bedpost. ‘I need to go to work. I’ll see that they’re settled first and make sure that you’re comfortable, but after that, you’ll just have to wait.’

  He leaves the room and comes back some time later, shaven and dressed in clean clothes, fresh from the shower. He looks almost normal again. There is something white and padded in his hands. I squirm, and he grips my legs to keep me still, then pulls me down the bed. I keep twisting and turning my body until his patience runs out and he forces my shoulders down, his face so close to mine I catch the spray of his spittle on my skin.

  ‘For Christ’s sake. Keep still. It’s only a pair of incontinence pants, just in case … Well, you know.’

  That does it for me. I turn my face to the wall and let him do what he wants. The pants are thick and hot. He arranges my dress over them, ties my ankles to the foot of the bed, tugs the eiderdown out from underneath me and covers me with it, then pulls more tape off the roll.

  ‘Wait!’ I say as he brings it to my mouth. ‘Please. I need you to do something for me.’

  ‘What do you want now? I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘I need you to call Hoxton 101, where we had our Christmas party, and ask them who else hired the bar that night.’

  I can’t remember the name of Elliot’s company, but I think I’ll recognize it if I hear it. It’s mad, under the circumstances, because it won’t help even if it does confirm my suspicions, but I want to know. I need to know.

  David is still holding the duct tape, pulling at the threads. ‘Why?’

  There’s no harm in telling the truth. ‘I think I may have worked out who it was, and if he was in the upstairs bar that evening, I’m right.’ I allow a small sob to escape. ‘I need to know who did this to me.’

  The sock goes back in my mouth, the tape round my head. He secures me firmly and leaves the room. Minutes later, he comes up again, a screwdriver in his hand, and removes the doorknobs.

  Will anyone at Gunner Munro notice that there’s something wrong with him? Surely Rebecca will see that he’s not right? She must know him inside out. I wonder how long it will take people to realize I’m missing. Thank God I promised Bettina I would be in, otherwise they might assume I’ve gone to Mum’s to lick my wounds. It was what I was intending to do tomorrow. Poor Mum. Will they call her when they don’t get an answer from me? She’ll be so worried. More than anything else, I hate that I’ve done this to her.

  Time passes, the light changes. Different birds sing different songs. The occasional car goes by and I hear voices, taps running, odd thumps and clatters. But nobody comes.

  44

  Rebecca

  REBECCA PEERS UP at the first-floor window, her neck craned. She rings the bell again, this time keeping her finger pressed on the buzzer. A woman pushes a pram towards her. She has bouncy, straightened hair and a pretty, heavily made-up face.

  ‘Were you looking for Laura?’ she asks. ‘She’ll be at work.’ She unloops her bag from the pram handles and digs out her keys. ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ Rebecca says, moving out of her way. ‘I work with her. She hasn’t turned up this morning, and she isn’t answering her phone.’

  ‘Oh. How odd.’ The woman pushes the door open. ‘Come in. Laura’s flat is upstairs. Give me a shout if there’s a problem. My name’s Phoebe.’

  Rebecca hesitates. This must be the neighbour who told Felicity about her and David. The one who Laura gossiped to. But now is not the time to get into an argument with a stranger. ‘Rebecca Munro. I’m Laura’s boss.’

  Phoebe blushes. She knows what she’s done.

  ‘What about the bike?’ Rebecca says.

  ‘It’s Laura’s.’

  Rebecca goes up, noticing that Phoebe is loitering, flicking through a property magazine. She lifts her eyebrows and turns to knock, calling Laura’s name. When nothing happens, she leans over the banister.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a key?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  She chews her bottom lip, then palms her mobile, pulling her hair away from her ear. ‘Agnes, it’s Rebecca. I’m not getting a response at the flat and her curtains are closed. Her bike’s still here.’ She glances at Phoebe, cupping her hand over the phone. ‘Is that normal?’

  ‘She occasionally goes by tube, but mostly takes her bike.’

  ‘Apparently, it’s not that unusual,’ she relays to Agnes. ‘What number do you have for her emergency contact? OK. Would you call her mum and check she’s not there? If she isn’t, I’m going to call the police … Yes. I’ll wait.’

  ‘Why don’t you come in.’ Phoebe indicates her door. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea. It’s freezing out here.’

  Phoebe deposits her child in his high chair and gives him his lunch, while Rebecca scrolls through her messages and pretends to be amused by the child’s babble. She doesn’t feel comfortable with all that, although she assumes it will come when she has her own bab
y. Her baby will be different – but not too different. She touches her stomach as Phoebe bustles around, tidying up and wiping surfaces, and tries to imagine how her life will feel if this happens to her.

  ‘I’m worried about her,’ Phoebe says, glancing up at the ceiling. ‘She’s had some difficulties this year. How much did she drink last night?’

  ‘I don’t know. I had other things to think about.’ Like the fact that David was livid, because this dopey woman had told his wife about them. She keeps her temper. ‘Some of the guests went on to a club after the party ended. Laura may have done, but I doubt it. It wouldn’t have been in character. I don’t know. This isn’t like her.’

  ‘What if she’s choked on her own vomit?’

  They look at each other. ‘I think we should call the police now,’ Phoebe says. The baby whinges in her arms, twisting round, eyes wide.

  Rebecca is already on it. She calls 999 and tells the operator that she thinks her friend might have collapsed and they need to break into her flat. She runs back upstairs and bangs on the door again.

  ‘What’s the lady’s name, ma’am?’ Logan asks. The police constable’s eyes have already dropped once to her chest and he’s struggling to avoid it now.

  ‘Laura Maguire.’

  They have crowded on to the landing outside Laura’s door; two officers, two paramedics and Rebecca, Phoebe and a fascinated, squirming baby. Rebecca backs into the corner, reaching out to pull Phoebe with her.

  Logan, who seems young to her, his skin pink and smooth, his brow unlined, thumps the side of his fist against the door and shouts Laura’s name, then tells anyone who is listening on the other side that he’s going to break in. They wait, pressed back against the wall, holding their breath, as he takes a step back and throws his weight against it. The lock splinters and, after two more tries, gives with a crack.

  ‘No one on the premises.’ PC Mughal speaks into her radio. ‘There are signs of a struggle in the bedroom and hallway and the owner hasn’t turned up for work. Yes. Female, late twenties. Can we have a SOCO here? Thanks.’ She turns to Rebecca and Phoebe. ‘Have either of you been in the flat before?’

  ‘I have,’ Phoebe says.

  ‘Perhaps you could take a look and tell us if anything strikes you as out of place. This is a crime scene, so I’d ask you not to touch anything.’

  Phoebe hesitates. ‘Do you think something’s happened?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Mughal moves aside to let both women pass. The baby reaches for her badge.

  The lights are on, but they haven’t opened the curtains and the flat is gloomy and airless. She and Phoebe tackle the bedroom first. The bed looks like Laura left it in a hurry, the duvet banked up against the wall. Her bedside light has been knocked over. Two of the pillows are on the floor and a glass of water has been spilled, leaving a dark patch on the carpet. The hairs rise on the back of Rebecca’s neck.

  ‘This isn’t right,’ Phoebe says.

  ‘Is she untidy?’ Mughal asks.

  ‘Not particularly. She leaves things lying around, in the same way any normal person does; shoes and books, stuff like that.’

  They move into the sitting room. Here it all looks as Rebecca would expect, lived in but not chaotic. Her laptop is on the table. Surely that would have gone if there had been a burglary?

  ‘Is anything missing?’ Logan asks.

  ‘Not that I can see,’ Phoebe says. ‘Oh, but …’ She indicates a bag, collapsed in a hump of floppy brown leather, like a sleeping otter. ‘She would have taken that.’

  Logan takes a fork out of the drawer and carefully lifts it open, shining his torch inside and nudging the contents.

  ‘Phone’s here.’

  He speaks into his walkie-talkie and it crackles in response. He breaks off to suggest the women go back downstairs.

  The officers decline Phoebe’s offer of hot drinks. Logan sits down at the kitchen table, but Mughal moves around the room. She spends a long time peering out into the garden then asks if she can use the toilet.

  ‘When did you last see Ms Maguire?’ Logan says.

  ‘Last night,’ Rebecca replies. ‘We had a work function. She was one of the last to leave.’

  ‘She left with my husband,’ Phoebe explains.

  Rebecca sends her a swift, questioning glance. ‘You didn’t …’

  Phoebe interrupts swiftly. ‘Laura invited us both, but I couldn’t go because my sister went into labour and I had to spend the night at her place with my nephew. Elliot and Laura came home in a taxi together and then he joined me at Harriet’s, rather than stay here on his own.’

  Rebecca stares. Does she realize her husband may well have been the last to see Laura? The significance is not lost on the officers, who note it down and then wait a couple of beats before the next question.

  ‘Where does she work?’

  ‘Gunner Munro in Hoxton,’ Rebecca replies. ‘It’s an advertising agency. Today was supposed to be her last.’

  ‘What do you think’s happened to her?’ Phoebe asks.

  ‘Probably nothing. But we’re treating it as possible abduction, given the element of chaos in her bedroom and the fact that her phone is still in the sitting room.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  The baby grizzles. Phoebe bounces him on her knee, but it only distracts him for a few seconds before his face crumples and he starts to cry in earnest.

  ‘Laura is face-blind,’ Rebecca says.

  ‘Beg your pardon?’

  She takes a deep breath, truly understanding, perhaps for the first time, Laura’s difficulties. It’s a tough concept to explain. She does her best.

  ‘She has a condition called prosopagnosia. Face-blindness, to you and me. She’s unable to recognize people. It’s common to have it to a lesser degree, apparently, but Laura is profoundly face-blind.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’ve heard of that,’ Mughal says.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Phoebe squeaks, startling the baby. ‘Elliot has a cousin who has it. I met her at a wedding. It was weird. We talked for ages, then I went off to have a dance with Elliot and when I sat next to her again, it was like we’d never had a conversation. She was so embarrassed. She said it was because my hair had come out of its clip and I’d wrapped my pashmina round my shoulders, so she didn’t recognize me. Apparently, Elliot used to play tricks on her when they were children.’

  At the end of this story there’s an odd silence, broken only by a sneeze from Noah.

  ‘Do many people know about Laura’s face-blindness?’ Logan asks.

  Rebecca shrugs. ‘I can only tell you what she told me. Her immediate family knows, and I’m the only one at Gunner Munro. Sufferers tend to keep quiet about it. It’s understandable. If you publicize the fact that you don’t recognize anyone, there’s a certain type of unpleasant person who might take advantage of that. She told me when she first started. I made it clear that we wouldn’t make allowances – any more than we would for dyslexic employees.’ She feels bad. She should have been easier on her.

  ‘Do you think her disappearance has something to do with it?’ Phoebe asks.

  Rebecca tries to catch her eye, but she’s focused on her child. Her cheeks are a warm shade of pink.

  Mughal glances down at her notes again. ‘I have no idea, but it might be worth looking into.’

  ‘From what I understand,’ Rebecca says, ‘it’s entirely possible that she could have gone off with someone, thinking he was someone else.’

  ‘Surely if you think you know somebody well enough to get into their car, there must be something you recognize about them?’ Phoebe says. ‘Their aftershave, the way they speak …’

  ‘Voices don’t help much apparently. But you’re right, there are other things; context is incredibly important, as is hair, although that isn’t always reliable, and Laura told me gait is useful. But it depends on the situation. If she was drunk, it might be that the same things wouldn’t apply.’

  Logan shifts his gaze to Phoebe. ‘Perhaps Mr Hi
ll could shed some light on her state of mind last night?’

  ‘I’ll give you his number.’ She needs to raise her voice to be heard above Noah’s wailing. ‘Sorry about that. He’s tired.’

  ‘Not at all. Thank you for your help, young man.’

  Noah, surprised at being directly addressed, goes quiet for a full five seconds. Rebecca holds her breath.

  Logan takes the scrap of paper from Phoebe and snaps his notebook shut. ‘The SOCO team will be here later.’ He gives them both one of his cards. ‘But call me if she reappears in the meantime. Oh, and,’ he adds, ‘this is purely routine, nothing to worry about, but we’ll need the clothes your husband was wearing.’

  Phoebe moves quickly, shaky but smiling, eager to be helpful. ‘They’re all in here.’ She pulls a carrier bag from underneath the pram. It’s packed tight and takes a bit of manipulation to dislodge. ‘I brought a change of clothes to my sister’s place, in case he came over. Good thing I did.’

  When they leave, Phoebe takes their mugs to the sink and turns on the taps. Without looking at Rebecca, she says, ‘What I said about Elliot’s cousin, right? It doesn’t mean he had anything to do with this. He was with me.’

  45

  Rebecca

  THERE’S A KNOCK. Rebecca lifts her head, enquiringly, as Agnes walks in. David pushes his chair back and swivels it. Eddie and Jamie pick up their phones, as if they’re expecting to be dismissed. They’ve been talking about the campaign, but the whole meeting has been tinged with worry about Laura. Eddie and Jamie have been tight-lipped and strained, both of them on edge, jumping at the sound of a phone or a door slamming. Once, Jamie leapt up as a taxi slowed in the street.

  Rebecca has something else on her mind now. Before she returned to the office, she nipped home and used the pregnancy test in the tranquillity of her bathroom. She sat staring at the test stick, scared to blink, watching for the blue line to appear. When it did, she put her hand to her mouth and cried out. Pregnant. She was pregnant. Her body was on her side after all. She couldn’t move; her smile stretched so far it ached. She touched her stomach, placed both hands on it, fingers splayed, and breathed, ‘Thank you. Thank you.’