‘We just talk to the guy,’ Tom says to me, ‘ask if Lori photographed him or talked about filming anyone else. What harm can it do? I’m sick of doing nothing. Every day the chances—’
‘Stop!’ I say.
He looks away and drags on his cigarette.
Mr Du’s address is on Lori’s weekly schedule. It takes me a while, and my hand is trembling, but I find the street on the map, and when we go downstairs I show it to Anthony.
‘Where does he work?’ Anthony says. ‘Will he be at home now?’
We don’t know.
The weather is muggy today and the cloud is back, an iron sky. I can feel the pressure of it in my skull.
When we reach the right development, Anthony speaks to the guard at the gate, who lets us through without any further discussion.
The complex is built around gardens and fish ponds with a fountain in the centre, where four huge bronze frogs are spouting water. There are a lot of benches in the shade of the trees and most are occupied by people with toddlers and babies in buggies.
A television outside the lift shows an advert for cosmetic surgery, white coats and beautiful women.
We go up to the flat on the fifteenth floor, but there is no answer.
‘What now?’ says Tom.
A door opens along the corridor and a young woman, wearing a smart black dress and gold sandals, comes out from the next flat.
‘Nǐ hǎo,’ Anthony says. He asks her something, gesturing to the flat we’re interested in.
She replies to him, then smiles and says, ‘Zài jiàn.’ Sci chen, goodbye. She walks to the lift, the slap of her shoes echoing on the concrete floor.
‘He comes home for lunch,’ Anthony says, ‘about one o’clock. He works for a property firm.’
Like half the city, I imagine.
‘It’s twelve thirty,’ Tom says, checking his phone.
‘We could sit in the garden and wait,’ I say.
So that’s what we do.
The garden is planted with red and green acers and glossy palms. A very dark-leafed tree has racemes of shocking pink flowers, their fragrance reminding me of honeysuckle. Finches, with red and white markings, dart in and out of the trees, wiping their beaks on the branches. A bird, the size of a thrush, coloured brown with a white ring around each eye and a tuft on its head, flies down to the path and back.
People come and go, most of them staring at us as they pass. We don’t bother looking out for Mr Du: we wouldn’t know him.
We chat to Anthony, who wants to visit Scotland. He loves golf and would like to tour all the famous courses. A cousin of his is studying in Seattle and he’d like to visit him too.
At the next bench along a small child, dressed like a princess with net skirts, a shiny pink bodice and a headband with pink rosebuds on it, trots across the path and stumbles. Her mother runs to pick her up, kissing her head and patting her back. It’s so much easier to protect them when they’re tiny, I think, but once they’re grown the parent’s role diminishes, even though the sense of responsibility, the propensity for guilt, never goes. Lori’s princess days were short-lived: a few months at nursery school, then she switched to witches, superheroes and animals.
I check my phone: quarter to one.
A man walks past and begins to clear his throat noisily, a retching sound, urk urk urk, then spits hack into the bushes.
Two little boys arrive with, I guess, their grandmas. The kids carry fishing nets and the women stand beside them while they have a go at catching the carp in the pool nearby.
‘The press conference will be on Thursday,’ Tom says to Anthony. ‘We want to get the search on the news, in the papers, kick up a fuss.’
Anthony nods. ‘Many girls go missing in China,’ he says, ‘often in the villages, kidnapped.’
Jesus! Does he think this fate might have befallen Lori?
Tom’s eyes narrow. ‘Does it happen to foreigners?’ he says.
‘No, no, not foreigners.’ Anthony gives an uneasy smile. ‘Only Chinese. To be married.’
Because of the shortage of women, I think, a result of the one-child policy.
‘And some for . . .’ Anthony thinks a moment ‘. . . trafficking?’
I nod. ‘Yes.’
‘This is not in the papers,’ he says.
‘People don’t talk about it?’ I say.
‘That is right. But your daughter is an English girl so I think they will put her on the news. Maybe the police will find her first.’ He brightens at this. ‘Then all will be well. This is often the way. When the police have success then it is public.’
But if Lori’s disappearance isn’t publicized in the first place, what chance of success is there?
At one o’clock we try the flat again. This time someone’s home. Mr Du gives a little start as he opens the door, obviously surprised to find the three of us on his doorstep. He’s young-looking, quite tall, with a narrow face and pointed chin. I can smell cooking fat and garlic from inside. Mr Du listens as Anthony talks, only occasionally glancing up at him.
I catch her name, Lorelei, and Anthony gestures to us.
Mr Du makes a sound, a grunt, when Anthony has finished explaining.
‘Yes,’ Anthony says to us, ‘Lorelei came here on the Sunday evening.’
‘Ask him about the hobbies project,’ I say to Anthony. ‘Did Lori photograph him?’
‘Bú yào,’ Mr Du says, ‘bú yào,’ and something else I don’t catch, then ‘zài jiàn’. Goodbye.
‘He says no. He’s busy now. He wishes you well.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Tom says, ‘our daughter is missing. Nu ér, shī zōng.’ He pushes a leaflet at Mr Du, who waves it away.
‘Did she talk to him about photographs?’ I say. ‘Or tell him who else she was going to photograph?’
Anthony speaks, and Mr Du shakes his head. He flips his hands as though he’s brushing us away.
‘He doesn’t know anything about this,’ Anthony says.
Mr Du seems curt, but is that just the sound of the language?
‘He has spoken to the police,’ Anthony says.
‘Did he see Lori on the Monday? The seventh of April?’
Mr Du scowling, speaks rapidly, and Anthony says, ‘No, he saw her for the lesson on the Sunday. Now he says he must go.’
‘Please, wait,’ I say.
But Mr Du shuts the door.
Tom bangs on it.
‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘He’s told us all he’s going to.’
‘Fuck,’ Tom says. I think he’s going to hit the door again, but he just throws his arms up, swearing some more.
In the lift, Tom turns to Anthony. ‘Did you believe him?’
Anthony doesn’t answer. He looks uncomfortable.
‘Why was he so cagey?’ Tom says. ‘If he is an innocent witness and no more than that, just a student of Lori’s, why wouldn’t he want to help?’
‘Chinese people, they do not like to be close to a big problem like this. They like harmony. Things to be . . . smooth.’
‘Bad for business?’ I say.
‘Like this,’ Anthony agrees.
Three wise monkeys: see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing. It’s not exclusively a Chinese trait, I think. The British have a great capacity for avoiding public confrontation, of acting as though nothing is happening, for turning a blind eye when someone creates a scene. I think of the stag do at the airport.
But is that all it is – reticence, embarrassment – or has Mr Du something to hide?
In the garden the little boys are still fishing; one of the grandmas holds her charge by the straps on his dungarees.
‘Oh, great,’ Tom mutters, looking ahead.
Striding towards us are two guards. They call to us, in harsh tones, gesturing to the exit.
‘They wish us to go,’ Anthony says.
The guards follow us to the gates, where Anthony presses the exit button. I feel their eyes on us as we leave.
Across the ro
ad there’s an open square and a man in a white martial-arts suit is dancing with a sword, whirling it round his head, then posing. The light flashes on the metal and I blink it away. At home you’d be locked up for being out in public with a weapon like that.
Chengdu very safe. Superintendent Yin’s words echo in my head.
Oh, really?
Then where the hell is my daughter?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Tom suggests we try Lori’s neighbour, Mrs Tang, again. I almost wimp out, still smarting from Mr Du’s reluctance to talk and the fact the guards escorted us off the premises, but remind myself that this is for Lori, that we have to try everything we can.
As we drive along the length of the block beside her apartment, I can see that the shops all specialize in particular goods. One sells plumbing items, taps and pipes, another soft furnishings, one timber, one Chinese medicine, pet supplies, and window blinds. In front of some shops the proprietor and family are perched on stools, eating noodles and other snacks.
A teenage boy answers the door. Anthony explains who we are and asks if Mrs Tang is at home.
The boy replies and Anthony tells us, ‘This is her son, Martin.’
Martin nods to us, smiling. ‘Nǐ hǎo.’
‘Mrs Tang is at work in Nanchong,’ Anthony says.
They talk some more, and Anthony says, ‘She travels there every Sunday afternoon. She works Monday to Thursday, then comes home late Thursday night.’
‘Lori did some conversation classes with Martin,’ I say to Anthony, ‘so he’ll know her. Can you explain why we’re here? And ask him about the photo project.’
The boy looks concerned, then dismayed as Anthony talks. Martin talks quickly back to him.
‘She was a very good teacher, a good neighbour,’ Anthony says. ‘He wishes you well. His mother will want to see you on Friday. His mother was interested in the project but she was shy.’
‘Lori hasn’t photographed her yet?’ I say.
Martin says not.
I pass a leaflet over.
‘Thank you,’ he says in English, ‘thank you very much. Bye-bye.’
We bring the table, the umbrella and the leaflets we left at Lori’s flat down in the lift and set up our stall. I’m not sure whether it is the after-effect of Mr Du’s reaction but today the passers-by seem more wary, less keen to stop and look, avoiding eye contact and altering their route a little so they don’t pass so close to us.
A group of monks, tall and bulky-framed, with shaved heads, all dressed in ochre robes, pause and talk to Anthony. They look at the leaflet, but none of them recognizes Lori.
I call Bradley to let him know we have the press conference on Thursday and won’t be leafleting. Rosemary was on the rota for Thursday, too, but she’s helping tomorrow so I can tell her then.
Then, as we’re packing up, a young woman stops. ‘Hello? Nǐ hǎo.’ She is lovely-looking, a heart-shaped face, dark eyes and hair, flawless skin. She points to Lori’s photograph. ‘I know her, on bus.’ She waves towards the ring road.
My pulse jumps. I call to Tom, who’s carrying the umbrella away and he comes back.
‘When did you last see her?’ I say. ‘The last time?’
‘Last time?’ she says.
I glance at Anthony and he translates.
She thinks, looking down. ‘Three week, or four week? Sorry. Bad remember.’
The hope fades away.
‘Did you talk? Talk to her?’ I say, still wanting to gain something useful.
‘Little. “Hello, and, how are you?” ’
She offers the leaflet back.
‘Please, keep it,’ I say. ‘If you remember anything,’ I point to the phone numbers, ‘you can phone.’
She nods, tucks the leaflet into her bag and says goodbye.
I imagine them together, Lori and this young woman, recognizing each other, trying to talk in fractured sentences with lots of sign language. Lori on her way to Mr Du’s or the bar, thinking up ideas for her next blog.
Where are you? A weariness settles on me. This is so hard.
We are on the bus, almost at our stop, when my phone rings. Peter Dunne.
‘Mrs Maddox, I have just taken a call from Superintendent Yin.’
Oh, God. My heart kicks. ‘Lori?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. He was ringing after receiving an official complaint from Mr Du.’ His tone is steely. ‘Your actions earlier today were ill-conceived and potentially counterproductive.’
My cheeks burn. Tom watches me.
‘We simply wanted to find out if Mr Du had any information about Lori’s project.’
‘Those enquiries will be made by the PSB. I appreciate how difficult the situation must be for you both but this sort of interference is unacceptable. There are protocols in place. I thought I had been clear in that regard when we first met.’
‘And we made it clear we wanted to be kept informed,’ I say, ‘but we’re not being, are we?’
Tom gestures to me that he wants the phone. I shake my head. ‘Have the police tried to talk to Mr Du again?’ I can do steely, too, and people are staring, turning to look. Let them.
‘Superintendent Yin is the officer in charge of the investigation into Lori’s disappearance. He has the authority to run the investigation however he sees fit. You must accept that. Undermining his jurisdiction by contacting and harassing potential witnesses is less than helpful. The same would hold true if we were in the UK. I have promised Superintendent Yin that I will make sure you understand this and that there will not be any further interference.’
Rage sets my jaw tight, boils in my belly. ‘We are trying to find our daughter,’ I say.
‘We all want the same outcome, Mrs Maddox, but trespassing on the purview of the PSB will only alienate the authorities and risk jeopardizing your cause. I trust I can have your reassurance that there will be no repeat of such conduct. Believe me, Mrs Maddox, you do not want to be regarded as an obstacle to the work of the PSB. Our best hope rests with them.’
‘I understand,’ I say. ‘Goodbye.’ I ring off. ‘Arrogant prick.’
My eyes sting.
We get off the bus and I repeat all I can remember to Tom who effs and blinds and throws his arms about in response.
‘Why did Mr Du have to complain?’ I say. ‘Surely he must understand how desperate we are.’ I take a breath. ‘Perhaps it’ll be easier once we’ve had the press conference. It almost feels like it’s being hushed up, you know, her going missing.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
When we reach the hotel, Tom says, ‘You want to go out and eat?’
I think of the constant noise, of the struggle to decipher a menu, the chaos of it all. ‘Not really. I’ll just eat here.’
‘OK, so let’s do that. An hour?’ he says.
The hotel is like a cocoon, calm and quiet, reassuring. Bland, perhaps, but bland is, oh, so welcome.
Over dinner, we keep coming back to Mr Du’s discomfort, Peter Dunne’s reprimand, how much power or influence the consulate actually has, and whether or not Superintendent Yin is any good at what he’s doing. We share a bottle of Great Wall Cabernet Sauvignon, made in China, which is surprisingly good. Tom orders a second.
‘If Mrs Tang leaves Chengdu on Sunday afternoon and isn’t back until Thursday night, she can’t have been Lori’s first subject,’ I say.
‘Not your general run-of-the-mill hobby, taxidermy,’ Tom says. ‘Very popular with the Victorians.’ He laughs. ‘Lori follows this account on Twitter, Crap Taxidermy. I’d show you but . . .’
But Twitter is banned.
‘All these bizarre creatures,’ he says, ‘atrocious workmanship. Some of the poses.’ He pulls a face, grimacing, exposes his teeth, closes one eye. I smile.
‘Sometimes you can’t even tell what animal it is. Let’s hope Mrs Tang has the knack.’
‘Trust Lori to find someone like that on the doorstep,’ I say.
‘It’ll be good for her to keep up h
er photography,’ Tom says. ‘She’s got a great eye. They don’t hand out firsts to just anyone.’ He fills our glasses. ‘Mind you, these days, everyone’s David Bailey.’
‘She can write too,’ I say. ‘The blog’s great. It’s not like she has to pick one job and stick at it for the next twenty years.’
‘Portfolio career,’ Tom says.
‘Which you had before there was a name for it,’ I say.
‘Believe it was called “mucking about” back then. Playing silly buggers.’
‘Your dad’s phrase?’
His eyes darken.
‘Does he know we’re here?’ I say.
Tom’s mouth twitches. ‘I left a message,’ he says. I wait but he doesn’t elaborate. Clearly his relationship with Francis has not improved.
‘You did all right for yourself,’ I say. ‘Well, mostly.’ I can’t name all Tom’s enterprises but they included a web start-up, a wine bar, a house-sitting and dog-walking agency, a holiday rental scheme in Portugal and a home-computer repair service.
‘We won’t mention the guesthouse,’ he says.
I groan. Lori worked there as a chambermaid and dogsbody in the summer holidays when she was sixteen. It was in Whitby, on the east coast. Tom bought it cheap with the intention of doing it up after that first season, building the business and selling it on. But once a start was made on the work, structural problems came to light and it was cheaper to condemn the property than fix it.
Tom pours a drink.
‘Great summer job for her,’ I say, ‘but I could never quite see you doling out full English to the guests.’
‘It did get a bit Fawlty Towers at times,’ he says.
‘Will you carry on with the property business or are you bored?’
‘Yes, and yes.’ He shrugs. ‘I’ve not come across anything else that grabs me. It’s going well so I’ll stick at it, put some money aside, travel and see more of the world.’
That plunges me straight back into the present. The glow from the wine fades and there is an ache at my temples. I can feel the weight of something bearing down on me.
‘It’s good to meet her friends,’ I say, ‘see where she’s living.’ Trying to salvage something, to pre-empt any more considered discussion of our situation. Pollyanna.
Half the World Away Page 17
