‘Yes,’ Tom says.
‘And going blank.’
Bradley shifts on the spot.
I fall quiet as we reach the eighteenth floor again and follow him to the flat. My heart is galloping in my chest.
Inside, he glances at the table where we were sitting. ‘I can’t see it.’ An accusation.
My hand is in my pocket, clasping my phone. I’ve ruined everything, I think. He knows we suspect him – he must do. I’m paralysed. Then the drill starts up nearby, making the floor shake.
‘What’s the building work?’ Tom shouts to be heard.
I seize the chance and scurry to the chair I was sitting on, drop to my knees, arm angled so Bradley can’t see. ‘On the chair,’ I say, turning and lifting my phone. ‘These pockets, they’re so shallow.’
We go through the pantomime of leaving again.
‘So, we head left at the gates?’ I say, pointing that way, as we reach the ground floor.
‘That’s right,’ Bradley says. ‘About ten minutes, you’ll see the signs. Give me a call about dinner.’
‘Will do,’ I say.
‘And I’ll see you Sunday.’
The lift doors close behind us and Tom and I walk outside.
‘What the fuck was that stunt?’ Tom says.
‘I thought if I could get up there and leave the door ajar, we could go in. Oh, God, Tom. Thank God it didn’t ring,’ I say. ‘He couldn’t wait to get rid of us – he really didn’t want me to look around.’
‘Fucking lying bastard,’ Tom says. ‘What the hell is going on?’
‘Let’s make sure he’s really going,’ I say, ‘and make it look like we are.’
We hurry to the gates – I try not to slip in my sandals. The rain bounces off the floor.
We begin walking to the corner, I keep glancing back to watch the traffic coming up the ramp from the car park. Bradley appears on a black and blue scooter wearing a blue helmet and his waterproof. He closes the mask on his helmet and rolls the bike forward, puts his feet up and joins the traffic. As he passes us he raises a hand and waves. We wave back and walk until he has disappeared from view.
‘Come on.’ I turn back towards the complex.
I’ve not thought this through. I’m not sure what I’m doing is the right thing but I’m acting on instinct now. All I know is that Bradley has deceived us. That he is hiding something. That he really did not want us in his flat. And that we are looking for Lori, I tell myself. That’s what we’re doing. We are looking for Lori.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
We tag on behind a young couple, get back into the complex and walk through the gardens to the building. A man waits for the lift, middle-aged, Chinese. I pray he won’t try to engage us in conversation: he would surely sense something suspicious. Thankfully, he nods once, then studiously ignores us as we do him, and each other. The lift climbs through the storeys. The drill is thundering away when we reach the apartment.
‘We’ll have to break in,’ I say.
Tom looks at the door. ‘That could take some doing.’
‘Now – while it’s noisy.’
Tom steps back, raises his leg and smashes his heel into the edge of the door near the lock. It bounces but doesn’t yield. He does it again and again, as I pray that the drill will keep going. The door shudders from the impact. Then finally, with a squealing sound, the lock gives, shearing through the door frame. The drill stops. Did they hear us?
We push the door open, step inside. I can feel my heart thudding in my throat. Tom is flushed with the exertion, his breath ragged.
The master bedroom has a bed, wardrobe full of clothes, bedside table, desk and chair. There is a laptop on Bradley’s bed. The guestroom has a smaller bed, with just a cover over the mattress, a wardrobe and a work area with a desk and chair, a printer, Anglepoise lamp and speakers.
I start to feel foolish: we could be charged with criminal damage, trespass – who knows what laws they have here? But the text messages, I tell myself. Bradley is lying to us. There can’t be any good reason for that.
‘Maybe there’ll be emails on the laptop,’ I say, ‘messages from Lori.’
Tom is tugging at the wardrobe in the spare room. It’s large, old-fashioned, with deep carvings along the top and bottom, two deep drawers beneath the doors, the sort to keep blankets and bedding in.
‘Is it stiff?’ I say.
‘I think it’s locked,’ Tom says, ‘and there’s no key.’
We used to have a wardrobe at home when I was little and the door swung open if it wasn’t locked so we always kept the key in it. ‘There was a little key on Bradley’s key ring.’ I remember staring at it when it was on the table while we waited for him. ‘Gilt, fancy.’
Tom goes to the kitchen and comes back with a knife, broad and sharp. He tries to force it between the doors but can only get the tip in.
‘Shit.’ He drops it on the bed. Raises his foot and kicks at the wardrobe. A loud crack and a boom reverberate in the room. The drill hasn’t started up again and I listen for sounds from the neighbours, footsteps, doors banging, anyone coming. There’s nothing.
Tom rears back and kicks again, higher, grunting with the effort. There’s a splintering noise as one of the doors cracks, a ragged tear running the length of it, then swings open.
Inside is hanging space to the left, a few jackets above a jumbo-sized, hard-shell suitcase. To the right are shelves, just like the wardrobe in Lori’s room at home. A row of five shelves. An assortment of bags and boxes on them and, on the middle shelf, a camera.
A camera exactly like Lori’s.
My bowels turn to water. ‘Oh, God.’
Tom picks it up, his hand shaking. He tries to turn it on. ‘It’s dead,’ he says. ‘Get the laptop.’
I bring it with the cable from the other bedroom. ‘We need a USB connector too,’ Tom says, as he plugs it in.
I go back to Bradley’s room, but can’t find any leads. In the desk drawer in the spare bedroom there’s a bundle of cables and adapters. And one that fits the camera. Tom powers up the laptop and connects the camera. A few seconds later he is able to turn it on. We can see it’s hers. It’s all there, Lori’s albums. The last pictures are dated 7 April. Tom runs through them. Nothing of Bradley or a motorbike. Some of a traditional pagoda, one of the river, some close-ups, almost abstract, trees along a street, a couple more. No people in any of them.
Tom starts copying the files onto the laptop. When that’s done he disconnects the camera, plugs his phone into the computer and uploads the folder.
‘That fucker.’ Tom curses under his breath.
‘Why are you doing that?’ I say.
‘It’s all proof,’ he says, ‘the camera, the pictures, the text messages. It shows they were in touch. It shows where she was that day.’
‘We should get this to the police, now,’ I say, ‘and get them to pick him up.’
‘Yes. Nearly done.’ We watch the progress bar as the pictures upload.
Is there anything else of hers? I look through the other shelves, open boxes and bags, searching for Lori’s purse or phone. In the big drawers I find pillows, an empty hold-all, an acrylic blanket and beach towels. One of those neck pillows for long flights. ‘There’s nothing else.’ My voice cracks.
I haul out the suitcase. Something shifts and rattles inside.
Tom disconnects his phone and deletes the folder from the laptop.
I lift the case onto the bed and unzip it.
I open the case. The right-hand side is empty, the left is covered with the inner divider. Lumps stick up against the black nylon with its mesh pockets. I unzip the fabric.
A bolt, like lightning, fierce and white-hot explodes inside me. I’m struck dumb. The floor undulates.
I hear Tom’s voice. Far away. Indistinct.
I am paralysed.
Petrified.
Stone where there should be muscle. Stone crushing my heart.
Tom is touching me, pulling me, sho
uting, but all I can do is gaze.
Gaze at the tangle of clean white bones, the bridge of ribs, the snaking spine, the grinning teeth and gaping dark eye sockets of her lovely skull.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I call Peter Dunne, my teeth chattering, my voice fracturing. His secretary answers. I tell her that we need the police, now, that it is an emergency and I give her the address. ‘Now,’ I say several times, ‘they must come now.’ Does she understand?
Waiting is unreal. My legs are rubbery and I sit with Tom in the spare bedroom, staring at the suitcase. Periodically the drilling resumes and it feels as though it will shake me apart.
The police arrive and there is noise and commotion and confusion. Tom gives them one of our leaflets to explain who we are, who we were looking for. He is ashen-faced now, shivering, his wet hair plastered to his head. I feel myself withdrawing as though everything is shrinking away from me, sounds muted, vision blurring, sensations numb.
‘Mrs Maddox?’ We are back at the hotel, in my room. Peter Dunne is here. And Tom. I blink and try to concentrate. How long have we been here? There aren’t enough chairs.
Peter Dunne sits beside me on the bed. ‘I am so very sorry,’ he says. ‘The first thing we need to do is to make sure that these remains definitely are Lorelei’s. I’ve been in touch with DI Dooley in Manchester and she will get dental records sent for comparison. That shouldn’t take long. Lorelei’s dentist is still Mr Gargrave?’ He glances at Tom, who must have dredged the name up.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Not even five weeks,’ Tom says. ‘How’s that . . . just bones—’ He chokes on the word.
‘Until we have all the facts . . .’ Peter Dunne shakes his head, adjusts his glasses. ‘We can make arrangements for you to take her home,’ he says. ‘Would you like me to speak to your husband?’
Nick. The thought brings a fresh wave of dread. ‘No. Thank you. I’ll do it.’
‘Bradley?’ Tom says.
‘Bradley Carlson has been arrested and is in police custody,’ Peter Dunne says.
‘Why would he—’ I break off. It’s not a question anyone here could possibly answer.
‘Would you like to see a doctor?’ Peter Dunne asks me.
‘No.’
‘Mr Maddox?’
‘No,’ Tom says. He looks desolate.
I reach for a tissue, wipe my face, clear my throat. ‘What happens now?’
‘The police will question Mr Carlson. They will hope to obtain a confession, then hold a trial. There won’t now be a press conference but, once Lorelei’s identity is confirmed, the news will be made public. Mr Maddox has given me details for your contact Edward at Missing Overseas and I will brief him.’
‘What if some hotshot American lawyer finds a way for him to wriggle out of it?’ Tom says.
‘He won’t be allowed to hire a lawyer from the US,’ Peter Dunne says. ‘He will have to use a local lawyer and here defence lawyers play a much lesser role than we are used to at home. The system is not adversarial in the way ours is. The lawyer will have little to do until the trial, and even then his or her role will be limited, compared to what we’re used to.’
‘What if Bradley doesn’t confess?’ I say.
‘Ninety-five per cent of suspects in China do confess and then go to trial. That’s how they like to do it here. But even if they don’t get a confession they will still hold a trial. And the conviction rate is ninety-eight per cent.’
The truth washes over me again. Oh, my sweet girl, my Lori. And I hide my face and weep. Tom comes and pulls me into him and it makes me weep more.
When I stop and pull away, Peter Dunne is still there. His eyes are glistening, the tip of his nose is red. ‘I’ll be here in Chengdu for the next few days,’ he says huskily. ‘If you need anything, anything at all, please call. In due course the police will want to speak to you but not until you feel up to it.’
I call Nick. I sit on the edge of my bed, one fist clamped tight.
‘Jo?’ His voice is hoarse. I must have woken him. It will be early there.
‘How’s Isaac?’ I say, not ready to tell him.
‘He’s OK. He had a good night. The stitches are a bit tight and he’ll be on a drip today, no food, but he’s OK, just weak. He needs to sleep as much as possible. So don’t worry—’
‘Oh, Nick. Oh, Nick.’ My breath comes in uneven gulps.
‘Jo, what is it?’
I can’t just say it straight out. ‘It’s bad news.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘We . . . erm . . .’ my teeth chatter and I have to force the words out ‘. . . we found out that Bradley Carlson had arranged to meet Lori . . .’
‘The American guy?’
‘Yes. He’d lied to us about it and . . . erm . . . we went to his flat . . .’
‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ Nick says quietly.
I swallow, fight tears. ‘We found some remains.’
‘Remains?’
‘A skeleton.’ I sound hoarse. ‘They have to do a dental comparison to make sure.’
‘So it might not be—’ I can hear the hope.
‘He had her camera, Nick.’
‘Oh, my God. Oh, Jo.’
I sniff hard and blink. ‘We should know soon, for definite.’
‘Oh, God. I don’t know—’ He flounders.
‘Don’t say anything to the boys yet. Not to anyone. Not till we’re sure. Peter Dunne, he’s speaking to Edward.’
‘Right. Oh, good God.’ I think he’s crying. I keep sniffing. Bite my knuckles hard.
‘Oh, Jo.’
There’s a few seconds, then I say shakily, ‘So if Isaac’s all right . . . I’ll stay here until . . .’
‘Of course, yes, you must. Oh, God,’ he says again. ‘I wish I could come, we could come—’
‘I know, I know. So listen, as soon as we hear I’ll ring or text and Peter Dunne, he . . . erm . . . he said they can arrange everything, getting her home, you know?’
‘Yes, right,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe it, I just can’t.’
‘I know. I love you.’
‘Oh, Jo.’ His voice is muffled with tears.
‘I’ll call.’
‘Yes. Yes, OK.’
Our goodbyes are clumsy, punctuated by more crying. We can barely speak. And, anyway, words can’t suffice. There are no words.
‘Should we ring Dawn?’ I say to Tom. We’re sitting by the Jinjiang river. The dun-coloured water is like dirty brass in the fog that has settled. I can smell the water, a pungent metallic pong, and I can smell the wet stone, too.
I barely remember coming here. Tom wanted to get out and I tagged along.
‘No,’ Tom says, ‘not until it’s official.’
Friday, I think. Five weeks ago Lori would have been getting ready for the party, deciding what to wear, when to leave. Perhaps feeling a bit sad after the break-up with Dawn. That’s what’s Shona said, didn’t she? A bit low.
‘Lori should never have come here.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Tom says quickly. ‘Who could possibly have stopped her?’
‘If you hadn’t sent the money—’
‘Jo.’ He groans, rubs his forehead.
‘Well, it’s true, she couldn’t have managed. She’d have had to come home. She’d be safe—’
‘It was what she wanted,’ he says, ‘so I wanted to make it happen for her.’
I shake my head. My eyes ache but they are dry – for now.
A brown dove with a white-tipped tail scours the pavement for food. A little egret chases it away, lands on the stone balustrade a few yards from us. It is slender, elegant, with its long legs and that spike of a beak, the spray of feathers behind its head, like a fascinator. I think of Lori’s headband, the antenna. The bag I gave to Superintendent Yin. Then her bones, that shocking jumble, smooth and creamy, grotesque.
‘She wanted to explore,’ Tom says, ‘have fun, see something of the world. What would you have done –
locked her away? She’s an adult, she wanted an adventure.’
‘And you encouraged it.’
‘Damn right.’ He gets to his feet and the egret takes flight.
Music starts up, tinny, from along the way. A group of women mill about, putting umbrellas and bags down and taking their places. The dance begins.
‘I’m proud of her,’ Tom says, ‘proud of what she’s done. I think you are too. And if you’re not, you should be.’
I am. Of course I am.
The women dance. They are smiling, all of them smiling, as they turn and wave an arm towards the ground.
‘We did OK,’ he says, ‘really, with Lori, we did OK.’
My face crumples and he moves closer, sits down.
I nod, dash away my tears. ‘She’s amazing,’ I say, ‘she’s . . .’ I hear the present tense and cling to it ‘. . . she’s wonderful. Sometimes she drives me mad but, God, I love her so much.’
* * *
Before I go to bed, I call Nick. He is at the hospital and Isaac is awake.
‘He’s very sleepy,’ Nick says, ‘but they’re happy with how he’s doing.’
‘I’ll say hello?’
The sound of Nick passing the phone, then Isaac: ‘Hello.’ He sounds glum.
‘Hello, darling, how are you?’
‘I’m in hospital.’
‘Daddy says you’re getting better.’
Isaac grunts, noncommittal.
‘Does it hurt?’ I say.
‘Loads,’ he says.
‘Aw.’
I hear him yawn.
‘I love you. I’ll see you soon.’
Nick comes on the line. ‘A ray of sunshine,’ he says.
And I smile. And then I want to cry. ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I’m functioning.’
‘I just want to come home,’ I say.
‘It won’t be long now,’ he says. ‘You’ve not heard any more?’
‘No, so . . .’ I sniff hard, ‘. . . I’m going to try and rest a bit. It just feels so unreal, you know?’
‘Yes, I know.’
Half the World Away Page 22
