‘Stop whining and go lay the table.’ She shoos her fifteen-year-old towards the door.
‘Thanks for the offer, but I must get home. I’m already late.’
‘I can’t treat Jim this evening. You understand, don’t you? I’ll rearrange for later in the week.’
Does she think I’d expect her to work tonight? ‘Of course. I texted him earlier and told him his session is cancelled.’
‘So, Marc’s not really missing?’ she asks as we plod towards the house.
‘Not technically, no.’
‘What would the police do if he was?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If he hadn’t reported that he didn’t want to be found.’
‘Has he ever disappeared or done anything like this before?’ I doubted it, but I had to ask.
‘Never.’
‘Then, we’d probably not do much at this stage. We’d carry out a risk assessment, determine his vulnerability and state of mind. But he’s a grown man with no history, and he hasn’t been gone long, so we wouldn’t class him as high risk. Plus, he wrote you a note. Most people who go missing in these circumstances return within forty-eight hours.’
‘Do they?’ A glimmer of hope lights her eyes.
I nod and link my arm through hers.
‘And if they don’t?’
‘We’d begin conducting search-based enquires. Speak to family and friends – that kind of thing – known associates, who they have spent time with recently. Check CCTV, conduct house-to-house enquiries.’
‘And?’
‘If nothing comes from that, things may progress to financial enquiries, looking at telephone call histories, searching their homes and places of work, where they were last seen.’
‘Can you do that for me?’
‘Not formally.’
‘But you will help me, won’t you?’ Her voice quivers. ‘Please, Eva. I have no one I can trust like you. I’m begging you.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Not now, though. I have to get home. Mel will want to go, and she can’t leave until I get there. The kids will still be up.’
‘This is real, isn’t it?’
‘Focus on the positives. It’s early days, and you know he’s alive. Can I pop inside to the loo before I go?’
‘Do you think he will?’ The desperation in her voice saddens me. ‘Return in the next forty-eight hours?’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘You go ahead. I’ve realised I’ve forgotten to reply to a client email. I’ll be with you in a sec. Remember, watch what you say in front of the kids.’
After I’ve used the toilet, I stand at the kitchen door observing the children, who are so acutely unaware of the turmoil their family is in. It’s buzzing with teenage banter in there. Some rap song blares out from the TV, and Hannah and George, both still in their school uniforms, are preparing drinks and laying the table. They are twins – not that you would ever think so. As opposite as war and peace, George is tall, dark and argumentative and Hannah is short, fair and calm. The only similarity is the pattern in which light-coloured freckles powder the area below their expressive blue eyes. Harry and George are mocking the salad situation and bickering about who has the highest ranking in their favourite Xbox game. ‘Fancy a quick game?’ George asks Harry as he lays the final knife.
‘You’ll only get stroppy when I beat you,’ Harry says.
‘No chance, come on, a quick one,’ George says, juggling with the controllers.
‘Mum’ll kill us. She doesn’t look happy today either. Turn that fricking telly down, will you?’
‘You turned it up.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You did.’
Hannah is discussing effective policies to reduce climate change – phasing out fossil fuels and improvements to transport links – with Luke, Harry’s friend, who is lying on one of three beanbags under the TV, at the end of the room. He’s texting without even looking at the screen. ‘If you’re really serious about doing your bit,’ he tells her, ‘you need to sell the car, stop taking flights, become a vegan and have your tubes tied.’
‘Be easier for you guys to stick a condom on it.’
‘But that’s using more plastic.’ He gets up, walks over to the kitchen area and takes a handful of crisps from the bag of Walkers on the side.
‘I hate you,’ she says and snatches the packet away from him. She doesn’t, though, hate him. There’s a teenage crush going on for her brother’s mate. I can tell from the coy smiles she keeps directing his way along with her feigned apathetic attitude. Luke is tall with dark hair and eyes, and thick lips – an appealing diversion for any fifteen-year-old. She turns away from him and fills glasses with water.
‘No, you don’t hate me.’ He grabs her waist and tickles her. He knows, as much as I do, that she fancies him.
She shoves him in the belly, and he theatrically doubles over in pain. Staggering back to the beanbag, he flops down as if seriously wounded. Hannah turns her back to him and sits at the breakfast bar. ‘Where’s Dad?’ she asks her squabbling brothers.
George shrugs. ‘Not seen him today.’
‘Me neither,’ says Harry. ‘Did he go uptown for an interview?’
The family’s furry cocker spaniel, Ralph, is hanging about somewhere. I can smell his something’s-dead-in-there breath. There he is. Drooling by Hannah’s feet, his tail thumping against the floor as he patiently waits for her to bung him another crisp.
An ordinary family going about their daily existence but, today, acutely unaware of hidden secrets.
There are so many like them out there.
‘I’ll need you to report him missing, you know. That’s what you’d do if I hadn’t told you about him coming into the station,’ I tell Sasha as she walks me to my car.
She nods, but not convincingly.
‘What’s his date of birth?’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll look into what I can.’
‘Twelfth of February nineteen seventy-three.’
‘Does he have a middle name?’
‘Anthony. Marc Anthony O’Sullivan.’
I mentally note these details. When we reach my car, I grasp her forearm. ‘You should tell the kids the truth.’
She shivers, releasing her arm from my grip. She jiggles her index finger in my direction. ‘I’m going to tell them that he’s had a temporary job offer up north and
