The ambulance had gone from sight now, the siren no longer audible. Was there any cavalry for you? I stopped myself thinking like this. I couldn’t let myself wonder what was happening to you. But my body felt cold and frightened and alone.
The roads near your flat hadn’t been sanded and were treacherously icy. I skidded when I parked, almost knocking over a motorbike by your flat. A man in his early twenties was sitting at the bottom of the steps, holding an absurdly large bouquet, snowflakes melting as they landed on the cellophane wrapping. I recognized him from your description: Simon, the MP’s son. You’re right—his pierced lips do make his childish face seem tortured. His biker clothes were soaked and his fingers were white with cold. Despite the freezing air, I could smell aftershave. I remembered you telling me about his clumsy advances and your response. You must be one of very few people who actually deliver the promised consolation prize of being friends.
I told him you were missing and he hugged the bouquet to his chest, crushing the flowers inside. His Eton- educated voice was quiet. “How long?”
“Last Thursday.”
I thought his face went white. “I was with her on Thursday.”
“Where?”
“Hyde Park. We were together till around four.”
That was two hours after you were seen in the post office. He must have been the last person to see you.
“She’d phoned me that morning, asked to meet me,” continued Simon. “She suggested the Serpentine Gallery in Kensington Gardens. We’d meet there for a coffee, see how things went.”
His accent had changed to North London. I wondered which accent was genuine.
“Afterward I asked her if I could walk her home,” continued Simon. “But she turned me down.” His voice was filled with self-pity. “Since then I haven’t phoned her, haven’t been to see her. And yes, that’s not supportive of me, but I wanted her to know what the cold-shoulder treatment felt like.”
His ego must be monstrous to believe his hurt feelings could matter to you after your baby had died, or to me now that you were missing.
“Whereabouts did you leave her?” I asked.
“She left me, okay? I walked with her across Hyde Park. Then she left. I didn’t leave her anywhere.”
I was sure he was lying. The North London accent was the fake.
“Where?”
He didn’t reply.
I yelled my question at him again.
“By the Lido.”
I’d never yelled at someone before.
I phoned DS Finborough and left an urgent message for him. Simon was in your bathroom, warming his numb white hands under the hot tap. Later your bathroom would smell of his aftershave and I would be angry with him for masking the smell of your soap and shampoo.
“What did the police say?” he asked when he came in.
“They said they will check it out.”
“How American of them.”
Only you are allowed to tease me like that. What the policeman had actually said was “I’ll look into it straightaway.”
“So they’re going to search Hyde Park?” Simon asked.
But I was trying not to think about what the policeman had meant by “I’ll look into it.” I’d replaced his English euphemism with an American euphemism, padding the sharp reality of what his words contained.
“And they’ll ring us?” he asked.
I am your sister. DS Finborough would ring me.
“DS Finborough will let me know if there’s anything, yes,” I replied.
Simon sprawled on your sofa, his snow-caked boots marking your Indian throw. But I needed to ask him some questions, so I hid my annoyance.
“The police think she has postpartum depression. How did she seem to you?”
He didn’t answer for a few moments and I wondered if he was trying to remember or constructing a lie. “She
