wardrobe. I rummaged through it now, and to my relief found the card that Inspector Cross had given me. I dialled the number and he answered immediately.
It wasn't much fun talking to Cross again. He had been embarrassed and quite sympathetic at our last meeting at the hospital. Or perhaps compassionate is the right word but it was a compassion that had made me feel ill with rage and shame and terror then, and even now gave me a queasy feeling. I said I had something urgent to tell him, but that there was no way I could set foot in the police station, and could he come to me. He said that it was probably better anyway for him to see me when he was off-duty, which made me feel that I was illicit business. We arranged for him to come to the flat shortly after five in the afternoon.
The conversation lasted for about one gruff minute and when I put the phone down I felt so strange that I took two pills, drank a tumbler of water then went into my room and lay on the bed for a few moments, face down and eyes shut.
Had I spoken to him? I didn't know, but the sensation that I'd felt in the phone booth the kind of feeling you have in a nightmare just before you jerk awake, a sensation of falling, of wheeling through the darkness had been so strong that even now I felt dizzy and appalled.
I had two hours before he came. Two hours is a long time when you feel ill with dread and loneliness. I poured myself a glass of wine, then poured it down the sink before I could drink it. I made myself a piece of toast and spread it with Marmite. When I'd finished that, I spooned yoghurt into a bowl and stirred in some honey. It was soothing. I finished off with a large cup of tea. I decided to change my clothes. I should wear something understated and respectable something that would make me look rational and sane, not a woman who'd go around making up stories about being grabbed and held underground by a murderer. I picked out some beige trousers and a cashmere V-necked sweater the outfit I used to put on for meetings with the financial department.
The trouble is, I wasn't the same person any more. My clothes still hung off me, making me look a bit like a child dressing up in adult things. My haircut was emphatically spiky and short, and neither its colour nor its style went with cashmere and smartly creased beige. I stared at myself in the mirror, nervously dissatisfied.
In the end, I put on an old pair of jeans, with a belt to keep them up, and a red flannel T-shirt that I'd found hanging in the cupboard, though I had no recollection of buying it.
I wondered about my mobile phone. Should I cancel it, or should I leave it, knowing that perhaps the person who now had it was him? I couldn't decide. In my mind, it was an invisible thread stretching between us. I could snap it or I could try to follow it -but was I following it out of the labyrinth, or back in again?
I examined the pieces of paper that I had stuck to the wall. At the very earliest, I had been grabbed on Wednesday late afternoon or evening. Where did that get me? Nowhere. I called Sadie, just to say hello, really, just to hear a friendly voice from a life that seemed to have gone, but she was out and I left no message. I thought about calling Sam, or Sheila and Guy, but didn't. Tomorrow; I'd do it tomorrow. I went to the window and stood there for a few minutes, just gazing out idly at the people who walked by. Perhaps he knew where I was, because perhaps this was just where I'd been before. Was I hiding in the only place he knew to look?
I didn't know what to do with myself until Cross arrived. I needed to keep busy, to keep on the move, to give myself urgent tasks and unmissable deadlines, to persuade myself that I was one step ahead of him. I wandered into Jo's room. It was very well ordered. I opened her chest of drawers and everything was folded neatly. Even her knickers were laid out, one pair on top of another. I opened the square leather box on her chest of drawers and looked at the few pairs of earrings, the thin gold necklace, the brooch in the shape of a fish. There was a square piece of white card as well; when I turned it over it had a four-leafed clover Sellotaped to it. I looked at the books on her bedside table. There was a Thai cookbook, a novel by a man I'd never heard of, and an anthology of 101 Happy Poems.
There was a video as well, with a blank label. I went back into the living room and inserted it into the video-machine. Nothing, just a blank. I pressed the fast-forward button. A blurred shoulder appeared, then the camera jerked to a leg. It was obviously a home video made by a first-timer. I leant forward and waited.
I saw Jo's face, half smiling. It gave me the most peculiar sensation. Then the camera moved backwards and she was standing in the kitchen, by the oven, stirring something, looking back at the camera and making a face at whoever was behind it. She was wearing the dressing-gown that was hanging on the back of her bedroom door, and her moccasin slippers. Maybe it was morning, or late in the evening, it wasn't possible to tell. The screen went blank again, then fuzzy. A few lines ran down it, and then, suddenly, I was looking at me. Me before it happened. I was sitting cross-legged on the armchair, and had a glass of wine in my hand. I was in a pair of sweatpants, wearing no makeup, and my hair my old, long hair was piled up on top of my head. I was grinning. I raised my glass in a toast and blew a kiss. The camera moved towards me until my face went out of focus.
The screen was blank for a few minutes, and then I was watching a black-and-white film, with a woman in a plumed hat riding a horse side-saddle. I reeled fast forward, but the film just went on until the credits. I rewound and stared once more at Jo's smiling face. Then at mine again. I looked happier than I could remember having been for a long time. I put my fingers up to my cheek and found that I was crying.
I turned off the television, ejected the video, and put it back in Jo's room, on her book of happy poems. I saw that on top of her wardrobe there was a video camera, as well as a pair of binoculars and a tape-recorder. In the living room, the phone rang twice, before it was picked up by the answering-machine. After a pause a voice said, 'Hi, Jo, it's me. Just checking about tonight. If I don't hear from you, I'll assume it's still on.' He didn't leave a name. Somewhere, someone would be waiting for Jo to turn up; a friend, or a lover. On an impulse, I dialled 1471, but couldn't find out the caller's number. He was probably phoning from an office.
A few minutes later, the phone rang again, and I picked it up at once.
'Hello?' I said.
'Jo?' said the voice at the other end. Then, before I had time to answer, it gathered in strength and anger. 'Jo, it's Claire Benedict.
As you probably know, I've left dozens of messages by now and you haven't replied, but'
'No, it's-'
You realize that your work should have been sent to the printers by now.'
'Listen, this isn't Jo, it's a friend. Abbie. Sorry.'
'Oh. Can you tell me where Jo is, then? As you probably gathered, I urgently need to contact her.'
'I don't know where she is.'
'Oh. Well, when you see her can you tell her I called? Claire Benedict of ISP. She'll know what it's about.'
'Yes, but that's the thing. She seems to have just disappeared. When was she supposed to have delivered her work?'
'Disappeared?'
'Well, maybe.'
'She was due to give us her formatted text by Monday the twenty-first of January, at the latest. She never said she was having a problem finishing it. She just went quiet on us.'
'Was she usually reliable?'
'Yes. Very. Look, are you serious about her being missing?'
'I'll let you know what happens, OK? Give me your number.'
I scribbled it down on the back of one of the unopened envelopes, and put the phone down.
Then the doorbell rang.
For a startled second, I thought Cross was someone else. I'd only seen him in a suit, with his hair neatly brushed, and an inscrutable air about him. Now he was in worn brown corduroys, a thick jumper, and a padded blue jacket, whose hood was pulled up over his head. He looked as if he should be out in the garden, poking a bonfire. Or playing with his children. Did he have children? But his frown remained the same.
'Hello,' I said. I stood back to let him in. 'I appreciate this.'
'Abbie?'
'My new look. Don't you like it?'
'It's certainly bold.'
'It's my disguise.'
'I see,' he said, looking uncomfortable. 'You're looking better anyway. Healthier.'
'Do you want a cup of tea?'
'All right.' He looked around. 'This is a nice place you've got yourself.'
