Clara swallowed hard, her mouth dry with nerves as she went over again what she’d told the officer on the front desk, DC Mansfield’s calm, almond-shaped eyes flicking up to meet hers at various points in her story.
“And there’d been no arguments between you recently,” she asked, “no indication that Luke might want out of the relationship?”
“No! And as I said, he’s left his mobile and credit card, and he had an important interview at work he’d prepared hard for. We were . . . happy!” She heard her voice rising and felt Mac’s hand on her arm.
Mansfield nodded, then opened the laptop and read through the e-mails. “I see.” When she finally looked up again, she cleared her throat decisively. “Okay, Clara, I’m going to hang on to this for now, and talk it over with my sergeant in CID. What I suggest you do now is go home and wait for us to get in touch, and in the meantime, if you hear from Luke, or if anything else suspicious happens, please call us straightaway.” She got up and, with another brief smile and a nod of her head, indicated for Clara and Mac to follow her.
But Clara remained seated, staring up at her in alarm. “CID? So you agree those e-mails could be linked to his disappearance?” She had half hoped to be fobbed off, to be told she was overreacting, that there was clearly an innocent explanation for it all. The seriousness with which Mansfield was taking her concerns caused little darts of panic to shoot through her.
“It’s possible,” the DC said. “There could be any number of reasons why he’s taken off for a bit. He might have gone out and had a few drinks and not made his way home yet—that happens. Hopefully there’s nothing to worry about. But as I said, just go home, and someone will be round to see you as soon as possible. We have your address.” She went to the door and held it open, and reluctantly Clara got to her feet.
“Are you all right?” Mac asked as they trudged back down Kingsland Road toward home.
“I don’t know. It all feels so strange. You see on the news and stuff about people disappearing, you see those Facebook appeals, and I can’t believe he’s one of them—it’s too surreal. Half the time I’m telling myself there’s some rational explanation and I should chill out. The other half I feel guilty because I’m not tearing through the streets searching for him. I just don’t know what to do.”
He nodded gloomily. “He’ll turn up. It’s going to be okay. They’ll find him.” But she could hear the worry in his voice. As they walked, she thought about Mac and Luke, and the friendship they’d had for so many years. Of the two of them, Luke had always had the louder personality, Mac with his quiet dry wit the straight man to Luke’s clown. And if Luke’s love of the limelight meant he sometimes didn’t know when to quit, ensuring he was always one of the last to leave any party, Mac was invariably there to keep his friend out of trouble, bundling him into a cab when he’d had too much to drink, ensuring that he eventually made it home in one piece. Instinctively now she reached out and linked her arm through his, more grateful than she could say for his calm, steady presence. He glanced down at her and smiled, and together they walked on in silence.
She felt desolate when they returned to the empty flat. There was Luke’s leather jacket hanging on its peg; on the table by the window was a half-completed Scrabble game they’d abandoned two nights before. The last record they’d been listening to sat silent and still on the turntable. It was as though he’d stepped out only moments before, as though he might reappear at any moment with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm, smiling his smile and calling her name. He hadn’t taken anything with him—not one single thing a person who was intending to leave home might take.
Mac came and stood beside her. “Would you like me to stay over?” he asked. “I could sleep on the sofa.”
She smiled gratefully, suddenly realizing how much she’d been dreading another night alone. “Thanks, Mac,” she said.
—
She was awoken by the sound of her intercom buzzing. Groggily she sat up, looking about herself in confusion, surprised to see that she was still wearing her clothes. Suddenly the fact of Luke’s disappearance hit her like a train and she gasped in distress. She remembered she’d gone to lie down while waiting for the police to come, had put her head on Luke’s pillow, breathing in the scent of his hair and skin, and a feeling of utter hopelessness had filled her, nervous exhaustion rolling over her in heavy waves. She must have fallen asleep.
Dazedly she stumbled to her feet and, going into the living room, saw Mac blinking awake on the sofa. She glanced at the clock: eight a.m. Again the intercom buzzed loudly and she hurried over to answer it. “Hello?”
“Miss Haynes? DS Anderson from CID. Can I come up?”
—
He was a large man, Detective Sergeant Martin Anderson. Mid-thirties, a slight paunch, small blue-gray eyes that regarded her from the depths of a ruddy face. A proper grown-up, with a proper grown-up job: even though he was less than a decade older than Clara and Mac, he might as well have belonged to an entirely different generation. She clocked his wedding ring and pictured a couple of kids at home who idolized him. A very different sort of life from the ones led by her and Mac and their friends, with their media jobs, their parties and endless hangovers. He was accompanied by DC Mansfield, who nodded at her and flashed her a brief, impassive smile.
“This is Mac, Luke’s best friend,” Clara explained nervously
