His dark eyes crinkled up in a little smile. I couldn’t help having a good look at him; he’s taller than I remember, broader too. His wavy dark hair is short now and there’s a little crescent moon scar cutting through his left eyebrow where his piercing used to be. Mum would say he’s aged like fine wine. And I’d agree.
‘Your binder was really helpful,’ he said without sarcasm. He opened up his notebook and scanned the pages. ‘You wrote that Elodie wasn’t fond of her manager, Richard Morris. Do you know of a particular reason for this?’
‘No.’
He jotted something down.
‘Is he a suspect?’ I asked. ‘Because, if anyone’s responsible, it’s the creep that’s been stalking her. Jack’s been up close to him – if you speak to him again, he’ll be able to—’
‘Yes, Mrs Archer,’ said Ritter, cutting me off. ‘We’ve got that under control.’
‘Jack Westwood?’ asked Christopher.
I nodded.
Christopher only met Jack a couple of times. He broke up a fight between Jack and some guy who hit on you at Charlie’s nineteenth birthday party, but not before Jack broke the guy’s nose. But, of course, you won’t pay note to that, will you? Everything Jack does is seen by you through rose-tinted glasses. You colour his possessive behaviour as sweeping acts of friendship.
‘We’ll bring him in again,’ said Christopher.
Ritter gave him a look. ‘I don’t think—’
‘We’ll have him work with a sketch artist to create a composite drawing we can release to the public.’
‘Great,’ I said.
In the car park, Christopher called my name. When I looked across the forecourt, he was jogging towards me. ‘Got a second?’
‘Of course, Detective Jones.’
‘Sorry about that. I volunteered for the case and I …’ He scratched the back of his neck, head bent, a familiar gesture that made me feel seventeen again. ‘I thought it might be less complicated if my superiors didn’t know our history.’
‘Does this lie make you a bent copper?’
He smiled. I miss that smile. ‘I really want to help find Elodie.’
I could see in his face he meant it. ‘How long have you been in the police?’
‘A while. I didn’t go to university so …’ He winced, catching himself because university is our curse word. Most couples break up because one or both go away to study; we broke up because he retracted his application to Exeter. Christopher wanted to travel instead, work in a bar, work in a shop, but I wanted more from a future husband. You think I’m shallow, but you don’t remember the arguments and stress Mum and Dad had over money. You don’t remember them scrimping and saving for caravan holidays in Hunstanton. You don’t remember Mum taking on a second job to make ends meet for Christmas. I was thirteen years old when I stood outside the kitchen door, listening to Mum sob because Dad had been made redundant again and they didn’t know how they’d pay the mortgage next month. It was then I decided I’d never let myself struggle like they did. I’d have the big house, the expendable income, the luxurious holidays; being with someone who has no career prospects but a great tan from their time in Thailand wasn’t going to cut it.
I know what you’re thinking: I could’ve gone to university and into a career to earn the money for this lavish lifestyle myself, but let’s be honest, you’re the academic one. The smart one. The achiever. Not me. Everyone says so. So, I broke up with Christopher. Set him free. Even though I knew I’d done the right thing to get what I wanted, I was heartbroken. I sometimes wonder if I made a mistake. Do you remember the night he left for Bali? You were only fourteen, and though you’d never experienced heartache of your own, you sat with me while I sobbed on my bedroom floor and later, with three bags of Maltesers between us, we watched Dirty Dancing.
‘I thought you’d moved to Cambridge?’ I asked.
‘I did, but it didn’t work out.’ Which probably meant he moved there for a relationship that has since broken down.
‘How long have you been back in town?’
‘A few months. I would’ve looked you up but …’
I waved him off. ‘Don’t worry, it’s fine.’
‘How’re you doing?’
‘My parents aren’t coping well. Dad always looks so lost and angry and Mum’s in denial.’
‘How’re you doing?’
I hadn’t really thought about how I was doing. Actually, I tried to avoid thinking about that as much as possible. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Keeping busy. Making binders.’
He held my gaze, his eyes narrowing. It reminded me of being young again and sitting on his flannel sheets while I tried to convince him I loved going to see him play rugby. ‘It’s okay if you’re not okay, Ada.’
Christopher has always been self-assured. He says whatever comes into his head even if it isn’t the polite thing to say. I used to like that about him.
Ethan would much rather dance around all issues. Yesterday evening, as I was cleaning the aftermath of the chicken cassoulet he’d requested for dinner, he looked up from his laptop long enough to say, ‘Mum said she rang you today but you didn’t answer. Was your phone off?’ He knew my phone wasn’t off. It bothers me he didn’t just ask me outright why I was avoiding his mother’s calls.
‘Ada?’ asked Christopher. The silence had lasted a couple beats too long.
I grasped for something to say. ‘Just … find my sister. I know it’s a needle in a haystack but …’ I trailed off because I was right, wasn’t I? Finding you would be a near-impossible task.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I have an idea, and I could do with your help.’
Chapter Sixteen
9 Days Missing
Adaline Archer
I’d never pulled an event together so fast. Margot helped. You know, I’ve always liked Margot. She’s smart, efficient; nothing fazes her. When I told her we had two days to arrange a lantern release in the park by your house, she took it all in her stride, pulling in favours with wedding vendors so, within hours, we had stacks of invitations and posters.
Margot, along with everyone else, thinks this event is to raise awareness of your disappearance. And it is. In part. Christopher asked me to keep quiet that the true reason is to draw the perpetrator out. I wonder if he used ‘perpetrator’ instead of ‘abductor’ or ‘murderer’ because he doesn’t know what the police are hunting for yet. He says it’s common for perpetrators to make an appearance at these sorts of events. Apparently, standing among family and friends of the victim knowing no one else is aware of what they’ve done gives them a sense of power.