Distress Signals

by Catherine Ryan Howard

  ‘And you’re O’Connell too? Both of you?’

  Jack confirmed they were. He seemed confused, as if he didn’t understand how there could be another option.

  Cusack looked at me. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Adam. Dunne. I’m her boyfriend. We live together.’

  ‘How long have you done that?’

  ‘About eight years.’

  ‘Do you live locally?’

  ‘On the South Douglas Road. By the post office.’

  ‘The apartments in behind there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is Sarah on any medications? Does she have a history of mental illness? Would you consider her to be a vulnerable individual for any reason at all?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  Cusack looked to Jack and Maureen. They shook their heads too.

  ‘Has anything like this ever happened before?’

  We all shook again, no.

  ‘Does Sarah have any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘One older brother,’ Maureen said. ‘He lives in Canada.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Maureen said. ‘He said the last time he heard from her was a fortnight ago.’ She leaned forward. ‘Should we . . . I mean, do you think that we need to . . . Should we ask him to come home?’

  ‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary,’ Cusack said. She flashed a quick smile. Probably aiming for reassuring but, to me, it seemed dismissive.

  ‘The passport,’ I said. ‘She can’t travel without it. And it’s postmarked Nice. In France. That’s nowhere near where—’

  Cusack held up a hand in a stop gesture. ‘We’ll get to that in a second. When did you last have contact with Sarah? Mr and Mrs O’Connell, why don’t you go first?’

  ‘She calls us every couple of days,’ Jack said. ‘Or texts. Maureen talked to her last Saturday morning, but there’s been nothing since. We tried her on Monday. No answer. When we couldn’t get through to her mobile, we rang her at work. That was, eh, Tuesday morning, Maur, wasn’t it?’ Maureen nodded. ‘Now, I don’t know who we spoke to at the office but it was a girl, a young girl, and she said that Sarah was out sick. That day and the day before. So we called Adam thinking he’d be at home with her, and that’s when he told us that Sarah was in Spain. For work. A conference. She’d never said anything to us about going anywhere. And she would’ve. Of course she would’ve.’ Jack threw me a sideways glance. ‘Very unlike her, it was. Very unlike her.’

  ‘She flew to Barcelona on Sunday morning,’ I told Cusack, trying not to sound defensive. Jack seemed to be implying that there was a chance I was making this up. ‘I dropped her at the airport. Well, she drove there and I drove back.’ I’d brought a copy of the boarding passes. I took it out now and laid it flat on the table next to the Ziploc bag – which Cusack still hadn’t touched – and swivelled it around so she could read it. ‘I saw her go into the terminal. She sent me a text that afternoon, just after four o’clock, to say that she’d landed and that she’d checked into her hotel. I know that she withdrew cash from the ATM at Barcelona airport—’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Cusack asked.

  ‘Her online banking. I checked it because I couldn’t remember the name of the hotel she was staying at, but I thought she might have paid for it with her debit card and so the name of it would be on there.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘There was a charge for incidentals. I got it from that. They take it on check-in, apparently.’

  ‘Did she tell you that she hadn’t told her parents she was travelling?’

  ‘No. I assumed she had.’

  ‘You’ve tried calling her since yesterday lunchtime?’

  All three heads on my side of the table nodded.

  ‘Lots of times,’ Maureen said. ‘I’m still trying. I tried just before we came in here.’

  ‘Does it ring?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It goes straight to voicemail. It did ring, at first.’

  ‘Does she have her charger with her, do we know?’

  ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘I haven’t found it at home.’

  ‘What about email, Facebook, things like that?’

  ‘There’s been nothing. No activity, no messages. I sent her some messages myself, asking her to get in touch. I sent her a text using WhatsApp, which she hasn’t read yet.’ When Cusack frowned, I added, ‘There’s a way to tell.’

  ‘When did you send that?’

  ‘On Monday.’

  Cusack looked down at her notes. ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Also—’ I cleared my throat. ‘She only stayed at the hotel for one night. The first night. Sunday.’

  ‘And how do you know that?’

  I told Cusack about calling the hotel.

  ‘But she was due to fly back yesterday,’ Cusack said, nodding at the boarding pass printout.

  ‘Yeah, but she didn’t. At least I don’t think she did. I didn’t see her come through into Arrivals and I waited until everyone was off the plane. I checked that they were. Then when I got home, the passport was there. With the note.’

  ‘What does the note say?’

  ‘It just says “I’m sorry” and it’s signed with an “S”.’ I motioned towards the Ziploc bag. ‘It’s in there. Stuck on the photo page.’

  ‘Does that mean something to you? Does Sarah have something to be sorry for? You said Sarah went to Barcelona with’ – Cusack looked at me pointedly – ‘a friend?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  I shifted in my seat, hyperaware of Jack and Maureen’s presence.

  Rose and I had done our best the night before to explain to them that, as far as we knew, Sarah had made a new friend, and that friend was a guy, and even though neither of us knew anything about him – not even his name – Sarah had gone to Barcelona with him.

  But I wasn’t sure they’d understood exactly what we were saying, and I couldn’t face the excruciating experience that would’ve been double-checking.

  Cusack looked from me to Jack to Maureen, then back to me again.

  ‘You know what?’ She pushed back her chair. ‘It’s roasting in here, isn’t it? I think we could all do with a nice cold bottle of water. I’ll go get some. Won’t be a sec.’ She stood up. ‘Adam, come and give me a hand with them.’

  Cusack walked out of the room, leaving Maureen and Jack staring after her, open-mouthed.

  Then they turned to look at me.

  Before they could say anything, I got up and followed her out.

  We crossed the corridor and went into another, identical conference room. The only difference was that this one, mercifully, was dark and cool.

  ‘Okay,’ Cusack said, standing in front of me with her arms folded. ‘Go.’

  I blurted out everything Rose had told me, ignoring the waves of shame and embarrassment that flooded my cheeks with colour while I did.

  ‘So she was seeing another man,’ Cusack said when I was done. ‘And they’ – she nodded towards the room where Jack and Maureen were – ‘don’t know that.’

  ‘Rose and I called over to them last night and tried to explain, but I’m not sure they got it. Or maybe they didn’t want to get it. I think they think that she just travelled to Barcelona with some guy from work, maybe for work. But then they did call the office . . . Look, I don’t know.’ I threw up my hands. ‘No offence, but shouldn’t we be doing something? Shouldn’t we get out there and start looking for her? Call the French police? I mean, the passport. Why would she send that? Why would she want to part with it? And if the handwriting on the envelope isn’t hers—’

  ‘The day she left,’ Cusack said. ‘How was she?’

  ‘Um, fine. I don’t really—’

  ‘Was she acting strangely? Said anything weird? Did anything that made you wonder if something was wr
ong?’

  ‘Not that I can think of. But we just got up and drove to the airport. The flight was around noon.’

  ‘What about the day before that? That would’ve been Saturday. Think back. What did you do? Did you spend the day together?’

  ‘We went out that night. To a going-away party.’

  ‘What about the daytime?’

  ‘I was at home. She went into town. She got a haircut.’

  ‘A trim or a restyle?’

  ‘I . . . A what?’

  ‘Did she just get it tidied up a bit, or did she completely change her hairstyle?’

  ‘She changed her hairstyle.’

  ‘Big change?’

  ‘She went from long to very short. Why does that matter?’

  ‘Did she take much luggage with her?’

  ‘No, she only had a small bag. A cabin bag.’

  ‘Did you see what she packed in it?’

  ‘No. I could maybe make a list though, see if I can tell what’s missing.’

  ‘What about a driving licence?’

  ‘It’s in her wallet, usually. So she probably has it.’

  ‘What did she tell you she was going to Barcelona for?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘A conference. She was there to attend a conference.’

  ‘What does she do?’

  ‘She works in recruitment. Anna Buckley. They have an office on the South Mall.’

  ‘Has she ever travelled for work before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she seem excited about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not especially.’

  ‘You didn’t want to go?’

  ‘I . . .’ You can’t afford to. You need to work. ‘No. I mean, I couldn’t.’

  ‘You said she made a withdrawal from an ATM in Barcelona.’

  ‘Yeah. At the airport.’

  ‘Of how much?’

  ‘It was an odd figure. Six hundred and fifty-something, I think.’

  ‘Did you check her credit card?’

  ‘She doesn’t have one. She just uses her Visa debit.’

  ‘How long have you been together?’

  ‘Ten years.’

  ‘Why aren’t you married?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Because we never made plans to do anything beyond waiting a bit longer for my dream to arrive? Because, as Rose had so kindly pointed out to me, I never thought of anyone except myself? ‘How is that relevant?’

  ‘What about her friends?’ Cusack asked, ignoring my question. ‘Have you spoken to them?’

  ‘Rose is her best friend, and she hasn’t heard from her.’

  ‘Work friends?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to anyone in the office. I figured your crowd would do that.’

  ‘My “crowd”?’

  ‘The Gardaí, I mean.’

  ‘Is she pregnant?’

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Women go abroad, Adam. Sometimes things go wrong, proced­ures take longer to recover from than they should.’

  ‘This isn’t that.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘What was your relationship like?’

  ‘It is great,’ I said defiantly.

  ‘So you don’t believe that she was cheating on you with this other man?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any point in believing anything until I’ve had the opportunity to talk to Sarah first. But we can’t make contact with Sarah, and we don’t know where she is. That’s why we’re here. We’re here so you can help us find her, which I’d really like to start—’

  ‘What does Rose think?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About where Sarah is?’

  ‘She thinks . . . She says that Sarah would never have not come home.’

  ‘Has Rose ever met this man, the American?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does she have reason to believe he may have hurt Sarah in any way?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, trying not to follow the phrase reason to believe he may have hurt Sarah down the rabbit-hole, the same rabbit-hole I’d been circling since I’d found the passport and the note.

  ‘Does Sarah keep a diary?’ Cusack asked.

  ‘Not that I know of, no.’

  ‘Do you have access to her emails?’

  ‘I don’t know the password.’

  ‘But you knew the password for her online banking?’

  ‘That was written down. It came in a letter.’

  ‘Tell me: if I asked you to provide me with evidence that this American man exists, would you have anything that didn’t come from Rose? Or if I asked Rose the same question, would she have anything that didn’t come from Sarah? For instance, has Rose ever seen this American man? Is she friends with him on Facebook? Ever overheard Sarah on the phone to him?’

  ‘Rose doesn’t even know his name,’ I said. ‘She said Sarah felt bad talking about it.’

  ‘What about when—’

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘There is something. The middle seat. On the boarding pass. Sarah booked a middle seat for her outbound flight. I think because she wanted to sit next to whoever had already booked the aisle or the window.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Because who wants to sit in the middle?’

  Cusack frowned, considering this.

  ‘What do you do?’ she asked me. ‘For a living?’

  ‘I’m a writer.’

  ‘A writer? Really? What do you write?’

  I lifted my hands, let them fall again. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Cusack cocked her head, indicating the corner of the room behind me. ‘There’s a fridge over there. Grab a few bottles of water and let’s go back.’

  Back in the first conference room, Jack was pacing again. I doled out the bottles of water, but no one opened theirs. Cusack and I resumed our seats at the table. After a beat, Jack did too.

  Maureen had spread the photos she’d brought of Sarah out on the tabletop. Cusack looked at them briefly before collecting them into a stack, which she slid beneath her notebook.

  None of those photos looks very much like Sarah does now.

  The thought shot through me like an electrical current. Is that why Cusack had asked about Sarah’s hair, about whether it was a big change or not? Is that why Sarah had done it, to disguise herself somehow, to make herself harder to find?

  I almost laughed out loud at the idea. Sarah – Sarah – thinking ahead to a situation where her parents would be sitting in a Garda station reporting her missing, and cutting all her hair off in order to prepare. The same Sarah who cared enough to handwrite relevant quotes into every greeting card she sent. The same Sarah who always offered to make tea at the point in The Shawshank Redemption where Brooks doesn’t do too well for himself on the outside, because she couldn’t stand to watch bad things happen to kind old men. The same Sarah who, after starting a tradition for us of birthday breakfast in bed, rolled up copies of Empire magazine and folded back the page corners at one end to make a ‘flower’ to put on my tray, to match the single sunflower in a vase I always put on hers.

  No, it wasn’t possible. The haircut must’ve just been a coincidence.

  But then what did the passport and the note mean?

  ‘Here’s what we’re going to do,’ Cusack said. ‘I understand that you’re concerned that you haven’t been able to get in contact with Sarah these past few days. I don’t blame you. But technically Sarah has only failed to be where she was supposed to be for less than twenty-four hours. I need you to understand that in my line of work we encounter situations like this a
ll the time. Every week. And you know what? Nine times out of ten, we don’t have to take any action because, before we can, the person makes contact and/or returns home.’

  ‘What about the tenth time?’ Maureen asked.

  Not hearing – or ignoring – her, Cusack pressed on. ‘It can be difficult, I know, to understand why someone would choose not to make contact with their friends and family, but sometimes people just need a break. Or they think they do. Or it could be something else entirely, something innocent. A misunderstanding. A lost phone and a missed flight. You never know, Sarah could think she booked Friday instead of Thursday, and in a couple of hours she’ll come walking through Arrivals up at the airport, wondering where her lift is. She could’ve lost that passport and, not knowing that a Good Samaritan has already returned it for her, be in a queue at an Irish embassy right now, waiting for an Emergency Travel Certificate so she can fly home.’

  I could feel it: my side of the table sinking into the bliss of those explanations, pulled into the idea of this all being over by the end of today, gone, with no harm left in its wake.

  But if any of those things were true, why hadn’t she called to let us know? How would a Good Samaritan know her home address? Where did a note in Sarah’s own handwriting fit in? What about the middle seat? The one night in the hotel? Calling in sick to work but telling me she was travelling because of work?

  ‘Regardless,’ Cusack continued, ‘Sarah is an adult. She’s twenty-nine years old. She’s perfectly within her rights to go where she wants when she wants without informing everyone or anyone of her intentions. There’s a common misconception about missing person investigations. A missing person isn’t just someone who can’t be located. It’s someone who can’t be located and for whom there is a genuine fear or concern regarding their well-being or the company they are known to be in. I see no cause for that here, at least not at this point. I also have to tell you that some of the actions she’s taken could be construed as preparation for leaving. If that’s the case, if she has left intentionally, then, even if we did find her, we’d have to get her permission before we could let you know that we had.’

  ‘“If”?’ Jack repeated.

  ‘You are going to look for her, aren’t you?’ Maureen said, lurching forward in her chair. ‘We can’t do it ourselves. We don’t . . .’ She looked around, panicked. ‘We wouldn’t know how. We don’t know where to even start!’