Gone Without a Trace

by Mary Torjussen

  Copyright © 2016 Mary Torjussen

  The right of Mary Torjussen to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook in Great Britain

  by Headline Publishing Group in 2016

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Cover photography © Silas Manhood, cover design © Andrew Smith

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 4080 4

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  © Jennie Miles (Jennie Miles Photography)

  Mary Torjussen grew up in Stoke-on-Trent. There was no television in her family home so books have always been her escape – she spent hours reading and writing stories as a child. Mary has an MA in Creative Writing from Liverpool John Moores University, and worked as a teacher in Liverpool before becoming a full-time writer. She has two adult children and lives on the Wirral, where her debut novel, GONE WITHOUT A TRACE, is set.

  About the Book

  An addictive, twisty thriller for fans of C.L. Taylor and Clare Mackintosh about a woman who returns home from work to discover her partner has vanished without a trace.

  No one ever disappears completely . . .

  You leave for work one morning.

  Another day in your normal life.

  Until you come home to discover that your boyfriend has gone.

  His belongings have disappeared.

  He hasn’t been at work for weeks.

  It’s as if he never existed.

  But that’s not possible, is it?

  And if he has gone without a trace why do you still feel that someone is watching you?

  For Rosie and Louis

  And for my mum and in memory of my dad

  With love

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank my wonderful agent, Kate Burke, from Diane Banks Associates, who had faith in me at the start. Her support and guidance has made this book possible.

  Thank you to my fantastic editors, Emily Griffin and her team at Headline, and Danielle Perez and her team at Berkley, for helping me to create a better book. Thanks too, to Jane Selley for such careful copy editing. I’ve been so lucky to have such an experienced team working with me; your editorial comments and advice have been invaluable.

  My online writing friends have made the whole experience of writing this book such fun. They’ve tirelessly read my drafts and been supportive and tactful about changes I should make. Special thanks go to Fiona Collins and Sam Gough in particular – I couldn’t have done it without your daily emails! Thanks, too, to the rest of the Mumsnet Creative Writing group. If any readers want to become writers, come along and find supportive writing friends there.

  Thank you to my friends, Richard Hill, Lorna Wood and Chris Finnigan, who’ve put up with me talking about this book over the last year and have given me so much encouragement.

  A final thank-you goes to my brother, Martin, whose writing has inspired me. His is a name to watch out for.

  1

  I was singing as I walked up the path to my house that day. Actually singing. I feel sick at the thought of that now.

  I’d been on a training course in Oxford, leaving Liverpool as the sun rose at six, returning at sunset. I work as a senior manager for a large firm of accountants, and when I got to the reception of our head office and signed myself in, I scanned the list of attendees from other branches and recognised several names. Though they weren’t people I’d met, I’d read about them in our company’s newsletters and knew they were high-flyers, and for the first time I realised that must have been what the company thought of me too.

  My skin had prickled with excitement at the thought, but I’d tried not to let my feelings show, relaxing my face into that calm mask I’d practised so assiduously over the years. When I went into the conference room, I saw the others standing around chatting like old friends. They looked polished and professional, as though they were used to this sort of event, and I was glad I’d spent a fortune on my clothes and hair and nails. One of the other women had the same Hobbs suit as mine, though luckily in a different colour; another gave a covetous look at the chocolate Mulberry bag my boyfriend, Matt, had bought me for Christmas. I took a deep breath; I looked like one of them. I smiled at the nearest person, asked which branch she worked for, and that was it, I was part of the group and soon my nerves were forgotten.

  In the afternoon, we were set a task to complete in a team, and at the end I was chosen to present our findings to the whole group. I was terrified, and spent the break time in a corner feverishly memorising my speech while the others sat around chatting, but it seemed to go well. Once I’d made the presentation I could relax and was able to answer everyone’s questions in full, anticipating follow-up questions too. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Alex Hughes, one of our partners, nodding as I spoke, and at one point he made a note about something I said. When everyone was packing up to leave, he took me to one side.

  ‘Hannah, I have to say you performed very well there,’ he said. ‘We’ve been looking at your work for a while now and have been absolutely delighted with your progress.�
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  ‘Thank you.’

  Just then Oliver Sutton, the firm’s managing partner, came to join us. ‘Well done, Hannah. You were excellent today. When Colin Jamison leaves in September, I think you’ll be on track for promotion to director. Wouldn’t that make you the youngest in your branch?’

  I don’t know what I replied. I was so surprised to hear him say that; it was like one of my dreams had come to life. Of course I knew exactly when each director had been promoted; I’d pored over their bios on the company’s website. I’m thirty-two, and I knew the youngest had been appointed at thirty-three. That had helped give a certain edge to my work lately.

  The organiser of the event came up to speak to them then, and they smiled and shook hands with me before turning to her. I walked as calmly as I could to the cloakrooms and locked myself into a cubicle, where I nearly screamed with pleasure. This was what I’d been working towards for years, ever since leaving university and starting with the firm as an assistant. I’d never worked as hard as I had this last year or two, and now it looked as though it was going to pay off.

  When I came out of the cubicle, I saw in the mirror that my face was pink, as though I’d been out in the sun all day. I took out my make-up bag and tried to repair the damage, but my cheeks still glowed with pride.

  Everything was going to be all right.

  I reached into my bag for my phone to send a message to Matt but then the human resources director came into the cloakroom and smiled at me, so I smiled back and nodded at her and took out my hairbrush instead to smooth my hair. I didn’t want her to think I was excited about anything, to suspect that maybe I thought I didn’t deserve promotion.

  There was also no way I wanted to hang around while she was in the loo, so I went back to the conference room to say goodbye to the others. I decided I’d tell Matt face to face; I couldn’t wait to see his excitement. He knew how much I wanted this. Of course it was too early to celebrate – I hadn’t actually been promoted yet, after all – but I was sure that Oliver Sutton wouldn’t have said that lightly. Each time I thought of his words, I felt a swell of pride.

  And then in the car before I set off, I thought of my dad and how delighted he would be. I knew he’d hear about it from my boss, George, as they played golf together, but I wanted to be the first to tell him. I sent him a text:

  Dad, I’m at a training day and the managing partner says they’re considering promoting me to director in a few months! xx

  Within seconds I got a reply:

  That’s my girl! Well done!

  I flushed with pleasure. My father has his own business and he’s always said that the one thing he wants is for me to be successful. As far as my career was concerned, he was my biggest supporter, though it could be stressful if he thought I wasn’t promoted quickly enough. Another text beeped through:

  I’ll put a treat in your account – have a celebration!

  I winced. That wasn’t the point of telling him. I typed back quickly:

  It’s OK, Dad, no need to do that. Just wanted to tell you how I got on. Tell Mum, will you? xx

  Another message beeped:

  Nonsense! Money’s always good.

  Yes, money’s nice, but a phone call would be better, I thought, then I shook some sense into myself and started the car.

  It was a two-hundred-mile drive home and I did it without a break. I live on the Wirral peninsula in the north-west of England, just across the River Mersey from Liverpool. Despite the evening traffic, it was an easy drive, with motorways all the way. The journey passed in a flash. I was so excited I couldn’t stop myself wriggling on my seat as I practised what I would tell Matt and how I would say it. I wanted to stay calm and to just mention it casually when he asked me how my day had gone, but I knew I’d burst out with it as soon as I saw him.

  When I reached Ellesmere Port, about fifteen miles from home, I saw the Sainsbury’s sign shining brightly in the distance, and at the last minute I indicated to take the exit. This was a night for champagne. In the shop, I picked up a bottle of Moët, then hesitated and picked up another. One isn’t enough when you have news like that, and besides, it was Friday: no work the next day.

  Back on the motorway, I pictured Matt’s reaction as I told him the news. It wasn’t as though I’d have to exaggerate. Just repeating what Alex Hughes and Oliver Sutton had said would be enough. Matt worked as an architect and had done well for himself; he’d understand how important it was for my career. And financially, too, I’d be level with him if I was promoted. I thought of the salary scale for directors and felt a shiver of excitement – maybe I’d even be earning more than him!

  I stroked my soft leather bag. ‘There’ll be more of you soon, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to learn to share.’

  It wasn’t just the money, though. I’d take a pay cut to have that kind of status.

  I opened the windows and let the warm breeze run through my hair. The sun was setting and the sky ahead was filled with brilliant red and gold streaks. My iPod was on shuffle, and I sang song after song at the top of my lungs. When Elbow played ‘One Day Like This’, I pressed repeat again and again until I reached home. By the time I arrived, I was almost in a state of fever, and my throat was throbbing and sore.

  The street lights on my road popped on to celebrate my arrival. My heart pounded with the excitement of the day and the fervour of the music. The champagne bottles clinked in their bag and I pulled them out so that I could present Matt with them in a ta-da! kind of moment.

  I parked on the driveway and jumped out. The house was in darkness. I looked at my watch. It was 7.20 p.m. Matt had told me last night that he’d be late, but I’d thought he’d be back by now. Still. There’d be time to put the bottles in the freezer and get them really chilled. I put them back in the bag, picked up my handbag and opened the front door.

  I reached inside for the hall light, clicked it on and stopped still. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  Was someone in our house?

  2

  For the last four years I’d had pictures on the hallway walls that Matt brought with him when he moved in. They were huge photos of jazz musicians in heavy black frames. Ella Fitzgerald usually faced the front door, her eyes half closed in a shy, ecstatic smile. Now there was nothing but the smooth cream paint we’d used when we painted the hallway last summer.

  I dropped my coat and bags on the polished oak floor and on automatic pilot stooped to steady the bottles as they tilted to the ground. I stepped forward and stared again. There was nothing there. I turned and looked at the wall alongside the staircase where Charlie Parker usually hung, bathed in a golden light and facing Miles Davis. It had always looked as though they were playing together. Both were gone.

  I looked around in disbelief. Had we been burgled? But why had they taken the pictures? The walnut cabinet I’d bought from Heal’s was worth a lot, and that was still there. On it, alongside the landline and a lamp, sat the silver and enamel Tiffany bowl that my parents had bought me when I graduated. Surely a burglar would have taken that?

  I put my hand on the door to the living room, then hesitated.

  What if someone’s still here? What if they’ve only just got here?

  Quietly I took my handbag and backed out of the front door. Once I was safely on the path, I took out my phone, uncertain whether to call the police or to wait for Matt. I stared at the house. Apart from the hallway, it was in darkness. The house attached to mine was dark too; Sheila and Ray, our neighbours, had told me they’d be away until Sunday. The one on the other side had sold a month or two ago and its owners had long gone. A new couple would be moving in soon, but it didn’t look as though anyone was there yet; the rooms were empty and there were no curtains at the windows. Opposite us was the wide entrance to another road; the houses there were bigger, set well back, with high hedges to stop them having to view the rest of the estate.

  There didn’t seem to be any movement in our house. Slowly I walke
d across the lawn to the living room window and looked through into the darkened room. If the television had gone, I thought, that would definitely be burglars. I froze. The television had gone. Matt had bought a massive flat-screen when he moved in. It had surround sound and a huge fancy black glass table, and it took up half the room. All of it had gone.

  In its place was the old coffee table I’d had for years, which I’d brought with me from my parents’ house when I left home. On it was my old television, a great big useless thing that used to shine blue and flicker if there was a storm. It had been in the spare room all this time, waiting until we had the energy to chuck it out. I’d hardly noticed it in all the time it had been up there.

  My face was so close to the living room window that I could see the mist of my breath on it.

  A car braked sharply in the distance and I jumped and turned, thinking it was Matt. I don’t know why I thought that.

  My skin suddenly felt very cold, though the evening was warm and still. I took a deep breath and pulled my jacket tightly around me. I went back into the house, shutting the door quietly behind me. In the living room, I put the overhead light on, then went to the window to draw the curtains, even though it was still light outside. I didn’t want an audience. I stood with my back to the window and looked at the room. Above the mantelpiece was a huge silver mirror; I could see my face, pale and shocked, reflected in it. I turned away so that I didn’t have to look at myself.

  On either side of the fireplace, white-painted shelves filled the alcoves. Our DVDs and books and CDs had been on them. On the big lower shelves Matt had kept his vinyl, hundreds of albums in alphabetical order of band, the more obscure the better. I remembered the day he moved in, how I’d taken dozens of my books from the shelves and put them in boxes in the spare room so he had space for his records.

  Those books were now back there, looking as though they’d never been away. Most of the DVDs and CDs had gone. All of the vinyl was gone.

  I turned to the other corner. His record player was no longer there; neither was his iPod dock. My old stereo was back; his had gone. Gone, too, were the headphones he’d bought when I’d complained I couldn’t watch television because of his music.