by M. D. Archer
Paige loved their Sunday ritual. After an indulgent lie-in, Tim would nip out to the corner shops to get the paper, then pop into Pyrénées, a bona fide French café and delicatessen just down the road, for coffee and fresh pastries. By the time he got back Paige would have dragged herself out of bed and be waiting expectantly in the living room of the smallish Mt Albert bungalow in which they lived.
Mt Albert had always been a desirable area because of its proximity to the central city, parks and schools, but five years ago it was still within the reach of a twenty-something with a steady job and just a bit of parental assistance. Tim, who’d grown up in Mt Albert—his family had emigrated from Hong Kong when he was a toddler—was happy to continue his existence in the same one-square kilometre section of Auckland. So, being the sensible sort he was, Tim had bitten the bullet and bought this property when others his age were going off on their OEs. Instead of rent, Paige contributed a small weekly sum to the mortgage just so she didn’t feel like a kept woman. Tim, who knew Paige was The One, didn’t mind whether she did this or not. As far as he was concerned they would be together forever, and whatever was his was also hers. Paige had only recently become aware the house was located within the Grammar zone, perhaps the most sought-after schooling area in Auckland, but she suspected Tim had always known this, and deep down, in an area of Paige’s psyche that she didn’t visit very often, this made her a little nervous.
Paige sipped her coffee as she read her horoscope (ironically) and waited for Tim to finish with the main section. Apparently, this week she would be extra susceptible to relationship squabbles and should be careful with her loved ones. She smiled at Tim as he turned the last page and handed it over to her.
“Here you go,” he said, taking CANVAS. The sports section had been abandoned on the kitchen counter and would remain there, unread, until Tim took the whole thing out to the recycling bin.
Paige read the headlines, skimming the main stories, and flicked through the rest of the paper. She stopped at a story that caught her attention. Polly Dixon, a nineteen-year-old student, was missing. Her mother, a Mrs Carolyn Dixon, had explained via the impassioned voice of the reporter that the police were not taking action. Paige could understand why. Polly was over eighteen, her phone, wallet and laptop were also gone, and not only had she been missing for just a few days, she’d in that time sent a brief text to her mother. Altogether, the indication was she’d just left on her own accord, and being an adult, had no requirement to check in with her parents at all. Still, Mrs Dixon thought something was wrong and, perhaps with a friend well positioned in the media, wanted the public to know. An inset picture of Polly showed a friendly open face with a wide smile and somewhat unruly hair. She looked younger than nineteen, and Paige wondered whether it was an old photo. Paige studied the worried face of Carolyn and the tense face of the father, Tyrone Dixon, and felt a twinge.
One-part concern, three-parts excitement.
This could be a case. A proper case. If the police wouldn’t help, why couldn’t they? Paige folded up the paper and got out her phone.
“You home?” Paige texted Sophie.
“Yep.”
“Coming by. See you in twenty mins.”
The article stated that the Dixons lived on York Street in Parnell—a luxurious, well-kept but somewhat soulless inner-city suburb—and with a photo taken outside the house, Paige knew she’d be able to find it. Cold-calling the Dixons was as good a way of spending Sunday afternoon as any. She just had to convince Sophie to come with her.
“Hey mister, I’m going to go see Sophie. I might have a lead on a case.” Paige kissed the top of Tim’s head and disappeared into the bathroom to take a quick shower before she left.
SOPHIE SHUT THE FRIDGE door and took a controlled breath before she turned to her flatmate. “Victoria, where are my leftovers?”
“The container smelt funny,” Victoria said, crinkling her nose. She had small pointy features that made her look (slightly) more judgemental than she actually was.
“It did not. It just smelt like actual food,” Sophie muttered.
Victoria was perpetually on a diet. Currently she was only eating grilled or steamed chicken breast and boiled eggs. If they were going to talk about bad smells, Sophie could add Victoria’s protein farts to the mix.
“I paid the bond, remember,” Victoria said, flipping her long blonde hair—her crowning glory—as she went back to sipping her Kombucha. At least once a week Victoria managed to remind Sophie that she held the lease. “I don’t want to lose it because the fridge smells weird.”
Are you kidding me? Sophie thought, as a knock on the door signalled Paige’s arrival. Sophie rolled her eyes—once she knew she was out of Victoria’s sight—and went to answer the door.
Sophie lived in Pt Chevalier, a small suburb near Mt Albert, and also superbly located near the motorway, the central city and the beach. Pt Chev had a kind of small-town, hippie-ish vibe that had remained despite the considerable injection of yuppies. The gentrification of this suburb had started many years ago, but it had been a slow process, so the multi-million-dollar houses were still interspersed with modest and some downright shabby, homes. Sophie loved the location as well as the style of the light and airy cottage in which she lived.
Having flatmates, she was less thrilled about.
She shared with two others: Victoria, 31, who worked in marketing and PR, and was bossy, controlling and generally insufferable. Paige didn’t know why Sophie put up with Victoria’s ridiculous house rules, but Sophie reasoned it could be much worse. At least it meant no parties or random people hanging around their flat. Having to interact with strangers in her own home was the absolute last thing she wanted. The other flatmate was Myra: a student, Indian, 21 years old, quiet and sweet, enjoying living in her first flat outside the family home, but still a bit overwhelmed by the experience. Myra had yet to do anything of any consequence except develop an (understandable) fear of Victoria, and a big-girl crush on Sophie.
“Hey,” Paige said. “Is she here?” she added, lowering her voice. Sophie nodded and gestured back toward the kitchen. “I had an idea about a case but we have to go to Parnell.”
“Uh, sure.” Sophie oscillated between wanting to know what adventure Paige was dragging her on so she could prepare, and going in blind so she didn’t have time to worry.
“Sophie?” Victoria called out from the kitchen. “Don’t forget you’re on the kitchen this week, you have to have your chore finished before six o’clock.”
Paige shook her head in disbelief.
“Sophie did you hear me?” The scraping sound of a chair being pushed back warned them she was on the move.
“I’m in, let’s go,” Sophie said quickly, patting her pockets to make sure she had her phone and her keys just as Victoria emerged at the end of the hall.
“Hi, Victoria,” Paige said as Sophie pulled on her shoes. “How’s the hair?”
Victoria put one hand up to her head. “Uh... fine,” she said uncertainly.
Sophie glared at Paige as she struggled with the second shoe but Paige just grinned.
“See you,” Sophie called out to Victoria and pulled Paige out of the house after her.
Victoria watched them leave, not bothering to respond to Paige’s sarcastic wave. She always felt as if Paige was laughing at her but what had she ever done to Paige, and why did Sophie even like her? They were virtually inseparable those two, but from what Victoria could tell, all Paige did was shoot biting comments at everyone. Except Sophie, Victoria mused, that must be it—she was never mean to Sophie. How did one make such a good friend after high school, Victoria wondered. She was not in contact with any of her old classmates, and she was not introspective enough to delve into the unpleasant business of asking herself why not. Nor why she hadn’t made any new friends at work. Acquaintances sure, people to go out with on Fridays sometimes, but she got the feeling a lot more socialising went on without her.
She pulled at her hair to inspect t
he ends. Time for a cut, she decided. She sought out the hall mirror. Time to go a little lighter, brighter, she thought. Summer was on its way and she thought she might go for a bohemian, beachy kind of look. She assessed herself in the mirror, lifting her eyebrows and squinting her eyes. What age should you start getting Botox, she wondered. She’d read somewhere if you start early, it looked more natural. She angled her body sideways to the mirror. Or a boob job? A colleague in the cutthroat world of PR had brought it up the other day. Had that been chitchat or a suggestion? She had the money—her savings account was healthy and steadily growing. Sure, she should be saving for a house, but looking good was important. For her career and her love life. And if she found a guy who already had a house, what would be the point of her having one?
TYRONE DIXON, THE FATHER of the missing girl—easily identifiable from his picture in the paper—answered the door.
“Well, hello.” He spoke directly to Sophie. Paige, as was the norm, remained unnoticed, but this didn’t bother her. She mostly relished the cloak of invisibility she wore.
“Hello, Mr Dixon. We, uh, read about your daughter in the paper,” Sophie said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. They had agreed Sophie would do the talking so Paige would have a chance to snoop, but blagging her way into someone’s house was most definitely outside of her comfort zone. “And we were so sorry to hear about her, Polly. It must be traumatic.”
“Yes, yes,” Mr Dixon agreed, smiling at Sophie. “Come in, won’t you?” He opened the door wider.
“Thank you,” Sophie said, and promptly tripped over the edge of the doormat.
“Oomph, easy there,” Mr Dixon said as she stumbled across the threshold into his arms. Sophie blushed. Mr Dixon was in his mid-forties, nice looking with dark brown hair, closely cropped in corporate kind of style, hazel eyes and just a hint of stubble. He was young enough to pull off the Ponsonby-bought designer jeans and long-sleeved V-neck he had chosen for his Sunday attire.
As Mr Dixon swung the door shut behind Sophie, Paige stuck her foot out to stop it from closing.
“Sorry, didn’t see you there,” Mr Dixon said. He let the door open again, but he’d already turned his attention back to Sophie who was moving through the entrance. He caught up to her while Paige lingered, listening for sounds of other people in the house. He appeared to be home alone, or at least alone downstairs.
Paige took in the immaculate area just beyond the door, noting the lack of clutter or mess anywhere, then followed the sound of voices into a modern, open plan living-dining room area. Wooden floors, cool colours and neutral trim, it was too clean and pristine to be homey. Did a teenager really live here?
“Drink?” Mr Dixon moved across to a makeshift bar in the corner where there were two comfortable but expensive looking chairs facing a leather couch. Sophie noticed his eyes were glassy and slightly unfocused. This kind of day drinking was understandable in the circumstances, but it made her a little nervous. Alcohol made people unpredictable and harder to read. Her body language expertise—the reading of nonverbal cues—was in essence a skill in lie detection, but alcohol muddied the waters. True, sometimes it made people admit things they didn’t want to, but it could also render the normal signals and cues less meaningful or reliable.
“Uh, no, better not, driving.” Sophie made a steering wheel gesture and immediately felt like a five-year-old. “But go ahead,” she said unnecessarily, as he had already topped up his glass with a dash of clear liquid. Vodka, apparently, was his stress-drink of choice.
He collapsed into one of the armchairs with his drink as Paige entered the room. He waved at them to sit on the sofa facing him. He seemed burdened and heavy—his quick survey of Sophie’s body as she took a seat across from him only providing a moment’s distraction. His daughter, his only child, was missing.
He looked up, seeming to realise for the first time he didn’t know who Paige and Sophie were, nor what they were doing in his living room. “Sorry, I don’t want to sound rude,” he gave them a boyish smile, “but why are you here?”
“We thought we might be able to help.” Sophie leaned forward to hand him their business card. Paige took this opportunity to stand up and, as quiet and unobtrusive as a mouse, edge out of Mr Dixon’s eye line.
“Oh, I see. Investigators, are you?” Mr Dixon smiled indulgently. “Cracked any cases I’d know about?”
Paige paused where she was, midway through a snoop of the letters sitting, neglected so far, on the kitchen island, to listen to how Sophie would handle this. Hopefully she wouldn’t confess they had no clients, no cases, no money, and were hanging on to the business by the skin of their teeth.
“Top secret, that is, you understand don’t you, Mr Dixon,” Sophie said with a smile. Mr Dixon smiled back. Paige also smiled, impressed, and carried on with her snooping.
“PhD, I see,” Mr Dixon continued, reading the business card and warming to the situation. This gorgeous creature was here to talk to him. He shifted in his seat, getting more comfortable. For the first time in days, his thoughts departed from those of his daughter or the deal he was brokering. The vodka, effective for wallowing in misery, also served to inhibit the common sense that would’ve warned him of the clear presence of ulterior motives, not to mention, that there used to be two people sitting on the couch in front of him.
Paige, noting Mr Dixon was now under Sophie’s spell, enthralled but not actually listening as Sophie talked in general terms about psychological research, went back to the hallway and peered up the staircase facing the front door. She didn’t go any further, knowing it was likely the Carolyn Dixon who had done most of the talking in the newspaper article was probably up there; and even though it was also likely she was under the effects of some sort of chemical numbing agent, it would be foolish to press her luck. Paige decided to contain herself to the downstairs rooms. Luckily, Paige realised as she spied the bFM sticker on a door at the rear of the house, Polly’s room was on this level. She opened the door and saw straight away that she not only had her own bathroom, but her own private entrance on the other side. There was even a kitchenette area. The lack of mess and clutter in the main house made sense now. Polly appeared to live her life almost solely in this large, completely self-contained hideaway.
At least she used to.
Pausing to check the murmurings from the front room were still audible and amicable, Paige entered the room and started mentally storing the scene in front of her. It was difficult, as she didn’t know what she was looking for, but she tried anyway. There were three posters on the wall. PETA, something called ENVIRONZ, and PJ Harvey. Clothes were strewn around the room but the bed was nicely made.
There was a soft thump from upstairs. Paige made a couple of notes on her phone and hurried out. She moved rapidly down the hall back toward the living area but too late, she met a rumpled yet still well-put-together Mrs Dixon coming down the stairs.
SOPHIE LEANED FORWARD. “Really?”
Mr Dixon nodded sagely, as if he was giving her the answer to life’s biggest questions.
“It’s the biggest industrial development deal of its kind in New Zealand,” he intoned. “An international manufacturing company... and they’re going to set up production in an industrial complex in South Auckland. It means jobs, it means more trade, more production. Economic growth for everyone. We need it.” He leaned forward, jabbing his finger onto the coffee table to emphasize his point. “Our country, our industry... needs this deal to go through.”
“Right, yes, I’m sure we do. It sounds great.” Sophie smiled, starting to feel an ache in her jaw. “I was just wondering about Polly. You said earlier, she’s taken off before?”
“Yes, yes,” Mr Dixon said, his eyes looking even glassier than before. “Carolyn’s overreacting, I think. I mean, Polly sent her a text to say she was okay. And,” he leaned forward conspiratorially, “Carolyn doesn’t want to talk about this, because she feels guilty, but she argued with Polly that night, during dinn
er.”
“Really? About what?” Sophie said, hastily scribbling this down.
“University attendance, mainly. Polly has a friend Carolyn thinks distracts her from her studies... recently her grades haven’t been great. Carolyn is adamant she gets a degree. They argue about it all the time.”
“Who is this friend?”
Mr Dixon shrugged. “Polly doesn’t always give us the details.”
“Was it a bad fight?”
Mr Dixon shrugged again, but nodded. “I think Polly has gone away to punish her mother, you know?” He smiled a sad smile. “You must remember what it was like to fight with your mum?” Sophie nodded. She could tell this was bothering him more than he admitted. “She’s stubborn,” he added. “She won’t be told anything.” He shook his head and smiled another, sadder smile.
MRS DIXON PUSHED BACK her hair and frowned at Paige.
She had a shoulder length bob with a long side-parted fringe in an ash-blonde hair colour that was stylish in a “mum” kind of way. She was wearing form-fitting trousers, a shirt and silk scarf. Overall, she looked expensive.
She paused on the bottom step, head tilted, clearly waiting for Paige to explain herself. She was surprisingly calm given she’d just encountered a stranger in her home, but lulling people into a false sense of security was one of Paige’s magic powers. Paige hesitated, but decided to go for it. She had no idea how Sophie was doing in the other room—maybe getting the mother onside was a better way to get hired.
“Mrs Dixon, my name is... uh... Dr Garnet.” Paige corrected herself just in time. “And I’m from S & S, an investigative agency. We thought we could help you. If you had a couple of minutes to answer a few questions about the night your daughter disappeared.”
Carolyn Dixon, clearly still groggy, rubbed her forehead. “Is my husband...?”
“Yes, I was just talking to him. He’s through there. Did anything unusual happen that night?” Paige pressed.