I Know My Name: A stunning psychological thriller

by C. J. Cooke

  I stand up and begin to pace. No one will meet my eye, and the exhausted, wrung-out part of my brain interprets the whole situation as a set-up, designed to point the finger of blame for her disappearance at me.

  ‘I didn’t hit Eloïse,’ I say, though a voice in my head tells me I sound guilty. ‘It may have looked like that, but it wasn’t the case. Neither of us would ever hit the other. The sound you heard was Max’s train rolling off the edge of the worktop and landing on the floor. Eloïse stood on it.’

  Gerda glares at me. ‘She had recently had a baby, Lochlan. Did you have to be so cruel?’

  I look at everyone in the room, skewered with regret. ‘I’ve never hit her. I would never do that, honestly. Watch it again.’

  We do, but I don’t come across as any less callous. I hang my head, stung by the note of pain in El’s voice when she tells me she needs me. I recall the argument now, but it played out differently in my memory. She had had a rant at me earlier for not pulling my weight around the house. I’d felt hurt, too, when she ignored a romantic text that I’d sent her, and she had seemed distanced for weeks, flinching from my touch. I didn’t believe her when she said she needed me. At least, I’d interpreted it as a need based on doing my share of laundry and dishes, not emotional need.

  Welsh and Canavan share a look. Then Canavan clears his throat and says,

  ‘Anything else there that seems out of the ordinary?’

  24 March 2015

  Potter’s Lane, Twickenham

  Gerda: I have asked myself many questions since the telephone call from Lochlan, telling us that my beloved Eloïse was missing. I suppose anyone would ask questions in the face of this. It’s not the questioning but the failure to reach answers that I find most maddening.

  We lost Jude, our only child. Our only daughter. Both she and I had escaped death when she exploded into the world three months before she was due. The doctors told Magnus to say his goodbyes to both of us. I was unconscious during it, of course, half my life’s blood on the tiles of the operating theatre and our tiny little sparrow fighting for her life in the ICU. A nurse asked him to name her before she died, and he couldn’t recall any of the names we’d discussed for our first child. I’d particularly liked Amandine or Bastien for a boy, but his mind turned to Jude, the patron saint of the impossible.

  We both survived. The doctors told us we would never have any more children, but this news paled into insignificance compared with the fact that we’d been given a second chance.

  We had a wonderful life in Geneva. Jude thrived and excelled at school. She was naughty, yes, and it is possible we spoiled her. She was a lazy child, too. I was always troubled by this side of her character. Perhaps it was bad genes. I’m not sure. Wilful from the moment she was born. Wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t eat. Refused to walk until she was almost two, didn’t utter a word until she was five. It was probably a blessing that I couldn’t have any more children – Jude was as demanding as six children put together.

  And then, when she was twenty, she left home with her boyfriend, Orhan, and Eloïse. I was married at twenty, and it’s certainly not a young age to be trying to carve a place for oneself in the world, but Jude seemed younger. Less mature than I had been. She stole a lot of money from our safe, so we knew that, at the very least, she’d be able to take care of herself for a while, until she figured out what she wanted to do. Still, I worried terribly, and I blamed myself. Deep down I knew she was too selfish and chaotic to be a good mother. Had I acted upon that instinct, perhaps I could have changed things. But I didn’t.

  We wrote to her and Orhan as much as we could, sent them money. She had brought him over for tea shortly before their dramatic departure for London. He was a university student, she said, but I didn’t believe a word of it. He was much older than I expected. Around thirty. A little quiet, but handsome. Dark-haired, a tendency to hold a gaze longer than was comfortable. His father was Turkish. Magnus didn’t like him. I remember that Jude had fallen in with a crowd of girls at college that I didn’t like, and anything that distracted her from them was a good thing in my book. When Orhan came on the scene, she stopped seeing those girls, and I was happy with that. But, from the fire into the frying pan, as they say.

  When the Officer in Charge, Detective Sergeant Canavan, told us that someone had been spying on the family via baby monitors, my first thought was bitterness at modern technology. Baby monitors! I’d exclaimed when El told me about her purchase. You’re the baby monitor, darling! You’re the mother! But she laughed it off.

  Which brings me to my second thought: this generation of parents seems under some kind of spell that compels them to achieve complete and utter perfection. That’s the impression Eloïse always gave me when we spoke on the phone and whenever she would come and visit with the children: that she was competing against every other parent alive and that this was entirely normal and expected. The baby-monitor issue was one of many indicators of the frenzied effort Eloïse made to win at motherhood. As if it was a competition.

  I think what I’m saying is that, whilst my anger is of course directed at the villain who saw fit to hack into the baby cameras, I can’t help feeling that, had Eloïse taken a more traditional approach to parenthood, had she resisted the social pressure that is undeniably bearing down on today’s parents – particularly mothers – then this terrible situation would have been avoided. But I can’t tell this to a soul. And anyway, it’s hardly going to bring my granddaughter back, is it?

  I came to this house believing that Eloïse had walked out on her marriage. Lochlan is dependable, and they make a nice couple, but he’s not exactly what I wanted for her. He’s fond of alcohol and on one occasion she turned up on our doorstep asking to stay with us for a couple of nights. I pressed her to tell me what was wrong, for she seemed withdrawn and ill at ease, and Max was starting to walk. It seemed a time when any wife would want to be in her own home with her husband and child, but she was reluctant to go back.

  After watching the footage from the baby cameras, I don’t know where to turn. Lochlan isn’t quite the decent fellow I had come to believe he was. Certainly not the husband and father I had assumed him to be. He was so nasty to Eloïse, so explosive. I had put all my fears aside and given him the benefit of the doubt, but after seeing him yelling at Eloïse like that, and then crashing his lovely car … I have a mind to tell the police that he was drink-driving.

  I tried to speak my mind to Magnus earlier, as we were getting ready for bed. We’re staying in the spare room on a blow-up mattress. It’s not very comfortable and Magnus has to sleep upright due to his angina, so he’s spending his nights on a camping chair by the window until the leather recliner I ordered for him arrives from Switzerland. I don’t trust anything mechanical made outside Switzerland.

  ‘I read that most disappearances are linked to family members,’ I said. ‘Do you think this is anything to do with Lochlan?’

  He sighed and settled down into his chair. I felt irritated at him. We’ve been married for over half a century and in all that time I doubt I’ve ever felt as angry as I did right then. He didn’t seem to be as concerned about Eloïse’s disappearance as I was. He seemed blasé, as if everything was normal, and he was ready to believe anything that came out of Lochlan’s mouth. Why wasn’t he doing more? Why wasn’t he calling his old contacts for information, or hiring a private investigator? Didn’t he care?

  ‘Leave it alone, Gerda,’ he said simply, rifling in his medicine bag.

  I suppressed the urge to scream. ‘Eloïse said they had an argument the other week. What if he … you know.’

  ‘What?’

  I sighed. It made sense as thought but sounded silly when spoken. Every couple has arguments, I know that. Especially when children come along. Goodness knows, Magnus and I argued over Jude.

  But then I remembered something I hadn’t thought of until then. Not long after little Cressida was born, I came to spend a few days with Eloïse and the children while Loc
hlan went back to work in Edinburgh. She seemed to be coping rather admirably, until one night I came down and was surprised to find her sitting in the garden. It was January, far too cold to be outside in the middle of the night, and at first I thought she was up because of the baby. But Cressida was still asleep in the Moses basket. And Eloïse was acting rather oddly, now that I think about it. She was muttering as though carrying on a conversation, and reaching out to someone ahead of her, but there was no one else in the garden.

  ‘Eloïse,’ I said, throwing a blanket around her shoulders. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  She didn’t respond until I laid my hand on her arm. And then she snapped her head around. She didn’t look like herself. I don’t know how to explain it. It was Eloïse, of course, and it wasn’t that she was pulling any particular face. She simply looked unlike herself.

  After a moment or two she gave a little shiver and seemed to recognise me. I asked if she was all right. And what she said was every bit as odd as her appearance.

  Sometimes my life feels like it’s happening on the other side of a window.

  I didn’t ask her what she meant. We went inside and she got back into bed and in the morning everything was back to normal.

  But now – now, I wonder if I missed something at that moment. If there was something more to that night than I’d recognised at the time.

  And perhaps I’ll never know.

  25 March 2015

  Twickenham Police Station

  Lochlan: Magnus, Gerda and I have all prepared for today’s press conference by dressing defensively – both Magnus and Gerda wear similar pin-stripe shirts with silk navy scarves wound tightly around their throats and I find myself drawn to a gunmetal grey shirt with a black tie and chinos. My belt slips easily into a tighter notch – stress has made it difficult to eat and turned my guts to mush.

  Gerda’s blonde hair is hairsprayed and moussed to petrification, her lips slicked blood red and her mascara visible from a distance. Magnus has cut himself shaving in several spots and his lips are tight and thin. I would give anything for a drink.

  Sophie and Welsh show up in similar trouser suits, both of them looking official and authoritative. We all sit around the table and Sophie and Welsh talk us through the format of the press conference with calm, slow voices, as though they’re addressing a group of two-year-olds. I appreciate the slowness. It is still so daunting and unbelievable that we should be doing this. Several times Gerda has to ask Sophie to repeat herself.

  The format is this: at noon there will be a group of reporters from the national and local newspapers, TV and radio channels and a handful of web broadcasters who will gather in the conference room at Twickenham police station to disseminate information so that the public can be informed about the investigation.

  ‘I have a speech prepared,’ Magnus announces, pulling out his reading glasses with one hand and flicking open a sheaf of folded paper with the other. He begins to read, but Welsh cuts him off.

  ‘I think perhaps we should keep it quite concise.’

  ‘I want to address whoever was doing the spying,’ Magnus says angrily. ‘I’m her grandfather! I damn well raised her!’

  Sophie smiles and nods. ‘We need to be careful how we put our message across. Remember, everything you say is going to be recorded and picked apart. Naturally, you want to say that you are missing Eloïse terribly and we all want her home safe and—’

  ‘Of course I want that!’ Magnus pounds the arm of the chair with his fist. ‘That’s why I’ve written the speech!’ He begins to cough. Gerda rubs his back and urges him to take it easy. I notice he is shaking. Spit forms at the corner of his mouth and his ears are burning red.

  Welsh turns to me, emphatic. ‘We think it would be good if you take the lead in the conference, Lochlan. You’re her husband, so people will likely respond to any comments you have about Eloïse. The request for information has to have a solid human context. You might tell people how dedicated Eloïse was to her work, to her children. What she was like as a wife, as a friend. How long you’ve been married. That there are people out there who are desperately missing her and need her back.’

  Gerda clears her throat and throws a meaningful glance at Magnus.

  ‘We’d like to offer a reward for information. Magnus and I want to offer fifty thousand pounds to anyone who comes forward with anything that can lead us to Eloïse.’

  DS Welsh looks wary at this announcement, glancing at me for what I interpret as an intervention, but I don’t offer it. I’d happily give a kidney for information on El’s whereabouts.

  ‘I think we have to be careful with that kind of thing,’ she says. ‘We’ve found that it can absorb precious time and resources with frankly useless information.’

  ‘I thought it might inspire anyone who feels afraid or reluctant to come forward …’

  Welsh backpedals. ‘It might do that, but in the past it has tended to muddy the waters. Let’s put out the appeal for now. We’ll obviously assure viewers that all information will be held in strictest confidence.’ She glances at her watch. ‘I think it’s time to go. Are we ready?’

  We file out to the police car parked by the kerb. A constable pushes back a couple of haranguing reporters, but as we get inside the car, flash bulbs strobe off the glass and I imagine my face splashed across the middle pages of some right-wing newspaper, cadaverous and shaken.

  The press conference is held in an oppressive room with a low ceiling, blank walls and a large banner bearing the Metropolitan Police logo. A Crimestoppers banner declares the national phone number in black and white, a directive to TELL US WHAT YOU KNOW, NOT WHO YOU ARE emblazoned across the top. At the far end of the room there is a row of tables, six microphones and a jug of water. Gerda and Magnus seem frail and alien in this environment, both visibly anxious at the scene of thirty-odd strangers sitting a few feet away with camera lenses as long as my arm. The sight makes my own stomach churn. It suddenly feels less like making a plea for information than offering a plea for ‘not guilty’.

  Welsh reappears, her brown hair scraped back from her face and pulled into a tight bun. She has applied pale pink lipstick and blusher, her composure more authoritative than before. She gives me a firm nod.

  ‘Ready?’

  I say that I am, but as I go to walk up the room towards the table, Sophie waves me back. I tell Gerda and Magnus to go ahead and they follow Welsh, glancing at me with concern.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask Sophie.

  She seems out of breath. ‘The police have located the person who was registered for the IP address associated with the baby monitors. That’s where DS Canavan is now. He’s about to make an arrest.’

  She signals someone behind me, and I turn to see Welsh motioning me to join them at the tables. The news that Canavan is about to arrest whoever was spying on my family for the last two years sends my heart racing and a cloak of ice descends on my shoulders. I ask Sophie if I can go with her, if I can make my way to wherever Canavan is and find out who he’s arresting, but even as I’m spilling out my plea someone is pulling at me and telling me I have to go, I have to go and talk to the press conference about my wife.

  In a daze, I take my place beside Welsh and watch Sophie disappear through a door. This all feels like a parallel universe. Like this is happening to someone else.

  Welsh remains standing and addresses the crowd over a whirr of clicking shutters and fuzzy-headed microphones.

  ‘Thank you all for coming to the press conference here at Twickenham police station. We are here in relation to the disappearance of thirty-seven-year-old Eloïse Shelley, who some of you may know as founder and former CEO of Children of War, a charity for refugee children. Others amongst you may recall her as a public speaker, media broadcaster, a passionate advocate for equality and human rights.’

  Welsh nods at someone at the far end of the room, and suddenly an image flicks up on the white screen behind us. We all turn to see a projection of Eloïse on t
he seat of a morning TV programme, mid-sentence. She looks great. Her hair is finely tonged into loose tumbling curls, and she wears a white jacket and matching skirt. She clasps her hands and crosses her feet at the ankles to one side as she chats with the TV host.

  … well, to anyone who still feels as though migrants should be treated like second-class citizens in this country, I say – we’re all of us human. We are all of us the same underneath our class, whatever language we speak or whatever accent we have, the clothes we wear and the car we drive. If we happen to drive a car at all. There are two hundred thousand children under the age of fourteen in this country who will not sleep in a bed tonight. They’ll sleep on the cold hard ground outside, whether it’s raining or snowing. Not only that, but we know that eighty per cent of children without a home will be subjected to sexual or physical violence. That’s unacceptable. Think of how this experience affects them for the rest of their lives. If and when they are granted citizenship, the terrible damage is already done. We have a duty, a responsibility, to protect them. We have to remember that politics is only about labels, about barriers. We’re all of us the same …

  The footage cuts out as she’s warming up and beginning to talk with her hands in that way she does when she’s passionate about something. When I turn back to see the glow of the projector overhead, I see that Eloïse is all over me, her image caught on my sleeves and chest, as though I’m wearing her.

  The screen goes blank and Welsh continues her speech: ‘People who know Eloïse describe her as loving and kind, the sort of person who would give a stranger the shirt off her back or the last coin in her purse. But beyond her roles as activist and CEO, she was also a loving wife and mother of two very small children. Max is only four years old, not yet at school, and her baby girl, Cressida, barely three months old. Both of them miss and need her greatly, so this request to the general public for information about her whereabouts is very urgent.’