Misplaced

by Murray, Lee

  Dad’s already on the phone. Adam listens in while he stacks the cups in the dishwasher.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Wynn. Is Tiff there with you, by any chance? She left her phone behind... Well, she did say she was going out, only Adam and I have forgotten where. Couple of duffers, aren’t we?’ Dad’s laugh is full of false humour.

  ‘... I wondered if she might have popped in to yours on the way home from her meeting? I thought I’d ring and remind her to bring home some milk, that’s all. Oh, is it? I didn’t realise it was after ten. No, of course she won’t drop in at this hour, she’ll come straight home. We’ll just have to do without milk at breakfast tomorrow... Really? UHT? Okay, well, I’ll remember that, Wynn. Uh-huh. Sorry to call you so late... Yes, you too. ‘Night, Wynn.’

  When he gets off the phone, Dad doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t put the phone back on the charger either; instead, he carries it through to the lounge. Adam follows behind. Dad switches on the telly, and the two of them watch a police drama about a case gone cold years ago. The story’s a bit grim and there are almost no clues, but the pretty detective keeps going back and looking over the evidence again and again.

  Adam notices that Dad is looking at his watch again and again too, each time rubbing an imaginary smudge on his wrist. Adam wishes he would cut it out. The fidgeting’s getting on his nerves.

  ‘Adam, will you quit shaking your knee? It’s driving me crazy!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  At last, the pretty detective solves the case and apprehends the bad guy. The title music plays and narrow-font credits roll across the screen so quickly they’re impossible to read. Adam can hardly believe only an hour has passed. It’s after eleven.

  ‘What are we going to do, Dad?’

  ‘I don’t know, son. I’d better give Maria a call. What’s the number, do you know?’

  ‘It’ll be on Mum’s cell.’ Pleased to have something to do, Adam whips through to the kitchen and comes back with Mum’s phone. He scrolls through the address book to the M’s, then holds the display up for Dad, who punches in the number of Mum’s best friend.

  Leaning back in his armchair, the phone to his ear, Dad uses his visitor voice, although Adam can’t imagine why as they’ve known Maria as long as Adam can remember. ‘Not there?’

  ‘Maria hasn’t spoken to her either.’

  ‘I checked the messages on Mum’s cell. There’s nothing to say where she might’ve gone. It’s nearly midnight. She’s never out this late.’

  ‘Let’s not panic, okay? She’s only been gone a couple of hours.’ Dad pulls at his ear.

  Adam balls his fists, says quietly: ‘Six, Dad. She’s been gone six hours.’

  That’s when the phone rings, startling them both. A wave of relief passes over Dad’s face. ‘Thank God! That’ll be her now... Hello, Tiff?’

  But it’s clear from Dad’s tone the caller isn’t Mum. He’s switched to the voice he reserves for the time wasters who spend half the afternoon strolling around the car yard asking questions, helping themselves to coffee, messing up the brochures, with no intention of buying a car. And he’s pulling at his earlobe again. After a while, Dad ends the call. He shakes his head in disbelief.

  ‘That was Mrs Steele from across the road and one over. She saw our light still on and wondered if your Mum was home yet. Very concerned, she is.’ Dad does a pretty close impersonation of Mrs Steele’s old-lady voice: quavery with a dose of syrup. A giggle bubbles up inside Adam, but he pushes it down. ‘Nosy old biddy!’ Dad grumbles. ‘I couldn’t get her to get off the line. How is your mother supposed to contact us when she’s blabbering away, I ask you?’

  ‘Dad...’

  ‘It’s okay, Adam. I’m calling the police now.’

  Chapter 4

  Adam wakes, his head in a fug and his neck stiff from lying across the armrest. His eyeballs feel like they’ve been thoroughly sandblasted. He blinks and blinks again. Slumped opposite in his armchair, one leg thrown over the armrest, Dad’s awake too.

  ‘Adam, mate, go upstairs to bed. Get some decent sleep,’ he encourages. ‘I’ll wake you as soon as I hear from Mum.’

  Adam shakes his head. ‘Not sleepy.’

  Actually, he’s wasted, but there’s no way he can go back to sleep. Too much nervous energy. Reminds him of the Christmas Eve he forced himself to stay awake to confirm the existence of Father Christmas. The daring plot filled six-year-old Adam with a heady mix of anticipation and dread: he desperately wanted to catch the big guy in the act, but he knew if he did, he wouldn’t get any presents. Funny, all these years later here he is again, up half the night straining for the sound of bells ringing. Anyway, Dad can’t talk: from the looks of him, he hasn’t slept any more than Adam. Smudges under his eyes suggest a pre-teen attack with an eye-liner, and he hasn’t shaved yet. Sitting up, Adam tips his head to his right shoulder and gives his neck a rub.

  Around three last night, Dad had gone out for an hour or two. He’d driven along the road to the dairy and back, then there and back again, and once again but slower this time, and finally he’d simply driven around and around looking for Mum while Adam had waited at home. Adam had passed the time watching TV, channel surfing between two naff old films he’d probably already seen six times each, but he couldn’t sit still; instead pacing back and forth in front of the screen in an effort to burn off his anxiety. When the films were over, Dad was still out, so he’d gone upstairs and tried to kill half an hour playing Morterain’s Curse. But it was useless, his heart just wasn’t in it. He kept thinking about Mum and where she might be. Had she said something to Adam about where she was going tonight? Something he’d missed? His mind fizzed, synapses all searching for the snippet of information that would tell him where she had got to. Frustrated, he’d come back downstairs and made himself a cup of tea—black—which he drank in the dark. Afterwards, he stood at the lounge window staring out into the empty street, gathering moss. Eventually, Dad came home and took over Adam’s vigil at the window. Adam had dozed on the sofa, but it can’t have been for long, maybe an hour. Long enough to get a stiff neck, anyway. He reaches for his phone and checks his text messages for the millionth time.

  Still nothing.

  Pale grey light filters in through the open curtains. Yawning, Adam gazes out to the street. Over the road, their neighbour starts out on his morning run. His t-shirt declares him a marathon finisher, and he’s wearing compression pants Adam wouldn’t be seen dead in. Explains why Beckett runs so early. A car passes, the driver gives Beckett a wave. The neighbourhood is coming to life. Mum has stayed out all night.

  ‘Where is she?’ Adam whispers into the room.

  ‘I don’t know, son.’

  They wait until 7:00am before contacting the police again. A major pile-up on State Highway 2 during the night meant they hadn’t come out to the house last night as all available officers had been diverted to the accident site, but, in any case, the officer on duty says it’s too early for Dad and Adam to be alarmed. People go AWOL all the time, he says, and it doesn’t necessarily mean anything untoward has happened. Besides, Mrs Creighton is an adult and probably quite capable of looking after herself. The officer confirms someone will be out to take Mrs Creighton’s details later today, although he can’t specify exactly when.

  ‘They’ll send someone out as soon as they can,’ Dad murmurs. Using a bus wiper motion, he scrubs at his eyes with his fingers. ‘I better call the school,’ he says from behind his hands. But in the end, Adam phones the school attendance line himself because Dad is busy on his cell telling Marilyn that she and Kev will have to handle things at the yard and to call in Jim Winiata, who does the Sunday shift, if things get too pushed.

  ‘We should probably ring Gran, too,’ Adam suggests, giving his head a good scratch where it was squashed against the sofa.

  Dad sighs heavily. ‘Maybe later, eh? Give me a chance to get cleaned up first.’ He trudges upstairs to take the first shower.

  Adam goes through
to the kitchen. Tries to pretend it’s a day like any other. He switches on the radio: ‘Two people are dead and another four are in critical condition after a three-vehicle collision on State Highway 2 outside Te Puna last night. Motorists should expect long delays...’ Adam opens the pantry, selects a sachet of his favourite porridge—apple and sultana—and is about to cut it open when he remembers they’re out of milk. Instead, he slips two slices of bread in the toaster. He fills the kettle, turns it on and gets two cups out of the cupboard, spooning coffee into each. Adam pushes the toaster down a second time, then takes the cheese out of the fridge, pulls back the plastic wrapper and cuts himself a couple of slices. It’s gone a bit crumbly. Adam brushes the flakes onto the floor. His toast pops. Adam butters it, tops it with cheese. He licks a smear of butter off his fingers. On the radio, Katy Perry is kissing a girl and liking it.

  The phone! Adam grabs it.

  ‘Hello?’ His heart thuds.

  ‘Hello, Adam.’ It’s Gran. Adam chokes back the fur ball in his throat. They should have called her earlier. ‘Can I speak to Mum please, love? I need to ask her if she’s planning on seeing Grandpa today.’

  Adam splutters. ‘She can’t. You can’t.’

  ‘She still in the shower? Ask her to call me back in ten minutes, will you?’

  ‘She’s not in the shower.’

  ‘Well, can I speak to her, please?’ Gran demands.

  ‘No. She’s not here.’

  ‘Not there? She’s out early. What time are you expecting her back?’

  The words tumble out. ‘We don’t know. She hasn’t been home. She didn’t come home all last night. We don’t know where she is.’ Then, his eye on the stairs in the hope Dad might miraculously appear to save him from the task, Adam tells Gran everything. Boy, does she get her knickers in a twist when she realises Dad deliberately kept her out of the loop. Unspeakable, is how she describes it. Unfortunately, it doesn’t apply to Gran, who has plenty to say on the matter. It occurs to Adam that Gran is way more furious than she should be. So they didn’t tell her straight away that Mum was missing, at least their intentions had been noble.

  ‘But Gran, there wasn’t anything anyone could’ve done in the middle of night,’ Adam insists. ‘We didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘That’s no excuse.’

  ‘We didn’t think...’

  ‘Clearly not!’ On airwaves, the guys from Nickelback tell Adam to keep breathing.

  ‘We’ve called everyone on the neighbourhood watch list,’ Adam says.

  ‘Maria?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Aunty Mandy?’ Over the phone, Gran’s voice rises to a crescendo. Adam flinches. They should have called her before.

  ‘No, not yet. We called the police, though. They’re going to send someone this morning.’

  ‘I’m coming over.’ A statement. Gran’s about to embark on a crusade.

  ‘But, Gran, what if Mum calls or turns up at your place?’ Adam says quickly. ‘Don’t you think it would be better for you to stay at home? Mum’s just as likely to contact you.’ Luckily, common sense prevails. Gran goes on a bit, still angry that Dad lied to her, but finally agrees to stay at home if Adam promises to call the minute—the minute, mind—there’s any news.

  Relieved to have the conversation over, Adam carries the remains of his toast through to the kitchen. He’s left the cheese unwrapped on the bench. Drying out, the cut end is waxing yellow. Adam reseals the packet, but it’s probably too late to stop it cracking.

  Chapter 5

  Adam is upstairs brushing his teeth when the police arrive at 9:00am. At the sound of the doorbell, he spits into the sink and, without rinsing the bowl, charges downstairs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Dad gets to the door first, allowing access to a pair of police officers and a gust of cold air. Adam wonders if detectives always come in twos, like girls going to the toilets. Dad shows them in to the lounge.

  ‘Mr Creighton, I’m Detective Brian Pūriri, and this is our Family Liaison Officer, Wendy Gordon.’

  Dad is nodding away like one of those novelty dogs you see on the back shelf of old ladies’ cars. ‘Thank you both for coming. This is my son, Adam. Adam was the last to see my wife yesterday afternoon. We’re both pretty worried now. This isn’t like Tiffany at all. In fact, it’s completely out of character. The dinner was on and everything. Oh, I’m sorry, please take a seat.’

  A pleasant-faced woman with a reassuring smile, Constable Gordon takes off her cap, revealing a bob of disorderly curls. Tucking the hat under her arm and her hair behind her ear, she accepts a place on the sofa. Her partner, probably in his forties, is an old-school gentleman: he avoids creasing his regulation trousers with a fingertip hitch of the fabric at his thighs. As sturdy as the tree he’s named after, Pūriri dwarfs Dad’s armchair. And from the bulk of his shoulders and the messed up shape of his ears, Adam guesses the detective played tight-head prop at one time or another. There’s a solidness about him that Adam finds comforting. Dad’s armchair groans as Detective Pūriri leans his weight forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

  ‘First of all,’ Pūriri says evenly, ‘I want you both to know that most missing persons turn up of their own accord after a day or two. More often than not, they don’t even realise people are looking for them. And in this case, since the person involved isn’t a minor, there’s no reason to presume she’s at serious risk. We’ll take Mrs Creighton’s details, make out a report, see if anyone has seen her. Have you checked all the places she’s likely to have gone? What about her work? Perhaps she’s turned up there?’

  ‘She doesn’t work,’ Adam cuts in from where he is perched on the window ledge, his back to the street.

  ‘Tiff does the books for the car yard,’ Dad corrects him.

  ‘What about friends, family members? Have you checked with them?’

  Dad rubs his chin. ‘We called some last night, but we could call them all again. Make sure we haven’t missed anyone.’

  ‘Anyone out of town she might have gone to visit?’

  This time Adam answers, ‘No, but you know what, Dad, she might’ve dropped in to see Grandpa. I could call the rest home.’

  ‘Good thinking, son.’

  ‘It would be a big help if you could make a list of the places Mrs Creighton goes regularly, places where people would recognise her, and give them a call too. Like the gym or her favourite coffee shop. Someone might remember seeing her recently,’ Constable Gordon suggests. Adam notices her voice is smooth and calm, completely at odds with her hair.

  ‘Mr Creighton, when you reported your wife missing, you said she left the house on foot. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. She told Adam she was ducking out to get some milk. There was no point taking the car because the dairy is just up the road. Tiff usually walks there for little things she’s forgotten like bread and stuff.’

  ‘Well, since she left the house on foot, it seems unlikely she’s been in an accident, but we’ll contact hospital admissions, see if she’s been admitted overnight,’ Pūriri says. Taking a small notebook and an even smaller pencil stub from his breast pocket, he flips over the first few pages and makes a note, using his thigh to press against.

  ‘Should we go out and look for her?’ Adam asks.

  ‘It’d probably be best if someone stays home,’ Constable Gordon advises. ‘At least for today. Mrs Creighton might call to let you know where she is.’

  Pūriri clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but is there any family trouble? Anything she might have been upset about?’

  Dad sits upright. ‘No, of course not. Why would you suggest that?’

  ‘Oh, sometimes if they’re a bit down about something, people can go off by themselves for a bit of breathing space. It happens quite a lot, actually. And because they’re depressed or upset, they forget that other people might be worried.’

  ‘Well, there’s been no trouble here,’ Dad says. He looks at Adam an
d raises his eyebrows. ‘Adam?’

  Adam shakes his head, shrugs. ‘No, she seemed fine to me.’

  ‘Okay, good. We have to ask.’

  ‘Sure.’

  They complete the paperwork, filling in Mum’s details: height, weight, physical description and a list of medications. Dad goes upstairs to dig out a photo while Adam tells the officers what Mum had been wearing yesterday and what she’d said before leaving.

  ‘We’ll drop in to the dairy and talk to the proprietor on our way back to the station,’ Pūriri says, tucking his notebook back in his breast pocket as he stands up to leave. ‘Determine whether or not Mrs Creighton did pop in before they closed up.’

  When he closes the door quietly behind Detective Pūriri and Constable Gordon, it’s just after ten o’clock in the morning on the longest day of Adam’s life.

  Chapter 6

  10:15am. Adam calls Resthaven and speaks to the Centre Manager, Mrs Kirkham. He can hear her flick through the leather-bound guestbook that sits on the desk at reception. Mrs Creighton did pop in for half an hour on Tuesday afternoon, she says. No sign of her yesterday or today, though. Mrs Creighton’s name is not on the sign-in page, and she’s usually very conscientious about signing in and out. Mrs Kirkham suggests speaking to Mr Norcliff after this morning’s bowling activity, but Adam tells her not to bother.

  Most days, Grandpa thinks there’s still a war on.

  10:24am. Adam contacts Mum’s friend, Maria. She tells Adam she hasn’t seen Mum for a couple of days, although she insists that was her doing. They normally walk around the boardwalk on Wednesday mornings, but yesterday Maria left a message explaining she was stuffed up with a head cold and didn’t feel up to it. Adam doesn’t think she sounds too sick at all, but he doesn’t say so, just asks Maria to call him back if she hears from Mum.