by Amy Cross
“What was that?” Irene calls out.
“Nothing, nothing,” Doris grumbles, before placing a swollen, arthritic hand on my arm. “You're a lifesaver, my dear. You must stay for tea.”
“Actually,” I reply, “I think I should be getting back to my place so I can get some sleep. Thank you for the kind offer, but I have to be up at half five for work and -”
“Lovely, lovely,” she continues, steering me through to the front room, where Irene is still adjusting herself in the chair. “You young women are always so busy. When I was your age, life was so much simpler. I mean, I had a job, sure, but at least I wasn't up and about at all hours of the night.”
“Well, I'm only up because -”
“Who's this?” Irene says suddenly, her voice much louder than necessary. “Why's there a strange woman in our flat?”
“This is the young lady who helped me get in!” Doris shouts back at her. “It's thanks to her that I'm not freezing to death out there!”
“You should've taken a key!”
“The key was in here!”
“What were you doing out there at three in the morning anyway?”
“I might just go,” I tell them, hoping against hope that I can politely extricate myself from this situation. “Thank you again for the offer of tea, but -”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” Doris says, shuffling over and grabbing my arm again. Her hand looks so swollen, I can't believe she's not in excruciating pain. “You've been living in number fifteen for, what, six months now? And we've never once had a nice sit-down. So many people are anonymous in this day and age, but it doesn't make people any happier, does it?” She guides me to a chair next to her sister, and I have no choice but to take a seat. “You live alone, don't you dear? Why does a pretty young thing live all alone, eh? You should have a husband by now, and children.”
“Why don't you have children?” Irene asks loudly, eyeing me with a certain degree of suspicion. “Can't you?”
“Well, I -”
“You've got good genes!” Irene continues. “You look like you do, anyway! You oughta pass them on, or what's the point of anything?”
“That's definitely one way of looking at things,” I reply, hoping that I can shift the subject at some point soon.
Very soon.
“I've got knotted ovaries,” she adds, nodding sagely. “That's why I couldn't have any. And Doris tried, but they all came out as water.”
“Right,” I reply, really not quite understanding what she means. “Um...”
“But it's not too late for you!” Irene says, leaning over and prodding my knee with a hard, bony finger. In fact, she prods me so hard, it actually hurts a little. “You need a man, though. Don't go using these test tubes they're bandying about all the time. You get yourself a man and get him to do his business. That's what they're for, you know. Men need to play their part!”
“Well,” I reply, trying not to blush, “I don't know what's in my future, but you never know.”
“Hmm.” Clearly not satisfied by my response, Irene leans back in her chair while keeping her eyes fixed on me.
I look down at my feet, listening to the sound of Doris making tea in the kitchen, but I'm keenly aware that Irene is still staring at me. This whole situation is extremely uncomfortable, and I desperately want to go back to my apartment and get some sleep, but I think I'm going to have to sit here for at least one cup of tea. Finally, after studying my hands for a couple of minutes, I glance at Irene and smile, although she's still just furrowing her brow at me, almost as if she can't quite work out what I am.
“I can't stay too long,” I tell her. “I really need to get some sleep before work in the morning. So really, I should get going soon. I just -”
Before I can get another word out, I hear a bumping sound nearby. I turn, just in time to see a door opening, and a moment later a third woman comes shuffling out. She's about the same age as the first two, but her eyes are completely white and it's clear – from the way she's fumbling through the doorway – that she's completely blind.
“What's going on out here?” she asks, sounding distinctly unimpressed. “It's the middle of the night! Why are you waking me up with all this kerfuffle?”
“And this is my other sister Eleanor,” Doris says, coming through from the kitchen. “The third triplet!”
Chapter Twelve
Stepping out into the bright morning sunshine, I swear I feel as if I'm going to just keel over and go to sleep right here on the pavement.
I did eventually manage to get out of the triplets' apartment, but not until five in the morning, by which point there was really no point going back to bed for just half an hour. My eyes are sore from lack of sleep and I feel as if thin, invisible strands are pulling on my body, trying to drag me down to the ground. Frankly, I'd love nothing more than to call in sick and go back to bed, and curl up for the rest of the day, but I know there are people at the office who really need me this morning.
Besides, I'm at least half an hour early for the train, so I can grab a coffee near the office and try to wake up a little more fully.
Just as I check my phone and see that Chrissie still hasn't called, however, I realize I can hear voices nearby. Glancing toward the base of the empty office block, I see that two men are talking at the rear of a van. The men are wearing uniforms, and the van has a large sign on the side advertising the name of a security firm. After a moment, the men high-five and one of them heads into the building, while the other wanders out into a patch of sunlight and then stops to look at his phone.
I know I should just hurry to the tube station, but curiosity gets the better of me and instead I make my way over toward the van.
“Hi,” I say as I get closer, “I'm sorry, but could I ask you a question?”
When he turns to me, I see that the man is younger than I'd anticipated, and that he has a kind of cute, clean-shaven appearance with large dark eyes and a natural smile.
“You're a security guard, right?” I continue, even though I'm already starting to think this was a mistake. “Were you working in this place last night?”
He turns and glances up at the abandoned office block, before turning back to me again.
“Yes, M'am,” he says cautiously. “I was on patrol from nine until about fifteen minutes ago. Why do you ask? If there's a problem, you can -”
“Were you upstairs last night?” I ask. “Maybe on level nine or ten or eleven, around 9pm?”
“Upstairs?” He shakes his head. “No, M'am, we keep the upper levels strictly off-limits. We'd only go up there if we had cause to believe there was an intruder. Otherwise, the doors to the stairwells are all secured and we just patrol the foyer and the ground level, to make sure no-one's trying to get inside.”
“Right.” Looking up at the building, I have to shield my eyes as sunlight glints against the windows. “It's just that I live in Parker House opposite, and I swear I saw someone in one of the offices at around nine last night.”
“Impossible.”
“I was just -”
“Impossible,” he says again, with absolute conviction. “I was on duty here myself last night, M'am, and I can assure you that nobody, and I mean nobody, came into that building without my knowledge. I'm sorry, but I pride myself on my work, and I would take any suggestion of an intrusion extremely seriously.”
I turn to him. “Oh, I'm not trying to suggest that -”
“I'm good at my job,” he continues, and now he's staring at me very intensely, as if he's offended by the fact that I'm even asking about the building. “I'm not the kind of guy who shows up and spends his shift playing with his phone, counting the hours until he can head home. Absolutely not. The company requires us to patrol the ground floor once every two hours.”
“I'm -”
“Do you know how many times I patrol?”
“No, but -”
“Ask me.”
“I really -”
“Ask me.”
“Once every thirty minutes, M'am,” he replies quickly, and it's clear that he's proud of this record. “That's four times more often than I'm required to do, and do you know why I patrol so frequently?”
“Because you like your job?”
“Because I would take it as a personal failing if anybody ever broke into this building. I would take it as a stain on my character, and I would immediately quit this job and take stock of my worth as a human being. Do you know why I'd do that, M'am? I'll tell you why. It's because I believe that when a man, or a woman for that matter, is hired to do a job, it is their responsibility to do that job to the absolute best of their abilities. And that applies whatever they're doing, even if it's just watching a derelict office building. Maybe that seems strange to you, but it's just the kind of man I am.”
“So there was nobody else in there last night, then,” I reply tentatively.
“There was not, M'am.”
“Well,” I continue, taking a step back and forcing a smile, “I'm sorry to have bothered you. I really was just wondering, that's all.”
“Wonder no more.”
“Absolutely.” I pause for a moment, but it's abundantly clear that this guy is not going to take kindly to any further questions. In fact, just by asking whether somebody might have been on one of the building's higher floors, I seem to have impugned his honor. Clearly he takes his job very, very seriously. “I'll just be off, then.”
“Have a nice day, M'am.”
As I hurry toward the tube station, I can't help glancing over my shoulder and seeing that the security guard is still outside the building. In fact, although it's difficult to tell from this distance, I think he might even be standing and watching me. I can't help feeling a little freaked out, and it's not until I get around the next corner that I finally manage to relax.
And then I stop for a moment, before peering back around the side of the building and seeing that he's still there.
I pull back.
Okay, so that guy is pretty intense, and frankly I don't know if he'd even tell me if there had been somebody in the building. I mean, it's one thing to be proud of your job and to have a good work ethic, but it's another thing entirely to be so completely unwilling to admit that maybe somebody might have slipped past you. Still, I guess it's possible that I was mistaken last night, and that the supposed figure in one of those windows really was just a trick of the light.
I wait for a few more seconds, before slowly peering around the corner again.
The guard is still there, still standing outside the building, although at least this time he looks to be fiddling with his phone.
And then I spot a second figure.
Farther off, maybe two or three hundred meters beyond the abandoned office building, someone is standing on the crest of the hill that leads to the parkway. Silhouetted against the morning sky, the figure looks to be holding something up against his face, and from this distance it sure seems as if he's aiming a camera this way. I watch the figure for a moment, telling myself that I'm wrong and that I'm really just letting my paranoid fears get the better of me, but I swear that even from this distance, the figure looks very much like the guy who was filming the restaurant over lunch yesterday.
Pulling back, I lean against the wall and try to get my racing thoughts in order. I'm on the verge of cracking up, and I need to stay focused, so I take my phone from my pocket and bring up Chrissie's number again. Soon it'll be twenty-four hours since I last spoke to her, and I really need to at least hear her voice so that I know she's okay. As I'm put straight through to voicemail again, I peer around the corner, and at least this time the silhouetted figure in the distance has disappeared.
It was just some random guy.
I need to get a grip.
Chapter Thirteen
“I wouldn't say you're overreacting at all,” Doug replies from the other side of the wall that divides our two cubicles. The top of his bald head is just about poking into view. “If you haven't heard from your friend by lunchtime, that means she's been missing for twenty-four hours. You have to go back to the police.”
“I asked some of her other friends,” I tell him, “and they haven't heard from her either. Then again, that's not necessarily a bad sign. Chrissie can be a little flighty sometimes.”
“Stick to your instincts,” he continues. “If your gut tells you that something's wrong, then you owe it to your friend, and to yourself, to act. I'm sure nothing's wrong and your friend's just being irresponsible, but there's a chance it's more serious. Go back to the police station, and this time don't let them fob you off.”
“You're right,” I reply, even though the thought of officially reporting Chrissie missing is enough to tighten a knot of fear in my chest. “I'm going to have to do it, aren't I? I'm -”
Before I can finish, I see that the piece of tape has been removed from the top of my monitor, leaving my webcam's lens once more in the open. The red light isn't on, but the dark lens is staring straight at me.
“Hey Doug,” I say cautiously, “did you take the tape off my camera?”
“Huh?”
Opening the top drawer in my desk, I find that the roll of duct tape is missing too.
“What's up?” Doug asks, wheeling himself around the divide. “Did you decide you don't mind being looked at after all?”
Tapping to bring up the video software, I feel a faint shiver pass through my chest as soon as I see a window on the screen showing the image from the camera. I stare at myself, and once again I can't help wondering whether someone somewhere might also be seeing the exact same video feed. I look nervous, and Doug's in the shot too, leaning toward my shoulder and peering into the camera.
“Well, the light's off,” he points out, “which means it's not recording. That stuff's part of the hard-wire, there's no hacker in the world who could bypass the red light.”
“Are you sure?”
“Maybe the NSA or GCHQ,” he continues, “or the Russians, but only if you'd done something to really, really get their attention. I've always had you pegged as a quiet, honest girl. You're not into anything dodgy, Jess, are you?”
“Of course not,” I reply, before tearing a square of paper from the back of a magazine and using some ordinary Sellotape to stick it over the camera. The result is pretty crude, and far more noticeable than a simple piece of black duct tape, but I figure it'll do for now, and I can sort out a more permanent solution later. “I left it covered up when I finished last night,” I point out. “Who would've come along and taken the tape away?”
“Maybe your stalker did it,” he suggests with a laugh, as he wheels himself back into his cubicle. “Sorry, that wasn't very funny, was it? I'm sure it's nothing. Just like your missing friend.”
***
“And what's her full name?”
“I already told the other officer all the details,” I reply, trying not to sound too impatient. “I was here yesterday evening, and he told me to come back today if I still hadn't heard from her.” I look over at one of the shelves next to the desk. “He put the form right there.”
Sighing, the officer – an older man than the guy I spoke to yesterday, with a large belly and graying hair – takes some papers from the shelf and looks through them.
“There's nothing here about your friend,” he mutters finally, “and I already told you she wasn't entered into the system, so -”
“His name was Davison,” I continue. “Officer Davison. Can't you just get him to come and talk to me?”
“I don't know anyone by that name.”
“I was here yesterday!”
“So you keep saying, Miss Cassidy, but there's no record of your visit so I'm afraid we're going to have to start from the beginning. There's nothing I can do about that, so why don't we try to control our temper a little, and then I can take the necessary details.”
“So I have to start at the beginning?”
“When did you last see your friend?”
“At about twenty to one yesterday.”
He checks his watch. “That was twenty-three hours ago exactly.”
“And I've left -”
“You need to come back when she's been missing for twenty-four hours.”
“I just queued for thirty minutes to -”
“You need to come back when she's been missing for twenty-four hours,” he says again, setting the new forms back on the shelf and making it very clear that he thinks we're done here. “I'm sure your friend will turn up just fine and dandy. Is she a drinker?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
He sniffs. “Maybe she had a heavy night. Maybe she's passed out somewhere in some random guy's bed.”
“Excuse me?”
“Twenty-four hours isn't a very long time for someone to be out of touch. If you want my advice, you'll go home and try to take your mind off things, and wait for your pal to give you a ring. She'll probably call tonight and have a long story to tell, and then you'll be able to laugh about the whole sorry mess. And believe me, that advice comes from years of experience at this desk. Your friend's gonna be just fine.”
“And if she's not fine?” I ask, barely able to believe that he's being so casual about the whole thing. “What if something's happened to her?”
“In broad daylight in the middle of London? I doubt that very much.”
“Well, thank you,” I reply, taking a step back. “You've been absolutely no help at all, but then I guess you already know that. And if Chrissie isn't back by this evening, I'll come and speak to someone else, and I'll make sure that everyone knows that you turned me away like this.”
“That's your prerogative, M'am.”
Once I'm outside, I have to stop for a moment and try to get my thoughts together. I desperately want to believe that the officer is right, and that Chrissie's just being irresponsible and carefree, but I can't shake this nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that something is seriously wrong. As I start making my way along the street, can't help thinking about all the terrible things that might have happened to her, and when I stop to cross the road I feel as if maybe I should take the afternoon off work and go check out a few places, just to see if she's in one of her favorite haunts.