by Terri George
Even more frightening than Jensen’s violent outbursts is his total lack of remorse about what he’s done. And doing. Psychopath and sociopath in one.
Most terrifying of all is, if Jensen can push his own mother down the stairs, he’s not going to think twice about getting rid of me.
Chapter Six
ABBEY
JOURNAL ENTRY FIVE
I was surprised he didn’t lock me in the back bedroom as he usually does when he goes upstairs for any length of time, but he was back within a minute, two at the most.
There was something about his sure and steady look when he came back into the living room. A smugness to his smirk: cocky, confident. The look of someone who knew he had got away with something. Or was going to.
I’d been concentrating on his face and it was only when he pulled me close that I realised he was holding my phone…
I should have tried harder to look happy, but I just couldn’t. You could see the fear in my eyes in first photo he took.
He grabbed the nape of my neck, fingertips digging in, pinching the flesh. “Smile you bitch. Unless you want me to bend you over the kitchen table again. And this time I won’t be so gentle.”
So, I smiled, and he took another photo.
Happy with the result, he twisted my head round so we were face to face. Careful to lean his head away from the camera he crushed his lips against mine.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to gag as he shoved his tongue in my mouth.
If it was true he just wanted the photos for posterity like he said, why did he use my phone? Does he think I’m still idiot enough to fall for that? What’s that old saying about fool me once? I’m not the same naïve girl who came to this country looking for love. I know what he wanted them for. And what that means, for me.
A girl who’s smiling and kissing a man isn’t missing, just AWOL. No one will come looking for me now.
Except, maybe, Cristina. My only hope.
Chapter Seven
CRISTINA
“Hey, Cristina,” Steve calls across the office. “We’re off down the pub. You coming for a farewell drink?”
Oh, so word of me taking time off has spread then. “No. I can’t.”
“Got a better offer, have you? A new bloke you haven’t told us about.”
“If I had I wouldn’t tell you. But no. I’ve just got things to do.”
That’s half true, I do. But the truth is, I just can’t face going down the pub with the lads. It’s been hard enough keeping up the pretence that everything’s fine in the office, I can’t fake it down the pub too, behaving as if nothing’s wrong while Abbey’s missing. Especially after having met with her boss at lunchtime.
Penny’s eyes grew wide and she drew in a sharp breath, releasing it in a shaky exhale when I told her my suspicion that Abbey hadn’t come home because she can’t.
“I don’t know why I’m so shocked,” she said after a moment. “We all knew why Abbey went to America, but we expected her to come back. And when she didn’t… Well it’s just so out of character. She wouldn’t not return without any explanation.”
Steve sidles over, followed by Nathan. “So you’re going on holiday. Three weeks, I heard. How’d you swing that? I thought it was company policy you can’t take more than two at a time.”
It is, but luckily for me I have a very understanding boss.
I was up front and honest with him, explaining exactly why I needed time off, which is why he agreed I can take three weeks paid holiday, and if I need more time it’ll be classed as unpaid leave. Although his understanding only goes so far. Two months is the absolute limit. After that, just as Penny will, he’ll have to look for a replacement. They’re both being incredibly generous, and, apart from obviously hoping we find Abbey fast, I can’t afford to not be earning for longer than that because this trip is going to eat money.
“Timing. I asked when I knew Keith was in a good mood.”
“Yeah, nice try, but I’m not buying it. When I wanted three weeks off to visit rellies in Oz he shot me down flat. What did you really have to do to get it?” The licentious look in Steve’s eyes and dirty grin are typical of him.
“You’re such a tosser.”
“Oh, how we’ll miss your sparkling wit, Caputo. Right, Nathan, the Phoenix is calling.” Steve walks off, adding, “Have fun on your hols.” over his shoulder before reaching the door and realising Nathan isn’t following. “Come on, Nathan. First round’s on you.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Nathan says back to him before looking at me. “I haven’t said anything, and I won’t. I didn’t think you’d want where you’re going and why to be common knowledge.”
Cute, doable and thoughtful. I’m seeing Nathan in a whole new light. “Thanks.”
“No worries. Good luck. I hope you find Abbey.”
***
I don’t know why people say dogs are more affectionate than cats. Probably because when you come home after being at work all day a dog will jump and bark and make such a tremendous fuss, getting over excited and pee on the carpet. Whereas a cat will glance up from its comfy spot on the sofa and look at you as if to say, ‘I see you deigned to come home then. About time, I’m starving.’
Cats are just more independent than dogs. They’re affectionate, just on their terms, when they want to be. And they’re every bit as funny.
Hours of amusement were had courtesy of Milù when she first arrived. The mum of one of Abbey’s co-workers runs a cat sanctuary and was desperate to find a home for the little black ball of fluff that had been abandoned by its feral mother. She did ask me first, and how could I have refused? I knew heart-as-big-as-the-world Abbey would be heartbroken if I said no. Which is why the tastefully redecorated sitting room is adorned with cat toys and a multi-layer scratching post to save the furniture from Milù’s claws.
I sound like I mind, but I don’t, not really. I love Milù just as much as Abbey (I named her after all) even if she doesn’t return the favour. And we did have months of endless fun watching her kittenish antics. Although she was an absolute bugger that first Christmas. We didn’t have an angel or star at the top of our tree, we had an inky puff ball who, on being caught in the act, stared wide-eyed for a moment before hurling herself to the floor, bringing the whole tree down with her before scurrying into Abbey’s room and hiding under her bed. We learned our lesson after that. Shiny objects and cats do not mix. So last year we made do with a few twinkly fairy lights along the mantle and called it Christmas. Milù came out from under Abbey’s bed half an hour later and nuzzled up to her, purring as she settled on her lap. It was her way of saying sorry.
I’m well aware Milù is more Abbey’s cat than mine and I know she misses her because she’s been far more affectionate to me since Abbey’s been away, curling up beside me on the sofa each evening and shadowing me around the house.
After watching me from the doorway as I packed last night, she stuck to me like glue all evening, sleeping the night away curled up on my bed. And now she’s winding figures-of-eight round my ankles as I make my first cup of coffee. She definitely knows something’s up.
“Don’t worry, piccolo, mum and dad will take good care of you.”
Milù stares up at me, yellow eyes as big as saucers and mews plaintively. I assuage my guilt by spooning a tin of tuna into a saucer as a treat and putting it next to her water bowl. She sniffs it, gives me a flat-eared look of utter disdain and pushes off into the living room.
Well that’s a great start to the day. Only eight o’clock and I’ve already pissed off the cat.
If I had gone out boozing with the boys last night, this morning would find me in my usual state after my Friday night shenanigans. Sleeping in, I miss Saturday morning entirely and half the afternoon. Then of course everything’s out of whack and I’m wide awake ‘til the small hours of Sunday. And after tossing and turning most of that night, by the time Monday rolls around I sleepwalk my way through work, the day passing in a sort of
jet-lagged haze. But this isn’t Saturday and I’m not hungover. I’m positively wide awake; the very definition of bright-eyed, and if I had a tail it would be bushy… Actually, maybe not.
Thinking about it, I’ve never understood that old expression. Isn’t the bushy-tailed part of it is supposed to be a reference to a cat’s tail? If it is, they got it wrong. When Milù looks like she’s stuck her paw in the power socket her fur isn’t all puffed up because she’s cheerful, it’s because she’s been frightened by something – that something often being me, crashing home in the small hours.
So that expression is a load of old bollocks then, as I suspect are a lot of the age-old sayings whose origin everyone’s forgotten. But still, I am feeling inordinately alert this morning. I hardly need my usual caffeine fix.
The clouds must have shifted because a shaft of sunlight slowly spreads its way across the kitchen. I decide to take this as a good omen as I pour hot water into my mug and stir, breathing in the best smell ever; the first coffee of the day.
I’ve barely had time to savour the first mouthful when my mobile buzzes like an angry bee on the kitchen table.
I’m almost tempted to ignore it. I may be wide awake, but it’s too early for social media, news alerts or texts, but something urges me to put down my mug and pick up my phone.
The usual noises of life that drift from the street and snake through the open window mute to a muffled hum as I continue to stare at the screen long after the notification has swiped from it; not quite believing I’ve read it right.
Abbey Mitchell added photos on her timeline
And I can’t believe what I’m looking at on Abbey’s Facebook timeline. Two photos of her and Jensen, looking all cosy; her smiling in one as he nuzzles her neck, and they’re snogging in the other. Even more concerning than the photos is the comment that goes with them.
Having so much FUN I may never come home ??
My coffee cools as I sit my unsteady self into a chair and flick back and forth between the photos. No. This can’t be right. Abbey would never just post this as way of explanation of why she hasn’t come home. She wouldn’t risk her job by not even calling work to ask for more time off. Never mind that she hasn’t called me. If she really was so loved up she intended to stay longer she couldn’t not have called me. We share everything. Something isn’t right about this…
I’m shaken from my thoughts when my phone rings in my hand; detective Blake’s name popping up on the screen. And I know exactly what he’s going to say.
“Miss Caputo? It’s DI Blake…” he begins, almost hesitantly, as if he doesn’t want to say what he has to, what he knows must be the very last thing I want to hear. “As you know we’re monitoring your friend’s social media accounts.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve seen the photos too, and I know what you’re going to say, but–”
“And I know what you’re going to say too, but the fact is, these photos prove your friend isn’t missing.”
“They don’t prove he’s not holding her against her will.”
There’s a pause, the detective’s small sigh clearly audible before he speaks. “They’re kissing.”
“So?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Caputo, there’s nothing more we can do.”
And I’m left listening to a dial tone.
Alessandro’s getting almost as good as mum at giving me The Look. And it’s bloody infuriating.
“You sound like the police.”
“To be fair, sis, the photos do prove Abbey is alive and well, so I can see why–”
Oh, do not defend the police’s decision not to help. “Alive, yes. Well? I don’t buy that. Or that she’s happy.”
“She’s smiling in one photo and kissing him in the other.”
“He’s kissing her. There’s a difference.”
“How can you tell?”
Because you don’t know someone for twenty years without picking up on the nuances, and I know Abbey. I know how she looks when she’s sad but trying not to show it, as she is every year when the anniversary of her parents’ death rolls around. And I know how she looks when she’s truly happy. I know how she smiles. And that smile in the photo isn’t it.
“I’m telling you, that’s a fake smile. See? No little creases around her eyes because a fake smile doesn’t reach the eyes. It’s a dead giveaway.”
Alessandro swipes to the photo of Abbey and Jensen kissing. “There are creases around her eyes in this one.”
“That’s because she’s got them squeezed shut. Is that how girls react when you kiss them?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always got my eyes shut too.”
Why is he being so annoying? “Whose side are you on anyway, the police or mine?”
“Abbey’s. I want her found every bit as much as you.”
“Good. I was beginning to think you were going to back out.”
“As if.” Alessandro’s sigh echoes my own frustration. “It’s a bugger the police aren’t going to do anything to help, which means Interpol won’t open a case or contact the police over there either.”
“Well, bollocks to them, I say. We’ll just have to go to the American police and make them listen.”
“And if they won’t?”
“Then we’ll have to go straight to the top. To the FBI.”
Alessandro stares open-mouthed, shaking his head. “You can’t just march into an FBI building and demand they mount a full-scale search.”
“Watch me.”
Alessandro’s expression changes instantly from one of amused incredulousness to wide-eyed apprehension. “No, I’m warning you, sis. Do not do anything to piss off the FBI. I don’t ever want to know what the inside of a British prison is like, much less an American one.”
He’s such a wuss sometimes, so intimidated by authority. “Oh, calm down. I won’t. And it’s not as if they’d lock us up or anything. They wouldn’t want to spark an international incident. I don’t care who their President is.”
Now Alessandro looks positively alarmed. “And for Christ’s sake, don’t say anything about him either.”
It’s a big sister’s job to wind up her little brother, and somehow I manage to keep my expression neutral as I ask. “What, you mean the petulant, temper-tantrum tweeting, xenophobic, misogynist, who hates gays, is an embarrassment to his country and whines that nobody likes him?”
Alessandro lets out a small groan and holds his head in his hands, muttering something under his breath.
“No. I won’t say a word about him the whole time we’re there. I promise.”
Alessandro raises his head, his expression one of tired resignation. “Yeah, right.”
He knows me so well. And I know him.
“And talking of keeping mouths shut. Not a word about the photos of Abbey at dinner tonight, or mum will start going into one all over again and even dad might change his mind about us going.”
Chapter Eight
ABBEY
JOURNAL ENTRY SIX
It’s a powerful thing, the mind. In solitude I can fool myself into believing things are other than they are. I pretend… Stupid things…
Cristina may be the one with an eye for design, but a few things have rubbed off. I imagine all the changes I’d make if the house were mine. China white woodwork. Living room walls painted in muted greys: Borrowed Light with an accent wall in Mizzle, or maybe Cromarty and Mole’s Breath, because half the reason for using Farrow & Ball is the ridiculous names they give their paint colours. Sofas in soft blue or green with cushions and throws in florals and checks to add subtle colour. I know from home they mix well if chosen carefully. Painted furniture. Voiles at the windows rather than blinds. Lamps on side tables that cast a softer glow than the harsh glare of the central ceiling light. Fresh flowers in bulbous glass vases. In my head the house is a light and airy haven, where brown is banished.
I mentally reorganise the books on my shelves. Alphabetical. By genre. Author name. Coloured-coded? Maybe not. Why a
re so many covers black? What’s wrong with yellow or orange or blue?
I make up stories in my head…
I’m an author on retreat, writing the story of a woman held against her will, and her friend’s search to find her. It’s a tale of courage in the face of overwhelming odds, never giving up hope, and friendship.
I’m not a captive, I’m undercover, gathering evidence to put our suspect behind bars, and this journal will be used to make our case and bring him to justice.
In other words, I’m in denial.
When I’m let out of my room I’m watched, never allowed to wander far from his scrutinising gaze for long. Slouched in the overstuffed recliner like some squatted thing, staring at me. A psychic vampire sucking the life force out of me.
I can’t pretend then. Can’t make believe in my head I’m anywhere other than here.
I should have been on my way home now. Somewhere over the Atlantic, nearing England’s most westerly point at the tip of Cornwall, course fixed on a straight line into Heathrow. Jumping ahead seven hours, but still the plane landing with plenty of time for me to get home, freshen up and meet everyone at the restaurant.
Is the table still booked at Mediterraneo? Cristina’s father wouldn’t celebrate his birthday anywhere else. Did she make him a cake that the waiter will bring out? The other diners joining in singing happy birthday, because to Italians everyone is family. Will they raise a glass of champagne to toast his birthday?
Chapter Nine
CRISTINA
The place setting may have been cleared away, we can smile and talk of happy things, but still the absence of the person missing from our table is keenly felt; our rainbow-coloured celebration tinged with grey. Still, we sing happy birthday as dad blows over his cake.