A Person Could Disappear Here

by Terri George

  This one employs all the usual tricks to get you to spend: colourful displays that catch the eye as soon as you walk inside; bright lighting; the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the buttery warmth of pastries wafting from the in-store café making tummies rumble and mouths salivate, no matter how recently you ate.

  Even here they’re selling a lifestyle, with images of smiley mums and dads and perfect offspring on the walls that bear little resemblance to the bored Bermuda-shorted boys and whiny sneakered girls following fraught parents, pestering for sugary snacks. Reality falling short of expectation as usual, but when has the ready-made meal in the plastic tray inside ever looked anything like the picture on the box?

  Even though we only popped in for CDs it’s a full fifty minutes before we’re back on the road, with Aerosmith’s greatest hits as our soundtrack.

  Alessandro wedges his drinks cup in the holder, a meaty smell pervading the confines of the car as he unwraps whatever it was he bought to eat, and takes a bite.

  “Oh my God, what is that?”

  “A runza. Mince, cheese and sauerkraut. Apparently, they’re a favourite around here, even more than burgers.”

  Think I’d rather have a burger. “That explains the smell.”

  “You’re such a food snob.”

  “I’m not. I’ve just been brought up on better, and so have you. Food is one of life’s great pleasures. Not something you shove down your throat so you don’t die. Although that smells lethal.”

  “Yeah well, you know what they say about when in Rome.” Alessandro takes a long suck on his straw; the corners of his mouth pulling down as he swallows. “Not sure about root beer though.”

  “What’s that like?”

  “Bit like vanilla coke, but with a sort of medicinal aftertaste, like Benylin cough syrup. Explains why you can’t get it back home,” he says before taking another bite of the sandwich.

  How can he eat that? How can he eat at all? I know he cares and wants to find Abbey as much as I do, but my appetite has deserted me.

  Is it a bloke thing, this ability to compartmentalise, to separate feelings from actions? Or are they just better at hiding what they feel?

  We only discovered one of the sales execs had got divorced when his wife didn’t turn up to the annual company do. From what I heard it all got very messy, with her wanting the house and sole custody of the kids even though she was the one who’d cheated. All those months she dragged it out you’d never have known he was going through hell.

  I don’t know where Alessandro gets his composure from. Dad could no more conceal his feelings than fly to the moon. No more than I can. I’m my father’s daughter all right. We both bluster like a force nine gale, but our anger blows through quickly. And mum’s got passive aggressive down to an art form. We all know when she’s got the hump; banging pots on the hob, slamming the oven and cupboard doors. Until dad sneaks up behind her, puts his arms around her waist and says sorry, even though half the time I doubt he knows what he’s apologising for. Maybe that’s her plan.

  I wish I could be as even-tempered as Alessandro. At least then he wouldn’t keep having to apologise for me. Like this morning. I was wrong to sound off at Officer Miller. Those thoughts I imagined I saw in his look probably never crossed his mind. And it’s not his fault the Denver police can’t investigate Abbey’s disappearance. She’s in another state. Whatever lies Jensen told Abbey to get her over here in the first place and then to leave Denver with him, I know from her video he took her to Nebraska. I just hope he’s kept her there. Although it scares me to think of what might be happening to her.

  Chapter Twelve

  ABBEY

  JOURNAL ENTRY EIGHT

  Birdsong. The cheerful chirrup of blackbird, soft coo of wood pigeon or optimistic repeated song of the thrush greeting the day in a growing chorus that starts even before the lightening of the sky at dawn. It’s not for a lack of trees. There are more than a few growing around the house, but the only sound from their branches is an on-again-off-again buzzing of bugs; like a vacuum cleaner, it’s whine becoming increasingly agitated as it’s left to stand and draw on the same piece of carpet.

  A deep-throated purring in my ear as I’m nudged awake by a furry head. Milù pawing at the covers, imploring me to leave the warm comfort of my bed and feed her.

  The smell of coffee wafting upstairs from the kitchen as Cristina bangs about making breakfast. Creamy scrambled eggs with hot buttered toast and marmite or marmalade on the side. Her mother taught her the need for a good breakfast (espousing the old adage her mother had instilled in her about the health benefits of breakfasting like a king, lunching like a prince and dining like a pauper) and so she insists we have one too. If it were up to me I wouldn’t bother, but it’s well worth getting up half an hour earlier than necessary and sets me up for the day.

  Next door’s tiny terrier’s excited yapping; let out the back for its morning snuffling perusal of the garden, and to pee.

  The snap of the letter box after post cascades to scatter on the mat.

  Walking along the high street past still shut shops to the tube station and down the steps to wait on the platform. The recorded warning to ‘mind the gap’ as the train pulls in.

  Sitting on a bench in the shade of sticky-leaved lime trees in the park in summer, or winter lunch hours idled away in the book shop a short walk from the office.

  Popping round the corner to Café Le Cordon Bleu for a frothy cappuccino, (even though Cristina says no self-respecting Italian would drink it after eleven in the morning) often failing to resist a sweet pastry tartlet of fresh fruit atop crème pâtissière to stave off the three o’clock slump.

  Normal everyday things that are so easy to overlook as the simple pleasures they are and taken for granted.

  All too often the only time people see the sights of their own home city is when friends come to visit. Many Londoners have walked the halls of the Louvre or queued for hours to see inside Notre Dame, yet have never set foot in the Tate (Britain or Modern) or St Paul’s. They’ve gone round and round the Grande Roue in Place de la Concorde or travelled twelve miles outside the city to be guided around the splendours of the Palace de Versailles, but have never viewed their home city from a capsule of the London Eye or seen the grandeur of the Queen’s London residence.

  But what’s the point of living in one of the greatest cities in the world and not seeing it as visitors do?

  Cristina and I love our city and have spent many Sundays doing all these sights, and then some: a Big Bus Tour of the capital; museums (the V&A is our favourite) and Saatchi gallery – although some of the exhibits did nothing for me, but then art isn’t just about what you’d hang on your sitting room wall. We’ve picnicked in all the city’s parks in the summer. Done all sorts of tours: Jack the Ripper, Brit Movie and Haunted London – not because we believe in ghosts, but any excuse for a pub crawl. We’ve even tramped up the three-hundred feet of Hampstead Heath’s Parliament Hill to be rewarded for our efforts with the breathtaking panoramic view of London from the top.

  That old song my mother’s mother sang to her when she was small, and she then sang to me. How does it go?

  You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

  There’s refuge in sleep, but when I sleep, I dream of all the things I miss about home. None more so than the food.

  Contrary to what a lot of foreigners believe, English food is bloody gorgeous: bangers and mash with thick onion gravy, shepherd’s pie, the traditional Sunday roast with potatoes all soft and fluffy on the inside and browned to crispy perfection on the outside, Cornish pasties, bacon sarnies and fish and chips.

  But my favourite meal is afternoon tea, especially in the Savoy. Slim finger sandwiches with crusts cut off: smoked salmon, egg and cress, roast beef and yes, even cucumber. Yummy cakes and pastries. Scones with butter, jam and clotted cream. Consumed as a pianist plays beneath the Thames Foyer’s ornate glass dome.

  Fresh salads o
f yellow-stemmed chard, velvety lambs’ lettuce, crunchy cos and peppery rocket leaves, tiny cherry tomatoes that burst in the mouth releasing their sweetness, cool chunks of cucumber, topped with halves of creamy-yoked quail eggs.

  After so many days of eating nothing but sugar or salt-laden ready-made junk from packets and jars my body was screaming for proper food. Something healthy. And I got it. Sort of.

  The iceberg lettuce sat squat on the kitchen table, like a decapitated head wrapped in plastic.

  “Something green. Maybe now you’ll stop your bitching,” he said before grabbing a broad-bladed knife from the block and sticking it in the top of the green leafy skull.

  Thoughts rushed through my mind, of pulling out the knife Excalibur-like and plunging it in his chest, all the way up to the hilt, slicing between the gaps of its bony cage, piercing the soft pumping pulpiness of his heart in one strong thrust.

  In my head his eyes widen in shock as he stares down at the wooden handle protruding from his chest. A strained exhale escaping his gaping mouth, he staggers back, then slumps to the floor. Dead.

  That’s how it would happen in a slasher movie; the murderer brandishing a large blade, slicing and stabbing. But in real life the serrated edge of any size blade will do the job. You just need to know where to strike:

  The femoral in the groin or popliteal behind the knee, cutting an artery leads to rapid exsanguination.

  A good old-fashioned stab to the abdomen that slices into the liver is fatal.

  Or a simple stab to the chest. Even if your aim isn’t true and you miss the heart, you’ll probably hit a lung that will fast fill with blood and have the added benefit of your victim being unable to cry out or call for help.

  I know this from the crime novels I’ve edited. Above how to do it, the thing I’ve learned is, however you do it there will be blood. Lots of blood. Stabbing someone is up close and personal. You need a strong stomach to watch your victim’s life force leave his body in a sticky crimson flow…

  I hesitated too long; the split-second of opportunity passed.

  He laughed, pulling the knife from the lettuce with a small tug. He knew what I was thinking in that minute span of time. And knew I could never do it.

  Pressing the tip of the blade to the hollow in my throat he stared darkly into my eyes, his mouth spreading in a slow smirk.

  “I could slit your throat and bury you in the back yard, and no one would ever find you,” he said.

  And I believed him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  CRISTINA

  The sign welcoming drivers into the town declares it to be the high point of Nebraska.

  Alessandro is checking it out on his phone. “Small town is right. The population’s around two-and-a-half-thousand and it’s only just over two square miles, so not that big an area then.”

  Twice the size of the City of London, but far less people. In theory searching the town and its outer limits does sound doable, although in practice I reckon it’s going to be much harder than it seems. Even if this is where Jensen brought Abbey, who’s to say the house isn’t in some remote spot miles outside of town.

  “I wonder why’s it called the high point. Is this as good as it gets?”

  “Not that kind of high point. Literally high. It’s getting on for five-thousand feet above sea level.”

  Really? Blimey, you’d never know it. Looks as flat as a pancake to me. Miles and miles of flat, just like in Abbey’s video. Thing is, did she film it around here?

  “What about hotels?”

  “There’s not much choice, and they’re motels rather than hotels.”

  What is the difference between a hotel and a motel? “We don’t want to be stuck out in the sticks. Is there one in the centre of town?”

  “That would be the Days Inn. It’s only two stars, but it’s near all the shops.”

  “As long as it’s clean, the beds are comfy and it has free WiFi, I don’t care how many stars it has. Give them a call and book us a room. Tell them we’ll be there in a couple of hours or so.”

  “So, do you have any idea how we’re going to do this?”

  The short answer to Alessandro’s question is, no. Not really.

  How do you go about trying to find someone when all you have to go on are three things:

  Abbey’s with a bloke called Jensen – if that is his real name, because god knows it’s easy enough to set up a fake FB account.

  She’s somewhere in the west of Nebraska – always assuming he was telling the truth when he told her where they were going was a three-hour drive from Denver. I’m banking on it being too risky for him to have taken her somewhere else since then. The story about his grandfather was the ideal enticement, playing on Abbey’s need for family. I don’t think she would have told him about her parents because she’d have to really trust someone to do that. She’s never said anything publicly about it so, as far as I know, no one outside my family knows. But even if she hasn’t told him, playing the dutiful son or grandson is always a sure-fire way to get in a nice girl’s good graces. So it was the perfect ploy to get Abbey to go with him, but how would he explain another move? I’m banking on that being too risky a strategy and he is holding her somewhere not far from the border with Colorado.

  He drives a sporty red car.

  According to the results of my Google search, when someone goes missing at home the police do an initial assessment to determine if they’re at risk of harm. (I’m damn sure Abbey is.) Then talk to family and friends to determine a reason for their disappearance, (I know that too) and look for clues in the last place they were seen. The Denver hotel is the last place I can be sure Abbey was, but they were no help. All I have is a rough idea of where she was going.

  “Sis? So what’s the plan? If we’re not going straight to the motel what are we going to do?”

  “Search the outskirts of town. There can’t be too many houses with red convertibles parked outside. It’s all pickup trucks round here.”

  “How do you know he’s got a convertible, never mind a red one?”

  “From Abbey’s video on my phone. See for yourself.”

  Alessandro studies the video, replaying the brief seconds shot through the windscreen before it sweeps around to record the open country passing beyond the passenger side. “Shame you can’t see the dashboard because then I’d know for sure, but I bet it’s a BMW.”

  “Why a BMW? Why not some American sports car?”

  “Because English or American, all us boys like Beamers. It’s the car I’d drive if I had the shed loads of dosh the convertibles start at.”

  What is it about men and cars? To me they’re just something that gets you from A to B. “In your dreams.”

  “Exactly. Forget the crippling insurance that would eat up half my take home pay, even second-hand it would still be way out of my budget, never mind the thirty-thousand the two-series costs new. Can you imagine how long it would take to pay that off?”

  I’m beginning to think older men driving high performance sports cars has less to do with a mid-life crisis and recapturing their youth than that it’s only in middle age they can afford one.

  “But this Jensen must be doing more than just okay. What does he do for a living?”

  I’ve wondered that myself. “No idea. Abbey never said.”

  “Maybe he’s a hot shot city trader or investment banker.”

  “In New York maybe, but Denver?”

  “I can’t think of many ways he could earn that kind of dosh. Not legally. Or maybe he doesn’t need to work for it because he lives off inherited wealth. A car like that? He’s raking it in somehow.”

  Twenty-somethings running multimillion-dollar empires don’t really exist outside an erotic romance novelist’s imagination, so Jensen’s probably either a criminal or a lazy sod who lives off daddy’s money. Either scenario makes me wonder again what Abbey saw in him in the first place.

  Alessandro glances at the back seat. “Where’s your laptop?�
�

  “In the boot. Why?”

  “Google maps. The satellite view will show us where houses are. That way we won’t waste time going down roads that lead nowhere. And it’s easier to see on your laptop’s bigger screen.”

  I would never have thought of that. Full of good ideas, my little brother.

  Don’t they say boys mature slower or later than girls? That’s why women tend to go out with and marry men a few years older than them. (Until some of them hit their forties and turn into cougars, preying on blokes in their twenties and sexual prime.) They’ve caught up by then. Not so with Alessandro. I know it’s only four years, but sometimes I forget I’m the older one. The one who’s supposed to look out for my younger sibling. Not the other way round. But Alessandro has always been pretty quick off the mark and very protective of me. Maybe it’s just a boy thing. You know what some brothers can be like, especially when you’re close in age. Or maybe it’s an Italian thing. How he’s been brought up. Dad may be very supportive and encouraging of me making the most of myself every bit as much as Alessandro, but he’s also more protective of me. Just as he is with mum. Another of his charmingly old-fashioned idiosyncrasies. He’s always seen mum as his equal, their marriage is a partnership, but still, he always opens doors for her and walks on the kerb side of the road. Things like that. It’s sweet really. And makes him a hard act to follow.

  After pulling over and getting my laptop from the boot, Alessandro gets Google maps up on the screen and we start criss-crossing the gridded roads, driving slowly past houses checking out the vehicles parked in the driveways.

  Three hours is all we have because, rather than daylight, what limits the time we have to search is the life of my laptop’s battery. I’ve noticed it runs slower over here, (probably because the power voltage is half what it is back home) but still, it will only last so long before the fully charged battery runs out. This is real life, after all. Have you ever noticed how people in TV programmes or movies, never need to charge their mobile or use their laptops plugged into the mains? Unless the storyline requires them to suddenly run out of juice and their phone to die just when they need it most, when the bad guy is on their heels and they need to call for help, or mid-way through a conversation, just before someone is told something vital.