Cath Staincliffe - Half the World Away

Then Finn wants a go.

They take turns. My stomach feels tense, knotted together like the ropes.

I replay the phone calls I’ve just made as I tap out the plugs of bedding plants and tamp them down into the troughs we have on two sides of the patio.

‘I messaged her on Saturday,’ Amy said. ‘I thought she might have her phone off if she was teaching. But she didn’t get back to me.’

‘And she usually would?’ I said.

‘Most times, eventually.’

The blackbird chinks again, insistent. And Finn sings ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’ at the top of his lungs. I stare at the lobelia, the petunias, the pink and white verbena and the fuchsias, and feel the dread grow in my chest. I set down the watering can, brush the worst of the compost from my hands before going in.

Nick has dismantled Lori’s bed and stacked it on the landing. He’s taking apart the bunk beds. ‘Great,’ he says, when he sees me. ‘You can give me a hand carrying the double mattress down.’

‘Nick,’ I say, ‘nobody’s heard from her. Nothing since the second of April. Eleven days.’

‘Right,’ he says slowly.

‘I’m really worried,’ I say, and the words spoken out loud make my legs weak. I take a breath, ignore the way my heart stutters. ‘I think something’s wrong,’ I say. ‘I think we should go to the police.’

Penny, a friend I made way back when I used to child-mind her sons, comes to stay with the boys while Nick and I go to the police station. I’ve rung Tom back and told him I want to report Lori missing.

‘Do you really think it’s necessary?’ he says.

‘Yes.’

‘Fair enough.’ His voice sounds tight. ‘I’m in Dublin. I’ll be home later.’

I wonder about the woman I heard before. Is she travelling with him? Or has he been to visit her over there? If Lori were here I might know more.

Seeing people out for their weekend walks, pushing buggies, following kids on scooters and rollerblades, others sitting outside the Italian restaurant in their summery clothes as we drive by, feels unreal. A pretty façade plastered over an ugly reality.

The waiting area is small, tidy, half a dozen plastic seats on a rack bolted to the floor, and posters on the wall. There is a receptionist at the front desk. She wears a white shirt, dark skirt and small rectangular glasses perched halfway down her nose. ‘Can I help?’

‘We want to report a missing person,’ I say. My throat is dry and I sound whispery. I speak louder: ‘My daughter. She’s in China, missing in China.’

‘Right.’ She nods, as though people pop in every day with this sort of information. Though I suppose her training leads her not to react with shock or surprise to the things she hears. ‘Can I take your names?’ she says. She looks at me first.

‘Joanna Maddox.’

‘Date of birth?’

‘Eighth of September 1970.’

‘And your address?’

I reel it off.

‘And you are her mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you, sir?’

‘I’m her stepfather,’ Nick says, ‘Nicolas Myers, twenty-third of August 1968, same address.’

‘You’re married?’ she says to us.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I didn’t change my name this time.’

‘And your daughter’s details?’ She peers at me over the top of her glasses.

‘Lorelei Maddox – shall I spell it?’

‘Please.’

I do that and give her the date of birth.

‘So she’s twenty-three?’ she says.

‘Yes.’

‘And how long is it since you had any contact with your daughter?’

‘Eleven days,’ I say. ‘The second of April she posted a blog. And she Skyped with her dad the day before.’ Not even two weeks. Not very long at all, really. Am I being neurotic? Should I have waited? I expect her to send us away, tell us to come back when it’s been a month, but she says, ‘If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll see if there’s anyone upstairs can come and talk to you.’ She goes out of the door behind the desk.

We sit, not speaking. My toes are curled rigid in my shoes. Outside, wind plays through the trees and the shrubs and flowers along the side of the path; yellow forsythia, purple and white tulips, golden spurge shiver in its wake.

I start at a thump on the window. A bee the size of my thumb careers about and bangs the glass again, then zigzags away.

Perhaps there’s no one here, I think. It’s a weekend, after all. She’ll send us away. Tell us to try normal office hours. I hear the wall clock ticking. Two o’clock. Nine at night in Chengdu.

The receptionist comes back and says, ‘Detective Inspector Dooley will be down shortly.’ My skin turns to gooseflesh. Nick glances at me, sombre. He rubs his forehead and shifts in his seat.

Another five minutes, then a woman comes in through a door to the side of the waiting area marked ‘Staff Only’.

‘Mrs Maddox? Mr Myers? I’m Detective Inspector Dooley.’ An Irish accent. She holds out her hand. We shake. Her hand is cool and dry, the pressure swift. I catch a trace of tobacco smoke and imagine she’s been having a smoke before meeting us. Her hair is dark and curly, salted grey. She is sharp-featured; lines furrow her brow and fan from the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her eyes are a washed-out blue. She carries a plastic folder and pen.

I’d like to pinch myself. But this is no dream.

‘I’m very sorry to hear about Lorelei,’ she says. ‘If you’ll come with me I’ll take some more details.’

She uses an electronic swipe card to release the door and takes us along a corridor to a small meeting room with four low easy chairs arranged around a coffee table. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ she offers. ‘Only a vending machine, I’m afraid.’

‘Some water,’ I say. ‘That would be great, thanks, just tap water.’ Don’t drink the water – Lori’s rule number one.

‘Yes, water, please,’ Nick says.

‘Of course. Please, take a seat.’

She’s back in no time with two tumblers. Parched, I drink half of mine.

‘Let me just check I have all the details correct,’ she says, sitting down. She consults her file and goes over what we have told the receptionist. It’s all there.

‘And Lorelei is in China?’ she says.

‘In Chengdu,’ Nick says. ‘Sichuan province, the south-west.’

‘What’s she doing there?’

‘Teaching,’ I say. ‘English. She went travelling in September and ended up in China.’

‘She has a work visa,’ Nick says, ‘for a year.’

DI Dooley notes it down. ‘And when did she acquire the work visa?’

I think. ‘That would be February.’

‘And you last heard from her on the second of April?’

‘Yes,’ I say. I explain about the blog. ‘And she Skyped with her father, my ex, the day before.’

‘His name?’ she says.

‘Tom Maddox.’

‘And his date of birth?’

‘First of April 1969.’

‘Is Lorelei good at keeping in touch usually?’ DI Dooley says.

‘It can be a bit random,’ I say.

‘Have you spoken to her friends or colleagues in China?’ she says.

‘We’re not in touch with them,’ I say. ‘She had been talking about a holiday, so it might be that she’s gone off somewhere and can’t use the Internet or get a mobile-phone signal.’

‘A holiday to…’

‘She never said.’

‘On her own?’

‘Possibly,’ I say. ‘Her friend out there couldn’t get the time off.’ It all sounds so vague and imprecise.

‘Things can be quite last-minute with her,’ Nick says.

‘We’ve spoken to her friends here. We’ve emailed and phoned and texted her…’ Faltering, I reach for the water glass and take a sip.