C.J. Cooke - I Know My Name

Cressida is in Gerda’s arms, fighting off a bottle. I pluck the bottle from Gerda’s hand – it is ice-cold – and toss it in the microwave.

‘It has to be warm, otherwise she won’t take it,’ I say. How much I’ve learned in the last twenty-four hours.

‘Well, it would have been nice to know that before you left,’ Gerda snaps.

I take Cressida, struck by a sudden affection for her, so small and fragile in my arms, her cries turning to whimpers when I hold her. She roots at my chest, as though expecting to find a nipple there. Not finding it, she’s back to shrieking within seconds.

The microwave bleeps. I take out the bottle, give it a vigorous shake and place the teat into Cressie’s mouth. She sucks greedily, making piglet noises and bunching her fists tightly against the bottle. The milk foams against the sides of her mouth and her eyelids flicker, as though she’s spent all her energy railing against cold milk and is now about to fall into a cloud-cushioned coma of satiation. She drains the bottle in about five minutes, but as soon as she’s done she starts to cry again.

Frustrated, I pass her back to Gerda, who kisses the crown of her head and manages to console her. I head back to the living room to speak with the police.

The male detective leans forward and offers his hand. He is tall, serious-looking and broad-shouldered, early to mid forties, pale-haired, dressed in a grey suit with a navy tie. He reminds me of Archie Sims, one of the posh kids from Year Ten who used to throw wet paper towels at me in the playground. He doesn’t smile but gives me an iron handshake.

‘Detective Sergeant Roy Canavan. I’m the OIC. Officer in charge. This is my colleague, DS Welsh.’

The female detective is young: mid-twenties, soft face, light brown hair wrapped up in a bun. She extends her hand and nods out the window. ‘Seems we’ve already got some attention from the press.’

‘Yeah.’

I’m not quite sure where to sit, and it occurs to me that my own home has become rearranged by the situation, this thing that shouldn’t be happening, by these people who I shouldn’t be encountering. It’s like I’m visiting a place that reminds me of my house, and I’m waiting for someone to tell me where to put myself and how to act. I almost offer Detective-Sergeant-Canavan-the-OIC a stiff drink, and only as the words are about to tumble from my mouth do I realise this is probably not wise. He and DS Welsh sit on the sofa and each pulls out a notepad, ready for business. I take a seat in the armchair adjacent to them.

‘Mrs Bachmann – your grandmother-in-law? – said that some of the neighbours came forward this morning,’ DS Canavan says. ‘Mrs Shahjalal’s the one who raised the alarm, is that right?’

I nod. ‘She called me at work yesterday afternoon. She’d thought to check in on Eloïse after a delivery couldn’t be made. Good job, too, otherwise Max and Cressida would have been alone all night and I wouldn’t have known.’

It’s the first time I’ve said this aloud. What would have happened if Mrs Shahjalal hadn’t spotted Max? Cressida’s so young that she could have become dangerously dehydrated in a matter of hours. Max is too young to know how to contact anyone. He might have tried to feed himself and Cressida. I can’t bear to think of it. The tragedies that might have unfolded are too great.

‘She mentioned that UPS tried to make a delivery here,’ he continues. ‘We’re trying to locate the driver involved in case he heard or witnessed anything. One of your other neighbours from this side of the street – Mr McWhirter – said he saw a car pull up outside your house yesterday around eleven o’clock in the morning.’

I straighten. ‘Did he get the registration details?’

‘No. He said it was a white saloon, not sure of the make or model. He’s certain it mounted the pavement and remained parked for ten or twenty minutes. We’ll make enquiries with local taxi companies. Another neighbour, Mrs Malvern from number twenty-nine, said she thought she heard a shout sometime in the morning but couldn’t be sure.’

‘My colleague noted that you had a faulty lock on the back door of this property, is that right?’

I nod, crushed. I should have fixed it. ‘Yes.’

‘There’s been a couple of incidents over the last month in this area, so we’ll make enquiries about that.’

‘Incidents?’

‘Burglaries. You said no valuables were taken, correct?’

‘As far as I can tell.’

He searches my face, so I add: ‘I work away Monday through Thursday. So I suppose I’m not completely up to speed with everything in the house.’

‘We’ll do a sweep of the door for prints.’

DS Welsh tells me they want to ask me a few more questions, although a ‘few’ in this case means so many I lose count. Medical numbers, insurance company details, schools we went to, everyone and anyone we have contact with. They want to know more about my job, about Eloïse’s job, and I tell them that eight years ago she set up Children of War, a charity that offers emotional and educational support for refugee children. The detectives are deeply interested in this and take copious notes. When she set it up, what kind of work it involves. Their questions make me realise how much I don’t know about the charity.

‘Any colleagues holding a grudge against her?’ DS Canavan asks. ‘Anyone who owes the charity money?’

‘I’m afraid I have no idea.’

He lifts his eyebrows. ‘She didn’t talk about her job? The people she worked with?’

‘I guess that Eloïse was so good at her job that everything looked to be very smooth.’ Even to my own ears I don’t sound very convincing. Right before I go dig out my Bad Husband sackcloth, I remember that she really did make most things look effortless. That’s why I didn’t tend to ask. If anything was good or bad, I expected that she’d tell me. And of course, she’s currently at home full-time with the kids.

He taps the pen against the page. ‘Even so, it’s important that we get a complete picture of the events leading up to her disappearance. Any media interviews she might have given, anything work-related at all, could prove extremely useful.’

‘What about her mental state?’ Welsh asks from the other armchair.

‘Eloïse’s mental state?’ I say. ‘What about it?’

‘Well, she gave birth recently. Sometimes women can experience mood swings and depression.’

I shake my head. ‘She was fine.’

‘Has she ever had any signs of depression or emotional instability in the past?’

A memory rises up. ‘Well, she saw a counsellor for a while after Max was born, but other than that she was fine.’

‘What counsellor?’ Canavan says, and I can see he’s writing down everything I’ve said and underlining it.

I rub my face, trying to think. ‘I honestly don’t remember the name. I mean, it was over four years ago. A health visitor kept going on about El’s moods after our son was born. Despite El saying she was fine, a bit tired, she had to go talk to someone. But she was discharged very swiftly. It was nothing.’

‘We’ll look into that,’ Welsh says, throwing a look at Canavan.

‘I really don’t think this has anything to do with her going missing,’ I say, fearful that they’ll waste time looking into something completely irrelevant. There’s no way this has anything to do with El having a bad day.

‘We need to rule this one out,’ Canavan says firmly. ‘We see a lot of cases where a loved one goes missing because they don’t want to admit that they’re struggling and don’t know where to turn to for help.’

‘I’m pretty sure my wife doesn’t fall into that category.’

He ignores me. ‘Anything else you can think of? Anything missing, any personal belongings gone? Even a single credit card can make a huge difference to the investigation.’