C.J. Cooke - I Know My Name

‘Can you describe what she was wearing when you last saw her?’

‘I think she was wearing grey yoga pants and a pyjama top. Like I said, it was seven o’clock at night. I should have called her this morning but I was running late …’

He writes this down, asking for more of a description. Does she have any tattoos or visible scars? No. Any jewellery? I tell him she would likely be wearing her wedding band and engagement ring. I’ve not found them anywhere in the house.

‘Have you asked your neighbours if they saw anyone come into the house?’

I nod. ‘Mrs Shahjalal from across the road was the one to find out she was missing.’

More writing, slow, slow, slow, as if he’s taking orders for a takeaway. ‘We’ll follow up with Mrs Shahjalal. What about your bank accounts? Any withdrawals? We might be able to trace her last steps if we have that information.’

I’ve already checked our bank account on my mobile phone. We have a joint account and no money has come out today, with the exception of direct debits for the water bill and council tax. Of course, I’ve said all this. It was one of the first things I checked.

‘Tell me a little about Eloïse,’ he asks. ‘Age? Height? Weight? Personality?’

Cressida begins to squawk so fiercely that the female police officer rises to her feet and holds her arms out.

‘May I?’ she says.

‘Please,’ I say, handing Cressie to her. The female officer holds her cheek against Cressida’s and speaks softly to her. Ten seconds later the screaming stops. It’s only then that I realise that most of the noise is coming from inside my head.

‘How old did you say she is?’ the officer asks.

‘Twelve weeks. Max turned four in January.’

The officer smiles at Cressida, who gawps back. ‘I have a little boy, he’s ten months old. And he’s huge. But you, you’re dinky!’

‘She was slightly premature,’ I say. It is a huge relief not to be screamed at. I sink down into the sofa beside Max and rub my temples. The male officer is looking at me expectantly.

‘Eloïse is thirty-seven. She’s about five foot six, fairly slim. Not sure what she weighs, exactly. Maybe ten stone. She just gave birth.’

‘Is that a recent photo?’ he asks, glancing up at the new studio photograph mounted between two thick slabs of glass on the wall behind me.

Cost a fortune, that photo, but we all look so happy and I’m glad I deferred and had it taken. Eloïse is holding Cressida, who’s a scrawny sparrowy thing at three weeks old, and although I know she felt self-conscious, begging me to kneel slightly to the right so my head would cover her swollen stomach, Eloïse looks amazing. Buttery blonde hair hanging loose by her shoulders, that lovely smile and perfect skin of hers, as though her veins contain LED lights – luminescent, that’s the word. I know I married a looker, miles out of my league.

‘Is Eloïse the sort of person who would just up and leave?’ the male officer asks. ‘Has she done anything like that before?’

‘No, no, no. Absolutely not.’

The officer stares, blank-faced. ‘No problems with drugs, alcohol, anything like that?’

I shake my head. ‘Nothing like that. She stopped drinking when she became pregnant with our son. She maybe had the occasional glass of wine. She’s … Look, I can’t emphasise enough that Eloïse is the last person on earth who I would expect to go missing like this. She’s quiet, reserved. You know, a home bird.’

‘So she wouldn’t have, say, popped out to pick up a message? For five minutes or so?’

I can feel myself losing patience, almost on the verge of tears, which freaks me out. ‘ Our kids were here . She wasn’t expecting me back from Edinburgh until tomorrow night. There’s no way she’d leave our children on their own. El won’t even leave Cressida downstairs when she’s taking a shower. We’ve a car seat in the bathroom and a baby rocker in the kitchen.’

The police officer nods. ‘OK. When you came home were there any signs of someone having been here? Any signs of an intrusion?’

I shake my head. ‘Everything was locked up.’

‘What about the back door. It was locked?’

I think back. Was it?

My hesitation prompts him to glance around the room. ‘What about any other entrances to the house? Windows? Back doors?’

‘We have had a problem with the back door, now that I think about it. The lock froze and it’s not been closing properly. I meant to get it fixed, but …’ I’ve been so busy. I close my eyes and sigh, speared with panic. How careless could I have been to leave the back door accessible?

He rises and walks to the back of the house. I follow. It’s dark, however, and the view from the window isn’t helpful.

‘What’s behind your garden?’

‘A back alley, then the gardens of the street behind us. Larkspur Terrace.’

He writes this down. ‘You keep any money in the house? Any valuables, expensive items?’

‘We’ve a couple of hundred quid in a box in the kitchen. For emergencies.’

‘Is it still there?’

I nod. ‘So is all of El’s jewellery.’

‘Are you sure?’

The doorbell cuts me short. I stride into the hallway to answer it and find Gerda and Magnus standing there, both angry and worried. I tell them that the police have arrived.

‘She’s still not returned?’ Magnus barks. Magnus is Eloïse’s grandfather, bull-ish, well-dressed, and immortal, like Clint Eastwood – the man’s had I don’t know how many triple bypass surgeries and cancer treatments and yet he only seems to grow more robust with age. Not quite as po-faced as Gerda, a little more down-to-earth, but still not the sort of man I’m ever likely to get drunk with.

‘Did you come from Herefordshire?’ I ask. They have properties all over the place – Switzerland, Greece – and I had wondered whether El had gone to one of them. But they’re all completely remote and impossible to get to. And besides, El would have no reason to go there.

Gerda ignores me, having swept into the living room and spotted Maxie asleep on the sofa. ‘The children aren’t in bed? Isn’t it rather late?’

The police officers make brief introductions in sober tones. Gerda sits down beside Max, pursing her lips as she tucks the blanket around him. Magnus walks around the room as if trying to identify something out of place.

‘This is Gerda and Magnus Bachmann,’ I tell the officers, remembering how I would always add fresh from the crypt under my breath when I was referring to them. El would give me a slap on the arm, though she’d always laugh. ‘Gerda and Magnus are Eloïse’s grandparents. Naturally, they’re very concerned.’

I don’t explain that they’re the world’s most interfering in-laws. Gerda flips open a gold mobile phone and dials a number with a manicured finger. ‘Eloïse, darling, it’s Mamie. This is the twentieth time I’ve called you, and I won’t be stopping until you reply. Please can you call one of us soon to let us know you’re all right?’

Gerda’s accent is elocution-English with clipped Swiss tones. It reminds me how El occasionally sounded foreign from the years she spent in Geneva as a teenager. She speaks French and German fluently, as well as conversational Italian, and has been teaching Max. I go to tell Gerda that Eloïse’s mobile phone is sitting on the dining table next door, but right then it rings loudly. For a faint moment Gerda’s eyes light up, as though she’s found Eloïse, and then the penny drops.

The house feels deathly still, hollowed out. In a daze I pour Magnus a whisky and make cups of tea for me and Gerda. Then the five of us sit in the living room, bewildered and lost for words. Despite how late it is my mobile phone continues to bleep with texts and Facebook messages, and although I check every one of them I find nothing that tells me where my wife may have gone.