Annabel Kantaria - The Disappearance

ANNABEL KANTARIAis a British journalist who now lives in Dubai with her husband and children. She has edited and contributed to women’s magazines and publications throughout the Middle East. The Disappearance is her second novel.

Also by Annabel Kantaria

Coming Home

For Maia and Aiman

A massive thank you to the wonderful people who helped bring this book to fruition: my inspirational agent Luigi Bonomi, Alison Bonomi, and my brilliant editor, Sally Williamson. Thank you, too, to all those beavering away behind the scenes at Harlequin to get the book produced, printed, marketed, publicised and sold. Thank you, too, to my friend and best beta reader ever, Rachel Hamilton.

A special thank you to all at the Emirates Airline Festival of Literature – in particular Isobel Abulhoul and Yvette Judge, and to Charles Nahhas of Montegrappa.

I’d also like to thank my parents-in-law, Natu and Niru Kantaria. It was with them that I first set foot on a cruise ship, and it was on that ship that the idea for this story was born (before you ask: yes, we all made it back to shore). Thank you, too, to all those who read and enjoyed Coming Home ; and to all the wonderful book clubs who’ve invited me to join them for an evening of book chat.

Last, but not least, thank you to my cheerleaders: those wonderful friends who stand quietly behind me, cheering me on – you know who you are; thank you to my mum, and to my special little family: Sam, Maia and Aiman.

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Also by Annabel Kantaria

Dedication

Acknowledgements

18 July 2013, 10 p.m.

PART I Before

December 1970 Tilbury, England

November, 2012 Truro, Cornwall

January 1971 Bombay, India

March 1971 Bombay, India

November 2012 Truro

March 1971 Bombay, India

April 1971 Bombay, India

November, 2012 St Ives, Cornwall

July 1971 Bombay, India

15 July 1971 Bombay, India

November 2012 Penzance

July 1972 Bombay, India

January 2013 St Ives

August 1972 Bombay, India

February, 2013 Penzance, Cornwall

15 July 1973 Barnes, London

September 1976 Barnes, London

March, 2013 Penzance, Cornwall

December 1976 Barnes, London

June 1976 Barnes, London

April 2013 St Ives, Cornwall

December 1976 Barnes, London

April, 2013 St Ives, Cornwall

April 2013 St Ives, Cornwall

December 1976 Barnes, London

December 1976 Barnes, London

April 2013 Truro, Cornwall

15 July 1978 Barnes, London

Part II During

12 July 2013, 8 a.m.

12 July 2013, 4 p.m.

14 July 2013, 9 a.m.

14 July 2013, 11 a.m.

14 July 2013, 11 a.m.

14 July 2013, 8 p.m.

14 July 2013, 10.15 p.m.

15 July 2013, 7.30 a.m.

15 July 2013, 10 a.m.

15 July 2013, 11 p.m.

16 July 2013, 9 a.m.

16 July 2013, 5 p.m.

17 July 2013, 8 a.m.

17 July 2013, 3 p.m.

17 July 2013, 3.45 p.m.

17 July 2013, 5 p.m.

17 July 2013, 5.30 p.m.

17 July 2013, 6 p.m.

18 July 2013, 9 a.m.

18 July 2013, 10.30 a.m.

18 July 2013, 8.30 p.m.

18 July 2013, 10 p.m.

18 July 2013, 11.30 p.m.

PART III Before

September 2012 St Ives

November 2012 Truro

November 2012 Truro

November 2012 St Ives

December 2012 Truro, Cornwall

April 2013

April 2013

April 2013 St Ives, Cornwall

PART IV After

September 2013 Truro, Cornwall

September 2013 Truro, Cornwall

Epilogue

Endpage

Copyright

Captain Stiegman’s gaze swept around the ship’s library, shifting like a search light until it had touched everyone in the room. He took a deep breath, steadied his hands on the back of a chair and spoke. ‘The search has been called off.’

I pressed my hand to my mouth, stifling sob. Even though I’d been primed to hear these words, the sound of them left me winded: until now I’d still held out hope. There had been a mistake; Mum had been picked up by another ship. She’d been brought aboard, cold, weak, wrapped in a silver blanket, but alive. She’d floated on her back; she’d clung onto some flotsam; she’d been rescued by a lifeboat. Failing any of those scenarios, her body had been recovered. Anything but this; this inconclusive conclusion.

Captain Stiegman stood motionless. He was waiting for a response. I looked at John. He didn’t meet my gaze. He was looking at the floor, his thin lips pressed in a hard line, his expression inscrutable. The only part of my brother that moved was his hand, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the arm of the stuffed leather armchair. I wanted to speak but there were no words.

Captain Stiegman paced the library floor, his steps lithe in his rubber-soled shoes. Doris, the cruise director, stood awkwardly by the bookshelves, a walkie-talkie in her hand, her lipstick rudely red. Outside the picture window, small whitecaps topped the ocean like frosting. I imagined my mother’s arms poking desperately up from the crests of each wave, her mouth forming an ‘O’ as the lights of the ship faded into the distance. In the library, you couldn’t feel the low rumble of the ship’s engines that permeated the lower decks, but snatches of a Latin beat carried from the Vida Loca dance party taking place on the pool deck outside. Doris’s walkie-talkie crackled to life then fell silent.

‘The decision has not been taken lightly,’ said the captain, his English curt with a German accent, his words staccato. ‘We have to face the facts. Mrs Templeton has been missing for over forty hours. The ship was sailing at full speed on the night she was last seen. We have no idea when she went overboard, nor where – the search area covers thousands of square kilometres.’

He paused, looked at John and me, then—perhaps heartened by the absence of tears – continued, ticking off points with his fingers as he spoke. A band of dull platinum circled his wedding finger.

‘As you are already aware, I did not turn the ship. This was because, with Mrs Templeton missing for thirty-nine hours before the search was initiated, I felt there was nothing to be gained by retracing our route. It is my belief that Mrs Templeton did not fall overboard shortly before she was reported missing, but many hours prior to that, most likely in the early hours of the sixteenth of July.’

I opened my mouth to speak – this was pure supposition – but the captain raised his hand in a request for me to be patient. ‘However,’ he said, ‘tenders were dispatched from both Mykonos and Santorini, which is the area in which the ship was sailing when Mrs Templeton was last seen. A fleet of tenders traced our route from either end.’ Now he paused and looked at each of us in turn once more. I gave a tiny shake of my head, eyes closed; there was nothing I could say to change what had happened.

‘The Coast Guard was informed as soon as the ship search yielded nothing,’ continued the captain. ‘Two helicopters were scrambled and all ships within a thirty kilometre radius of the course we took that night were asked to join the search.’ He paused again, looked at his shoes, then up again. ‘I believe there were five vessels involved. The search has been fruitless. Mrs Templeton could now have been in the water, without a floatation device, for up to forty-eight hours. She was …’ he searched his memory … ‘seventy years old?’ His voice trailed off and he looked again at John, then at me, his eyebrows raised, the implication clear: she could not have survived.