‘No. Let me read it to you.’
Before he could stop her, she read out the email, in a rush.
Norris didn’t respond immediately. Eventually, he said, ‘Here’s what I suggest, Miss Coltman. Why don’t you speak to your mum and dad, call some of your sister’s friends, and have a look for her passport? It sounds very much like Rebecca has gone away of her own volition. People do things that are out of character all the time, believe me.’
‘I know, but—’
‘I expect you’ll get another email in a day or two, or a postcard, saying she’s having a lovely time in Vietnam, wish you were here.’
She could feel him closing down the call, and she tried to hang on. ‘So you’re not going to do anything?’
‘I’m sorry, miss, but if she hadn’t sent the email it would be a different story. The fact is, though, that she did. She has clearly told you where she’s going and what she’s doing.’
‘But what if someone else wrote the email? Or forced her to write it?’
‘There’s no evidence of that, is there?’
‘No, but …’
She hung up, feeling utterly deflated.
As the call had gone on, her conviction that something had happened to Becky had become increasingly weaker. Norris was probably right. Becky had decided to go away. Her wheelie suitcase wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Maybe what she should be worried about was why Becky would do something so uncharacteristic. What had driven her to it?
She rubbed her face, feeling totally confused. More than that, though, she was sick with worry. Had Becky had some kind of breakdown?
She read over the email for the tenth time. And then it struck her. How could she not have seen it before – or maybe that was what had been niggling at her?
I’ve always wanted to visit Vietnam and Cambodia.
When Becky had returned from her gap-year travels, she had made Amy sit through all of her printed photos. Thailand, India, Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines – and Cambodia. She had bemoaned the fact she hadn’t got to visit Vietnam – for some complicated reason Amy couldn’t recall, involving trains and visas and a boy from Oxford – but she had definitely been to Cambodia. She had visited the Killing Fields near – what was it called? – Phnom something. The visit had affected Becky badly. She told Amy she’d had nightmares about it for weeks afterwards, about the families who had been brutally murdered. The children. In fact, it had disturbed her so much that she refused to talk about it further, said she wanted to forget she’d ever been. Now, when she talked about her time in Asia, she would list all the places she’d been, and she would miss out Cambodia.
But she had definitely been there. And even though she didn’t talk about it, or want to remember it, she herself would remember she’d been there. So why would she write, I’ve always wanted to visit Cambodia?
She picked up the phone, ready to call Officer Norris back. But she hesitated. She could hear his exasperated sigh in her head. There were a couple of things she needed to do first.
She went into Becky’s bedroom and looked around. The blinds were open and sunlight poured into the room. She heard a car pull up outside and rushed to the window to look out, hope flaring. It might be Becky coming home in a taxi. But it was a Royal Mail van, parking up behind Amy’s motorbike.
Where would Becky keep her passport? She opened her bedside drawer and found condoms, assorted jewellery, Vaseline, old keys – but no passport. She checked every drawer in the flat, along with the bookshelves, various boxes and chests, every place she could think of where her sister might keep her important documents. There was no sign of it.
Everything she did made her feel conflicted. Half of her wanted evidence that her sister had indeed gone away through her own free will. The other half wanted confirmation that her instincts were correct.
She sat back down at the computer and brought up Becky’s address-book program. She knew a couple of Becky’s friends from work, had met them at a party last year, here at Becky’s flat. Becky’s best friend from work was called Katherine, and Amy had spoken to her at some length about jewellery-making, Katherine’s hobby. Amy had been trying to get her to write a piece for the website. She was the obvious first port of call.
Amy dialled Katherine’s number, hoping she hadn’t gone away on holiday.
She answered after just a few rings. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi – is that Katherine?’
The other woman paused before answering. ‘Yes?’
‘This is Amy – Becky’s sister.’
Katherine’s tone changed. ‘Oh, hello. Is everything all right?’
‘I just wondered if you’d heard from Becky recently?’
‘No, I haven’t spoken to her since Wednesday, when we broke up. You’re making me worry. What’s happened?’
Amy was about to launch into it when she realized it would be much easier face to face, so she could show Katherine the email. Besides, she wanted to get out of the flat. It was making her feel even more antsy than she would otherwise, with every noise in the hallway making her jump; the hope that it was Becky coming back and then the return of the dread and disappointment when it wasn’t.
‘Can I come and see you?’
Katherine agreed, though Amy detected a hint of hesitation in her voice. Tough, she thought, leaving the flat and taking the spare keys with her. As she walked down the stairs, pressing down the helmet on her head en route, a door opened on the ground floor. ‘Er – hello!’ called a man’s voice. ‘Miss Coltman! Could I have a word?’
Amy stopped, surprised, her helmet as far down as her eyebrows. The man was in his forties, and very square – she could clearly see the vest through his blue nylon short-sleeved shirt. His thick brown hairline grew unattractively low on his forehead.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes. I need to talk to you again about the complaints we’ve had about noise levels coming from your … oh! I’m so sorry. I thought you were Miss Coltman.’
He squinted myopically at her and she lifted the helmet clear of her ears again so she could hear him better.
‘I am Miss Coltman – but I’m Amy, not Becky. Becky’s my sister.’
The man laughed in an embarrassed sort of way. ‘I do beg your pardon! You look so alike!’ He thrust out his hand. ‘I’m Damian Fenton, head of the Residents’ Association.’
‘Hi,’ Amy said, shaking it. It was clammy and felt like uncooked dough. ‘People do say we look similar, although I can’t see it, beyond the blonde hair. Have you seen Becky lately? I can’t get hold of her.’
Damian pondered. ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t. Not since … ooh … must have been last Tuesday? Yes, Tuesday, because that’s bin day, and I had to have a word with her about the fact that she always leaves the tops on when she puts milk containers in her recycling, and they don’t like that. And she has a bit of a naughty habit of putting plastic trays in too, and they really don’t like that, they’re supposed to go in—’
Amy looked at her watch. ‘I’m so sorry, Damian, I don’t mean to cut you off, but I’m late for seeing someone and I really need to get going, otherwise …’ She grimaced conspiratorially at him, having the feeling that unless she said something, he’d be in full flow for hours.
‘Right! No, no, I understand, I could talk till the cows come home, me. I do apologize. When you track your sister down, could you please ask her to pop down and have a word? Many thanks.’
He shot abruptly back into his flat before Amy could say