‘But there are some who don’t return?’
‘Yes. There are undoubtedly many who vanish deliberately and permanently without trace, possibly to start a new life in a new town or even a new country. Although, as I’ve said, it’s difficult to be sure about the numbers. But in many of those cases, there is usually some indication of why they disappeared – a hopeless personal situation, a financial scandal, or a serious criminal charge pending, like Lord Lucan.’ He paused, his face grave. ‘In the rest, I’m afraid to say, there is at least the suggestion of foul play, even if there’s no direct evidence, as in the business some years ago of that woman estate agent Suzy Lamplugh who left her office to meet a client and was never seen again.
‘I wrote an article once about a middle-class housewife, not unlike your description of your sister, who vanished completely. There was no indication that she was unhappy or disturbed, quite the reverse. In that case, however, her disappearance had occurred during a sequence of appointments in London which she had arranged herself for the day she went missing. She kept the first ones, but failed to keep the rest. In her case, the police strongly suspected she had been abducted and murdered, but without a body, and without any reliable last sighting, or any indication of where to begin looking for her, they had no basis on which to proceed with a full enquiry.’
‘But that’s the most unlikely eventuality of all, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, murder or abduction by a stranger, particularly when there’s no demand for ransom, is very rare, fortunately. And in this case there’s absolutely no evidence of anything of that nature. I have to say, though, that that’s sometimes the case. It’s an area where you need the instincts of a good detective, someone who’s a psychologist, who’s prepared to act on instinct, not just a run-of-the-mill plod. Now I’ve been mixing with policemen since I was a wee cub reporter in Glasgow, following every drunken brawl I could find on Sauchiehall Street in the hope it would turn into murder or GBH. The police like that kind of crime. One drunken yobbo glasses another, surrounded by their mates. The yobbo bleeds to death. That’s the kind of murder they can understand. But a puzzle where half the pieces are missing, where there’s no body, forget about it! But, fortunately, as I said, that kind of case is incredibly rare. From what you’ve told me, I think it’s far more probable that your sister has some problem that no one knows about. She’s either run away from it, or is trying to deal with it on her own.’
‘So is there anything to be done?’
‘Other than waiting and hoping? She has to be living somewhere. She has to have the means to live, so that means getting money and spending it. Perhaps if she’s been planning this, she’s opened another bank or credit-card account. If she is known to be missing, and can be recognised from a photo and a description, someone, somewhere may see her. Publicity is the best thing. Have some posters printed and circulate them as widely as you can. If the local paper hasn’t picked up the story already, then make sure they do. I’ve come across quite a few of the local hacks in that part of the world through reporting on the doings in Royal Gloucestershire. I could have a word in a few ears if that would help.’
‘Frankly, I’m not sure it would. As a matter of fact, Bill is against any publicity at the moment, and for once I agree with him.’
‘For why?’
‘If Flora has had a crisis, then the fact that it had become common knowledge in the community might inhibit her return. And there’s Charlotte to consider. Other children at school can be horrid in those circumstances.’
He shrugged, apparently easy at her sharp response to his suggestion. ‘Och, you may be right at that. And how is the wee girl taking it?’
‘Apparently, not as hard as might be expected at the moment. On the surface, at least.’
‘You can never tell with children. Their minds don’t work in the same way as those of adults. I should know. I’ve had three of my own. Two sons and a daughter, all grown now and gone. Scattered to the four corners of the earth, like wild geese. The USA. Australia. Hong Kong.’
His battered, kindly, shrewd-eyed face regarded her. The loneliness, the desire for further intimacy was plain in every feature. In a moment he would ask her was she married? Had she ever been married? Probably, if he was at all switched into the college gossip circuit, which, given his profession, he almost certainly was, he knew the answers already. So, it was, a little later than usual, time to go. But on that evening, oddly, disturbingly, something was prompting her to stay in the warm, unthreatening glow of the Scotsman’s benevolent personality. But go she still must, as she always had to.
She forced herself to rise. She stood, hesitating. Then she slung her bag on her shoulder like a rifle. ‘I have to leave you now. Thank you so much for listening to me.’
He struggled to his feet, and began to say, ‘Anything else I can do, you have only to …’
But Catriona in a few strides had reached the door, through which she stepped without a backward glance.
She examined the room yet again, checking to see whether she had, despite her scrupulous preparations, missed anything vital. The brass-framed bed, with its new gleaming white duvet faced the two narrow rear windows. In the alcove between the chimney breast and the back wall, she had placed a small Edwardian mahogany writing table, recently rescued from a roadside skip and carefully restored. On the other side was a narrow wardrobe, the door of which had a pleasant marquetry pattern. By the bed was a small bookshelf with a lamp and a digital clock-radio. On the far side, near the door, was a chest of drawers, also in mahogany.
The spare room had always been just that. Spare in use and spare in furnishing. The only person to sleep in it – indeed, the only person who had ever been invited to the house – had been Flora, and she had stayed only a handful of times, the occasions on which Bill had been persuaded to do a weekend’s child-care. The last time had been about six months before. They had eaten out, gone to the theatre, the cinema, and in between they had slummed about the house, feeling gloriously lazy, and no shadow had come between them.
She had tried to say no when Bill called to ask her if Charlotte could stay the weekend. He had to go to a conference in Brighton, which he couldn’t get out of as he was reading a paper. Charlotte’s best friend Alice was away on a family visit to her grandmother. So, in the circumstances, there wasn’t any alternative. Catriona had felt bullied into agreeing, angry with herself at her weakness in submitting to the bullying, and guilty at her uncharitable attitude.
In two hours, Charlotte would arrive. Bill was dropping