Half the World Away

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I’m at breakfast when Tom seeks me out. ‘Any word from Peter Dunne?’

‘Nothing,’ I say, ‘but it’s only nine o’clock.’

‘He had all day yesterday to talk to Superintendent Yin.’ Tom looks tired, in spite of the fact that he’s acquired a tan since we got here. His eyes are dull, weary.

‘Ring after this, then?’ I say. ‘Are you not eating?’

‘I already did. Give me a knock when you’re ready.’

I wish Nick were here. There’s a gulf between Tom and me that can’t be bridged. The rift when he left me and Lori was so deep, so ragged, that it never really healed. Or not on my side. I’ve no idea what Tom’s perspective is on it. We’ve never spoken about it in any meaningful way. He was quite ruthless at first, unapologetic almost. I’d be weeping down the phone and he would hang up. As things settled, as it became apparent that the separation was going to be permanent, that I couldn’t win him back, I hardened my heart against him. I let all the fire of my love, jealousy and anger crystallize and chill into cold, unyielding stone. He would never hurt me again. In my own mind I belittled him, a man who couldn’t commit, a playboy, a narcissist, his only concern feeding his ego. I bit my tongue in front of Lori as Tom cherry-picked his time with her. I became an expert at tact and diplomacy.

If Nick were here I could share my thoughts and feelings about our search, perhaps even voice the fears I’m working so hard to deny, to ignore. Although Nick and I weren’t exactly communicating well before I left.

Across the room, a guest drops a glass of juice, making me jump. In the hubbub that follows I leave the table and walk to the lift. I rub at my arms to ease the gooseflesh and the shiver that runs through me.

Tom’s window looks down onto a side road and across to the buildings opposite. I think they must be offices – there are no balconies, no ever-present laundry on show.

He’s been smoking: the air stinks of tobacco. His bed is a tangled mess, strewn with clothes. Leaflets and notes cover the desk.

‘Put it on speaker,’ I tell him, as he calls the consulate.

A secretary answers and asks Tom to wait while she checks if Mr Dunne is available.

Tom leans against the edge of the desk, a pen in his hand, notepad at the ready.

I look out to where a bus, with a wooden frame like those old half-timbered Morris Minor Travellers, stops and a queue scrambles to board.

‘Mr Maddox?’ says Peter Dunne. ‘I was about to call you. I managed to speak to Superintendent Yin late yesterday afternoon and relayed the information from your email.’

‘And what did he say?’ Tom asks.

The slightest hiatus, then Peter Dunne says, ‘He is not at liberty to disclose details about the ongoing inquiry but the information you provided will be scrutinized.’

Tom grits his teeth.

‘They will talk to this student, Mr Du, again, won’t they?’ I say.

‘I’m sure that they will do everything necessary,’ Peter Dunne says.

Which is an evasion, not an answer.

‘But I was anxious to speak to you both,’ he goes on, ‘about the press conference. I have good news. We’ve agreed to a venue in Chengdu, the Rose Hibiscus Hotel for Thursday at ten thirty a.m.’ The day after tomorrow. ‘That means it should be carried on the news throughout the rest of the day. You’re both still willing to be present?’

‘Yes,’ we answer in unison.

‘And be available for follow-up interviews should requests be made?’

‘Yes,’ Tom says. I echo him.

‘Superintendent Yin will give an initial address, outlining the police search and inviting public co-operation. We’ll then have one of you making a direct appeal in English. We’ll need to approve the wording in advance, so if you could consider that and send me something through? Nothing too long,’ he adds.

‘Missing Overseas have guidelines,’ I say. ‘We can talk to them.’

‘Excellent. Have you had any response to the leafleting?’

‘Not yet,’ I say.

‘Well, hopefully the press conference will take things to the next level and we’ll reach a significant audience.’

‘Thank God for that,’ I say to Tom, when Peter Dunne has gone. ‘I was beginning to think they might be stalling.’

Tom doesn’t speak. He takes a cigarette and lights it. ‘But they expect us to sit tight, doing fuck-all, while Superintendent Yin decides if talking to the weirdo is worth a punt.’

‘What else can we do?’

‘Go and see him,’ Tom says.

‘I don’t-’

‘Why wait?’

‘Maybe we should see what Superintendent Yin-’

‘Jo, we waited fuck knows how long to find out about the text to Shona. Now this guy and his-’

Tom’s phone rings. Anthony is downstairs. We’re leafleting outside Lori’s again.

‘Change of plan,’ Tom tells Anthony. ‘We’ll be down in a minute.’

I stare at him, wondering whether this is wise.

‘We just talk to the guy,’ Tom says to me, ‘ask if Lori photographed him or talked about filming anyone else. What harm can it do? I’m sick of doing nothing. Every day the chances-’

‘Stop!’ I say.

He looks away and drags on his cigarette.

Mr Du’s address is on Lori’s weekly schedule. It takes me a while, and my hand is trembling, but I find the street on the map, and when we go downstairs I show it to Anthony.

‘Where does he work?’ Anthony says. ‘Will he be at home now?’

We don’t know.

The weather is muggy today and the cloud is back, an iron sky. I can feel the pressure of it in my skull.

When we reach the right development, Anthony speaks to the guard at the gate, who lets us through without any further discussion.

The complex is built around gardens and fish ponds with a fountain in the centre, where four huge bronze frogs are spouting water. There are a lot of benches in the shade of the trees and most are occupied by people with toddlers and babies in buggies.

A television outside the lift shows an advert for cosmetic surgery, white coats and beautiful women.

We go up to the flat on the fifteenth floor, but there is no answer.

‘What now?’ says Tom.

A door opens along the corridor and a young woman, wearing a smart black dress and gold sandals, comes out from the next flat.

‘Nǐ hǎo,’ Anthony says. He asks her something, gesturing to the flat we’re interested in.

She replies to him, then smiles and says, ‘Zài jiàn.’ Sci chen, goodbye. She walks to the lift, the slap of her shoes echoing on the concrete floor.

‘He comes home for lunch,’ Anthony says, ‘about one o’clock. He works for a property firm.’

Like half the city, I imagine.

‘It’s twelve thirty,’ Tom says, checking his phone.

‘We could sit in the garden and wait,’ I say.

So that’s what we do.

The garden is planted with red and green acers and glossy palms. A very dark-leafed tree has racemes of shocking pink flowers, their fragrance reminding me of honeysuckle. Finches, with red and white markings, dart in and out of the trees, wiping their beaks on the branches. A bird, the size of a thrush, coloured brown with a white ring around each eye and a tuft on its head, flies down to the path and back.

People come and go, most of them staring at us as they pass. We don’t bother looking out for Mr Du: we wouldn’t know him.

We chat to Anthony, who wants to visit Scotland. He loves golf and would like to tour all the famous courses. A cousin of his is studying in Seattle and he’d like to visit him too.

At the next bench along a small child, dressed like a princess with net skirts, a shiny pink bodice and a headband with pink rosebuds on it, trots across the path and stumbles. Her mother runs to pick her up, kissing her head and patting her back. It’s so much easier to protect them when they’re tiny, I think, but once they’re grown the parent’s role diminishes, even though the sense of responsibility, the propensity for guilt, never goes. Lori’s princess days were short-lived: a few months at nursery school, then she switched to witches, superheroes and animals.

I check my phone: quarter to one.

A man walks past and begins to clear his throat noisily, a retching sound, urk urk urk, then spits hack into the bushes.

Two little boys arrive with, I guess, their grandmas. The kids carry fishing nets and the women stand beside them while they have a go at catching the carp in the pool nearby.

‘The press conference will be on Thursday,’ Tom says to Anthony. ‘We want to get the search on the news, in the papers, kick up a fuss.’

Anthony nods. ‘Many girls go missing in China,’ he says, ‘often in the villages, kidnapped.’

Jesus! Does he think this fate might have befallen Lori?

Tom’s eyes narrow. ‘Does it happen to foreigners?’ he says.

‘No, no, not foreigners.’ Anthony gives an uneasy smile. ‘Only Chinese. To be married.’

Because of the shortage of women, I think, a result of the one-child policy.

‘And some for…’ Anthony thinks a moment ‘… trafficking?’

I nod. ‘Yes.’

‘This is not in the papers,’ he says.

‘People don’t talk about it?’ I say.

‘That is right. But your daughter is an English girl so I think they will put her on the news. Maybe the police will find her first.’ He brightens at this. ‘Then all will be well. This is often the way. When the police have success then it is public.’

But if Lori’s disappearance isn’t publicized in the first place, what chance of success is there?

At one o’clock we try the flat again. This time someone’s home. Mr Du gives a little start as he opens the door, obviously surprised to find the three of us on his doorstep. He’s young-looking, quite tall, with a narrow face and pointed chin. I can smell cooking fat and garlic from inside. Mr Du listens as Anthony talks, only occasionally glancing up at him.

I catch her name, Lorelei, and Anthony gestures to us.

Mr Du makes a sound, a grunt, when Anthony has finished explaining.

‘Yes,’ Anthony says to us, ‘Lorelei came here on the Sunday evening.’

‘Ask him about the hobbies project,’ I say to Anthony. ‘Did Lori photograph him?’

‘Bú yào,’ Mr Du says, ‘bú yào,’ and something else I don’t catch, then ‘zài jiàn’. Goodbye.

‘He says no. He’s busy now. He wishes you well.’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ Tom says, ‘our daughter is missing. Nu ér, shī zōng.’ He pushes a leaflet at Mr Du, who waves it away.

‘Did she talk to him about photographs?’ I say. ‘Or tell him who else she was going to photograph?’

Anthony speaks, and Mr Du shakes his head. He flips his hands as though he’s brushing us away.

‘He doesn’t know anything about this,’ Anthony says.

Mr Du seems curt, but is that just the sound of the language?

‘He has spoken to the police,’ Anthony says.

‘Did he see Lori on the Monday? The seventh of April?’

Mr Du scowling, speaks rapidly, and Anthony says, ‘No, he saw her for the lesson on the Sunday. Now he says he must go.’

‘Please, wait,’ I say.

But Mr Du shuts the door.

Tom bangs on it.

‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘He’s told us all he’s going to.’

‘Fuck,’ Tom says. I think he’s going to hit the door again, but he just throws his arms up, swearing some more.

In the lift, Tom turns to Anthony. ‘Did you believe him?’

Anthony doesn’t answer. He looks uncomfortable.

‘Why was he so cagey?’ Tom says. ‘If he is an innocent witness and no more than that, just a student of Lori’s, why wouldn’t he want to help?’

‘Chinese people, they do not like to be close to a big problem like this. They like harmony. Things to be… smooth.’

‘Bad for business?’ I say.

‘Like this,’ Anthony agrees.

Three wise monkeys: see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing. It’s not exclusively a Chinese trait, I think. The British have a great capacity for avoiding public confrontation, of acting as though nothing is happening, for turning a blind eye when someone creates a scene. I think of the stag do at the airport.

But is that all it is – reticence, embarrassment – or has Mr Du something to hide?

In the garden the little boys are still fishing; one of the grandmas holds her charge by the straps on his dungarees.

‘Oh, great,’ Tom mutters, looking ahead.

Striding towards us are two guards. They call to us, in harsh tones, gesturing to the exit.

‘They wish us to go,’ Anthony says.

The guards follow us to the gates, where Anthony presses the exit button. I feel their eyes on us as we leave.

Across the road there’s an open square and a man in a white martial-arts suit is dancing with a sword, whirling it round his head, then posing. The light flashes on the metal and I blink it away. At home you’d be locked up for being out in public with a weapon like that.

Chengdu very safe. Superintendent Yin’s words echo in my head.

Oh, really?

Then where the hell is my daughter?