Perfect People

115

Two hours later, in Sheila Michaelides’s office, John held Naomi’s hand, squeezing. Renate Harrison, their ever-present shadow, dressed in a smart two-piece and crisp white blouse, sat beside them.

Naomi stared past the psychologist, out through the window into the walled garden, as the policewoman brought Sheila Michaelides up to speed with the latest developments. Naomi envied the psychologist the seeming tranquillity of her existence.

‘I’m so sorry for you, John and Naomi,’ she said, when Renate Harrison had finished. ‘I saw two police officers on Saturday afternoon and gave them as much information as I could.’

Her head was sticking out of a fluffy, fresh-looking white cashmere sweater, but she looked tired. She had more make-up caked on than Naomi had seen before, and there were bags under her eyes. Even her hair lacked its usual bounce.

‘You were going to try to make contact with some of the other parents around the world,’ John said. ‘Have you had any success?’

‘Yes, I have-’ She glanced at her computer screen. ‘I’m getting emails coming in all the time – there’s been a surge of them since yesterday morning. There’s something going on that I can’t explain, but perhaps you can?’ She stared at Renate Harrison.

‘Explain what, exactly?’ the family liaison officer asked.

‘Over the past five days, seven sets of twins conceived in the Dettore Clinic have disappeared into thin air.’

‘Seven?’ John exclaimed.

‘I’m waiting for confirmation back about one set in Dubai; the total may be up to eight now. And I suspect there are a lot more.’

Naomi swivelled on her chair to face the policewoman. ‘DI Pelham said three sets – he said three, yesterday. How could it be seven – eight?’

‘When you say disappeared,’ John asked, ‘surely there must be people who have seen something?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘All about the same age?’ he asked.

‘Their ages range from three to five.’

‘And-’ John said. ‘Are – Naomi – and I – the only people to have any evidence of their children’s disappearance?’

‘Incredibly, it would seem so. I’ve had telephone conversations with five of the parents – I’ve been up half the night with different time zones around the world – and in every single instance they tell me their twins have literally vanished. Not even one sighting so far by any security camera, anywhere.’

‘Why us?’ Naomi demanded. ‘I mean, why do we have evidence and no one else?’

‘There doesn’t seem to have been any violence involved in the other instances,’ Sheila Michaelides said.

‘So who were these people who shot this Disciple on our doorstep then took Luke and Phoebe away? The Good Samaritan and his Best Friend?’ Naomi said in an outburst of frustration. ‘Did they just happen to be out for a stroll across the fields, carrying a handgun and wearing night-vision goggles?’

There was an uncomfortable silence. No one seemed to know how to respond. Finally the psychologist said, ‘Naomi, I’m hoping during the course of the day to speak to more of the parents of the children who have gone missing. I can’t believe it’s coincidence, so there has to be some linking factor. Something will come to light.’

‘Could we speak to these parents ourselves?’ John asked.

‘I can conference you in, with their permission,’ she said, seeking and receiving a nod of approval from Renate Harrison. ‘I think it would be a very good idea.’ Then, again looking at the police officer, she said, ‘Meantime, what is the next step you anticipate from your American colleagues?’

‘I think at the moment,’ Renate Harrison said, ‘they’re as baffled as we are.’

*

The policewoman drove through Caibourne, and on up the lane. Neither John nor Naomi had said more than a few words since leaving the psychologist’s consulting room. They were both inside their shells, thinking, trying to pull together something that made sense out of all they had heard, and getting nowhere.

DI Pelham was allowing them to go home today, with the suggestion that Renate Harrison, relieved by another colleague during the night, stay with them for the next few days, and patrols would be stepped up around their house. They would be guarded as much as resources would allow.

They made a right turn into the driveway, and Naomi felt an immediate lump in her throat. They were coming up to their house.

Their empty house.

It was a fine day, sunlight glinting on the damp grass. She barely noticed. Barely even noticed the unmarked maroon police car parked in the drive, close to her Subaru and John’s Saab, and a lone policeman in a uniform that looked too bulky for him sitting inside it.

Post and newspapers slithered across the tiled floor of the hall as John pushed open the front door. Naomi looked at her watch. As if on autopilot, she said, ‘Almost one, lunchtime. I – I’d better – make something, I suppose.’

‘Would you like me to do it?’ Renate Harrison offered. ‘If you just show me where everything is and tell me what you’d like?’

John set down their holdall and his laptop bag, and scooped up the mail and papers, sifting through those that were for him and Naomi, and those that were for the owners of the house, putting them aside in a separate pile. Then he went through to his den, set his computer on his desk and went back out again, to carry in the children’s computer from the boot of the car.

Back in his den, and logged on, he saw that he had sixty-two new emails. Wearily, he slumped back in his chair and scrolled down through them.

Then he froze.

He leaned forward, hands poised over the keyboard, staring at the screen, barely able to believe what he was seeing.

It was an email from Luke and Phoebe.