‘Any hint of trouble with her friends or colleagues?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Do you have the name and address of her current employers?’
‘Just the name,’ Tom says. ‘Five Star English.’
‘Thank you.’ She scans what she’s written. Then picks up our printouts and the pen drive. ‘And thank you for these.’
‘What can we do?’ I say. ‘There must be something.’
‘Carry on as you are, make sure as many people know as possible. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. And if you do find out anything else or hear from anyone, please let me know. You have my direct number.’
* * *
Outside it’s bright and I have to squint. I left my sunglasses at home, forgotten in the morning’s rush.
‘We were looking at the Missing Overseas website last night,’ I say. ‘It’s useful.’
Tom nods, rubs at the bristles on his cheek. ‘You think she knows what she’s doing?’ He tips his head back towards the building.
‘More than we do,’ I say.
‘Do you want to get a coffee?’
‘I’ve got work,’ I say.
An almost imperceptible shake of his head, the release of breath in his nose. I am a disappointment. Dull, hidebound.
‘Who’s to know?’ he says.
And perhaps this isn’t Tom wanting to play hookey for the hell of it. I’ve had Nick to talk to about Lori. Has Tom been able to share it with anyone, the woman in Dublin, say? If he has, then it’s not the same as family, as people who know her.
‘Half an hour,’ I say.
There are plenty of small bars and cafés on Burton Road, among the hairdressers and boutiques. The area is known as ‘fashionable West Didsbury’ in all the estate-agent blurbs. Tom wants to sit outside to smoke, so we pick the first place that has a pavement table, order two espressos.
‘If she’d had an accident…’ he says, lighting his cigarette, one eye screwed up against the smoke.
‘We’d know, surely. Any hospital, they’d notify someone, notify us.’
‘What if she had no ID on her?’ he says. ‘And they didn’t know who she was?’
‘They’d get someone to speak English, and ask.’
‘And if she was unconscious?’
Couldn’t communicate. It’s not something I want to think about but it’s in my head now, along with all the other unspeakable possibilities. ‘They’d put out an appeal, surely,’ I say. ‘They must have a way of informing the ex-pats. Through the embassies or whatever.’
He smokes, taps ash into the ashtray. ‘Or kidnapped?’ he says. ‘A way of making money.’
‘Tom, don’t-’ My voice shakes.
‘You must have thought-’
‘Of course. But… Look, there’d have been a ransom demand, wouldn’t there?’
