Anthony, the interpreter with whom Missing Overseas has put us in touch, meets us in the lobby after lunch. He’s young, I estimate late twenties, and attractive, with the sort of sculpted cheekbones and even smile that you see on male models. He speaks excellent English with an American tinge. He looks as if he is dressed for business, in a crisp shirt and black trousers. We go over what we want him to do and he seems perfectly at ease, though I imagine it must be very different from most of the work he gets.
He has engaged a driver who, he explains, will want a tip as well as his fee. I give Anthony Lori’s address. Dawn is going to show us round the apartment.
The car is a Lexus, slick and white. The driver uses satnav. We wait at lights where workers are erecting hoardings along the edge of the pavement. They wear yellow hard hats and blue boiler suits. The two closest to me are women.
‘It’s always busy,’ I say, as we queue in heavy traffic.
‘Yes.’ Anthony turns back to us to reply. ‘One day a week, each car is banned from driving to help with pollution.’ The lights change and we creep forward. At the side, a parade of scooters streams past us.
‘See the coats,’ I say to Tom. Several of the riders wear their jackets back to front. It must afford them some protection from dust and draughts and the fumes. They remind me of Finn and Isaac dressing up as superheroes.
I see Dawn as we pull in to park. She looks much like her photos – about the same height as Lori but plump with frizzy red-brown hair, her face sprinkled with freckles, a broad nose and large round eyes.
She looks anxious as we meet. I feel the same: nerves grip my stomach. We shake hands, which feels formal, a little awkward. Hers is warm and moist.
We introduce Anthony to her.
‘You’ve still not heard from Lori?’ Dawn says.
‘Nothing. We’ve been talking to the police this morning. They didn’t give us much idea of where they’re looking,’ I say.
‘Playing their cards close to their chests,’ Tom says. ‘Not exactly big on sharing. You kept your keys?’
‘I never got a chance to give them back.’ Dawn reddens, plays with her lip, pulling at it, a nervous tic, I think.
‘You know Shona?’ I ask her.
‘Yes.’
I explain about the text. ‘And on the Sunday Lori was teaching, so that’s officially the last contact.’ A couple carrying shopping bags approach and we shuffle aside to let them pass.
