Tom gets out his cigarettes. I feel a pinprick on the back of my calf and pat at it. A mosquito perhaps.
‘And you replied?’ Tom says.
‘That’s what Superintendent Yin told us,’ I say.
‘Yes, and nothing.’ She concentrates on the bracelets, spacing them out at intervals along her forearm, the rollie between her fingers. Only occasionally does she look our way. Is she shy?
‘Do you still have the text?’ Tom says.
‘Yes.’ She scowls, seems puzzled by our interest.
‘The police say that’s her very last communication,’ I explain. ‘It’s when we lose her.’ I swallow.
Shona puts the cigarette in her other hand and rummages in her bag. Flips open her phone case, then pulls up the message and turns it so we can see. I read, Making a start on the project, ur next. Tue or Wed? Lxxx
I start copying it down but Tom says, ‘Can you forward it?’
‘Sure.’
He reels off his number and Shona sends it to him. There’s a chime as it reaches his phone.
‘ “Making a start”,’ I say. ‘Who was she making a start with?’
Shona shrugs, puts the phone down, tokes on her rollie, wincing at the last drag.
‘What did you know about the project?’ Tom says.
‘Not much,’ Shona says. ‘She wanted something a bit… quirky. Challenging stereotypes. Something you’d never associate with China – no wee pandas or chopsticks. The idea of hobbies, obsessions, she talked about that stuff.’
‘What about the party? Did she talk about it then?’ I say.
Shona gives a small groan. ‘God, I’m sorry. I was wrecked. I can’t remember much at all.’
‘Do you remember anything about her travel plans?’ Tom says.
She shakes her head. ‘Sorry.’
Bradley told us it was Shona whom Lori talked to about wanting a break and looking at the islands, but Shona’s saying she was too pissed to recall it.
‘But you think that’s where she’s gone?’ I say.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Seems the most likely thing.’
They all assumed Lori was off travelling and none of them thought it was odd that she didn’t keep in touch, that she didn’t manage to land up at an Internet café every few days. Their complacency, if that’s what it is, infuriates me.
There’s a burst of laughter, quickly muffled, from the other table where Bradley, Dawn and Rosemary sit. Unbidden, I think of the Meredith Kercher case: her friend, Amanda Knox, and Knox’s boyfriend tried for killing her. Stop it! I cover my confusion by taking a drink. The bottle is so slippery I lose my grip and it bounces off the edge of the table, drenching my legs. ‘Shit!’
