The face in the mirror looked back at me for a moment, asking me why I was bothering with my appearance. What’s the point? it said. What do you care what you look like, or what anyone thinks of you? You don’t really care if this woman in your office gives you a job or not, do you? So why are you even bothering?
I didn’t have an answer to that.
I sniffed, slicked back my hair again, and went back to the office.
She was sitting in the chair across from my desk, staring vacantly at a mobile phone in her lap. She had a thin and angular face, no make-up, and shortish silvery-grey hair. Her clothes were prim and cheap — a brown tweed coat over a pale blouse and a long shapeless skirt — and she wore the kind of glasses that teachers and librarians usually favour — unnecessarily large, with a coloured plastic frame. I guessed she was about forty-five.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ I said as I came in and shut the door. ‘I got held up with something.’
She looked across at me, flashing a quick nervous smile, and I saw her take in the state of my face, but she didn’t say anything. She just tightened her smile for a moment, then leaned down and put the mobile away in her handbag.
I went over to my desk. ‘I’m afraid my secretary didn’t get your name.’
‘It’s Mrs Gerrish,’ she said. ‘Helen Gerrish.’
‘John Craine,’ I said, offering my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Gerrish.’
She gave me that tight little smile again and shook my hand. Well, I say she shook my hand — it was actually no more than the briefest brush of her fingertips. It felt like the frightened touch of a very frail and very cold child.
As I sat down at my desk, I was trying to remember where I’d heard her name before. Gerrish … Gerrish … it definitely rang a bell, but for the moment it just wouldn’t come to me.
‘So, Mrs Gerrish,’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’
She hesitated for a moment, looking down at her hands in her lap, and then — without looking up — she said, ‘It’s my daughter … Anna. She’s missing.’
‘Anna?’
She nodded.
And now I remembered the name. It had been on the front page of all the local newspapers about a month ago, and maybe in one or two of the nationals too. Anna Gerrish, a woman in her early twenties, had gone missing after leaving work one night. She’d simply put on her coat, walked out of the door, and no one had seen or heard from her since.
‘Anna Gerrish …’ I heard myself mutter.
‘I expect you read about it,’ Mrs Gerrish said.
‘Yes … yes, I did.’ I looked at her. ‘How long has it been now?’
‘Four weeks and two days.’
‘Have the police made any progress?’
She let out a bitter little laugh. ‘Progress? No, the police haven’t made any progress. As far as I’m concerned, they haven’t done anything at all.’
‘I’m sure they’re doing their best — ’
‘No, Mr Craine,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t believe they are.’
‘Really? What makes you say that?’
She shrugged. ‘They haven’t found her, have they? They haven’t found anything. And they don’t even seem to be trying. They haven’t made a televised appeal or a reconstruction of her last known movements … they haven’t done anything like that. And they keep telling me that this kind of thing happens all the time … that if someone over eighteen wants to disappear without telling anyone, there’s very little they can do about it.’
‘Well,’ I said, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘It is quite common for young people to simply — ’
‘No, Mr Craine. Not my Anna.’ Mrs Gerrish’s eyes were fixed firmly on mine now. ‘She wouldn’t do that to me. She just wouldn’t. She’s not that kind of girl.’
I didn’t bother asking her what kind of girl she imagined would do that to her mother. Instead, I asked her what she thought might have happened to Anna.
She shook her head, and I could see her eyes beginning to moisten. ‘I just … I really don’t know. All I know is that if Anna was safe and well, she would have let me know.’ She took a tissue from her handbag and wiped daintily at her eyes. ‘She would have let me know, Mr Craine … believe me. I know my daughter. She wouldn’t just … she wouldn’t …’
There was a knock at the door then, and Ada came in carrying two cups of coffee on a tray. She came over and put the tray on the desk. The coffee was in proper cups and saucers, not the usual chipped old mugs, and Ada had also provided a bowl of sugar, teaspoons, a little jug of milk, and a plate of biscuits.
‘Will there be anything else, Mr Craine?’ she said, smiling obsequiously at me.
I looked at her, shaking my head. ‘That’s all, thanks, Ada.’
She gave me a little curtsey, then turned round and walked out, glancing over her shoulder and wiggling her fat arse in a sexy-secretary kind of way as she went.
I waited for her to close the door, then I turned back to Mrs Gerrish. She’d stopped crying now and had gone back to staring at her hands. They were in her lap again, obsessively twisting and tearing at the tissue.
‘So, Mrs Gerrish,’ I said. ‘What is it you’d like me to do, exactly?’
She looked up at me, frowning almost disdainfully, as if I’d just asked her the most unnecessary question in the world. ‘I want you to find my daughter, Mr Craine.’
‘Why me?’ I said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Why did you choose me? There are plenty of other investigation agencies, bigger companies with more resources …’
‘You were recommended,’ she said.
‘By whom?’
She looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment. ‘Well, to be honest, Mr Craine … I did try some other agencies, but none of them were willing to help. The last one I went to, a company called Mercer Associates, they suggested that I contact you.’ She smiled thinly. ‘No offence meant, Mr Craine, but if you’re not able to help me, I really don’t know what else I can do.’
I nodded, smiling. ‘No offence taken, Mrs Gerrish. None at all. Do you remember who you spoke to at Mercer?’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t remember her name … it was a young lady. She said they don’t handle domestic cases, only corporate work … whatever that is.’
I nodded. ‘And do you mind me asking why you came here in person without making an appointment first?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘No, no … of course not. I’m just curious, that’s all. Most of my personal clients either contact me by telephone first or get in touch through my website.’
She looked down at her lap again, and when she spoke again I knew she was lying. ‘Yes, well … I was going to call you, but I happened to be in town today getting some shopping, and when I passed your office …’ She shrugged. ‘Well, I just thought I’d call in.’ She looked up at me. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind.’
I smiled. ‘I don’t.’
‘So will you help me?’
I don’t know why I didn’t say no. I didn’t need the work, for a start. And even if I did, the prospect of working for this strangely unappetising woman didn’t exactly fill me with joy. There wasn’t even anything particularly interesting about the case. It would probably involve a lot of fairly tedious work without much hope of success. And if, as Helen Gerrish had claimed, the police really hadn’t made any progress, that either meant that there wasn’t anything to find, or that they were fairly sure Anna had simply gone away of her own accord.
But, despite all that, I didn’t say no.
And, even now, I still don’t know why.
I just opened my mouth and found myself saying, ‘If I do decide to help you, Mrs Gerrish, you’d have to understand that there’s very little I can do that the police haven’t already done. No matter what you think of them, I can assure you that the police have far greater resources for finding people than I have.’