I Know My Name: An addictive thriller with a chilling twist. C.J. Cooke

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      She stops pacing.

      ‘Unless …’

      ‘Unless what?’

      ‘Well, unless you gave her some reason to leave the children behind.’

      Her voice – nasal, clipped, withering – lands me back in the night El and I announced our engagement. Eloïse’s mother is out of the picture, having dragged El around England for most of her formative years in pursuit of heroin. She died when El was twelve. At that point, Gerda and Magnus stepped in and raised Eloïse, giving her a fantastic education and a strict home life. I had only met Gerda once by the time I asked El to marry me, and clearly I had somehow made a very poor first impression.

      We were in the dining room of their home in Geneva, El switching between French and German as she showed off her engagement ring to a roomful of family friends and distant relatives. I was in a corner, fiercely attempting to abate my social inadequacies with gin, when I spotted Gerda taking Eloïse by the elbow and leading her into the kitchen. I followed, but when I reached the door I heard Gerda speaking in a tone of voice that suggested I’d better not interrupt. I hid behind the door and leaned towards the sound. She was speaking in English, presumably so none of the other guests would understand. But I did.

       Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Eloïse?

       What do you mean?

       Well, you’ve only just met. Couldn’t you wait a little longer?

      Eloïse laughed. We’ve been dating for a year …

       Your grandfather and I courted for three years before we even thought of marrying. It’s a serious thing, you know. Very serious …

       I know how serious it is, Mamie—

       What does his father do?

       I think his father is retired now. He used to work in the mines.

      In the mines?

       Does it matter?

      A long sigh.

       I’m sorry.

       Sorry? For what, dear?

       That you’re not as happy for me as I thought you’d be.

      I stepped back, thinking that the conversation was over. But then Eloïse said:

       This is about my mother, isn’t it?

      Gerda straightened, affronted, and when she spoke her voice was louder.

       Just … be careful, OK? I love you so, so much, meine Süße.

       I love you too, Mamie.

      Gerda comes back into focus, the bottle of milk almost finished and my daughter beginning to fall asleep in her arms. I clench my jaw, bracing for a row.

      ‘There isn’t someone else in the picture, is there?’ Gerda says slowly, still not quite looking me in the eye.

      ‘Someone else?’

      She shrugs, as if this is an entirely reasonable thing to be asking me. ‘Another man. A lover.’

      I bristle. ‘I hope not.’

      ‘And she definitely left all her belongings behind. Her credits cards, passports …’

      ‘Passports?’ The word is barely out of my mouth when I realise what she means: El has two passports. Her British one and her Swiss one from long ago. Gerda eyes me expectantly, so I say, ‘Yes’, though I haven’t located the Swiss passport. I’d forgotten that one. It’s bright red with a white cross on it, so shouldn’t be too hard to find. I make a mental note to ransack the house for it immediately, though El’s not used it in ages. I should think it’s out of date.

      Gerda’s gaze skitters from mine. ‘You must have given her some reason to leave.’

      Her words are like shards, designed to wound, but I refuse to rise to it. It’s precisely what she wants. Instead, I turn on my heel and walk out of the room.

      Max is asleep in his pirate ship bed, surrounded by yellow Minions and clutching his quilt, thumb stuck firmly in his mouth. He’ll be bursting with questions when he wakes up, and I have no idea what to tell him. I can hardly tell him that his mother is still away taking flowers to a friend.

      I check the filing cabinet in the spare room in which El keeps things like birth certificates and baby books, but there is no sign of her Swiss passport. It’s not in the drawer under our bed either. I can’t think of anywhere else to look. I have a brisk shower, and my mind turns to my emails and text messages, as well as Eloïse’s Facebook page and Twitter account. Both are full of queries, stickers, emojis: El, are you OK? Sad face. DM me! Shocked face. Where are you? I heard something’s up? Gravely concerned face. Hey, El, are we meeting up for lunch today? A heart.

      I have text messages from our friends asking if they can do anything, and I scroll through them all, willing one of them to say something to the effect that Eloïse has been found.

      I check my voicemail for the millionth time but there’s nothing from Eloïse. There is, however, an urgent message from my boss, Hugo, about an account – one of our biggest clients is furious about an admin error and is threatening to take his thirty million quid elsewhere. I send a quick email to Hugo, asking for clarification, and his reply pings back. Basically, I need to re-send a bunch of paperwork by special delivery to the Edinburgh branch, pray for a miracle, and Mr Husain and his millions should stay put.

      Gerda pads downstairs in a grey cashmere robe, a cigarette and a lighter in one manicured hand, heading for the back garden. She stops when she sees me and looks oddly penitent.

      ‘Look, Lochlan. If Eloïse really is missing then we need to be devising a plan of action for her return.’

      I continue rifling through the cupboard by the stairs for my briefcase. ‘That’s precisely why I’ve already spoken with the police.’

      ‘The police in this country will do nothing,’ she tuts. ‘We need to be proactive about this, Lochlan. We need to put a plan in—’

      ‘I am being proactive.’

      She cuts me off: ‘—place to ensure that she’s not gone any longer than is necessary. Unless, of course, that’s what you want?’

      What I want is to slap her. And in the same moment as I feel that ugly, tantalising impulse, I recall an argument with Eloïse that I ended by telling her she was just like Gerda. She asked me what the hell I meant, and I told her the truth: she had a tendency to twist my words and corner me with her own. Or she’d stonewall me. There’s no winning with passive-aggressive fighters. You’ve got to ignore them, for all you want to gouge their eyes out.

      ‘Will you be all right getting Max and Cressida their breakfast?’ СКАЧАТЬ