Chapter 2
The next day, Thomas Wilson didn’t show up at work.
This was not unusual. He had told his colleagues about the death of his father and that he needed a few days off to be with his mother, to mourn, to prepare the funeral and the like. What was unusual was the complete silence that surrounded him. Several of his friends and colleagues tried to contact him, but there was no answer: phone calls were left to ring out, emails were left unanswered, texts went unreplied.
On day one, this was understandable: his dad was dead. Who would want to talk to anyone in that situation? Sometimes a little isolation and time to yourself was necessary.
Yet Thomas had only booked four days off from work. On day five, when still there had been no word from him, no communication of any kind, his colleagues began to worry and his boss began to fume.
“Where is that little toerag?” bellowed Sarah Harcroft in her office, at nobody in particular. “If he doesn’t get in touch with me within one day he’s out of a job!”
The rest of the office would have been shocked by this very audible outburst if they were not so used to it by now. Sarah Harcroft was the kind of editor who wanted everything done to the deadline- understandable- and accepted no leniency and no excuses. She was the kind of ruthless player who would push her way to the top in business by lying, cheating, stealing and sleeping with superiors. In short, she was not in the top job because of her management skills, her eye for a good story or her financial smarts; her sole credentials were that she had been the most ruthless and vocal of the staff when the previous editor was seeking a replacement.
Anyway, the job of locating Thomas and bringing him back to the paper’s office- even if only to be fired- fell to Kathy Turner.
“You know him best out of anyone here, don’t you?” barked Harcroft at the longsuffering Kathy as she stood in her office.
“Yes ma’am,” replied Kathy. It was never a good idea to speak too much around Harcroft (she didn’t like people using her first name): one wrong word could put you in the “naughty list”, a childish and patronising document drawn up by Harcroft which contained the names of those who would be given only the most demeaning and boring stories for next weeks’ editions.
“Any idea where he’s got to? Has he been in contact with you?”
“No, ma’am.” Despite trying to keep a professional demeanour, Kathy couldn’t help but let a twinge of emotion show in her voice. The truth was that since Thomas had started work there two years previously, she and he had become good friends. They had even dated for a short time before having an explosive argument, breaking up and not speaking to each other for a month or so. Still, they had history and there was a great deal of affection between them. While the whole office knew of his father’s death, she had been the first person Thomas had told. Normally they’d speak every day- but now he was missing.
This was not lost on Harcroft. She was the most skilled of emotional manipulators and could sense what someone was feeling, even if they were trying to conceal it, and could use it to her advantage. Here, she sensed the pain in Kathy’s voice immediately and simply smirked. She said nothing, but you could never be sure with Harcroft… she would most likely be storing the information about Kathy’s feelings in her head for use at a later date. How? Kathy could never guess and could only shudder.
“Okay, you may leave now. Find him within forty eight hours.”
Kathy left the office with a lingering sense of dread. Harcroft’s temper was legendary. Although she had not attached any kind of sanction to her order, Kathy knew that to fail her boss often meant to lose one’s job.
Kathy’s first port of call was Thomas’ mother. She could vaguely recall that he had mentioned going to visit her when he heard news of his father’s death.
The difficulty was that she had never been to the Wilson family home and did not know the telephone number. All she remembered was that her name was Barbara. She had met her on a few previous occasions, but their conversation had always been awkward and stilted. Her first task, therefore, was to delve deep to find the necessary information.
Thomas’ staff file only showed his apartment address and mobile phone number. It gave no detail of his parent’s home address- but then, why would it?
So she ended up perusing the yellow pages looking for every Wilson in there, hoping one of them was the right woman.
The first was certainly not.
After a few rings, a gruff man’s voice answered.
“Hello? Who is this?” He sounded distracted by something in the background, and from what Kathy could hear there was a lot to be distracted by: a television set was audibly blaring what sounded like a bad police drama, with gunshots and acting that seemed atrocious even down the end of a telephone; a woman’s voice was yelling something incomprehensible about someone, presumably the man to whom Kathy was talking, not doing his share of the housework; and through it all pierced the incessant barking of an agitated dog. The man sounded positively annoyed to have had another complication added to his already hectic day and exhibited a tone of voice which seemed to say this better be important.
“Good morning, my name is Kathy Turner-”
“Who? Speak up, woman!” the man interrupted rudely. He was having trouble hearing her over the television.
“Kathy Turner. My name is Kathy Turner, and I’m calling from the Daily Herald newspaper. I’m looking for one of our reporters, Thomas Wilson. Is this his parents’ number?”
The man was silent for a moment as he considered the audacity of this woman to interrupt his day with such an impertinent question. The dog was yapping at his feet, the wife was nagging him again and he had missed the most important part of his show. With all that on his mind already, Kathy’s intrusion into his life was very unwelcome indeed.
So he answered very simply: “No. Goodbye.” And with that, he slammed the phone down.
It was the same story with every Wilson in the book. Of the 79 numbers listed, none were the right person or even related to her. None of them had heard of Thomas Wilson and none of them were any of his relatives, although one of them had mistaken the voice of Kathy for the voice of a sex line he frequently used and had tried to initiate some verbal intercourse before realising his mistake and trying- badly- to cover for himself.
In the end, Kathy was forced to give up. She sighed regretfully and decided to mull her options over while she worked on another story following up a lead she had been given regarding the threat of a strike by nurses’ unions.
She phoned the relevant people: the head of the union, who complained about low pay and bad working conditions; the relevant government minister, who criticised the threat of industrial action while simultaneously defending his government’s record on the NHS. She visited the hospitals which would be affected by the strike and got reactions from some patients: some supportive, some critical. She then went home, typed up her story and went to bed. Disappointingly she had come up with nothing during the day about how to find Thomas’ mother, so she allowed herself some sleep and tried not to worry until the morning.
In the end, she didn’t have to worry.
As she walked into the office the next day, she saw a middle aged lady with straw coloured hair and a sad expression sitting in the office lobby. She clutched a bag between her legs in a sombre manner and appeared to have been crying.
Kathy recognised the woman as Thomas’ mother. The face was so familiar to her: she had seen those sparkling eyes and wrinkled cheeks with Thomas many a time, although she had rarely moved to speak to her. Yet the loss of both her husband and her son had taken its toll on her: it appeared as if when they had gone, they had taken some of her life with them. Her eyes were much duller than Kathy remembered, her skin more wrinkled, her lips sadder.
Harcroft was standing beside Mrs. Wilson. Though they were within five metres of each other, the two of them may have occupied separate worlds. While Mrs. Wilson sat on the leather sofa with a dist
ant look on her face, almost unaware that the Daily Herald’s bullish boss stood mere metres from her, the latter stood awkardly away from her with back turned. Harcroft’s speciality was being the boss, the authority. She did not know how to deal with a emotionally sensitive situation such as this and it showed.
The shell on Harcroft’s hard emotional exterior cracked slightly when she saw Kathy approaching. A smile almost found its way to her features at the prospect of offloading the situation onto someone else. Before Kathy reached her, though, she recovered her sense of cold authority and addressed her employee like a sergeant would address his privates.
“Kathy, do you see this woman here?” She pointed at Mrs. Wilson as one would an animal at a zoo.
“Yes,” replied Kathy.
“That’s Wilson’s mother. Talk to her.”
Having delegated her responsibilities, she left abruptly, making no attempt to hide her relief at being spared one more moment in the presence of the blubbering widow.
Mrs. Wilson was oblivious to the whole affair. Her body language was closed and frightened and she appeared to be living entirely in her own thoughts, unaware of her surroundings. As Kathy sat next to her on the plush red settee, she jumped, startled.
“Hello,” she smiled weakly. “You’re Kathy, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Wilson. How are you holding up?”
“Alright. I’m coping better than I thought I would. But I do miss him terribly…” Her face glazed over momentarily as memories of her lost soulmate apparently began to play involuntarily in her mind’s eye. Tears appeared in the corners of her eyes. Her body seemed to withdraw into itself, as if her skin had become too big for her. Then, as if she had willed herself to turn the images off, she returned to the world and looked hopefully at Kathy. “Do you know where my son is?”
Kathy paused. She had hoped that Thomas’ mother could clear things up and tell her where he was. It appeared that she was just as clueless as Kathy and had come to the paper for help.
“I don’t know,” replied Kathy. “I wanted to ask you the same thing, actually. We haven’t seen him nor heard from him in nearly a week and wanted to know what had happened to him.”
This was too much for Barbara. It seemed that the only thing giving her any strength at this time was the idea that Thomas had retreated into work to deal with his grief, that Kathy might know where he was. With that hope gone her strength visibly vanished. She seemed to collapse in on herself and broke down in tears.
Kathy didn’t know what to do. Even though she’d known Thomas well, her relationship to his mother consisted of nothing more than a few brief, awkward conversations. Despite their mutual aim, Thomas’ mother was little more than a stranger to her, so she had no idea how to console her.
“There’s still hope,” she opined. “We’re following all the leads we can to find him.”
Her words were no good, however, and still Barbara cried. Her tears created puddles on the sofa and her wails could be heard throughout the office. It would have been awkward, embarassing, but for the fact that everyone here had known and liked Thomas, and everyone here had sympathy for the woman who grieved for him.
“We’ve had trouble with our inquiries,” began Kathy. This was a risky line to take, for it would only add to her hopelessness to find out that his place of work were unable to find him, but she needed to know if Mrs. Wilson could help. “But you can help us. Do you know anything that could aid us in finding your son?”
Barbara looked up at Kathy. Her eyes had temporarily dried up, empty of tears, but a hopelessness more terrible than any display of passion had replaced them. Kathy continued,
“Mrs. Wilson, we can find your son if you’ll only help us. Is there anything you can tell us? Anything at all?”
The mother slowly opened her mouth. A noise came out, not quite words but more a groan of pain. She was trying to talk, however, and soon her guttural vocalising became intelligible language.
She spoke slowly, at first, but Kathy listened attentively to her message:
“The last time I saw him he was walking away from my house. Away from me. He was with a strange , who was wearing a suit. I heard them talking in my hallway. When I went to see who was at the door, I saw my Thomas walking away with that strange man. And he didn’t look like my boy, no he didn’t. His eyes… his eyes were different, like a different person. I don’t know where he is and I don’t know what they’ve done to him.” The words were now rushing out before the tears could return. “And he never said goodbye and he never contacted me afterwards. I just want my little boy back!”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Kathy offered.
“Yes, please,” replied Thomas’ mother. She smiled weakly at the offer and managed to stave off the tears long enough for Kathy to leave for the office kitchen. While there, the solitude and comparative quiet gave her a chance to think.
Something strange had happened to Thomas. The afternoon before his disappearance, it was true that he had been acting oddly. Nothing suspicious, nothing to indicate that anything was wrong- just different. He had used words and phrases he had never used before. He had used gestures and body language that was alien to him. At times, he seemed forgetful- it had taken him a few minutes to remember a camping trip he and Kathy had once been on. Nothing suspicious, but odd. And perhaps important in the light of his disappearance.
These thoughts accompanied her while she carried the coffee to Mrs. Wilson. Her thought stream was incomplete, and she knew not what might have happened to her friend, but something inside her told her that this was no ordinary case of a missing person. Ordinarily it’s kidnap, or running away from home, or suicide- but none of these possibilities seemed to make sense with Thomas, given what Kathy knew of his character and of the events surrounding his departure. He had left voluntarily, from what Barbara told her. Yet there was also something very suspicious about it.
Kathy brought Mrs. Wilson the coffee and sat down next to her.
“Mrs. Wilson, how far have you come today?”
“I travelled from Leeds to get here. It’s where he grew up, see. It’s where I still live. He moved away to university a few years ago and never looked back. He always was eager to move to the capital.”
Now that things had calmed down somewhat, Kathy suddenly noticed the state of Mrs. Wilson’s clothes. It appeared she hadn’t changed or washed in a week and all she carried with her was a small handbag packed full of bare essentials.
“If I’m being honest, dear,” said Mrs. Wilson, noticing Kathy’s gaze, “I haven’t been able to look after myself in the past week, what with Francis dying… and Thomas going…”
She broke down in a fresh flurry of tears and poor Kathy was left once more in the awkward position of having to hold the her hand while not having the slightest clue what to say to comfort her. After a few minutes, she decided to move Mrs. Wilson into the cafeteria where they could talk some more and have something to eat. Cold comfort in the light of what has happened, but it was something.
In the cafeteria, Mrs. Wilson seemed in better spirits. She even managed a weak smile and could fight back the tears once more. Her make-up had run so badly, though, that her face resembled that of a clown.
“Mrs. Wilson, I’ll write something for tomorrow’s issue of the Daily Herald about Thomas’ disappearance. That way, hopefully someone will come forward. In the meantime, I think we should contact the police and report Thomas as a missing person. That doesn’t mean we can’t do our own investigation, though. Do you have any kind of CCTV on or near your property?”
“No,” said Mrs. Wilson. “Oh! But my neighbour Jeff has one installed. Why?”
“Because if it’s working, that CCTV may have footage of the man who took your son and the car he left in. If we can find that, we may be able to find your son.”
Mrs. Wilson liked the idea, so Kathy left her in the cafeteria with the promise that she would return to draft up the missing person report for tomorr
ow’s issue. When she had done that, she offered to give Mrs. Wilson a lift home.
“Oh, no, dear, it’s much too far. Leeds is several hours drive from here. I’ll take the train.”
“I insist, Mrs. Wilson,” said Kathy forcefully. “If we are going to write an article about your son’s disappearance, it would be useful to be able to say how he disappeared. Besides, he’s my friend. I want to find him just as much as you do.”
With that, Mrs. Wilson reluctantly agreed to let Kathy drive her home to Leeds.
The drive between London and Leeds lasted several hours. Much of it was spent in silence as Mrs. Wilson sat in contemplation and Kathy respected her privacy, choosing instead to concentrate on the road. At times, Kathy tried to pry some information from her passenger about the circumstances around Thomas’ disappearance: how had he been acting in the days before he left? Would his father’s disappearance have led him to run away and seek solitude? Yet each time she asked, though Mrs. Wilson valiantly tried to answer, her words ended up being shrouded in blubbering and tears. Kathy soon learned to leave the subject alone for the time being.
On one subject, however, her passenger was quite talkative. It was apparent that she nursed a passion for pottery and had in fact made many vases and ornaments in the past- on a purely amateur basis, unfortunately, although she would have loved to go into it professionally. Kathy was unsure how the conversation had wound itself onto this topic. She had asked Mrs. Wilson about the last time Thomas had called home before his latest visit, and she had somehow skilfully changed the subject onto something else completely.
“I’ve made vases and pots and plates and trays,” she was warbling happily. “I can show you when we get to mine, dear, if you like.”
Kathy obliged reluctantly. She had little interest in pottery, but could see that this topic was a necessary distraction for Mrs. Wilson from her grief. While she immersed herself in the world of her hobby, she could forget about her dead husband and missing son. So Kathy listened as Mrs. Wilson spent the last half hour of the journey regaling her with stories of things she had made; of the history of the pottery industry, and how it could be used in archaeology; of which manufacturers were worth the most. Kathy found common ground with her passenger on the subject of the Antiques Road Show, which both of them watched- although for Mrs. Wilson it was a religious affair, while Kathy only did it on the odd bored day when no work was coming her way. Still, it gave them something to talk about as they left the motorway and neared the suburbs of Leeds. Mrs. Wilson’s knowledge was encyclopaedic and Kathy made a mental note to come her way if ever she needed anything valued.
Mrs. Wilson’s house was on the edge of the city. It was a standard semi-detached house like those found in many a suburban area. Its sole distinguishing feature was a chimney which had been slanted ever since the late Mister Wilson had a fall while mending the roof. Other than that, it was almost identical to every other house on the street. Kathy parked her car in the drive and entered.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” offered Mrs. Wilson. Though still obviously distraught, she seemed calmer now that she was in her own home.
“Yes, please. No milk, two sugars,” replied Kathy. Mrs. Wilson left Kathy in the sitting room while she went into the kitchen.
While waiting for Mrs. Wilson to return with the tea, Kathy had the opportunity to view her home and perhaps begin some investigating. It was a long shot, but maybe there was some clue in this house as to Thomas’ whereabouts.
The room was a standard sitting room. It had a sofa, two chairs and an old monochrome television in the corner. On the mantelpiece was a forest of various hand-made clay ornaments, within which were nestled the kind of pictures any doting parents would keep: photographs of Thomas growing up, images of his parents in many a happy pose on many a happy occasion.
One photograph in particular caught her eye. It depicted the happy family on a holiday many years ago. They were standing on a beach with the sunset in the background and a sign beside them with something undecipherable written in Greek. It must have been old because Thomas was but a boy in the picture and the edges were becoming faded. The family were beaming almost as brightly as the sun behind them. It stuck out to Kathy because Thomas had mentioned this holiday to her once: he had been ten years old, they had gone to Greece and it had been one of the happiest times of his life.
All very interesting, but not much use in tracing a missing person.
Mrs. Wilson entered the room with a pot of tea and two cups full to the brim with the most delicious tea Kathy had ever had the pleasure to taste. The multiple flavours danced a merry jig in her mouth: first bitter, then sweet, then with a hint of some kind of fruit. She had not registered it before, but the temperature today was quite cold and the warm sensation of hot tea coursing down her throat was perfect for both body and soul. It warmed her cockles on this cold day and, for a very brief time, made her forget about Thomas.
“Mrs. Wilson, where did you get this tea?” asked Kathy.
“My late husband got it from Cambodia. He was a bit of an amateur explorer in later life. I never went with him- I always enjoyed my creature comforts- but he never failed to bring back a souvenir.”
Kathy made a mental note to visit Cambodia sometime, just to seek out this particular blend of tea.
When they had finished their tea, they resolved to visit Jeff and his CCTV system next door.
It took a while for Jeff to answer the doorbell. When he did finally arrive at the door, it was apparent why: he was an old man with a walking stick who had obviously struggled to move from the front room. When he saw Mrs. Wilson, his face lit up in a sympathetic smile. He was one of those people whose appearance would normally be thought of as ugly, but who suddenly exudes an inner beauty when happiness shines from his face.
“Barbara! How are you today?” he greeted enthusiastically.
“Better, thank you. This nice young lady has been a great comfort to me today,” answered Mrs. Wilson.
“And who is this bright young thing you bring with you?”
“This is Kathy Turner, a friend of Thomas’…” she paused. It seemed whenever something reminded her of him, she would struggle to fight back the tears. She recovered quickly and added, “She’s helping me search for him.”
“Well, come on in! I’ll do all I can to help,” said Jeff, inviting them into his humble abode.
The two women followed Jeff into his home. It was slow going on account of Jeff’s impediment; nevertheless, it allowed Kathy a good view of his house. The hallway was like any other in appearance, but its atmosphere was blessed with the smell that lingers in the home of any old person; a not unpleasant aroma which speaks of age and antiquity, of a home where the furniture has grown up with the owner. A staircase of aged mahogany ascended on the left and a small, battered table stood to the right. Completing the ensemble was a carpet carrying a pattern not seen since the sixties.
Jeff turned through a door on the right into what appeared to be a sitting room. Yet Kathy could only guess what this room was, for the furniture, chattels, decorations and contents seemed all to be hidden under layers upon layers of old newspapers and magazines, photographs and mementos so that it was difficult to tell what lay beneath the clutter. A skull from some oriental beast lay on the sofa; a splintered spear leant haphazardly against the wall; an old first edition copy of a Charles Dickens novel had been carelessly thrown against a table. Clearly, Jeff was a hoarder, and clearly he had lived a life worth hoarding. Wordlessly Jeff had informed Kathy of his adventurous and illustrious past simply by allowing her into this room and letting her eyes peruse the collectibles he had amassed before old age and illness struck him down. Without besmirching the old man’s collection, Kathy remarked to herself that the house lacked and needed a woman’s touch. It then became apparent why Jeff lived alone and had such a close friendship with his neighbour: on his mantelpiece, the one part of the room free from clutter, were a collection of photographs depi
cting a younger Jeff with a handsome woman in various poses and locations. In the midst of this pictorial display was an urn.
Jeff hastily- if such a word can be used to describe a man of Jeff’s age and agility- cleared the seats to allow his two guests to sit themselves on what now revealed itself from under the clutter to be a luxurious leather sofa. This did little to improve the image of the room: rather than making it appear any tidier or cleaner, it simply emphasised the mess on the already cluttered floor. Still, at least the two ladies now had somewhere to sit.
Once seated, an awkward silence fell. The outgoing man who had revealed himself at the door became uncharacteristically quiet and shuffled in his seat waiting for someone to break the tension. Barbara, on her part, also sat quietly, although not out of awkwardness but out of subordination. She was still nursing the fresh wounds of a missing son and deceased husband, and had seemed to leave it to Kathy- Kathy, the smart, southern reporter, friend of Thomas and finder of missing people- to take the lead. She also seemed rather comfortable in this house and apparently did not feel the need to say anything at all but rather enjoyed the musty atmosphere of the room of collectibles. It fell, then, to Kathy to begin the conversation.
“Well, Mister… what can I call you?” she asked.
“Just call me Jeff. My last name is Anderson, but I won’t be doing with any ‘Mister Anderson’ nonsense. Jeff will do.”
“Mister Jeff, we’ve come to ask to look at your CCTV footage for the day when Thomas disappeared.” When Jeff frowned, Kathy continued, “We heard you had a CCTV system. You do have one, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” replied Jeff thoughtfully. His face crumpled into a pained expression, as if the mere mention of ‘CCTV’ was somehow unpleasant for him. His eyes began to moisten and his breathing became heavy. He remained in this state for several seconds and Kathy feared interrupting him, in case he leapt up like a wild beast and ordered the two of them out of his home.
Suddenly his face lifted and his frown disappeared. “Sorry about that,” he waved it off, as if his reaction had been entirely normal. “I do have CCTV, but I can’t abide the thing. To tell you the truth I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s run out of film… if that’s even how it works. It was the idea of my late wife to install it. I was never keen. She thought it would give us a degree of protection… but it didn’t protect her in the end.”
“I’m so sorry,” opined Kathy. “What happened to her?”
“Car accident,” stated Jeff matter-of-factly. “Not that CCTV could ever have protected her from that. She was walking home one day from shopping and then she was gone.”
Jeff’s manner surprised Kathy. He had described his wife’s fatal accident without even the hint of emotion. Then again, the urn on the mantelpiece did look dated. She didn’t doubt that Jeff missed his wife, but at the same time it seemed she had died long ago so that the seven stages of grief had long since passed and Jeff had learnt to accept her passing.
“I can’t abide technology,” continued Jeff, changing subject. “I’ve never turned the CCTV on. I’ve never turned it off, come to think of it, so it may have been recording that night, but I’d have no idea how to find the footage.”
Jeff’s face suddenly became withdrawn, gaunt. His nonchalant attitude had apparently been hiding his deeper grief, and now that technology was on his mind it began to show. Technology… that incompetent beast which, right or wrong, Jeff blamed for his tragic loss. If the car had not been invented, then his beloved soul-mate would never have been run down. That had been his first thought. Then his paranoid attitude had extended to other areas of technology: why hadn’t CCTV been able to stop it? Why couldn’t the traffic lights have shone red, not green? As he thought more deeply, he had uncovered deeper and deeper layers of conspiracy until his mind was so hardwired into that way of thinking- that technology was responsible for all the world’s evils- that his views would have seemed completely irrational to any listener.
Not that his listeners would have complained. They would have understood the grief and trauma he was going through- as Kathy and Barbara did. As he sat there withdrawing into himself, he began to mutter under his breath barely coherent complaints against his chosen scapegoat. Yet they were coherent enough that Kathy could understand the gist of what he was saying and instantly felt sorry for the poor man. He had clearly been through a lot, emotionally, and was in desperate need of clinging tightly to his scapegoat for the simple preservation of his sanity.
Barbara was not listening to his mumbling. She had other things on her mind to occupy her. The thoughts in Barbara’s head were visible on her face: her bittersweet smile told Kathy that the nostalgic film reel was playing once more in her memory, showing her times and people long gone. Besides, she clearly knew this man well and already knew his attitudes. Perhaps she even shared them.
Kathy realised she now found herself between two widowed people, both mourning silently. The conversation had lagged and if it did not start up again, she would not find any clues.
“Perhaps technology may find Thomas and bring him back to us,” she offered.
Jeff replied: “Yes, perhaps it may.” As he spoke, he seemed to come back to reality and leave behind his inner shell. “Let’s go and check the CCTV- if you know how,” he added sheepishly.
Jeff led the two women into a room in the back of his house where his garage would have been, had he had a car. For a man who despised technology, this room was well kitted out: there were about eight fairly modern looking television screens adorning one wall and connected to a computer system which, although it looked dated, was comparatively new. It must be remembered that technology becomes dated very quickly.
The equipment was running off its own steam. It had apparently been doing so for a very long time: as well as mod cons, the room was unsurprisingly empty of clutter and had a different smell, a different atmosphere, a different look to the rest of the house. It was evident that Jeff had not entered this room himself for a very long time: cobwebs adorned the walls and spiders scuttled freely about the floor.
It was an odd sort of room if truth be told. Behind the impressive and uncharacteristic additions was traditional flowery wallpaper that you wouldn’t expect to find in a room of this purpose. It was a faded green and pink and not at all pleasant to look at. If anything, it was a blessing that most of it was blocked off by the computer monitors.
Kathy knew immediately that this room had not only been the idea of Jeff’s late wife, but also her sole effort too. She admired her for the obvious effort that had been put into this room. In her mind, the late Mrs. Anderson was a strong, independent, capable woman. Despite having never met her, and despite the fact that this mental image was based on nothing at all but speculation, Kathy began to feel sad that she was gone; even more so when she saw Jeff’s face as he walked into this room.
As he had crossed the threshold into the room in question, Jeff’s face had suffered a momentary contortion. It lasted but a second, but it betrayed the inner storm that Jeff must have been hiding every day since the unnamed wife’s death: that one look betrayed a deep sadness, an unresolved grief- despite his glib talk earlier- and perhaps even a bit of guilt. Kathy suspected that it was not technophobia that had kept him out of this room for so long, but a kind of desire to preserve his late wife’s memory- or even a desire to avoid the pain of her passing. She began to feel slightly intrusive at having entered this room at all, as if walking into a distinctly private moment between a couple.
Changing tack in her mind, Kathy examined the monitors. It amazed her that the system had continued running for so long without any human intervention. The eight screens covered a surprising range: she could see every angle outside the front of the house, in the back garden and even in the porch. Although she could not see the cameras themselves, the images on the screens indicated that they were likely in hidden positions in trees, bushes and under gnomes or garden ornaments.
The video feed seemed t
o run into the computer. Although it seemed slightly worn and battered and threatening to break down at any moment, it was like a faithful vehicle that keeps on going despite having an empty tank and a few parts missing. Kathy assumed- nay, hoped- that the hard drive wasn’t so full that it didn’t have room for footage of the day of Thomas’ disappearance.
Kathy asked to look at the computer.
“Sure, be my guest,” said Jeff in a puzzled tone. “Truth be told, I wouldn’t have the first idea about how to work this thing. If you can do it, feel free.”
The screen had turned itself off into hibernation mode. One move of the mouse reanimated the screen to show a simple layout: there were eight different boxes representing the eight different monitors and cameras. One only had to click onto one of the boxes and it would give access to the data store from that camera.
Kathy glanced back at the monitors. Many of the screens were useless: three showed the back garden, one showed the porch and two more showed the front of the house at unusable angles. Yet one, in the top left corner of the screen bank, was useful. It displayed the driveway of Jeff’s house and also, just on the edge of the screen, it showed the side of Barbara’s driveway down which Thomas would have walked and at the end of which his kidnapper’s car would have parked.
The camera in question was camera 3, so she looked up the records for this camera on the computer. She breathed a sigh of relief when she found that, despite neglect, the CCTV system had continued working right until this very day. Better still, it not only recorded images- in colour- but also sound.
She found the right day and the right time of the right day and clicked “view footage”.
A window opened on the computer screen. It showed the date and time it was recording at the bottom left hand of the screen in neat white characters; apart from that, the view was unobscured.
The sound quality was a little bit muffled and quite quiet, but Kathy could make out the murmurings of a conversation. It was being held in low whispers with a tone of importance. One man’s voice was clearly that of Thomas, despite the distortion; the other she did not recognise. She guessed that the pair of them were walking down the driveway next door and were not yet in sight of the camera.
A black cab was visible parked outside the front of Barbara’s house. Kathy strained to read its number plate: AG8 FH89. She jotted it down on a pad and made a mental note to find the driver of this cab, if possible, and interrogate him about where he took his two passengers.
Suddenly two men came into sight on the footage. Thomas was accompanied by a man in a black suit carrying a briefcase. The image was small, but she could make out that he had a long, sallow and unsmiling visage. Thomas seemed to be following him wordlessly towards the cab. She could only see the back of his head, but then he turned to look back at the house he was leaving, his home.
The expression on Thomas’ face shocked Kathy so much that she drew a sharp intake of breath. The person standing there was clearly Thomas, yet despite the size of the image at which she was gazing, she could make out clearly his facial expression and it looked… wrong. In short, it didn’t look like Thomas. It was like looking at a dead relative or pet: you know it’s the person you once knew and loved, and all their features are there in the same positions and same proportions as before, but somehow something inexplicable and indescribable is different, is missing, so that it is no longer that person. It is as if their soul has gone. It was that look that now adorned Thomas’ face. It was like a stranger was inhabiting his body and the soul, essence, mind- call it what you will- of Thomas had disappeared.
He had only glanced back home for an instant before falling back into line behind the suited stranger. He followed him into the cab and was gone.
Kathy continued watching the footage. She put it on fast forward to see if anything else happened. She saw Barbara descend her driveway to the place where her son had been and stand there dejectedly for a while. She saw her gesticulate as if calling out for her son. It lasted a few minutes in Kathy’s viewing, but this, of course, represented a longer time in reality due to the fact that the footage was on fast forward. Eventually Barbara gave up and trudged back into her house dejectedly.
At this point Kathy paused the video and looked behind her. Both Jeff and Barbara had been watching the recording and both had sad expressions on their faces. Jeff still looked a little pained to be in this room at all, and Kathy also detected a hint of bafflement at how she was using the technology.
Kathy’s gaze turned to Barbara. It had suddenly occurred to her that reliving the day her son left on screen may be traumatising to her. It seemed slightly tactless in hindsight. Barbara’s expression did indeed look pained, and more so than Jeff’s.
“It was that look,” said Barbara drily. She spoke with the voice of someone who had simply run out of tears. “That look he gave me on the driveway when he was leaving. It just wasn’t him. I mean, it was Thomas- how could it not be?- but it seemed like there was a different person standing there. My Thomas did not leave me that day to go into the taxi; he left me when that man came visiting.”
“That man…” she began. “That man changed him. Something he said, something he did, killed my boy. His body still lives, but his mind was killed and replaced with that of another man that day. I’m sure of it.”
Kathy took a moment to consider this theory. Was it at all possible that grief could do that to you? She had heard of split personalities and schizophrenia and multiple personalities… was it possible that a traumatic event such as the death of one’s father could induce such a syndrome, so that the man walking away from the house in the footage was not, in actual fact, Thomas, but an alternative personality with an alternative set of memories who did not recognise his own mother? It sounded fanciful… but remembering the look on his face, it also seemed plausible.
“They were talking in the hallway,” continued Barbara. “That man was saying such frightful things. I could hear some of what they were saying. I heard him denigrating my husband’s memory. I heard him…”- At this point she almost broke down in tears- “I heard him say that he was not Thomas’ father, that all Thomas’ memories of his childhood and his father were wrong. I don’t know what he meant, but it sounded so terrible. He said it in such a cold, unfeeling voice as well. It must have affected my Thomas. It must have shook him to the core because my boy would not have left me so unceremoniously and would not have left me alone, sick with fright and worry, for a week without calling…”
Kathy felt Barbara’s pain. But here was a lead! It suddenly struck Kathy that the most logical step would be to track down this mysterious visitor who took Thomas away and find out who he was and what he had done. If Barbara could remember some details of the conversation, perhaps…
“Barbara,” asked Kathy, “Do you remember anything about this man? What his name was, if he worked for anyone?”
“I do,” replied Barbara, “as a matter of fact, I do. His name was… Pieterson! Yes, that’s it, Pieterson! And he said he was from a company called… PCM? TDM? Oh, something like that. It was a three letter acronym, I remember that much.”
Kathy got an almost depraved level of joy and excitement out of finally having some clue of what happened to her friend. Now, if only she could track down this ‘Pieterson’.
“Do you remember exactly what the company was called?” pressed Kathy. When Barbara’s face became contorted in thought, she urged, “think, Barbara! This is important.”
After much thought, Barbara announced, “…TGN. Yes, I’m sure of it, the company was called TGN. I think. I missed the first part of the conversation, you see.”
So the search was on for a ‘Pieterson’ from a company called ‘TGN’. That was enough- Kathy decided against interrogating the grieving widow further for the sake of avoiding putting any more stress on her already weary soul.
She pressed ‘start’ again on the footage to see if anything else happened that day. A few people walked past, a couple se
emed to be arguing in the street for a few minutes and a stray dog strolled by at one time, but there was no sign of Thomas or ‘Pieterson’ returning.
Still, Kathy had all she needed now. She had enough to begin a proper search and nothing more was to be gleaned from the CCTV system, so she decided to shut it down and leave the room.
On doing so, Jeff seemed relieved. So did Barbara. It seemed that each of them had a reason to dislike being in that room and each seemed glad to be out of it- for the memories it invoked, and for the leads that had been found.
Kathy and Barbara stayed at Jeff’s for a short while longer to discuss what they had seen, and what to do next. It was agreed that Kathy should use her journalistic clout to investigate the man, his company and his vehicle to find some sort of trail and, ultimately, to find Thomas. In the meantime, she would also write a missing person’s article for the next issue of the paper.
“Can I suggest something obvious?” asked Jeff, suddenly irritated and inexplicably perplexed.
“Go on,” urged Kathy.
“Shouldn’t we call the police and let them find him?”
The room fell silent. In all the scheming, this most obvious and sensible of actions had been neglected.
“Of course!” agreed Barbara. “We’d already discussed that, but somehow didn’t get round to it.”
With that, Barbara left the room to telephone for the police, leaving Kathy and Jeff alone in the living room.
“Do you think we’ll find him?” asked Jeff tentatively.
Kathy bit her lip. “Maybe,” she said. “But if we don’t try, then it’s certain we won’t. Newspaper appeals for missing people are sometimes successful, sometimes not- but it’s definitely worth it.”
But this is no ordinary case, thought Kathy. She remembered her thoughts from the coffee run. She knew Thomas and she knew missing person cases, and this was something different.
Barbara re-entered the room and sat down silently, appearing almost satisfied.
“Any luck?” asked Jeff.
“I’ve phoned the police, and they’ve put him down as a missing person,” she said simply. For the first time since Kathy had met her today, Barbara was almost relaxed. Her son, who this morning had seemed impossibly gone, was now the subject of both a police and a journalistic investigation. She had hope.
“I’ll liaise with them in my investigations,” said Kathy. “Let them know what I found, show them the CCTV footage.”
Kathy decided to leave immediately and said her goodbyes. There was no time for idle small talk. She could not have engaged in it, anyway, for her mind was on other things. She knew not specifically had happened to her best friend, but it was clear that this case was about something more than just a missing person.