The Missing: The gripping psychological thriller that’s got everyone talking... (28 page)

ICE9:
Don’t you EVER do that again.

Jackdaw44:
What?

ICE9:
You know damned well what.

Jackdaw44:
Twat now, am I? You changed your tune quickly enough.

ICE9:
You were out of order and you know it.

Jackdaw44:
You were ignoring me. How else was I supposed to get your attention?

ICE9:
Someone could have seen.

Jackdaw44:
They didn’t though, did they? I like touching you up when other people are around. Turns me on that they have no idea what I’m doing.

ICE9:
You’re the only one it turns on.

Jawdaw44:
Liar.

ICE9:
I’m not talking about this any more. You obviously don’t think you did anything wrong.

Jackdaw44:
So you’re going to start ignoring me again?

ICE9:
No shit.

Jackdaw44:
Let’s see how well that works out for you.

ICE9:
What’s that supposed to mean?

Jackdaw44:

ICE9:
You’d better not be talking about what I think you’re talking about.

Jackdaw44:

ICE9:
You’re lying. I looked through your phone after you said you’d deleted them and they were gone.

Jackdaw44:
You didn’t look in all the folders though, did you? You didn’t look in the one called Graffiti?

{file uploading … }

ICE9:
You fucking arsehole. Delete that photo NOW.

Jackdaw44:
OK. Deleted. Do you like this one better?

{file uploading … }

Jackdaw44:
Still planning on ignoring me?

ICE9:
I fucking hate you.

Jackdaw44:
No, you don’t. Tell me you love me.

ICE9:
No.

Jackdaw44:
Looks like I’ll have to press ‘send’ then …

ICE9:
I love you, OK. There. I said it. Now delete the photos.

Jackdaw44:
You’re such a bad liar. Good fuck, bad liar.

ICE9:
What do you want?

Jackdaw44:
Sleep with me. There’s some stuff I want to try out.

ICE9:
What kind of stuff?

Jackdaw44:
Stuff in videos on the Internet. Hardcore shit. Looks fun.

ICE9:
No.

Jackdaw44:
OK. *presses send*

ICE9:
Stop!

Jackdaw44:
Changed your mind?

ICE9:
If I do what you say how do I know you’ll delete the photos? How do I know you haven’t got them backed up on a memory disk or something?

Jackdaw44:
You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.

ICE9:
That worked out well last time.

Jackdaw44:
That’s because I wanted to keep the photos to look at when we weren’t together. I don’t need them any more. I’ve got the Internet.

ICE9:
I don’t trust you.

Jackdaw44:
I’ll delete the photos in front of you and let you take a photo of me.

ICE9:
Naked?

Jackdaw44:
Yeah. Keep it on your phone. Call it collateral.

ICE9:
You’d let me do that?

Jackdaw44:
I told you. I want to see you again. I want to touch you. I want to fuck you. Let’s do it one more time then I’ll leave you alone. I promise.

ICE9:
Just once? You swear? And you’ll delete the photos in front of me and let me go through your phone?

Jackdaw44:
Yes.

ICE9:
I’m not doing anything involving shit or piss.

Jackdaw44:
How twisted do you think I am? (Don’t answer that.
)

I call Kira’s number over and over again but each time it goes straight to voicemail.

I type her a text.

Hi Kira. There’s something I need to get from the car. Where are you?

Then I delete what I’ve written. If I tell her there’s something I need in the car she might look for it. The tote bag is tucked out of sight beneath the passenger seat and the chances are she won’t even notice it’s there. But what if she gives someone a lift? What if they shift the seat forwards or backwards and notice it? They wouldn’t open it. Kira would assume it was mine and tell them to put it back. But what if they left it in view when they got out of the car and an opportunist thief walked past and spotted it?

I lay the phone down on the duvet and take a deep breath. I’m over-thinking this and there’s no need to. The bag will be fine. It’s been under the seat for days and nothing bad has happened. But no one else has been in the car other than me. Oh God. Why didn’t I just leave it in the wardrobe? Why didn’t I throw it away when I had the chance?

I’ll wait. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll just wait here at Mum and Dad’s until Kira brings the car back and then I’ll get the bag and I’ll drive to Chew Valley and throw it in the lake.

It’s fine. I can do this. I can wait it out. Nothing bad’s going to happen.

‘Jake,’ I say into my mobile as the taxi pulls up outside Bristol School of Art. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of Kira and she’s not answering her phone. Have you spoken to her this morning?’

‘One second, Mum. Scott needs me to … What?’ His voice becomes muffled. ‘Yeah. Tell Ian I’ll give him a ring in a second. I’m just on the phone. Hi, Mum. I can’t be long. Ian needs to talk to me. What’s up?’

‘It’s Kira. I’m trying to get in touch with her but she’s not answering.’

He sighs. ‘Her phone’s shit. She’s had it so bloody long the battery only holds a charge for a couple of hours before it dies. I keep telling her I’ll get her a new one but she won’t have it. She says she’d rather have the money and buy it herself.’

‘I’ve been trying to ring you too, all morning. I was getting worried.’

Four hours. That’s how long I managed to hold out at Mum and Dad’s. Four long, torturous hours while a hundred different scenarios ran through my head, including one where Kira wasn’t answering her phone because she was in the police station, handing over the knife. That’s when I rang the taxi cab.

‘Signal’s shit here,’ Jake says. ‘I’ve got like one bar worth of reception. Sounds like Ian’s been shitting a brick because he couldn’t get hold of any of us. Look, I’m going to have to go now, Mum. Are you all right? You sound stressed. Is it because of what DS Forbes said? I’m sorry I freaked out. I just … I can’t talk right now. I’ll come round to Gran’s after work. Okay?’

‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘No, don’t do that. Uncle Stephen and Dad are going to the pub to sort things out tonight. I’d like you to be there. You can be the peacekeeper.’

‘Me?’ He laughs. ‘You’re kidding me, right? That’s your job!’

‘Not any more. I need you to do this, Jake, for your dad, for our family. It’s important.’

He falls silent for a couple of seconds, then says, ‘All right. If that’s what you want. I’ll go along but don’t be surprised if they come to blows. Kidding!’ he adds quickly. ‘It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’

The taxi driver coughs and glances meaningfully at the meter.

‘I’ve got to go,’ I say. ‘I love you, Jake.’

‘I love you too, Mum. See you later.’

I’d expected to be met at the entrance by a receptionist or a security guard but it’s remarkably easy to stroll into the School of Art building and no one gives me so much as a second look. I don’t know if it’s because it’s a Saturday or if it’s always this quiet. After five minutes in the lobby I approach an Asian girl in a headscarf who’s walking past carrying an armful of fabric.

‘I’m looking for Kira Simmons. Do you know where I might find her?’

‘Is she staff or a student?’

‘A student. She does photography.’

The girl shrugs. ‘Sorry, can’t help. I’m textiles.’

‘She’s putting on an exhibition,’ I add as she turns to leave. ‘Do you know where that might be?’

‘There’s a gallery through there.’ She tilts her head to the right. ‘Looks like it’s being set up for an exhibition. Someone in there might know.’

‘Thank you.’ I flash her a smile. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

‘I dunno about that.’ The girl laughs as she ascends the stairs and disappears.

The gallery is a hive of activity with students hanging artwork on the walls and arranging ceramics; craning their heads this way and that to check that the paintings and photographs are straight and altering the positions of sculptures by half-inch turns. As I walk through the gallery, scanning faces in search of Kira, a couple of students turn to look at me but no one stops me to ask who I am or what I’m doing there. I pass by several photography exhibits, pausing by one of pregnant women dressed in different uniforms and outfits. There’s a pregnant policewoman, a pregnant fisherwoman, a pregnant clown. I smile at the photograph of the pregnant chef, her whites gaping over her belly as though she’s eaten one too many of the pastries stacked up beside her. Next to her is a pregnant stripper. That makes me feel sad.

I hurry on. Kira told Liz that her project was about tattoos and regrets.

I’ve nearly reached the far end of the cavernous room when I finally spot Kira’s small patch of wall. There are hooks for lots of canvases but she’s only hung six. Each one is a close-up of a tattoo with a small white card mounted on wood underneath.

The first canvas I look at is of a Nazi symbol on a man’s forearm. On the card underneath it says:

My mate did this tattoo for me with a compass and some ink when we were fifteen. I thought it was cool. I didn’t even really know what it stood for, just that it pissed off old people. I’m sixteen now and I’m saving to get it covered up. I wear a lot of long-sleeved T-shirts.

The second canvas shows the name
Nadia
tattooed under a rose.

Nadia was my first wife, says the description on the card. We were together for twenty years. I thought we’d be together for ever but I cheated on her and we split up. My new girlfriend hates it. She keeps telling me to get it covered up and get her name instead but I won’t be making the same mistake twice.

The third canvas shows a clenched fist with a triangle, a circle, a cross and a square tattooed onto the figures.

When I got this tattoo done I loved my PlayStation more than anything else in the world, says the card. Now I feel like a bit of a dick.

As I move towards the fourth canvas I sense someone behind me and turn around. It’s a young bloke with a piercing through his nose and dark hair cut into a teddy-boy style.

‘All right?’ He gives me a curt nod.

‘I’m Claire. Kira lives with my son Jake.’

‘Mason.’ He holds out a slender hand. ‘I’m Kira’s tutor.’

‘Nice to meet you. I don’t suppose you know where she is, do you?’

‘One minute.’ He ducks round the partition wall that separates Kira’s exhibition from the one beside it. A couple of seconds later he reappears.

‘She’s gone out for coffee.’

‘Yeah.’ A young woman with pink hair twisted into a messy topknot pokes her head around the partition. ‘She said she was meeting someone. Didn’t say who.’

‘Do you know which café?’

She shakes her head. ‘Sorry, no. Somewhere on Queen’s Road probably. I don’t imagine she’ll have gone far. She’s got to get this finished before we open on Monday.’

She gestures towards the row of canvases propped up against the base of the wall. I half-glance at them, then do a double-take.

‘What’s this?’ I crouch down by the canvas at the far end of the row.

‘Careful!’ Mason says as I reach for it. ‘You shouldn’t be touching—’

‘Billy.’ I point at the black inky image in the centre of the canvas. The word is almost lost in the abstract spikiness of the design but I know what it says.
DStroy
. ‘Billy drew this.’

‘What?’ He tilts his head to one side. ‘I’m not sure I—’

‘It’s one of my son’s graffiti designs. I’m sure it is. I’ve seen it before, in the sketchpad he kept by his bed. Did Kira say whose tattoo it is?’ I look from Mason to Pink Hair who is standing beside me, arms spread wide as though readying herself to protect Kira’s exhibition. They both shake their heads.

I scoot across to the other end of the row where a pile of cardboard descriptions is stacked neatly and sort through them, flicking them to the floor as I read.

Me and my best mate thought it would be fun to …

It was my stag night and I was drunk …

I really liked My Little Pony as a kid and …

‘Whoa!’ Mason grabs holds of my wrist as Pink Hair dips down to gather up the discarded cards. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing but you’re damaging private property. Kira’s worked really hard to—’

‘It’s not here.’ I snatch my wrist away from him. ‘The card that describes that tattoo. It’s not here. Where is it?’

I spot a black art folder propped up against the partition but Pink Hair gets there first. She whips it up by the handle and holds it away from me.

‘Can we get security?’ She looks at Mason who nods.

‘You don’t understand,’ I say. ‘I know Kira. She’s my son’s girlfriend. And this tattoo. This DStroy symbol. My son drew that. My son Billy. He’s been missing for over six months.’

Pink Hair takes a step back, into the crowd of students who have congregated around us. They are all staring at me as though I’m one of the exhibits.

‘Anyone?’ I scan their faces. ‘Does anyone know anything about this photo?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Mason places his hand on my elbow and guides me to my feet. ‘But I think you should leave.’