The crushing feeling in my chest is beginning to return. I wish he’d go away.
‘The police are involved.’
The printer screams out a sound and bright white text runs across the screen. OUT OF TONER. REPLACE IMMEDIATELY. It takes all my composure not to kick the machine.
‘Always running out of ink, these things,’ Paddy says. ‘You got another cartridge thingy?’
I glance at the office opposite where my secretary normally sits. She’s not there. It’s barely seven a.m. She doesn’t come in until nine. I am apoplectic.
‘Use my printer,’ Paddy says. ‘Email the file to yourself and open it up on my screen.’
‘I can’t,’ I say, tugging my tie loose. ‘These files have that new security thing on them that means I can’t email them forward. They’re locked into the computer.’
Which means, of course, that I have only one option: to unhook and unplug my enormous desktop and carry it all the way to Paddy’s office on the next floor. My phone is ringing and buzzing and chiming again, and by the time I set up the computer next to Paddy’s printer I have twelve missed calls, eleven voicemails, twenty-seven Facebook notifications and thirty-four tweets.
‘And a partridge in a pear tree,’ Paddy adds. ‘So tell me, has your wife left you?’
Paddy has had five wives and numerous girlfriends. He treats break-ups as inevitable and women like cars, trading them in every couple of years for a younger model. He’s sixty-three and is dating a twenty-four-year-old.
‘No, she has not left me,’ I say, plugging in the computer and flicking switch after switch. ‘We simply don’t know where she is.’
‘Didn’t she recently have a baby?’
‘Yes. A girl.’
‘So … who’s with the kids now? The nanny?’
I don’t have time to answer his questions. I finally get the thing hooked up and find the ‘Husain’ file. I click it and hit ‘print’, then silently beg God to let the document print. It does. I shove it in an envelope for the company courier and bring up my inbox to inform Mr Husain that all is well. I stop mid-email, and ask Paddy:
‘What time does the courier come?’
Paddy glances at the clock. ‘About eight. Why?’
We’ve recently had some new hires, and one of them was some knuckle-dragging kid covered in tats for company deliveries. Last week my secretary had to call him back because he left behind two packages marked URGENT. For the sake of forty-five minutes I could ensure that the form is picked up and sent off. I could even slip the guy a twenty-pound note and ask him to make this his first drop-off. I’m flapping. Before I realise it, I’m dialling my home number.
It barely rings before Gerda answers.
‘Eloïse?’
‘Hello? No, it’s Lochlan.’
A disappointed sigh on the other end.
‘Look, Gerda, I’m really sorry about this …’
‘And well you should be, Lochlan. I can’t imagine what kind of emergency forced you to go into work when your wife is nowhere to be found. What is going on?’
‘I’m coming home soon. I’ve got to get something sent off and then I’ll be there, OK?’
A pause. ‘Magnus is already driving around the area to see if he can find her. What time are the police coming?’
‘I’ll ring them shortly to update them, don’t worry.’
A resigned sigh. ‘All right.’
‘Bye.’
Eight o’clock comes and goes. Eight fifteen. I walk down to the foyer and pace, envelope in hand. Eight thirty. When the guy comes, I swear I’m going to ram the envelope down his throat. Forget a twenty-quid bribe. By the time it turns nine I am sweating bullets, my heart racing. Two of my colleagues have already walked in and asked if I’m ill. I nod. Yes, yes I am ill. It dawns on me that I expected this place to shake me back into competency, to prompt enough mental clarity to enable me to solve the mystery of my wife’s disappearance. The only clarity I’ve acquired is that I’m an idiot.
At nine fifteen I race back upstairs, intent on arranging a private courier. I should have done this in the first place. My secretary Ramona is at her desk. I go into her office. Ramona is a genius. She’s Chinese, raised by a Tiger Mother, plays the oboe at diploma level and can solve a Rubik’s cube in under five minutes. She’ll fix all of this.
‘What are you doing here?’ she says in a low voice. ‘I thought – didn’t I see something online about your wife?’
I nod and flap the envelope at her before explaining the situation with Mr Husain and the courier.
‘The courier left a message with Joan fifteen minutes ago,’ Ramona says. ‘He’s not coming in today. I was in the process of trying to find a replacement.’
I thrust the envelope into her hands. ‘Please, Ramona. Deliver this for me. I’ll pay you anything.’
She takes a step back and looks puzzled. ‘You want me to deliver it?’
I move to her computer and start looking up directions to the Cauldwell Building in Edinburgh. ‘Here, I’ll email you the fastest route. Did you bring your car?’
She shakes her head. ‘I always come by bike …’
‘OK, book a flight. Use my credit card.’ I take out my wallet and press a Visa card into her hand. ‘Just … whatever it costs, OK?’
Ramona looks a little dazed. I catch a ghostly reflection of myself in one of the glass panels opposite and realise I look like a madman. My tie is gone, my collar is open by three buttons, my hair is sticking up all over the place and I’m shining with sweat. Plus, I’m gripping my secretary by the upper arms.
A knock on the door, the tall, lanky figure of Dean Wyatt visible through the glass.
‘Everything all right in here, Lochlan? I heard shouting …’
I let go of Ramona and smooth down my hair. ‘Everything’s fine, Dean. In light of the fact that we’re down a courier, Ramona’s offered to hand-deliver a very important form this morning.’
He looks grave. ‘The Husain account?’
I nod. He raises a silver eyebrow at Ramona. ‘Good. This has been a very serious matter for the company.’ He flicks his eyes at me, a trace of disapproval there. ‘See you at the meeting in a half hour.’ He turns to leave, but I call after him. I step outside Ramona’s office and collar Dean in the passageway.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to take some time off,’ I say.
He turns slowly and looks deeply confused.
