Read Online Losing You by Nicci French - Free Book Online Page A

a Chinese wrap that lay at his feet, like a bright, wounded bird, and placed it carefully on the unmade bed. He frowned at the havoc around him. He stepped further into the room, his substantial frame making the space seem smaller and darker. There were lace knickers on the floor, two bras, fishnet tights, a puddle of trousers, as if Charlie had only just stepped out of them. There was a box of chocolates a boy had given her recently, most of which had gone. A notebook with her slapdash writing in it. A poster of a rock star I didn’t recognize was coming away from the wall, a photograph of a younger me and Rory, holding hands, smiled from the corner. A collection of postcards Blu-tacked above her bed showed pictures of a giant stone foot from the British Museum, a white beach, a blue Matisse collage. A mosquito net was suspended from the ceiling above Charlie’s pillow and PC Mahoney had to bend his head to avoid getting caught in the white gauze. His thick black boots moved softly across the carpet and I could almost hear Charlie’s voice hissing in my ear, ‘Get him out!’ There was an empty beer can next to the overflowing waste-paper basket and he touched it with his foot as if it was evidence.
    ‘Is anything missing?’
    I gazed around in despair. I opened the wardrobe and peered inside. Charlie’s clothes are a mixture of exotic and grungy: black jeans, a flounced purple skirt, an old leather jacket, an embroidered gypsy blouse, a tiny red dress, stompy boots, slouchy trainers, camisoles and strappy tops, grey and black hoodies, T-shirts with incomprehensible slogans stretched across the breast. Most things lay scattered around the floor. I closed the door. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said cautiously.
    ‘Nothing she would have taken with her if she was thinking of staying somewhere else?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    I glanced round again, searching for absences in the frenetic jumble, spaces.
    ‘Her mobile, for instance.’
    ‘She had that with her last night, so of course it’s not here.’ I looked at the desk. Her computer was turned off. I picked up a shoebox. Inside, there was a pair of long, jangly earrings, a bath bomb, a snarled-up bead necklace, a strip of four passport photographs of her and Ashleigh squashed into the booth, making silly faces for the camera, a folded square of lined paper, which, when I opened it, read, ‘Remember dinner money’, an inky rubber, a stick of glue, a bottle of hardened clear nail varnish, two pen lids and several hair-bands. I put the box down and stared at the surface in concentration. Clearasil, deodorant, CDs, her pencil case. Suddenly I saw it. Saw what wasn’t there.
    ‘Her washbag,’ I said. ‘It’s blue with lighter blue patterns on it, I think. I can’t see it.’ I picked up the towels and threw them to one side. ‘It’s not here. Or her makeup bag. It’s pink. Maybe it’s in one of her bags. That’s odd.’
    I started picking up all the garments on the floor and putting them in a pile to make sure nothing was hidden beneath. I held the pyjama bottoms and frowned at them, suddenly breathless.
    ‘What?’ asked PC Mahoney.
    ‘She wears these with a nightshirt. Where’s the nightshirt?’
    ‘There’s a simple explanation, Ms Landry.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘These are all items she would have taken to a sleepover.’
    ‘She didn’t.’
    ‘She didn’t take them, you mean? You’re sure?’
    ‘Absolutely sure. She wasn’t going to stay over. She just went round there for a party. Tam suggested she stay over. She called me to say she wasn’t coming home but she’d be back the following morning. I know she didn’t have her things because we talked about it. I even offered to bring them round to her, but she laughed and said she’d clean her teeth with her finger and have a shower and change her clothes when she got back. I don’t know if she had her purse with her. Just her phone.’
    ‘There you are, then.’
    I sat on the bed and rubbed my