Free The Disappeared by Roger Scruton Page A

body filled with nausea and dread.
    He came across a pair of phone booths on the corner of Vicar Lane; one was in working order, and he typed in the number that he had found on Muhibbah’s mobile. It rang twelve times before flipping to an Ansafone. There was a message in Arabic and another, or perhaps the same one, in what he assumed to be Pashto. He hung up without speaking. He wandered in the city centre for a while, drank a double whisky in the Horse and Trumpet and then, with a strange feeling of defiance, set off to her flat, in the sudden hope that she would have given them the slip and made it to safety.
    It was dark when he arrived there, but there was a light in the flat and he rang the bell with trembling hand. If she were there she would not forgive his intrusion; if she were not there he would believe the worst. He heard the trip of girlish steps on the stair-carpet, and backed away from the door as it opened.
    A thin pale girl stood in the doorway. Her blond hair was wrapped in a headscarf and her blue denim suit was open at the neck, revealing a silver medallion on a ribbon of string. She looked at him from calm grey eyes and smiled enquiringly.
    â€˜Hi,’ she said. ‘Are you looking for someone?’
    â€˜I am a friend of Muhibbah’s,’ he said. ‘I was hoping she’d be in.’
    The girl looked at him curiously.
    â€˜Muhibbah’s gone.’
    â€˜
Gone
?’
    â€˜She left a couple of hours ago: packed up her stuff, and skedaddled.’
    â€˜What? On her own?’ he asked.
    â€˜There was a guy downstairs with a car. He didn’t come up. Didn’t need to; she had only a couple of bags. But I guess I should know who you are and why you are asking?’
    â€˜Can I come in for a moment?’
    â€˜O.K. if you can explain why. I’m Millie, by the way.’
    She held out her hand and he grasped it.
    â€˜Justin,’ he said, ‘Justin Fellowes. I work with Muhibbah. That is to say, she works for me.’
    â€˜So you’re the environment guy? I guess that’s credentials enough.’
    Millie led the way to their communal room and sat him down in the window, just as Muhibbah had done. Nothing had changed since his last visit, except that the issue of
Rolling Stone
was a newer one, and the television was flickering silently in the corner. Millie picked up a remote from the sofa and switched it off.
    â€˜I need to find Muhibbah,’ he said. ‘She left the office without explanation. I worry she’s in trouble.’
    It sounded very lame, as though he had some other and more disreputable motive for intruding.
    â€˜Well that’s pretty standard for Muhibbah. Never explains anything. What kind of trouble anyway?’
    Millie looked at him candidly. It was an attractive face, regular, soft and quizzical, with pale lips under a slightly prominent nose. Just the girlfriend he would have wished for, had there been room in his heart. Nausea and dread returned, so that he almost choked on his words.
    â€˜Kidnap, briefly. I was out of the office; when I returned she was gone, and there were signs of a struggle.’
    â€˜Oh? There were no signs of a struggle when she came here: no gun to her head, not even crying. Just the usual Muhibbah, doing her secret things on tiptoe.’
    â€˜I know she has been under threat. And she left her jacket behind with her mobile phone and other personal stuff.’
    Millie thought for a moment.
    â€˜I guess you should go to the police, if you’re that worried. But Muhibbah is seriously weird. She’s probably gone back to the office to collect her things. And now the two of them are on their way to Timbuktu, to start a new life in the desert. It would suit her very well. She has paid the rent by the way, until the end of next month. I can’t say I shall miss her.’
    Justin felt the shock of Millie’s words. He buried his head in his hands and sighed himself free of