Free Concealment by Rose Edmunds

the mark.
    A gorgeous young professional woman had literally vanished into the night. Moreover, she’d had the presence of mind to do so when little else of substance was happening in the world. The media found the story irresistible and the police responded with a high profile public campaign. By Tuesday evening every TV channel was saturated with images of our star tax consultant, her parents, her boyfriend, and their flat in Ealing.
    A media encampment was hastily established outside the flat, where white-suited forensics experts picked through the driveway with exaggerated care. Occasionally, the front door opened to allow the removal of bagged items, but otherwise all was quiet. Undeterred by the lack of activity, the TV stations eked out their coverage with endless speculation. And in the background to the BBC reporter’s inane chatter, the equally mind-numbing drivel of his counterpart from Sky could be heard.
    Cut to the press conference, and a Detective Chief Inspector Dave Carmody of the Metropolitan Police gave a pre-prepared statement to the assembled pack of reporters.
    ‘Isabelle Edwards was last seen at a social evening with colleagues from the accountancy firm of Pearson Malone in the Victoria Pub in Fleet Street, London at around eight-thirty pm. She took the Tube to Paddington, the train to West Ealing and then walked the half-mile to her flat in Drayton Green. We know she reached home because we found timed receipts from local shops, and we’re examining CCTV images to try to piece together her movements. She was reported missing on Sunday night by her live-in boyfriend, Ryan Kelly, who worked at the same company, and who’d been away for the weekend. Isabelle failed to show up for work on Monday morning, which her family say is out of character.’
    I’d spoken to Carmody earlier in the day about interviewing the team. Over the phone, he’d sounded imposing, but the camera did him no favours. Uneasy and stilted, he resembled an insolvency practitioner announcing a major receivership with many job losses. His eyes darted nervously, as if seeking out a friendly face.
    ‘I repeat—we’re satisfied that Isabelle arrived home, but have no information about her movements afterwards. We’re appealing to anyone who saw her on her way home, or early Saturday morning, or indeed at any point over the weekend, to contact us.’
    Cut to Isabelle’s grieving parents sitting next to Carmody. The father delivered an emotional appeal for the safe return of her daughter, describing how precious to them she was. The Welsh lilt to his voice added extra pathos to his plea. Isabelle’s mother managed to maintain her elegance and poise to begin with, but broke down when it was her turn to speak. She sounded properly posh between the racking sobs—so posh it seemed amazing she’d wound up married to a Llandudno solicitor.
    The obvious affection of Isabelle’s parents stirred a stab of envy in me. After thirty years I scarcely remembered my own father and as for my mother—enough said. If they lured that bat-shit crazy woman from her lair to plead for my return, I’d never come back.
    ‘Isabelle, we love you—please get in touch, or at least contact the police to tell them you’re safe,’ said Isabelle’s dad in conclusion. But his voice sounded defeated, as if he’d reconciled himself to the worst.
    Alongside them sat Ryan, unshaven and scruffy, like someone sent from central casting to play the part of prime suspect. He stuttered over his own appeal.
    I slurped at my gin as I stared at the screen in disbelief.
    ‘You stupid idiot, Ryan,’ I shouted. ‘If Isabelle’s parents can get their shit together, why can’t you?’
    ‘
Maybe he’s involved
,’ said the Little Amy voice.
‘After all, he hurt you, didn’t he?’
    I shuddered, suddenly conscious of my bruised arms again.
    Carmody summed up as a contact number flashed up on the screen.
    ‘This is a level-headed professional woman, who had no