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  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Might be. Haven’t seen my doctor. He’s in Dubai.’

  ‘Oh.’ Marsh looked at Fortune. ‘Listen, I’m sure it’s no consolation, but I am sorry.’

  Fortune nodded again. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I wanted to catch you before you left. I don’t suppose we’ll see each other again.’

  ‘No?’ Fortune frowned.

  ‘We’re closing the investigation. Officially.’

  ‘What? No. It’s still … You haven’t found her.’

  ‘We might never find her,’ Marsh said. ‘It’s a big river. I’m sorry, but I’m certain that she’s in it. There’s no other scenario.’

  ‘Of course there is,’ said Fortune, though he couldn’t think of one.

  He sat down on the bench, next to the box of Sophie’s things. He put his forearms on his legs and looked at the ground.

  ‘What’ll you do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said to the ground. ‘Go back to Dubai.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Marsh said again. Fortune nodded, still not looking up. He felt Marsh walk away, his footsteps. He sat on the bench for some minutes before getting up, picking up the box and heading off to find a taxi.

  The box contained jeans, trainers, an AC/DC T-shirt, hooded top, Puffa jacket, underwear. Her wallet, too. If you didn’t know better, Fortune thought, the possessions could have belonged to a man. Except for the bra. He looked through the wallet. Credit cards, driving licence, business cards: a photographer, a free-lance journalist. Couple of restaurants, a bar. Environmental Health, somebody’s name; must have been one of the officers who’d come to her house about the noise, the partying. He put it all to one side and opened her computer.

  It was password-protected and Fortune tried the usual suspects: her birthday, 1234, ‘password’. None of them worked, although he hadn’t expected them to. He sat in front of the screen, wondering whether he should even be looking. It felt as if he was in her room, hunting for her diary, poking around in places he had no right to be. He had, once. Not looked for her diary, but gone through her drawers, found a packet of cigarettes. He remembered her face when he had confronted her about it. No remorse, just anger that he had dared to disregard her right to privacy. A huge argument, refereed by his wife, who had, ultimately, taken Sophie’s side. Perhaps she’d been right. Probably she’d been right.

  He scrolled through his phone and called Alex in Dubai. It was late over there, gone midnight. Oh well.

  ‘Fortune?’

  ‘Am I waking you up?’

  ‘No. Yes. Yes, of course you are, it’s late, you know?’

  ‘I need your help with something.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you know how to hack into a computer? A Mac?’

  ‘What? Fortune …’

  ‘Do you know how?’

  ‘Um …’ Fortune imagined Alex sitting up in bed, rubbing his face, trying to wake up. ‘Hack into a Mac? Why?’

  ‘They found my daughter’s things. Next to a river.’

  ‘They … Christ, Fortune, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thanks. The thing is, I can’t get into her machine.’

  ‘Okay. Okay.’ Alex was silent, thinking. ‘You in front of it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay.’ Alex sighed, thought some more. Said, ‘Do exactly what I tell you.’

  Five minutes later, Fortune was in, looking at the screen of his daughter’s laptop, a door into her life. He thanked Alex, told him he appreciated it.

  ‘No problem. Fortune?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Are you coming back now?’

  Fortune thought of Marsh, the investigation, which would soon be closed, if it hadn’t been already. ‘Soon. Very soon.’

  ‘It’s terrible here, you know? That money, it’s still missing.’

  ‘I know. I’ll be back soon. Promise.’

  ‘Okay. Please don’t call me again today.’

  ‘I won’t. Thanks, Alex.’

  Fortune hung up, put his fingers on the keyboard of the computer. He wondered what he would find. Wondered whether, whatever it might be, he even wanted to find it. He put the cursor over File, chose New Finder Window, and started looking.

  twenty

  21/2

  It gets worse. It just gets worse and worse and worse.

  Today the police came, again. This time it was the drug squad. They told me that there’d been reports of dealing from my flat, people coming and going, the smell of drugs, and loud music. They told me that they took any allegations of drug dealing seriously, and could they come in? It turned out I didn’t have a choice as they just pushed right past me and started looking around. I asked them if they had a warrant and they said they didn’t need one. A male officer said it with a smile, as if to say, what are you going to do about it?

  They didn’t find anything, because there’s nothing to find except sleeping pills. A lot of sleeping pills. Enough, if you know what I mean. More than enough.

  Charlie Jackson’s taking me to court.

  Oh, and Larry fired me.

  I can’t write any more. I need to go to sleep.

  Josh, please come soon. Come very soon. Before it’s too late.

  Fortune had found it on her desktop, dated just weeks ago. His daughter’s filing system was a mess, her desktop crowded, chaotic, folders within folders, photos, documents. He hadn’t known where to begin. He pushed the computer away, across the glass-topped table in his hotel room. The room was gloomy, the screen of the computer bright. He tried to process what he had just read. What had been going on in his daughter’s life? Could she have become so delusional that she didn’t believe it was her creating these problems? He had read of schizophrenia, heard it mentioned by doctors during the worst of Sophie’s episodes, the times she was lowest and most irrational. Had she been that ill?

  The other alternative was that she was right, and she was blameless. That all this, all the incidents, the complaints, the investigations, had been caused by somebody else. But he thought of his daughter outside Charlie Jackson’s home, carrying a knife. That had happened. That had definitely happened. He scratched at his head, rubbed it hard. My Sophie, he thought. What happened to you?

  Finally, there was Josh. Who was Josh? He’d never heard of him; Jean hadn’t mentioned him, or Jessica. He must be a boyfriend, a boyfriend who worked away, like Fortune worked away. He hoped that was all he and Josh had in common. Sophie deserved better.

  He opened a browser and typed Charlie Jackson into the search bar. He hit Images and looked at shot after shot of the man his daughter had become obsessed with. He was good-looking, around thirty, blue eyes. Very blue, the kind of blue that seems unreal, that you can’t help looking at. Dirty-blond hair, never clean-shaven in any shot. He had a kind of Hollywood action-hero look, the blue eyes undercutting that, giving him an innocence, an open vulnerability behind the square jaw, the regular features. Confident, but sensitive. Fortune shook his head at the screen. Jesus. What did he sound like? Jackson was pictured in headshots, on red carpets, holding awards, arm around glamorous women. He looked like he had an okay life. Nothing to complain about. He looked the kind of man who would have it easy as long as he lived.

  Fortune picked up his phone and called the number Jessica had given him. She’d told him to call any time, not to hesitate.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jessica? It’s Fortune.’

  There was a brief pause as she went through her mental Rolodex. ‘Hi.’

  ‘I wondered if I could ask a favour.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll try.’

  ‘First, did my daughter, did Sophie … did she mention a boyfriend?’

  Another pause as Jessica thought. Fortune heard laughter in the background, faint music. ‘Am I interrupting?’

  ‘Mmm? No, no, I’m on a boat. Heading up the Thames, some release party for a …’ She dropped her voice. ‘For an awful record made by an even more awful reality TV personality. It’s
horrendous. She’s pissed already, wearing stilettos on a boat, can hardly stand up. If she doesn’t puke before we get there, I’ll eat my metaphorical hat.’

  ‘Sounds like fun.’

  ‘Like stubbing a toe,’ Jessica said. ‘Boyfriend, did you say?’ She thought again. ‘I think she was seeing somebody, but I never met him. We didn’t socialize much, outside work.’

  ‘His name’s Josh.’

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. Oh, there she goes. She’s down.’ Jessica laughed. ‘Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I want to talk to Charlie Jackson.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Jessica spoke to somebody her end. ‘Can someone pick her up, please? And stop her drinking any more? She’ll be on the six o’clock at this rate.’ She came back to Fortune. ‘Sorry. Don’t know why I care anyway. The drunker she gets, the better the story. Anyway, Charlie Jackson. Why do you want to talk to him?’

  ‘Just …’ Fortune wondered. ‘I just want to find out what happened.’

  ‘She stalked him, Fortune. She became obsessed, wouldn’t let go.’

  ‘I need to hear it from him.’

  Jessica sighed. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Just tell me how I can contact him.’

  ‘I don’t have his number.’

  ‘You can get it.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Jessica. ‘But I won’t. It gets out, I’m finished.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘I can tell you where he lives. That kind of information, anyone can get hold of. I can do that.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem. But Fortune? You don’t think you should leave it? I don’t think you’ll like what you find out.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Fortune. ‘But I wasn’t there for her before. I need to do this.’

  ‘Okay. Okay, fine. Listen, I’ve got to go. Things are getting interesting this end. I’ll text you.’ Fortune heard shouting, something smashing.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Delete the text.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Jessica hung up. Fortune imagined her prising the champagne glass out of the reality lady’s garishly painted fingertips. What a world his daughter had fallen into.

  Fortune spent half an hour looking through files, folders, photos. Chaos, just like his daughter’s life had become. He found scraps of information, numbers of people he’d never heard of, ideas for features, interview notes, video clips. Unfinished articles and pages of random thoughts. Her boss – what had his name been? Larry. Larry had told him that Sophie had been good, had talent. Looking through the random clutter of her files, Fortune couldn’t find much evidence of that. Just the same Sophie he’d always known, careless, unfocused, infuriating.

  He gave up and closed the computer. He’d look again when he had the energy. Right now, he felt tired, his chest tight. He realized he hadn’t eaten since lunchtime the day before, but he didn’t feel hungry. He lay down on the bed and waited for Jessica to text him Jackson’s address. He wondered what he’d do when he met him.

  twenty-one

  FORTUNE HAD NO PROBLEM WITH CONFRONTATION. YOU couldn’t run a company’s global operations without getting into people’s faces now and then. You couldn’t deal with ridiculous, unreasonable targets handed down from above without sometimes being unreasonable to the people below you. Piling on the pressure, handing out ultimatums, that was his job. Maximizing efficiency.

  Still, he wasn’t feeling exactly comfortable. Charlie Jackson’s house was on one of those exclusive London squares with a private garden in the middle, the gates locked, keys only held by the wealthy residents. It had its own tennis court, and benches, which Fortune could be sitting on. Instead he was standing on the pavement opposite Jackson’s house, smoking and, he couldn’t help but think, looking plenty suspicious. What kind of person stands on a pavement for over two hours, doing nothing? It was cold, and it was windy. At least it wasn’t raining. As Fortune thought this, a fat drop of rain landed on the burning ember of his cigarette with a weak fizz. He looked down at it in exasperation. Why hadn’t he brought an umbrella?

  Jessica had come through with the address and Fortune had arrived at ten, rung the buzzer and waited for an answer. Nobody home. So he’d waited. And waited. Even having a dog would help. People walk dogs. Middle-aged men walk dogs. Middle-aged men don’t loiter on pavements for hours. Unless they’re homeless, and Fortune didn’t look homeless. He didn’t look that healthy, he was willing to admit. But he was still presentable. No, what he needed was a workman’s tent, like in the films. That or a plumber’s van, something he could park up for hours. That was what he needed.

  At least there weren’t many people about, nobody giving him suspicious looks. The only activity was at the other end of the square, where there was some kind of building project going on, looked like work on a basement. Fortune had read about the super-rich in London excavating their basements, digging two, three floors down. The opposite of Dubai, where everything was about building upwards. Fortune suspected it was all to do with penis envy, the Arab man’s inferiority complex. My skyscraper’s taller than yours. What did that say about Russian oligarchs who dug down? Something to do with guilt, burying their millions rather than flaunting them. Maybe. Who knew? Fortune sighed. He was bored, so bored.

  The rain got harder and Fortune looked up bleakly at the leafless tree he was standing under. Not a lot of protection there. He checked his watch. Past midday. Enough. He’d come back another time. He started to walk away, waiting for a black cab to pass before he crossed the road. It stopped further up the street and Charlie Jackson stepped out and handed money through the driver’s window. Fortune hurried up the street. Jackson was walking up the steps to his door, key in his hand.

  ‘Mr Jackson?’

  Jackson turned and looked down at Fortune. His eyes really were that blue. He seemed preoccupied, busy. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wondered if I could talk to you.’

  ‘About what?’ said Jackson. ‘Actually, you know what, no, I haven’t got the time.’ He had a London accent, a kind of refined cockney that Fortune couldn’t decide was authentic or not.

  ‘It’s important,’ he said.

  ‘So is me getting in and taking a piss,’ said Jackson. ‘Fact, that’s more important. So see ya.’ He turned to the door, put his key in.

  ‘It’s about my daughter.’

  Jackson stiffened; Fortune saw it in his back, his shoulders. ‘Oh?’ He probably lived in fear of angry fathers demanding to know what he’d done with their daughters. What he’d done to them.

  ‘Sophie Fortune.’

  Jackson turned. ‘You’re kidding. Her? You’re the dad?’

  ‘I’m her father.’

  ‘Well, my son, that’s some daughter you’ve got there. One in a million.’

  ‘I want to speak to you about her.’

  ‘Listen, I’m gasping for a leak, and anyway, I’ve got nothing to say.’ Jackson paused. ‘You know, you shouldn’t be talking to me anyway. There’s a court case, you know that, right?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘All right, cool, cool. Very cool.’ Jackson smiled. ‘So, here’s a suggestion. Why don’t you piss off and leave me alone?’

  Fortune watched Jackson. There was a half-smile on the younger man’s face, the beginnings of a contemptuous smirk, an easy confidence. Fortune didn’t take to it one bit. He walked to the bottom of the steps, climbed up.

  ‘You know she’s missing?’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘They found her computer. I took a look at it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. And I found something, something about you. Something I don’t think anybody else has seen.’ He paused. ‘Yet.’

  ‘Bullshit. Utter bullshit.’

  ‘Photos.’ Fortune had no idea where he was going with this. He’d found nothing. But at least Jackson was no longer smiling. ‘Like I said, nobody has seen it yet.’

  Jackson glanced up and down the street, as if to check the press
weren’t already circling. He looked down at Fortune and sighed. ‘All right. You’d better come in.’

  Who, thought Fortune, put an aquarium in, actually in, a wall? The inside of Charlie Jackson’s house looked like one of those places he’d occasionally seen on MTV, the kind of place a rock star would design. Actually, scratch that. It looked like the kind of place a sheikh would design, if he had taste. Which didn’t mean that Jackson had taste, he just had more than your average Arab plutocrat. There were cream leather sofas in the living room, a glass coffee table, a chandelier that looked like it had been stolen from Versailles. Jackson stood on the cream rug, facing Fortune defiantly. He was short, a small man. He was probably carrying around a lot of resentment, Fortune thought, a long-held inferiority complex.

  ‘I won’t offer you coffee,’ he said.

  Fortune nodded. ‘I just want to know what happened. With my daughter.’

  ‘What happened?’ Jackson looked about, at his sofas, made a decision. ‘Might as well sit down,’ he said reluctantly.

  Fortune sat. Jackson sat opposite him, the glass coffee table between them.

  ‘What happened was, she tried to set me up with some underage tart. When that didn’t work out, she turned full-on bunny boiler. Like, psychotic.’

  Psycho Bitch, thought Fortune. ‘How so?’ he asked.

  Jackson frowned, looked at Fortune in puzzlement. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Emails, bombarded me. Wouldn’t leave me alone. Threats. Christ, you know she was completely deranged, right? Up her tree.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on. You were her father.’

  ‘Why do you say “were”?’ asked Fortune. ‘Do you know something I don’t?’

  That stopped Jackson for a moment. Then he shook his head, smiled. ‘So you’re as crazy as she is. Like father like mental daughter. Oh dear.’

  ‘What else?’ said Fortune, trying to ignore Jackson’s smirking contempt.

  ‘What else? You want to know?’

  Fortune nodded. ‘I would.’