I Know My Name: An addictive thriller with a chilling twist. C.J. Cooke

      I stepped back, thinking that the conversation was over. But then Eloïse said:

       This is about my mother, isn’t it?

      Gerda straightened, affronted, and when she spoke her voice was louder.

       Just … be careful, OK? I love you so, so much, meine Süße.

       I love you too, Mamie.

      Gerda comes back into focus, the bottle of milk almost finished and my daughter beginning to fall asleep in her arms. I clench my jaw, bracing for a row.

      ‘There isn’t someone else in the picture, is there?’ Gerda says slowly, still not quite looking me in the eye.

      ‘Someone else?’

      She shrugs, as if this is an entirely reasonable thing to be asking me. ‘Another man. A lover.’

      I bristle. ‘I hope not.’

      ‘And she definitely left all her belongings behind. Her credits cards, passports …’

      ‘Passports?’ The word is barely out of my mouth when I realise what she means: El has two passports. Her British one and her Swiss one from long ago. Gerda eyes me expectantly, so I say, ‘Yes’, though I haven’t located the Swiss passport. I’d forgotten that one. It’s bright red with a white cross on it, so shouldn’t be too hard to find. I make a mental note to ransack the house for it immediately, though El’s not used it in ages. I should think it’s out of date.

      Gerda’s gaze skitters from mine. ‘You must have given her some reason to leave.’

      Her words are like shards, designed to wound, but I refuse to rise to it. It’s precisely what she wants. Instead, I turn on my heel and walk out of the room.

      Max is asleep in his pirate ship bed, surrounded by yellow Minions and clutching his quilt, thumb stuck firmly in his mouth. He’ll be bursting with questions when he wakes up, and I have no idea what to tell him. I can hardly tell him that his mother is still away taking flowers to a friend.

      I check the filing cabinet in the spare room in which El keeps things like birth certificates and baby books, but there is no sign of her Swiss passport. It’s not in the drawer under our bed either. I can’t think of anywhere else to look. I have a brisk shower, and my mind turns to my emails and text messages, as well as Eloïse’s Facebook page and Twitter account. Both are full of queries, stickers, emojis: El, are you OK? Sad face. DM me! Shocked face. Where are you? I heard something’s up? Gravely concerned face. Hey, El, are we meeting up for lunch today? A heart.

      I have text messages from our friends asking if they can do anything, and I scroll through them all, willing one of them to say something to the effect that Eloïse has been found.

      I check my voicemail for the millionth time but there’s nothing from Eloïse. There is, however, an urgent message from my boss, Hugo, about an account – one of our biggest clients is furious about an admin error and is threatening to take his thirty million quid elsewhere. I send a quick email to Hugo, asking for clarification, and his reply pings back. Basically, I need to re-send a bunch of paperwork by special delivery to the Edinburgh branch, pray for a miracle, and Mr Husain and his millions should stay put.

      Gerda pads downstairs in a grey cashmere robe, a cigarette and a lighter in one manicured hand, heading for the back garden. She stops when she sees me and looks oddly penitent.

      ‘Look, Lochlan. If Eloïse really is missing then we need to be devising a plan of action for her return.’

      I continue rifling through the cupboard by the stairs for my briefcase. ‘That’s precisely why I’ve already spoken with the police.’

      ‘The police in this country will do nothing,’ she tuts. ‘We need to be proactive about this, Lochlan. We need to put a plan in—’

      ‘I am being proactive.’

      She cuts me off: ‘—place to ensure that she’s not gone any longer than is necessary. Unless, of course, that’s what you want?’

      What I want is to slap her. And in the same moment as I feel that ugly, tantalising impulse, I recall an argument with Eloïse that I ended by telling her she was just like Gerda. She asked me what the hell I meant, and I told her the truth: she had a tendency to twist my words and corner me with her own. Or she’d stonewall me. There’s no winning with passive-aggressive fighters. You’ve got to ignore them, for all you want to gouge their eyes out.

      ‘Will you be all right getting Max and Cressida their breakfast?’ I say calmly. ‘Cressie’s bottles have to be sterilised, and I think there are a couple of cartons of formula in the fridge. Max takes Weetabix and milk heated in the microwave for thirty seconds.’

      ‘You’re leaving?’ Gerda says, following me across the room. ‘Where on earth are you going?’

      I grab my keys from the kitchen island. ‘Work, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Work?’

      Gerda’s got a face like a bad ham. Good. I stride towards the front door, jump into my car and drive off as fast as I can.

      Eloïse and I met eight years ago at a charity event in Mayfair to which I’d begrudgingly gone to wave the company flag. I’d already been to one too many of those sort of things, and although I’ve spent much of my life in London there’s enough Weegie in me yet to find the whole canapés and air-kissing malarkey worse than sticking needles in my eyes. Not only that, but I’d been informed that my ex-girlfriend Lauren was going to be there and I desperately wanted an out.

      But then this beautiful woman got up on the platform. She was unassuming and sweet, a hand drawn across her waist to clasp the elbow of the other arm. She spoke quietly into the mic, introduced herself: Eloïse Bachmann. She was starting a crowdfunded project for refugee children who had wound up in the UK. The more she talked about the causes behind this project, the more she seemed to come alive. Her voice grew louder, her posture changed, and suddenly people were paying attention. When she finished, everyone applauded. Even in the bright spotlight I could see that she was overwhelmed.

      It’s not that Eloïse isn’t beautiful – she’s slim, blonde and gorgeous – but back then, she wasn’t my type. She’s sensible and quietly confident, probably the smartest person I know. Back then I tended to be drawn to theatrical, insecure women who embarrassed me in the company of friends; the type that tended to slash my tyres after an argument. My relationships were like social experiments. I’d become cynical about love, saying it didn’t exist, that I didn’t even want it, when really I was a blithering idiot with an addiction to sociopaths. And then I found myself two feet away from the girl who had captivated a roomful of millionaires with her earnest passion, and I felt like I’d come home.

      She took persuading. None of my old tactics worked. Eloïse wasn’t into fruit baskets or restaurants with dress codes. Neither am I, but I’d been moving in certain circles for so long that I’d assumed these things would woo her. In desperation I cornered a colleague who was friendly with Eloïse and asked her what I should do. ‘Take her to Skybright,’ she said simply. I had no idea what Skybright was. Turned out to be a café run by volunteers, where people could pay what they wanted for the food, enabling the homeless to eat there. I invited Eloïse and she accepted. Three months later, I proposed. She very sweetly said no. A month later, I tried again, on both knees. I knew that I had never, ever felt about another human being what I felt for her, and I wasn’t giving up. Luckily, this time she said yes.

      We had two weddings – a real one, attended by the two of us, the priest and a couple of friends in one of Magnus’ properties, and one for our families back in England a couple of weeks later. We spent the next few years backpacking and sailing around the world. El’s a fantastic sailor. Magnus taught her – it was the thing that kept them close, much closer than El and Gerda. We lived in a little beach hut in Goa for months, waking up to the sunrise and swimming in the warm ocean before breakfast. Making