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

a police car pulls up outside and two uniformed police officers appear at the door, a man and a woman. I show the officers into the living room and attempt to console Cressida so that I can actually hear what they say. Her face is beetroot-red, tears rolling down her cheeks, and she punches the air with her fists. Max has fallen asleep on the sofa, holding the quilt Eloïse made for him up to his chin and murmuring occasionally.

      ‘When did you last speak with your wife, Mr Shelley?’ the male officer asks as I rock Cressida back and forth.

      ‘I already gave all this information on the phone,’ I say. I want answers, resolutions, for the police to wave their magic wands and materialise my wife.

      ‘Sorry, but there’s some information we’ve got to confirm. We’ll ask a few additional questions before we begin enquiries.’

      ‘I’ve been in Edinburgh since Monday but I spoke to her around seven on Monday night via Facetime,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Sometimes I call during the day as well, but it’s been really busy at work. I didn’t get a chance.’

      ‘Where do you work?’

      I shift Cressida into a different position, away from my ear. She’s still tiny at three months so she fits along the length of my arm. I bounce her there and she lets out a huge belch. I say ‘Good girl!’ but she starts to cry again.

      ‘I work at a company called Smyth and Wyatt. Four days a week I’m based in Edinburgh, the rest of the time I’m at the London branch on Victoria Embankment.’

      The male officer jots this down as ‘Smith & White South – a bank’.

      ‘It’s not a bank, it’s a corporate finance firm.’

      He scores out his note. ‘OK. Did you and your wife have any disagreements? Anything that might have made her leave?’

      ‘Look, I’ve already explained this. My wife has not left. Cressida’s only twelve weeks old. El’s still breastfeeding.’

      I’m mad as hell, frustrated, but above all I’m anxious. I can’t help but feel that El must be worried, wherever she is, because she’s fought to breastfeed Cressida after some difficulties with Max and ensures she feeds on demand. This is hard to put across – my wife hasn’t left, you see, because she wants to breastfeed. They ask about El’s line of work, and I explain that she’s a stay-at-home mother but still goes on TV to talk about her work.

      ‘She set up a small charity some years ago for refugee children and it’s become quite successful,’ I say. ‘She gets asked to do the occasional media event. I guess I’m worried that, maybe … I don’t know. A lot of nutcases out there.’ I know I’m clutching at straws, but my mind is racing, my body buzzing with adrenalin. I keep glancing at the front door, waiting for her to walk in.

      ‘Did she mention anything of that nature? Threatening letters, stalkers, that kind of thing?’

      ‘No, nothing.’

      He gives me a moment in case something comes to mind, but it doesn’t.

      ‘Can you describe what she was wearing when you last saw her?’

      ‘I think she was wearing grey yoga pants and a pyjama top. Like I said, it was seven o’clock at night. I should have called her this morning but I was running late …’

      He writes this down, asking for more of a description. Does she have any tattoos or visible scars? No. Any jewellery? I tell him she would likely be wearing her wedding band and engagement ring. I’ve not found them anywhere in the house.

      ‘Have you asked your neighbours if they saw anyone come into the house?’

      I nod. ‘Mrs Shahjalal from across the road was the one to find out she was missing.’

      More writing, slow, slow, slow, as if he’s taking orders for a takeaway. ‘We’ll follow up with Mrs Shahjalal. What about your bank accounts? Any withdrawals? We might be able to trace her last steps if we have that information.’

      I’ve already checked our bank account on my mobile phone. We have a joint account and no money has come out today, with the exception of direct debits for the water bill and council tax. Of course, I’ve said all this. It was one of the first things I checked.

      ‘Tell me a little about Eloïse,’ he asks. ‘Age? Height? Weight? Personality?’

      Cressida begins to squawk so fiercely that the female police officer rises to her feet and holds her arms out.

      ‘May I?’ she says.

      ‘Please,’ I say, handing Cressie to her. The female officer holds her cheek against Cressida’s and speaks softly to her. Ten seconds later the screaming stops. It’s only then that I realise that most of the noise is coming from inside my head.

      ‘How old did you say she is?’ the officer asks.

      ‘Twelve weeks. Max turned four in January.’

      The officer smiles at Cressida, who gawps back. ‘I have a little boy, he’s ten months old. And he’s huge. But you, you’re dinky!’

      ‘She was slightly premature,’ I say. It is a huge relief not to be screamed at. I sink down into the sofa beside Max and rub my temples. The male officer is looking at me expectantly.

      ‘Eloïse is thirty-seven. She’s about five foot six, fairly slim. Not sure what she weighs, exactly. Maybe ten stone. She just gave birth.’

      ‘Is that a recent photo?’ he asks, glancing up at the new studio photograph mounted between two thick slabs of glass on the wall behind me.

      Cost a fortune, that photo, but we all look so happy and I’m glad I deferred and had it taken. Eloïse is holding Cressida, who’s a scrawny sparrowy thing at three weeks old, and although I know she felt self-conscious, begging me to kneel slightly to the right so my head would cover her swollen stomach, Eloïse looks amazing. Buttery blonde hair hanging loose by her shoulders, that lovely smile and perfect skin of hers, as though her veins contain LED lights – luminescent, that’s the word. I know I married a looker, miles out of my league.

      ‘Is Eloïse the sort of person who would just up and leave?’ the male officer asks. ‘Has she done anything like that before?’

      ‘No, no, no. Absolutely not.’

      The officer stares, blank-faced. ‘No problems with drugs, alcohol, anything like that?’

      I shake my head. ‘Nothing like that. She stopped drinking when she became pregnant with our son. She maybe had the occasional glass of wine. She’s … Look, I can’t emphasise enough that Eloïse is the last person on earth who I would expect to go missing like this. She’s quiet, reserved. You know, a home bird.’

      ‘So she wouldn’t have, say, popped out to pick up a message? For five minutes or so?’

      I can feel myself losing patience, almost on the verge of tears, which freaks me out. ‘Our kids were here. She wasn’t expecting me back from Edinburgh until tomorrow night. There’s no way she’d leave our children on their own. El won’t even leave Cressida downstairs when she’s taking a shower. We’ve a car seat in the bathroom and a baby rocker in the kitchen.’

      The police officer nods. ‘OK. When you came home were there any signs of someone having been here? Any signs of an intrusion?’

      I shake my head. ‘Everything was locked up.’

      ‘What about the back door. It was locked?’

      I think back. Was it?

      My hesitation prompts him to glance around the room. ‘What about any other entrances to the house? Windows? Back doors?’

      ‘We have had a problem with the back door, now that I think about it. The lock froze and it’s not been closing properly. I meant to get it fixed, but …’ I’ve been so busy. I close my eyes and sigh, speared with panic. How careless