Page 41 of The Family Remains

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Samuel

Then comes the breakthrough.

Bridget Elspeth Veronica Dunlop-Evers.

Reported missing by her parents in 1996.

Her parents had not heard from her for years, had only filed the report when she failed to materialise at a sibling’s deathbed reunion. After a few months they had let it go. Theorised that Bridget – or Birdie as she was known to all and sundry – must have decided to cut her ties and make a life for herself far away from the family she had grown up in.

From the transcripts of the interviews with various members of Birdie’s family, it sounded as though Birdie had been something of a black sheep, as if she had probably been better off without them.

I adjust the collar of my shirt, straighten the paper on the deskin front of me, clear my throat, and press in the last known phone number of Birdie’s mother, Madelyn Dunlop-Evers.

‘Hello?’

The voice is frail, as you would imagine the voice of an eighty-year-old woman to be.

‘Hello. Is that Mrs Dunlop-Evers?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Good afternoon. My name is Detective Inspector Samuel Owusu.’

‘Samuelwho?’

‘Owusu. Detective Inspector. I’m calling from the special crime unit at Charing Cross Police Station in London. I was hoping to talk to you about your daughter Bridget?’

‘Bridget. No. There’s no Bridget here. There’s a boy though. In the other room. I could have a look for you?’

I sigh, close my eyes slowly and open them again.

‘Is there someone there, Mrs Dunlop-Evers? Someone who could maybe answer some questions for me?’

‘About the boy?’

‘Yes. About the boy.’

I hear the phone being passed around, the muffle of hands over the speaker, different voices in the background, and then a man saying: ‘Who is this?’

‘My name is Detective Inspector Samuel Owusu. I’m calling from Charing Cross Police Station. From the special crime unit here. Who am I talking to?’

‘I’m Philip Dunlop-Evers. Madelyn’s son.’

‘OK. That’s great. I wondered if I might be able to talk to you about Bridget? Or Birdie? Your – I assume – your sister?’

‘Yes. Er. Yes. Of course.’

‘Could I ask you – was Bridget ever a dancer?’

There is a small silence.

‘Yes. She was. She studied ballet until she was quite old. At least eighteen.’

I feel my stomach clench and unclench, a wave of drunken relief pass through me.

‘Would you, do you think, be able to come to us, here in London? To discuss some … things?’

‘Things?’

‘Yes. Things that might be related to your sister’s disappearance.’

‘This is … well … wow. After all this time, I mean. Yes. Of course. Of course, I can come. When would you like me?’

‘As soon as possible, please, Mr Dunlop-Evers.’

‘Please. Call me Philip.’

‘As soon as possible, Philip.’