Page 68 of The Unforgiven

“That’s incorrect.” He broke an egg into a bowl. “You have a family. Wrigley, Vinny – although I’d quite like to punch him -Nick, Verity, Lachy. Jenna’s told me all about them and you for months. I’m envious.”

I looked up at him, watching him whisk the eggs, a pan on the stove, not sure what to say. “They’re colleagues.”

“You’ve worked with them for between five and seven years, Nick, Vinny and Wrigley at least. You spend more time with them than most people do with the person they’re married to, and you bicker with them like you’re about to celebrate your fiftieth wedding anniversary. I think you have a home here more than you want to admit to yourself, Mia.”

“Is that why you’ve moved here? I thought it was because of Jenna?” It was starting to make a bit more sense now.

“All of it. You, Jenna, Manchester – because it’s part of where I’m from as much as Stan was a fuck-up. I want a life, Mia and I’m allowed to have one, just like you are.” The veggies sizzled in the pan. “I get you’re annoyed with me, though.”

“I’m not annoyed with you.”

“Liar. You so are. You’re annoyed I’ve bought this house with Stan’s money. The way I see it, he didn’t provide anything for me or my mum when he should, so I’ll take it now.”

“I’m annoyed because you’ve found it so easy to do.” I’d struggled to accept him paying my tuition fees at university.

“Who said I did? But people do worse things than me accepting money off my sperm donor to help me.” He added the eggs to the pan and started to make what looked like a perfect omelette, the pan sizzling with the heat.

We’d both finished eating when my phone rang first, followed by Nate’s. A shared look across the kitchen island was followed with us both fumbling round to find where we’d left them.

Vinny’s name was on my screen, along with a photo of himself, suited and booted for a ball, looking like James Bond, or at least he thought he did. He’d set it when he was messingaround with my phone a few weeks ago, and I hadn’t changed it back to Shrek yet.

“Morning.” I sounded breathless, as if he’d caught me in the middle of something much more exciting.

“We’ve reports of a missing woman. Evelyn Smith, lives in Wilmslow, Cheshire. Her boyfriend’s just got back from a week away and Evelyn’s not there. He’s worried she’s been taken by our perp.” Vinny didn’t sound particularly interested

“Is there anything to suggest that’s the case?” We’d had a few worried partners call up, or parents, only for the person they were concerned about to turn up hours later. Working through the noise was hard sometimes.

“Evelyn works in Manchester at Harvey Nicks on the cosmetics counter as a make-up artist, so location-wise it could fit. Wrigley thinks it’s worth us speaking to the boyfriend, see if we can get some more info, her handles of her social media and we can check comments. If she was a make-up artist, she’ll have a social media presence.” Vinny yawned, the sound making me hold my phone away from my ear. “Sorry, I was awake a lot last night.”

“I don’t wish to know. Look, I need to drop my brother off at the morgue with some of his textbooks, and then I’ll get over there. How could she afford to live in Wilmslow if she was a make-up artist?” Wilmslow prices were hardly cheap.

“Boyfriend’s a professional footballer.”

“Who for and why aren’t you doing this then?”

“Wrong team. It’s Kristian Chambers – plays for United. He scored against City in the last derby so I’d rather pass. Me and Lachy are heading out to pick up our little involuntary celibates for further questioning too, and I’ll have more fun with that.” Another yawn.

This one sounded like he was fishing for me to ask questions. I didn’t.

“Text me the address and let Mr Chambers know I’m on the way. Enjoy your time as a feminist.” I hung up, looking at my brother who was smiling down his mobile phone.

I figured it was Jenna. I didn’t ask.

“I need to get over to Wilmslow. Are you ready to dump your stuff in my car?”

He nodded, staring at his phone, love drunk. “Yeah, Jenna says she’ll give me a lift bringing it in when we get there.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the idiot. He saw, grinning like a little boy, half embarrassed, half proud.

Then we both laughed.

It felt good.

Kristian Chambers did not look like a footballer, not that I knew much about them. He lived in a large, gated property between Prestbury and Wilmslow, on a road known as a home for footballers and TV stars. He was smaller than I expected, just a few inches taller than me, and looked wiry. I suspected he was a winger, a player who did a lot of running and needed to be nimble, and I seemed to remember that he was a local lad, a product of the youth system at United.

“Thanks for coming over,” he sat down on a large white leather sofa that probably cost half my annual salary. “I know the process is to go to your local station or phone up, but with me being, you know, I didn’t want the press to get hold of it.” He was nervous, worried.

“When did you last hear from Evelyn?”