Elizabeth Is Missing by Emma Healey Page A

missing. That it?”
    “That’s it exactly, Officer,” I say, clinging on to the counter.
    “Thought it might be.” He grins at me for a couple of seconds. I have a sinking feeling. “This’ll be the . . . let me see”—he clicks at the computer a few times—“the fourth time you’ve been in.”
    Fourth time? “So,” I say. “Is someone looking for Elizabeth already, then?” I know as soon as the words are out of my mouth that it’s hopeless.
    He laughs. “Oh, yeah. I’ve got every man on the force out. Sniffer dogs, forensics, flying squad. They’re all out there”—he pauses to skim a hand through the air—“looking for your friend Elizabeth.”
    I go hot at his words. My armpits prickle. I can see what he thinks of me now, and I feel sick. The tears spill over, finally, and I turn away so he won’t see them.
    “Forget the drug dealers and the rapists and the murderers, I told the team,” the policeman says. “What about that no-good son of old Lizzie . . .”
    I don’t hear any more because I’m hurrying out of the building and into the street. The cooler air catches at the wet patches on my cheeks. I stand by the bus stop and cover my mouth with the sleeve of my cardigan. This was a last hope. If the police won’t take me seriously, what chance is there of ever seeing Elizabeth again?
    I don’t remember going to the police station about my sister; Dad went on his own to report her missing, and again after we’d spoken to her neighbours. He and Ma went often after that, to find out what was being done, what might have been discovered, but they never took me with them. I do remember a policeman coming to the house, though, to ask us about Sukey. He was there when I got home from school.
    “I did say I’d pop in,” he said, sitting at our kitchen table, the plate in front of him loaded with slices of cake. He had shiny brown hair and dark shadows under his eyes. And he wasn’t in uniform. “But this screaming business seems to be totally unrelated, happened weeks and weeks ago, according to neighbours—I had a constable check. And it’s like they told you at the station: people are being reported missing left, right, and centre nowadays. The men can’t get used to being back on Civvy Street, or the women can’t get used to having their husbands home again, and so they’re off. And we get the poor abandoned folk crying to us.”
    “But Frank always was home,” Ma said, putting the teapot down and sliding on to the chair next to me.
    “Eh? Didn’t fight?” The policeman looked up from his cake, a crumb falling from the corner of his mouth.
    “Runs a removal firm—Gerrard’s,” Dad said, looking at the crumb where it lay on the table. “Reserved occupation. And, anyway, Frank’s gone missing, too.”
    The policemen nodded slowly. “Oh, yes, yes, that’s right. Gerrard’s. I know it. He helped my aunt move a few things after she was bombed, matter of fact. It was that air raid over the school, d’you remember that one? Yes, he did us a real favour there. Still”—he cleared his throat and pressed a few stray currants together with his fingers—“I knew he’d gone because he’s wanted for questioning.”
    “Is he?” Dad asked.
    The policeman gestured with fingers still pinched around the currants. “Coupon fraud,” he said, putting the dried fruit into his mouth. “A serious business. It’s helping people to more than their fair share. And that in turn encourages others to buy things on the black market.”
    Ma cut more slices off the cake and refilled his cup of tea.
    “Black market, eh? Something else I imagine Frank knows all about. So you haven’t found him?” Dad said.
    “No. And that does put another spin on things. Him being wanted.” He took a slurp of tea. “I suppose they might have decided to do a runner together? You said something about him having a suitcase.”
    Dad leant away from the table and put his hands into his pockets, gazing at