The Likeness

They never found her in Sydney-the nearest they got was a surf stud who thought he had seen her selling ice cream at Manley Beach and had a feeling her name was Hazel, but he was too unsure and too thick to count as a reliable witness-but in New Zealand she had been Naomi Ballantine, the most efficient office receptionist on her temp agency’s books, until a satisfied customer started pushing her to go full-time. In San Francisco she was a hippie chick called Alanna Goldman, who worked in a beach-supplies shop and spent a lot of time smoking pot around campfires; friends’ photos showed waist-length curls whipping in ocean breeze, bare feet and seashell necklaces and brown legs in cutoff jeans. In Liverpool she was Mags Mackenzie, an aspiring hat designer who served drinks in a quirky cocktail bar all week and sold her hats from a market stall at weekends; the photo had her wearing a wide-brimmed red-velvet swirl with a puff of old silk and lace over one ear, and laughing. Her housemates-a bunch of high-octane late-night girls who did the same general kind of thing, fashion, backing vocals, something called “urban art”-said that two weeks before she split, she had been offered a contract to design for a trendy boutique label. They hadn’t been all that worried when they woke up and found her gone. Mags would be all right, they said; she always was.

The letter from Chad was paper-clipped to a blurry snapshot of the two of them in front of a lake, on a shimmering-hot day. She had a long plait and an oversized T-shirt and a shy smile, head ducking away from the camera; Chad was tall and tan and gangly, with a floppy gold forelock. He had his arm around her and he was looking down at her like he couldn’t believe his luck. I just wish you would of given me a chance to come with you, the letter said, just a chance, May. I would of gone anywhere. Whatever you wanted I really hope you found it now. I just wish I could know what it was and why it wasn’t me.

***

I photocopied the pictures and the interviews and sent the file back to Frank with a Post-it that said “Thank you.” The next afternoon I left work early and went to see Abby.

Her new address was on file: she was living in Ranelagh, Student Central, in a tattered little house with weeds in the front lawn and too many bells beside the door. I stayed out on the pavement, leaning on the railing. It was five o’clock, she would be coming home soon-routine dies hard-and I wanted to let her see me from far off, be braced and ready before she reached me.

It was about half an hour before she came around the corner, wearing her long gray coat and carrying two supermarket bags. She was too far away for me to see her face, but I knew that brisk, neat walk by heart. I saw the second when she spotted me, the wild rock backwards, the grab as her bags almost slipped out of her hands; the long pause, after she realized, when she stood in the middle of the empty pavement deciding whether to turn around and go somewhere else, anywhere else; the lift of her shoulders as she took a deep breath and started walking again, towards me. I remembered that first morning, around the kitchen table: how I had thought that, if things had been different, the two of us could have been friends.

She stopped at the gate and stood still, scanning every detail of my face, deliberate and unflinching. “I should kick the living shite out of you,” she said, eventually.

She didn’t look like she could do it. She had lost a lot of weight and her hair was pulled up in a knot that made her face look even thinner, but it was more than that. Something had gone out of her skin: a luminosity, a resilience. For the first time I got a flash of what she would be like as an old woman, erect and sharp-tongued and wiry, with tired eyes.

“You’d have every right,” I said.

“What do you want?”

“Five minutes,” I said. “We’ve found out some stuff about Lexie. I thought you might want to know. It might… I don’t know. It might help.”

A lanky kid in Docs and an iPod brushed past us, let himself into the house and slammed the door behind him. “Can I come in?” I asked. “Or if you’d rather I didn’t, we can stay out here. Just five minutes.”

“What’s your name again? They told us, but I forget.”

“Cassie Maddox.”

“Detective Cassie Maddox,” Abby said. After a moment she shifted one bag up onto her wrist and found her keys. “OK. You might as well come in. When I tell you to leave, you leave.” I nodded.