Dreams of Origami by Elenor Gill Page A

slightest trace of an accent. Nothing he can identify.
    ‘The photograph?’ he said. ‘The man who is missing? Who is he?’
    ‘Here, take this.’ Her hands held a shape of white, folded paper. It was a horse. She gave it to him, and, as it moved from her hand to his, a vision flashed in his mind. A white mare, long-legged and graceful, a wild creature running, tail flying in the wind.
    ‘She will be sent to you. A man will ask it as a favour. Please, for my sake, do not dismiss her. I know you are impatient with people sometimes, but, Gideon, this is too important.’
    Making no sense of it, he showers and dresses and brews more coffee, then tries to settle down to work. But his thoughts keep drifting back to that beach.
    ‘So, still no sign of old Matthew, then?’ Drew folds himself into an armchair, holding a mug of tea. ‘Sure you don’t want a drink?’
    ‘Sure, thanks. I was drowning in coffee when I left the office.’ Lacey stretches her legs out on the sofa, shoes kicked off and hair shaken loose of its tortoiseshell clasp.
    ‘What are the police doing about it, then?’
    ‘They’ve circulated his description, made door-to-door enquiries and scoured the area. Nothing much more they can do, so far as I can tell, unless something turns up.’
    ‘I thought you’d be out there combing the fields, hunting for clues, you being a crime reporter and all.’
    ‘Oh, shut up and stop taking the piss. This is important. At least, the police are beginning to think so. Have they spoken to you yet? They said they’re interviewing the neighbours.’
    ‘No, but I’ve hardly been here since yesterday afternoon, have I? Only called in now to collect some rolls of lining paper. You were lucky to catch me.’ He takes a gulp of his tea. He is wearing his favourite jumper, the one with holes in the elbows and the bottom two rows of knitting missing from the front hem. His hair is even messier than usual and flecked with sawdust.
    ‘Lucky? Is that what you call it?’
    ‘Now who’s taking the piss?’
    ‘No, seriously, I think something’s happened to him. You should have seen Triss yesterday, she was in a real state. I wish I could do something more to help.’
    ‘What’s happened to your professional objectivity?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I thought it was the cardinal rule of journalism? Don’t get personally involved. You can’t wear two hats—either be a reporter or a friend, you can’t be both.’
    ‘Well, I need to get to know the woman, don’t I? Especially as I’m trying to get her personal angle on it.’
    ‘Yeah, but I know what you’re like. You start out all slick and business-like, waving your notepad and licking your pencil. Then someone feeds you a sob story and you go all gooey inside, like a cream bun.’
    ‘Look, I am being objective. And I know I’m on to a good story, I can feel it. It’s just that I can’t help feeling sorry for the poor woman. I have this nasty feeling it’s going to end in tragedy one way or another.’
    ‘Oh, come on, now you’re being melodramatic. Lighten up, for God’s sake. They’ve probably had a row and he’ll come back when he’s cooled off.’ Drew puts his mug down. ‘Right, I’d better get that stuff into the van.’ He uncurls from the chair and heads out of the room. His muffled voice comes from the kitchen. ‘You know what they say: you can never really tell what’s going on behind closed doors.’
    ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
    He comes back, arms loaded with rolls of wallpaper. ‘Open the front door for me, would you? Look, all I’m saying is, you ought to go carefully. You don’t know what you might be getting yourself into.’ He steps out directly onto the pavement, there being no front garden, and another pace takes him to his van parked right outside. ‘Can you open the van before I drop this lot? Keys are in my back pocket.’
    As Lacey unlocks the rear door, she can’t resist looking over at the schoolhouse.