Adam is upstairs brushing his teeth when the police arrive at 9:00am. At the sound of the doorbell, he spits into the sink and, without rinsing the bowl, charges downstairs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Dad gets to the door first, allowing access to a pair of police officers and a gust of cold air. Adam wonders if detectives always come in twos, like girls going to the toilets. Dad shows them in to the lounge.
‘Mr Creighton, I’m Detective Brian Pūriri, and this is our Family Liaison Officer, Wendy Gordon.’
Dad is nodding away like one of those novelty dogs you see on the back shelf of old ladies’ cars. ‘Thank you both for coming. This is my son, Adam. Adam was the last to see my wife yesterday afternoon. We’re both pretty worried now. This isn’t like Tiffany at all. In fact, it’s completely out of character. The dinner was on and everything. Oh, I’m sorry, please take a seat.’
A pleasant-faced woman with a reassuring smile, Constable Gordon takes off her cap, revealing a bob of disorderly curls. Tucking the hat under her arm and her hair behind her ear, she accepts a place on the sofa. Her partner, probably in his forties, is an old-school gentleman: he avoids creasing his regulation trousers with a fingertip hitch of the fabric at his thighs. As sturdy as the tree he’s named after, Pūriri dwarfs Dad’s armchair. And from the bulk of his shoulders and the messed up shape of his ears, Adam guesses the detective played tight-head prop at one time or another. There’s a solidness about him that Adam finds comforting. Dad’s armchair groans as Detective Pūriri leans his weight forward, his elbows resting on his knees.
‘First of all,’ Pūriri says evenly, ‘I want you both to know that most missing persons turn up of their own accord after a day or two. More often than not, they don’t even realise people are looking for them. And in this case, since the person involved isn’t a minor, there’s no reason to presume she’s at serious risk. We’ll take Mrs Creighton’s details, make out a report, see if anyone has seen her. Have you checked all the places she’s likely to have gone? What about her work? Perhaps she’s turned up there?’
‘She doesn’t work,’ Adam cuts in from where he is perched on the window ledge, his back to the street.
‘Tiff does the books for the car yard,’ Dad corrects him.
‘What about friends, family members? Have you checked with them?’
Dad rubs his chin. ‘We called some last night, but we could call them all again. Make sure we haven’t missed anyone.’
‘Anyone out of town she might have gone to visit?’
This time Adam answers, ‘No, but you know what, Dad, she might’ve dropped in to see Grandpa. I could call the rest home.’
‘Good thinking, son.’
‘It would be a big help if you could make a list of the places Mrs Creighton goes regularly, places where people would recognise her, and give them a call too. Like the gym or her favourite coffee shop. Someone might remember seeing her recently,’ Constable Gordon suggests. Adam notices her voice is smooth and calm, completely at odds with her hair.
‘Mr Creighton, when you reported your wife missing, you said she left the house on foot. Is that correct?’
‘Yes. She told Adam she was ducking out to get some milk. There was no point taking the car because the dairy is just up the road. Tiff usually walks there for little things she’s forgotten like bread and stuff.’
‘Well, since she left the house on foot, it seems unlikely she’s been in an accident, but we’ll contact hospital admissions, see if she’s been admitted overnight,’ Pūriri says. Taking a small notebook and an even smaller pencil stub from his breast pocket, he flips over the first few pages and makes a note, using his thigh to press against.
‘Should we go out and look for her?’ Adam asks.
‘It’d probably be best if someone stays home,’ Constable Gordon advises. ‘At least for today. Mrs Creighton might call to let you know where she is.’
Pūriri clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but is there any family trouble? Anything she might have been upset about?’
Dad sits upright. ‘No, of course not. Why would you suggest that?’
‘Oh, sometimes if they’re a bit down about something, people can go off by themselves for a bit of breathing space. It happens quite a lot, actually. And because they’re depressed or upset, they forget that other people might be worried.’
‘Well, there’s been no trouble here,’ Dad says. He looks at Adam and raises his eyebrows. ‘Adam?’
Adam shakes his head, shrugs. ‘No, she seemed fine to me.’
‘Okay, good. We have to ask.’
‘Sure.’
They complete the paperwork, filling in Mum’s details: height, weight, physical description and a list of medications. Dad goes upstairs to dig out a photo while Adam tells the officers what Mum had been wearing yesterday and what she’d said before leaving.
‘We’ll drop in to the dairy and talk to the proprietor on our way back to the station,’ Pūriri says, tucking his notebook back in his breast pocket as he stands up to leave. ‘Determine whether or not Mrs Creighton did pop in before they closed up.’
When he closes the door quietly behind Detective Pūriri and Constable Gordon, it’s just after ten o’clock in the morning on the longest day of Adam’s life.