“Victor, forgive me,” she said, her voice calm but somehow unfamiliar. “I couldn’t do it any other way.”
“You’re mad, Emily!” Victor slammed a set of keys onto the table, and they clattered against the ceramic biscuit tin. “Margaret would never do this! She’d have called!”
“That’s what I’m telling you!” Emily Wilson jumped up from the sofa, her grey hair escaping from under her scarf. “She went to the chemist’s last night to get your blood pressure pills and never came back! I haven’t slept a wink—called every hospital, even filed a missing person report!”
Victor sank into his favourite armchair, rubbing his face with his hands. His sister-in-law had always been high-strung, but now she looked worse—eyes red from sleeplessness, hands trembling.
“Emily, calm down. Maybe she stopped by a friend’s? Like last month when Susan’s grandson was ill, and Margaret stayed the night?”
“I’ve called everyone!” Emily sniffled. “Susan, Nina from the next building, even Laura from work. No one’s seen her! Victor, she never just vanishes!”
It was true. Margaret, Victor’s sister, lived a predictable life. Breakfast at seven, work at the local GP’s surgery where she’d been a nurse for twenty years, groceries, dinner, telly. Weekends were for cleaning, laundry, and the occasional tea with Emily to gossip about the neighbours.
“Did you ask at the chemist’s?” Victor stood and walked to the window. Children played outside, and the sight felt wrong. How could they laugh when Margaret was missing?
“Of course! The pharmacist, Kate, said she saw her around eight. Margaret bought your pills and something for a cough. After that…” Emily spread her hands helplessly. “After that, no one saw her.”
Victor remembered last night—dinner alone because Margaret had said she’d nip to the chemist’s. She’d worn her blue raincoat, the one from last year’s sale, grabbed her handbag and keys.
“Won’t be long, Vic,” she’d called from the hall. “Keep an eye on the stew so it doesn’t burn.”
Those were her last words in that house.
He’d waited until nine, then ten. Turned off the stew himself, ate a cold supper, watched the news. By half ten, he’d grown uneasy but assumed she’d met a friend and lost track of time. It happened rarely, but it happened.
Then, this morning, Emily had called.
“Vic, did Margaret stay at yours last night?” she’d asked, voice tight.
“What? She lives with me.”
“But she never came home! Bed untouched, handbag still here. I thought maybe she’d stopped by yours late and stayed over…”
That was when Victor knew something was wrong.
“Listen, Em, maybe she… met someone?” he ventured. “She’s only forty-seven. Still young.”
Emily scoffed. “Oh, please! After that divorce from Geoffrey, she wouldn’t give men the time of day. I’ve begged her for years—go to the community centre dances, meet someone decent. But no, always ‘too busy, too tired.’”
“People don’t just disappear!” Victor felt dread coil in his chest. “Something must’ve happened.”
“Exactly! What if she was robbed? Attacked? Remember last month when that girl from flat eight had her bag snatched?”
“Then she’d be in hospital or at the police station. You said you’ve called everywhere.”
“I have! And you know what they told me? That adults can go where they please! That a missing person report takes three days! Three days, Vic! What if—”
Emily didn’t finish, but Victor understood. They were both thinking the worst.
The doorbell rang. Emily rushed to answer, hope flitting across her face.
“Margaret?” she called, fumbling with the lock.
Mrs. Harris from downstairs stood there, a shopping bag in hand.
“Emily, love, what’s happened? Heard you crying last night—and now these raised voices…”
“Margaret’s missing,” Emily said flatly. “Went out last night and never came back.”
Mrs. Harris gasped, setting her bag down. “Oh, good heavens! I saw her yesterday! Around half seven—coming down the stairs as I was going up. Said ‘hello,’ she said she was off to the chemist’s.”
“That’s it? Nothing else?”
“Well…” Mrs. Harris frowned. “She seemed… different. Not sad, not happy, just… like she’d made up her mind about something. You know how people look when they’ve decided something important?”
Victor and Emily exchanged glances. What could Margaret have decided? She was never impulsive—weighed every choice thrice over.
“Maybe something at work?” Mrs. Harris suggested. “Heard the surgery might be cutting staff.”
Emily shook her head. “Margaret’s been there twenty years—she’d be the last they’d let go. Besides, she was training that new nurse, Sarah. Said the girl was bright but impatient—wanted everything at once. Margaret told her, ‘Life’s long, you’ll get there.’”
Now the words sounded bitter.
Mrs. Harris left, promising to ask the neighbours. Victor and Emily stayed behind.
“Let’s check her flat,” Victor said. “Maybe there’s a note, numbers…”
“I searched everywhere!” Emily waved a hand. “No notes, nothing out of place. Everything neat as always.”
But Victor insisted. Margaret’s flat was next door, on the third floor. Emily unlocked it with her spare key—they’d exchanged spares years ago.
The flat was silent, tidy. Shoes lined up in the hall, coat on the rack. African violets bloomed on the windowsill—Margaret’s pride and joy.
“See?” Emily pointed to the desk. “Passport, bank book, even her purse. Only about twenty quid, but still…”
Victor opened a drawer, pulled out Margaret’s address book. Numbers for colleagues, friends—ordinary contacts of an ordinary woman.
“What’s this?” He pointed to a slip of paper tucked under the phonebook.
Emily unfolded it—a travel agency flyer. “The Cotswolds: Historic Villages & Countryside Tours.”
“Since when does she travel?” Emily frowned. “Only ever visited Auntie Rose in Devon.”
“Dunno. But look—there’s writing.”
In the margin, pencilled: “Stow-on-the-Wold—May 15.”
“That’s tomorrow,” Emily whispered. “Vic, you don’t think she…”
“I don’t know what to think,” Victor admitted. “But why wouldn’t she tell anyone?”
In the kitchen, two plates sat on the table—one clean, one with breakfast crumbs. A newspaper lay open to the classifieds.
“She ate here,” Emily said. “Read the paper. Everything normal.”
Victor skimmed the ads—flats, jobs, personals. One was circled in red: “Gentleman, 52, widower, seeks lady for companionship. Values honesty, kindness.”
“Em, look.”
“No. Margaret wouldn’t. She always said she’d rather be alone than settle.”
“Then why circle it?”
“Maybe for someone else? Susan lost her husband last year—maybe for her?”
Victor pocketed the paper. Something was off, but he couldn’t place it.
That evening, he called the travel agency.
“Yes, we have a Cotswolds tour tomorrow,” the agent confirmed. “But it’s fully booked. Last ticket sold last night.”
“Can you say who bought it?”
“Sorry, confidential. Cash payment, though.”
“Did you see a woman, mid-forties, dark hair, blue raincoat?”
“Loads of people yesterday… Why, something wrong?”
Victor hung up.
Next morning, he waited outside the agency. Passengers boarded the coach—no Margaret.
“All aboard?” the guide called.
“One missing,” the clerk said. “Paid but didn’t show.”
“We’ll wait five more minutes.”
Victor approached. “Who didn’t come?”
“A lady,” the clerk shrugged. “Name’s gone. Shame—money’s wasted.”
The coach left without her.
The police finally took a report. The officer, weary-eyed, noted details.
“Relatives elsewhere?”
“Auntie Rose in Devon,” Victor said. “No phone, but we’ve got the address.”
A week passed. No Margaret. At the surgery, Sarah covered her shifts. Emily lost weight; Victor barely slept.
“Maybe she left on purpose,” Emily said one night. “Got tired of it all.”
“Tired of what?”
“Everything! The grind, the loneliness… Maybe she wanted to start fresh?”
Victor wondered the same. Margaret had always been responsible—but what if she’d just had enough?
Two weeks later, the officer called.
“Found your sister. Safe. Living with her aunt in Devon.”
“Living there?”
“Yep. Got a nursing job at the local hospital. Renting a place. Says she’ll call soon
