At the Door

Emma had considered sending a letter instead of arriving in person. In the end she had telephoned first and asked whether James would speak to her. He had not agreed to an interview, but he had said she could come by for five minutes if she was prepared to hear the answer no. On the journey she had read her original article twice, forcing herself to look at every unsupported implication rather than only the sentences she could defend.

She had brought a notebook and no camera. The absence of a camera did not make her visit harmless; James would still have to decide whether speaking to her was worth the risk of seeing his family's grief turned into another story.

James Morrison answered the door without opening it fully. From somewhere behind him came the sound of a kettle clicking off. Emma recognised him from an old photograph, although the years had changed the shape of his face. He was no longer the exhausted young man who had stood outside his parents' house asking reporters to leave them alone. He looked tired in a quieter, more permanent way.

"I know who you are," he said.

Emma had rehearsed an introduction on the train. She abandoned it. "I wrote an article about Claire that I couldn't properly support. I'm sorry."

"You said she had left because of an argument."

"I suggested it. I should not have."

"The headline didn't suggest anything."

He was right. Emma had brought a printout of the article, with the headline circled. She did not take it from her bag.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me," she said. "I'm trying to correct the record. I won't quote you unless you agree."

James looked past her towards the street. "The last time someone said that, I read my own words in a Sunday paper."

Emma stepped back from the doorway. "Then I can leave. If you want to talk later, you have my number."

She had reached the gate when he called her name.

"Five minutes. In the kitchen. No recording."

The kitchen was bright and ordinary, with a child's drawing held to the fridge by a magnet. James moved it aside to take down a telephone number written on a shopping list. Emma looked away. His family had not volunteered to become part of her investigation.

"What do you actually want?" he asked.

"To understand what was wrong with the story I published, and what I can establish about Claire's disappearance."

"You want to find her."

"I don't know if she's alive. And I don't believe finding an address would automatically give me the right to publish it."

James studied her for a long time. "That's a better answer than you gave fifteen years ago."