The Missing

THE MISSING

No publication date as yet - it has gone Missing!

THE IDEA :

'But the almighty Lord hath struck him, and hath delivered him into the hands of a woman, and hath slain him. For their mighty one did not fall by young men, neither did the sons of Titan strike him, nor tall giants oppose themselves to him, but Judith weakened him with the beauty of her face.’ Book of Judith, Ch 16:7-8

THE DUST JACKET :

A corporate lawyer disappears from his family home in Notting Hill Gate. A month later a City banker is missing from his Chiswick home. Their distraught families implore friends, colleagues and police to end the nightmare of their loss.

Rachel Tyler works at the National Missing Persons Helpline. She knows the pain of an absent loved one and makes the connection of the married middle-aged men. Risk expert Matt Harley cleans up after others. He arrives at the City's leading investment bank to see what damage the star banker has left in his wake.

They join forces to follow the intricate web of clues; anonymous emails and edgy web sites; wild parties and secret rendezvous in Germany; inherited London residences and luxury Marbella villas. They race against time to reunite those who are left behind with those who's will to live ebbs away in a foreign land.

THE CHARACTERS :

Rachel Tyler commutes from her Balham flat to her job at the National Missing Persons Helpline in Mortlake. She’s low-paid but recognises her work brings hope to those with missing partners, siblings and relations. Eleven years ago her father walked out of their Croydon home and he hasn't been home since. Most of the missing are runaway children and lonely youths but she sees a new surprising pattern of late. There are married men with great jobs and successful lives who have no reason to suddenly disappear. Her dread-locked boyfriend Webster updates the charities web site but is unconvinced of her suspicions. Then she gets a telephone call to attend the home of another missing husband and father.

Matt Harley leaves his Kensington Church Street bachelor pad in his BMW Z4 open-top, with wraparound sunglasses and R&B music on max, heading out on the Hammersmith flyover on a bank holiday weekend to meet Katarina who’s flying in from a modeling assignment in Milan. Matt works for Geitz Associates & Co. Inc., the leading global corporate security and risk firm. He finds the Missing. Plus the millions they take with them. His reputation as the sharpest hired hand who bills by the hour remains intact. Roll on the next missing money man.

Richard Fenwick arrives to work in the wealth management division of Mitchell Leonberg & Co. Inc in the City but is stunned to learn of another huge overnight corporate collapse in the States. A multi-billion dollar NYSE IT stock is suddenly a worthless shell, having been pillaged for years by a board of directors. Richard's discretionary clients had millions invested in the formerly top-rated stock. He makes the apologetic telephone calls to irate clients. Some seek him in person to seek retribution of sorts. One of his high net worth clients will go much further.

Constanze Scheffler logs onto the world wide web from the safety of an anonymous Easyinternetcafe PC. She reads the active message board where those with names like subzero and city_guy anonymously post their inner thoughts. Sometimes she replies to them privately, enjoying the frustration she causes, wondering whom she can tempt next, maybe dreaming of her next conquest. The unfortunate poolside death of her husband is a distant memory. She has killed twice since then. Both died in the sunken brick cellar of her Marbella villa and are buried beneath her rustic citrus orchard. Both were a challenge of sorts until the very last drops of fatal Rioja passed their parched lips.

'Communidad El Rosario, high in the hills in the south of Spain, where the air is thinner and others never visit without prior agreement. It’s two years ago, towards the end of June, almost the longest day of the year. A married couple sit at a candlelit table on the patio at the rear of their million-euro holiday villa.

She watches closely as he knocks back another glass of finest local Rioja. He slumps and exhales. ‘I’m dead on my feet.’ She wishes. ‘Great meal.’ She doesn’t cook. The maid left them alone three hours ago. He empties another glass. ‘Bloody good wine.‘ The soft light from the cool interior reflects off the inky water of the swimming pool. ‘I’m exhausted. I’m ready for bed.’

It’s a quiet night of a white hot day and the air is still. Their post dinner conversation eases into an ominous silence. Along the distant hilltop road unseen cars struggle up the steep gradient.

The fireflies by the pool rest on plants and trees during the day but they fly between dusk and dawn.

She can survive on only four or five hours of restless sleep each night. ‘How about a swim first?’

He shakes his head. ‘Too much damn sun today. Too much alcohol tonight. I’m finished.’

The two musty bottles of Rioja came from their basement cellar. They imbibed the first with the starters, then opened the second with the blood raw filet. She knows precisely how much he drank tonight because she drank nothing. When he took a leak inside she tossed her red over the grateful parched cacti by the patios edge. She’s on the agua mineral.

‘Why did we buy this hell hole?’ he asks.

‘Because I asked you. I found it. I chose it.’

‘How come you always get what you want?’

The fireflies hover, their strategy for attracting mate and prey alike is to activate luminous glands on the underside of their rear abdominal segments, sending out intermittent signals in the nocturnal sky.

She loosens her cotton wrap and allows it to hang loose. She’s hard-bodied, fit from the exercise bike, oozing confidence and self-assurance. Her breasts are visible, perfectly tanned without any ugly white triangles of pale hidden flesh. She’s been here for two weeks, sunbathing solo and naked on the patio, allowing the unforgiving heat of the Med to invade her moisturised pores.

She spent the time waiting for tonight, planning tonight. ‘Let’s play,’ she offers, running her hands through her long jet-black gathered hair.

He stands up but it’s not a pretty sight. His belly protrudes over the edge of his virginal Bermudas. His shirt is open to the waist because the buttons and holes will no longer connect about his chunky girth. He’s short, fifty-five years old and eighteen years her senior. His hair is grey and is disappearing fast.

He came for a weekend break yet already he’s lobster-red, freckled and blotchy. He’s ugly and it‘s not the sunburn. He’s a founding partner in a leading City of London venture capital firm. He’s worth six million. She wonders what she ever saw in her husband apart from his bulging wallet and his plastic card.

‘I’ll manage a dip in the shallow end,’ he acquiesces.

Females climb a blade of grass, flashing when males flash within feet of the females. Exchanges of signals are repeated several times until mating occurs. Sometimes the female will devour the male.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY :

Nothing as yet!