The Hour Before Dawn. Sara MacDonald

       TWELVE

      The name Montrose was niggling at James Mohktar as he drove home that night. It registered with him, seemed somehow familiar. It is an English name, he told himself, and you are bound to have heard it before. Yet as he lay beside his wife and listened to her even breathing in the dark, intuition told him it was important, this nebulous something he could not recall.

      He said to his inspector the next day, ‘Have you heard the name Montrose before?’

      Inspector Chan pursed his lips and thought about it. ‘No. Should I have done?’

      ‘I don’t know. Something I can’t remember. Annoying.’

      The phone rang and Chan picked it up. The day had started. Mohktar walked down the corridor to his office. He opened up his computer and then thought, How long ago did this missing woman live here? Twenty-eight years? Long before we were computerised. He would need to get someone to check the archives, find out how far back files were transferred onto disc and then search through old cases concerning Europeans or service personnel to see if that name came up. He got up again and went to find constables Ahmed and Singh.

      Detective Sergeant Mohktar had given the hotel permission to move Fleur’s belongings to our room. Her room was then cleaned and hoovered for the next guests; all trace of Fleur was extinguished.

      I woke before Jack and got up quietly so I did not disturb him. I bent over the small pool of my mother’s belongings. Two Chinese blouses beautifully folded, one red and one green. A length of batik. Presents for me? I opened the small overnight case again. Just her book, washing things, nightdress and underclothes. A white shirt, summer skirt and sandals.

      Fleur only had her handbag with her. No change of clothes and nothing to sleep in. Fear caught at me once more in the silent room. Fleur had so obviously meant to return to the hotel because she would never have gone anywhere without clean underclothes.

      Jack woke and sat up, fighting to get his bearings. He saw me sitting on the floor among Fleur’s belongings.

      ‘Come here.’ He held his arms open. I went over to him and he wrapped his arms around me. ‘Don’t think the worst. Don’t give up hope. I was thinking: do you think your mother might have had a sudden reaction to being back in Singapore? Do you think coming back triggered something unresolved? Could she be wandering about the city not knowing what she is doing?’

      I sat up. ‘It’s possible. That could be it, Jack. She might still return here to the hotel.’

      The phone rang. It was DS Mohktar. He asked me if I was rested. He would like to see me in an hour if that was convenient. He had witness statements from other guests in the hotel that he would like to go through with me. They had circulated Fleur’s photograph to all city patrols and they were hopeful that something positive would come from this.

      Mohktar caught up with us in the breakfast lounge. Apparently an old couple Fleur had made conversation with had reappeared from three days in Kuala Lumpur. They had been on the same flight from Heathrow and also on the airport bus. They had talked briefly to Fleur in the hotel lift the night they arrived. She told them she was going out for an hour or so. They remembered distinctly because they told her to be careful, a woman on her own, and she had replied that Singapore was one of the safest places she knew. They had not seen her at breakfast the following day, but the honeymoon couple, now in Penang, had, although they had not spoken to her.

      The waiter on this eighth-floor breakfast lounge had served her coffee and croissants and one of the porters had seen her go out that morning by the main entrance, cheerful and seeming fine. She had asked him the way to the Botanical Gardens. One of Mohktar’s constables was down in the gardens now, making inquiries with the staff.