Where the Bodies are Buried by Christopher Brookmyre, Brookmyre

relatives. Nobody else had wind that anything was wrong, which
     meant the onus was on her to raise the alarm.
    It had originally been her intention to sleep on it and go to the police in the morning if there were no developments, but
     she knew she wouldn’t be sleeping on it so much as lying awake all night worrying on it. Having spent all day doing just that,
     she needed the assurance that some kind of process was under way. She was also impatiently aware of police statistics dictating
     the importance of the first twenty-four hours after someone had gone missing, with the likelihood of success dwindling rapidly
     after that period had been breached. Or was that to do with solving murders? She couldn’t remember, but either way, she felt
     it was imperative she act fast.
    Besides, it wasn’t less than twelve hours in reality: only twelve hourssince she’d noticed. A check of that day’s
Evening Times
back page matched none of those on Jim’s hall carpet. He hadn’t been home since Thursday.
    ‘I understand,’ she pleaded. ‘His front door hasn’t been kicked in or anything, but I really feel very strongly that something
     is wrong. He didn’t show up to a very important meeting today. He is a very meticulous and conscientious person. He wouldn’t
     just drop off the map like this, I promise you.’
    The officer on the front desk had been quietly spoken and reassuring, showing her to a small room just off the station’s main
     reception area, where he offered her a cup of tea while she waited. She declined, then wished she hadn’t, as it would have
     passed the short but fretful period before his colleague, Sergeant Collins, showed up. For some reason she had expected a
     plain-clothes detective, though that was an expectation coloured largely by optimism. When she saw the uniform, she was a
     little disappointed, but unsurprised. It immediately gave her the feeling of being processed, among a hundred other miscellaneous
     and trivial issues this man would deal with over the course of his shift tonight.
    ‘Miss Sharp, I appreciate that you are worried for your uncle, and I am well aware of how distressing that can be. You’re
     not the first person to be sat in front of me saying the same thing. But that is also why we can’t take any action right now.
     I understand that this is uncharacteristic for your uncle, but that in itself doesn’t constitute grounds to suspect a crime.’
    ‘I don’t care whether there’s a crime involved. I just need some help because I think something must have happened to him.
     Why would he not show up to work? He had a meeting that was crucial to his business. He’s not been home in days, his phone
     is just diverting …’
    Sergeant Collins nodded patiently, waiting for her to let it all out. He really had heard this a hundred times before.
    ‘It’s difficult to accept, but it’s a hard fact that sometimes people
do
uncharacteristic things. They most frequently go missing simply because they don’t want to be found.’
    ‘But he would have no reas—’
    ‘And those closest to them,’ he interrupted this time, ‘have had no idea, no inkling about the reasons that were leading up
     to it. It can be money, it can be to do with relationships, but from a police point of view, unless some law has been broken
     in the process, they have a right to do just that.’
    Jasmine could feel her eyes tearing up as she ran out of reasons to throw at Sergeant Collins’ polite implacability.
    ‘It’s very early days, Miss Sharp,’ he assured her. ‘I’m sure you’ve thought yourself that there could be a simple explanation
     and it’ll all be resolved in a couple of days, even a couple of hours.’
    ‘But what if it’s not?’ she demanded, her voice close to breaking.
    ‘Well, when people are trying to find someone and it’s not appropriate for the police to get involved, they often consider
     going to a private investigator, though that can be expensive.’
    This