Close to Home (DI Adam Fawley #1)
Cara Hunter
Prologue
It’s getting dark, and the little girl is cold. It had been such a nice day – the lights and the costumes and the fireworks like a shower of stars. It was magical, just like a fairy tale, but now, everything’s been ruined, everything’s gone wrong. She looks up through the trees and the branches seem to be closing in over her head. But not like Snow White, not like Sleeping Beauty. There’s no prince here, no rescuer on a beautiful white horse. Only a dark sky and monsters in the shadows. She can hear noises in the undergrowth, the rustling of small animals and a heavier movement coming steadily closer, step by step. She wipes her cheek, where tears still linger, and she wishes with all her heart she was like the princess in Brave. She wouldn’t be frightened being in the forest all alone. But Daisy is.
Daisy is very frightened indeed.
* * *
—
‘Daisy?’ says a voice. ‘Where are you?’
More steps, closer now, and the voice is angry. ‘You can’t hide from me. I’m going to find you. You know that, don’t you, Daisy. I’m going to find you.’
I’m going to say this now, before we get started. You won’t like it, but trust me, I’ve done this more times than I care to punish myself remembering. In a case like this – a kid – nine times out of ten it’s someone close to home. Family, friend, neighbour, someone in the community. Don’t forget that. However distraught they look, however unlikely it seems, they know who did it. Perhaps not consciously, and perhaps not yet. But they know.
They know.
*
20 July 2016, 2.05 a.m.
Canal Manor estate, Oxford
They say homebuyers make up their mind about a house within thirty seconds of going inside. Well, take it from me, the average police officer takes less than ten. In fact, most of us have come to judgement long before we’re through the door. Only it’s the people we’re judging, not the property. So when we pull up outside 5 Barge Close, I have a pretty good idea what to expect. It’s what used to be called an ‘Executive Home’. Perhaps still is, for all I know. They have money, these people, but not as much as they’d like, or else they’d have bought a genuine Victorian house and not this reproduction version on a raw new estate the wrong side of the canal. It’s the same red brick, the same bay windows, but the gardens are small and the garages huge – not so much fake as downright forgery.
The uniform posted at the front door tells me the family have already done the obligatory search of the house and garden. You’d be amazed how many times we find kids under beds or in wardrobes. They’re not lost, they’re just hiding. And most of those stories don’t have happy endings either. But it seems that’s not what we’re dealing with here. As the Duty Inspector told me an hour ago when he woke me up, ‘I know we wouldn’t normally call you in this early, but this late at night, a kid that young, it feels all wrong. And the family were having a party so people had started looking for her long before they called us. I decided pissing you off was the least of our worries.’ I’m not, actually. Pissed off, that is. And to be honest, I’d have done the same.
‘Out the back’s a bombsite, I’m afraid, sir,’ says the PC at the door. ‘People must’ve been traipsing up and down all night. Bits of dead firework everywhere. Kids. Can’t see forensics getting sod all out there, sir.’
Great, I think. Effing fantastic.
Gislingham rings the bell and we stand at the door, waiting. He’s shifting nervously from one foot to the other. Doesn’t matter how many times you do it, you never get used to it. And when you do, it’s time to quit. I take a few last gasps of fag and look back round the close. Despite the fact that it’s two in the morning, almost every house is glaring with light, and there are people at several of the upstairs windows. Two patrol cars are parked on the scrubby bike-tracked grass opposite, their lights throbbing, and a couple of tired PCs are trying to keep the rubberneckers at a decent distance. There are half a dozen other officers on doorsteps, talking to the neighbours. Then the front door opens and I swing round.
‘Mrs Mason?’
She’s heavier than I’d expected. Jowls already forming and she can’t be more than, what, mid-thirties? She has a cardigan on over a party dress – a halter-neck leopard-print job in a dull orangey colour that doesn’t go with her hair. She glances down the street and then wraps the cardy tighter about herself. But it’s hardly cold. It touched ninety today.
‘DI Adam Fawley, Mrs Mason. May we come in?’
‘Can you take your shoes off? The carpet’s only just been cleaned.’
I’ve never understood why people buy cream carpet, especially if they have children, but it hardly seems the moment to argue. So we bend over like a couple of schoolkids, undoing our laces. Gislingham flashes me a look: there are hooks by the door labelled with the family’s names, and their shoes are lined up by the mat. By size. And colour. Jesus.
Odd, though, what exposing your feet does to your brain. Padding about in socks makes me feel like an amateur. It’s not a good start.
The sitting room has an archway through to a kitchen with a breakfast bar. There are some women in there, whispering, fussing about the kettle, their party make-up bleak in the unflinching neon light. The family are perched on the edge of a sofa far too big for the space. Barry Mason, Sharon and the boy, Leo. The kid stares at the floor, Sharon stares at me, Barry’s all over the place. He’s got up like the identikit hipster dad – cargo pants, slightly too spiky hair, slightly too garish floral shirt not tucked in – but if the look is landlocked at thirty-five, the dark hair is dyed and I suspect he’s actually a good ten years older than his wife. Who evidently buys the trousers in this house.