Close to Home (DI Adam Fawley #1)(14)
A few yards further on, six or seven conservation volunteers in waders are making their way through ditches half filled with rotting leaves and rubbish chucked by the day boaters. After so many hot days, the water levels are low and the smell is high. They’ve already covered the nature reserve a hundred yards behind. Erica never even knew it was there, despite growing up less than five miles away. But hers wasn’t the sort of school that went in for field trips or nature study days; the teachers had enough on their hands keeping a lid on the chaos. She had no idea there was somewhere so wild so close to the centre of the city. So wild, so overgrown, half flooded and unpathed. She saw three water rats and a family of moor hens and – suddenly – out of nowhere – a rearing, hissing beating of whiteness and wings as a male swan rose up in defence of his hidden young.
But all these hours later, what do they have to show for it? Beyond the backache and the glorified litter pick, nothing. No one saw anything – neither those living on the water, nor those backing on to it, several of whom were having barbecues in their gardens at the time the Masons were having their party. Two or three even remembered the fireworks, but none of them saw a little girl. It’s as if she vanished into thin air.
At 7.25 she gets a call from Baxter.
‘You can knock off. We’re going to get frogmen in tomorrow morning.’
Erica frowns. ‘Really? If it was my budget I wouldn’t bother. The water’s not that deep – not like a river – and with all the boat traffic, the water’s constantly being disturbed. If she was here, we’d have found her by now.’
‘Look, I’m not disagreeing – between you and me I suspect it’s as much for PR as anything. The ACC wants to prove to the world we’re leaving no stone unturned. Hence the bloody helicopter.’
‘The press must be loving that.’
‘Yeah,’ says Baxter. ‘I rather think that’s the idea.’
*
I take my seat for the second press conference exactly twenty-four hours after I did so for the first one. A lot can change in a day. Daisy’s face is all over the internet, and they tell me #FindDaisy is trending on Twitter. It’s now, officially, a Big Story, which means the Super is chairing the proceedings and we’re in the media suite at Kidlington, though even here it’s standing room only for the hacks. There’s a live feed to Sky News and at least a dozen other cameras, and in among them, unobtrusive, Gareth Quinn and Anna Phillips with a digital hand-held. I want to make sure we get all of this, every single frame.
At precisely 10.01 we usher the Mason family on to the dais to the clatter of flashlights. Leo Mason looks green in the glare – for a horrible moment I think he might actually be sick, right there in front of the cameras. As for his father, he immediately pushes his chair back as far as it will go, which is about as obvious a ‘tell’ as I’ve ever seen. I just hope for his sake he never decides to take up poker. When I went round last night to tell them about the appeal he kept asking if it was really necessary, what it would achieve, whether that sort of thing ever works in bringing someone back. Safe to say I’ve never had a parent try to argue me out of publicity for their missing child. And this is his little princess, his adored daughter. And I actually don’t think he’s faking it. Not that part of it, anyway. Which only serves to make it more perplexing. As for Sharon, she hardly said a word the whole time I was there. I kept on talking but I knew she wasn’t taking any of it in. And now, looking at her, I can see what had suddenly become so preoccupying – she was wondering what to wear. Clothes, make-up, jewellery – everything about her is matching, immaculate. She looks like she’s here for a job interview, not to beg for her baby back.
At 10.02, the Super clears his throat and reads from the paper in front of him. We’ve had to be more than usually careful what we say, given what we now know. We can’t afford to lie outright, but we can’t afford to tell the whole truth either.
‘Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen. Mr and Mrs Mason are going to give a short statement about the disappearance of their daughter, Daisy. This is all we will be saying at this conference today. Our priority is to find Daisy safe and well and return her to her family. We do not have any further information we can share with you at present, and neither the family nor DI Fawley will be answering questions. I appreciate your understanding in this matter, and I would ask you to accord the family the privacy they need at this difficult time.’
Flashlights, people shift forward in their chairs. They’re not interested in what the family say – everyone says the same things if a kid is missing – but they do very much want to hear how they say it. They want to gauge what sort of people the Masons are. Do they stand up to the scrutiny? Do they sound convincing? Do we like them? It’s about character and credibility. And, needless to say, that great English obsession, class.
The Super turns to his left, to Barry Mason. Who opens his mouth to say something but then buries his head in his hands and begins to sob. We can just about hear him mumbling something about his ‘little princess’. A word which is really starting to get on my tits. I make a conscious effort to keep my expression impassive, but I’m not sure how well I’m succeeding. As for Leo, his eyes widen and he shoots an anguished glance at his mother, but she’s looking at the cameras, not at him. Under the table, out of sight of everyone but me, he creeps a hand on to her leg, but she does not move, makes no sign.