Close to Home (DI Adam Fawley #1)(27)

‘Well, I suppose it’s possible. The room isn’t locked during the day. But why on earth would anyone want it?’ She looks really distressed now. ‘I don’t understand – it’s only a fairy story.’

Everett doesn’t understand either. But it’s nagging at her all the same.

*

Find Daisy Mason Facebook Page

We’ve decided to put this page together so we can all share any info about Daisy and perhaps help find her. So show your support by adding a daisy to your avatar, both here on FB and on Twitter, and we’ll try to make a ‘daisy chain’ strong enough to bring our little angel home.

Lorraine Nicholas, Tom Brody, Alice Shelley and 33 others liked this

TOP COMMENTS

John Stoker Let’s get this Daisy Chain linking up. Who knows – someone may even see it and remember something. Wouldn’t it be great if social media could make a positive difference for once, rather than just all that horrible trolling there’s been on Twitter

21 July at 14.32

Jan Potts This is a great idea – and I agree, those Twitter trolls make me sick to my stomach

21 July at 14.39

Find Daisy Mason And remember everyone – call Thames Valley CID if you have any information at all. Even something that might not seem relevant. 01865 0966552

21 July at 14.56

*

The Dawson family live only a mile away from Barge Close, but it’s like another town entirely. Verity Everett pauses on the pavement opposite to get the measure of the place before she knocks on the door. Four storeys, including a lower ground, and even from where she’s standing she can see two of the rooms upstairs are lined with books. The front is weathered red brick and recently renovated stone, and there’s a line of black railings above a low wall and a neatly gravelled drive. The street is lined with trees that must have been planted when the houses were built, more than a century before.

The door is opened by a pretty woman in an apron who explains that she’s only here to clean, and Mrs Dawson is out in the garden. Everett makes her way down a flight of stairs into a huge kitchen running front to back and out into a garden dotted with apple trees. Portia’s mother sees her coming and makes her way up to meet her, a wicker basket over one arm. She’s tall and slender, with thick brown hair in a stylish asymmetrical cut, and a long cream tunic over khaki capri pants. The sort of woman who can make you feel dowdy, even when she’s deadheading the geraniums. Everett doesn’t have an outfit that expensive, even for best.

‘You have a beautiful house, Dr Dawson.’

‘Oh, Eleanor, please. I get enough doctoring at the hospital.’

She’s clearly used that line before, but the smile that goes with it seems genuine.

‘The garden is nice, isn’t it?’ she continues. ‘Though you should have seen it when we moved in. Complete building site. Which is exactly what it was, of course. The whole house had to be gutted. The Victorians might have built to last but these places are like fridges in the winter so we had to strip it back to the brick and start again with proper insulation. I was battling plaster dust for months.’

I rather suspect it was your cleaner who did that, thinks Everett, but she doesn’t voice the thought.

‘Well, it looks lovely now.’

‘That’s very sweet of you. Let’s go down to the summerhouse. Portia’s been there reading. We’re all so distraught about Daisy. Such a beautiful little girl and so bright – I remember her asking me once who Leonardo was. And she wasn’t talking about ninja turtles, either.’

She smiles. ‘Listen to me, rattling on. I should have asked – would you like tea?’

Everett’s about to trot out the usual no, but suddenly decides, to hell with it. ‘Yes, that would be great.’

‘Just let me ask Amélie to put the kettle on and I’ll be with you.’

Her French accent is perfect. And when the tea arrives, there are slices of lemon on a dish and milk in a jug. No cartons for the Dawsons, clearly.

Portia is sitting on a swing seat, a copy of Black Beauty on the chair beside her, and a large tabby cat on her lap. It doesn’t look like she’s been doing much reading. She’d looked sturdy on the CCTV but she doesn’t look so now. There are dark circles under her eyes and Everett guesses she hasn’t been eating much.

‘This is Detective Constable Everett, darling,’ says Eleanor Dawson, setting down the tray. ‘You remember? She wants to ask you about Daisy.’

‘Is that all right with you, Portia? It won’t take very long.’

‘It’s OK,’ says the girl, stroking the cat, which blinks its amber eyes for a moment before settling again with a sigh.

‘We’ve had a look at the footage from the CCTV outside the school gate, and it shows that you and Nanxi were probably the last people who saw Daisy before she left for home that day. Is that right?’

‘I think so.’

‘Were you all looking forward to the party?’

‘I wasn’t going.’

‘Really, why not? I thought all her class were invited. And you’re her best friends.’

Portia blushes. ‘Daisy forgot to tell us which day it was, and by the time she remembered Mum already had something else that day. Nanxi couldn’t go either.’

And if both her closest friends were absent, thinks Everett, that may explain why none of the children at the party seem to have noticed Daisy wasn’t there.