Close to Home (DI Adam Fawley #1)(36)

‘They all have different good luck symbols on them,’ continues Kate. ‘Can you see, Daisy? There’s a moon and a key and a flower and a dolphin.’

Daisy is silent a moment. Then, ‘Are they really magic, Miss Madigan? Can they really keep bad things away at night?’

Kate’s face is serious. ‘Some people think so. Where I come from, lots of the older people still believe in things like that.’

Daisy is still looking at the silver trinkets. ‘I wish it was real,’ she says wistfully. ‘I’d like to get a charm like that.’ She looks up at Kate Madigan, and then across at her brother. A group of older boys are pointing at a badly chipped carving of a lion in one of the cases and gesticulating at Leo, laughing and sticking their fingers in their mouths.

‘Nuka the puker! Nuka the puker!’

Daisy’s voice drops to a whisper. ‘I’d get one for Leo too.’

*

When Everett first transferred to Oxford she had the choice of a two-up two-down Victorian cottage off the Botley Road that needed a lot of work or a refurbed flat above a dry cleaner’s in Summertown. The flat won out, but only after she’d made sure it had a fire escape with access down to the street. It wasn’t for her, it was for the cat. Not that her large lazy tabby uses it much. When she closes the door behind her at 9.15 that night, Hector is on his usual armchair, blinking at her in the sudden light. She throws her uniform cap on the settee and sits down, scratching Hector absent-mindedly behind the ears. He looks a lot like Portia Dawson’s cat. And that in turn reminds her of what’s been nagging at her ever since she left the Masons’ house.

Portia.

She’d wondered briefly, at the school, why Portia, alone of Daisy’s friends, had been so upset her parents had to keep her at home, and now that idle curiosity has snapped into sharp relief. Everyone said they were best friends – the teachers, Sharon, Portia herself. But not Leo. Not Leo. And what did Fawley call him? – a ‘watching sort of a kid’. Could he have seen something no one else did? What if they’ve been missing something all along? She thinks of that last CCTV footage of Daisy and replays it in her mind. Daisy and Nanxi were talking, but Portia was hanging back, and as far as she can remember, Portia was still standing there, watching, when Daisy followed Leo towards Canal Manor. If they were best friends, you wouldn’t think anything of it. But what if they weren’t? What if Portia actually disliked Daisy – how would you interpret that scene then? Everett picks up her mobile and calls Gislingham.

‘Sorry it’s so late. I just had a quick question about the footage from the school.’

She can hear the TV in the background and Janet asking who’s on the phone.

‘Sorry, Ev – can’t hear for Corrie. OK, I’m in the kitchen now. Shoot – what is it?’

‘When you were looking at the CCTV to see if any of the boys followed Leo, do you remember noticing Portia Dawson? Do you remember what she did after Daisy and Leo disappeared out of view?’

‘Phew, now you’re asking. I’m pretty sure she went off the same way a few minutes later, but don’t quote me on that. Why, is it important?’

Everett takes a deep breath. ‘I think it could be. I need to call Baxter and ask him to check. Because if you’re right – if Portia really did follow Daisy that day – she wasn’t going home. The Dawsons’ house is in the opposite direction.’

*

‘Well, Mr Mason, we really must stop meeting like this.’ It’s cheap, I know, but irresistible.

He’s in Interview Room One. No comfy chairs here, and spare me the Spanish Inquisition jokes because I’ve heard them all before. Paintwork some dead colour you wouldn’t paint a khazi and windows so high you can’t see out. And in the middle, four plastic chairs and one of those black tables with a wooden edge that I swear they only make for police stations. The architecture of intimidation, Anna Phillips called it. Personally, I’m wary of attributing anything like intelligent design to the criminal justice system, but even if it’s accidental, I can’t deny it works. Just one more element of the same attrition creep. Kettle, nettle, unsettle. Barry Mason, though, seems determined not to let the dismal surroundings get to him. It’s probably all that time he spends on half-finished building sites. I haven’t had a great experience with builders, but you’ve probably gathered that.

Quinn closes the door behind us. The air is rancid with the sweat of lies. Barry smells of beer and cheap aftershave. I’m not sure which is worse.

‘So, Mr Mason,’ I begin, ‘now we all know where we stand, perhaps you could tell us where you really were on Tuesday afternoon. Because it clearly wasn’t Watlington, was it?’

‘All right, I wasn’t there. But I wasn’t in Oxford killing my daughter either.’

I raise my eyebrows, mock-shocked. ‘Who said anything about killing your daughter? Did you, DS Quinn?’

‘Not me, boss.’

‘I know what you’re thinking. I’m not stupid,’ says Mason, turning away.

‘So tell us where you actually were. From 3.30, say.’

He shoots me a look, then starts to chew the side of his thumbnail. ‘In Witney. In a bar. Waiting for some tart who didn’t turn up.’

I smile in what I hope is a particularly irritating manner. ‘Must have got a better offer, eh? Can’t say I’m surprised. You’re not much of a catch. Big mortgage, two kids. Oh, but I forgot, you tell them you don’t actually have any kids, don’t you?’