Close to Home (DI Adam Fawley #1)(49)

‘I heard them screaming,’ he says, tracing his finger on the glass.

Everett jolts alert. ‘Sorry, Leo, what did you say?’

‘I heard them screaming.’

Everett puts the phone down and comes to the window. She forces herself to stand and watch the pigeons for a few moments before saying, ‘Who was screaming, Leo?’

He’s still staring at the birds. ‘It was in the night.’

‘When was this?’

He shrugs. ‘Dunno.’

‘Was it Daisy?’

There’s a long pause, and then he says, ‘It was the birds.’

‘The birds?’

‘On Port Meadow. There are seagulls there. I went once. There are lots of them. They make a really bad noise.’

Everett finds herself breathing again. ‘I see. And they make that noise even in the dark?’

Leo nods. ‘I think they must be unhappy.’

Everett makes to reach for him, hesitates, but then bends quickly down and puts her arms round him.

He turns his face into her shoulder and whispers, ‘It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.’

*

Back at the station, my one consolation is that Barry Mason will be feeling even worse than I do. He certainly smells a whole lot worse, and I wonder for a moment where he was last night. Wherever it was, they clearly don’t run to much by way of complimentary toiletries. His lawyer, by contrast, is as crisp as a new-cut lawn. She reminds me of Anna Phillips, actually. Tall, white shirt, pale grey skirt, matte leather ballerina pumps. I wonder if Mason knew her before, or she’d just drawn the short straw. And straws don’t get much shorter than this. She has no idea of the shit about to come her way.

Quinn takes a seat and puts down his newspaper. He just so happens to have left it turned to the picture of Barry being shunted into the squad car. Quinn is holding the car door open and has his hand on Barry’s head. Classic demeaning demeanour. And quite probably the reason why Barry looks so furious – not to mention about as far from forlorn father as you’re ever likely to get. Quinn looks good though, very suave; I imagine that’s a cut-out-and-keeper. I see the lawyer looking at it and Quinn clocking that she does.

‘Why have you asked to see my client again, Inspector?’ she says as we sit down. ‘This is veering perilously close to harassment. As far as I am aware he has cooperated fully in your inquiries and you have no grounds for suspecting him of any involvement whatsoever in his daughter’s disappearance.’

Barry Mason stares at me. ‘If you put half the effort into finding her as you are persecuting me, you might actually have found Daisy by now. Because she’s out there. Do you hear me? She’s out there somewhere, alone and frightened and wanting her mum and dad, and all you fucking morons can do is try to frame me. I’m her father. I love her.’

I turn to the lawyer. ‘As and when we have an arrest to make in connection with the disappearance of Daisy Mason, we will do so. For the moment, I wish to question your client on another matter.’ I reach for the machine. ‘For the tape, present in the interview, Detective Inspector Adam Fawley, Acting DS Gareth Quinn, Miss Emma Carwood and Mr Barry Mason.’

I open the brown cardboard folder in front of me and take out the birthday card. It’s opened out, in a plastic evidence bag. I show them the front, with the words, and then turn it over and leave it there. I keep my eyes on Emma Carwood and I see a tiny flicker of disgust as her shiny professionalism falters, just for a moment.

‘Have you seen this before, Mr Mason?’

‘Where did you get that?’ he says, wary.

‘For the tape, this is a birthday card made by Daisy Mason for her father. It consists of a number of images cut from magazines and pasted on to the paper. It also makes reference to activities they enjoy together. Including swimming and what she describes as “swinging in his lap” – ’

‘You have got to be fucking kidding me – ’

‘When did she give you this, Mr Mason?’

He makes a face. ‘For my birthday, genius.’

Miss Carwood intervenes. ‘You won’t help yourself by taking that tone, Mr Mason.’

‘Which birthday? This year? Last year?’

‘This year.’

‘So this April. Three months ago.’

He doesn’t answer.

‘This image,’ I say, pointing to the breasts. ‘Where did she get that from – some sort of adult magazine? Are you in the habit of leaving material like that where a child of eight can find it?’

Mason stares at me, then takes the card and looks at it closely through the plastic. ‘I think you’ll find,’ he says eventually, ‘that that picture is from the Sunday Sport. So all right, it’s not very PC, but hardly top-shelf. It’s just a bloody red top. We’re not talking porn here.’

‘Really?’ I say, placing the card to one side. I take out another sheet of paper and put it in front of him.

‘Can you confirm that this is the number of the mobile you use to contact women you meet on the dating site – the phone your wife didn’t know you had?’

He glances at it. ‘Yeah, looks like it. So what? I don’t use it that much.’

‘You did use it, however, on the sixteenth of April this year. This number is logged on the database of the Child Exploitation and Online Protection Centre as having accessed an Azerbaijani website hosting several thousand images of children. And there, Mr Mason, we most certainly are talking porn. Porn of the most depraved and illegal kind.’