Close to Home (DI Adam Fawley #1)(54)

‘Well, we never did have a housewarming, and I know people would like to see the place.’

On the other side of the table, the boy looks up and the girl looks down. Barry picks up his spoon again. ‘Wouldn’t something like that be a lot of work?’

Sharon glances back at him. ‘We could do a barbecue. With salads and sandwiches and jacket potatoes. You’d hardly have to do anything.’

Barry opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. The children exchange glances as their mother starts to chop up more fruit, knifing it with far more effort than appears required by the task.

‘What if it rains?’ Barry says eventually. ‘We couldn’t fit everyone in here.’

‘Fiona Webster says we can borrow their gazebo. And I’m sure Owen wouldn’t mind helping you put it up.’

Barry shrugs. ‘OK, if you’re sure. What d’you think, kids?’

‘It will be great for them,’ says Sharon. ‘A chance to meet some of the children on the close – the ones who don’t go to Bishop Christopher’s.’ She turns back to the juicer and turns it on again. The mixture starts to jump and spin, turning into a greenish mucus that slides stickily down the plastic when she flips off the switch.

‘What time will you be back tonight?’

Barry hesitates. ‘Could be a late one. I’m at a site meeting in Guildford this afternoon. It may run on. What about you, princess?’ he says, turning to his daughter. ‘You get that English test result today, right? Bet it’ll be top marks again. Nothing else is good enough for my special girl.’

Daisy smiles briefly at her father before returning to her cereal. ‘Leo was picked for the football team.’

Barry raises his eyebrows. ‘Is that so? Why didn’t you say so, son?’

Leo shrugs. ‘It’s only the reserves.’

Barry’s face falls. ‘Oh well, just shows you need to try a bit harder. Like I said.’

Sharon is still absorbed in the intricacies of the juicer, which appears reluctant to be dismantled. ‘OK. I’ll leave you something cold for when you get back. Don’t forget, my aerobics is at eight.’

Barry smiles broadly at Daisy. ‘Make sure you bring that test result home so I can see it, eh, Dais?’

Sharon glances round. ‘I do wish you’d use her proper name, Barry. How can we stop her friends calling her that, if they hear her father doing the same?’

Barry reaches across and tousles his daughter’s hair. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Dais?’

‘And remember to give that make-up bag back to Mrs Chen when you see her at school today, Daisy. Tell her thank you, but we can afford to buy our own things.’

‘I’m sure they didn’t mean it that way,’ says Barry. ‘They just had two the same, and thought Dais would like one.’

‘I don’t care. Make-up isn’t appropriate. Not for a girl her age. It just looks common.’

‘Oh, come on, it’s just a bit of fun. You know what girls are like – dressing up and stuff.’

‘I told you, it’s not appropriate. And in any case, we don’t need their charity.’

Barry tries to catch his daughter’s eye but Daisy appears intent on her cereal. Then he pushes back his stool and gets up. ‘Don’t go to too much trouble tonight,’ he says to Sharon. ‘A sandwich will do. Tuna or something.’ He picks up his briefcase and keys, and unhitches his high-viz jacket from the back of a chair. ‘I’m off then. Bye, kids.’

When the kitchen door closes, Daisy puts down her spoon and carefully smooths her hair back down with both hands. Leo edges off his stool and goes up to his mother. ‘Who will you be inviting to the party?’

‘Oh, you know, the neighbours, your classmates,’ she says, pouring the smoothie into a glass.

‘What about that boy Dad knows?’ says Leo.

‘What boy?’ says Sharon distractedly. By the time she has rinsed the juicer and turned back to her children, Leo has gone.

*

The Rahija home is identical to a thousand others in that part of East Oxford. Pebbledashed thirties semi with a bay window at ground and first floor. There’s a garage door at the side with most of the paint peeled off, apart from the abuse someone’s spray-canned across it. Someone who can’t spell ‘paedophile’. One first-floor window is boarded up, and there are six wheelie bins in the front garden, two of them tipped over, with trash and rotting food spilling over the concrete.

I have a team blocking off the alley at the back, and there are a dozen of us at the front. One of them has a battering ram. I nod to him and he hammers on the door.

‘Police, open up!’

There are sounds inside at once – women screaming and a male voice shouting in a language that’s not English. A baby starts to wail.

‘I said Police – open the door or we’ll break it down!’

A minute passes, perhaps two, then there’s a scrabbling noise on the woodwork and the door opens a couple of inches. It’s a woman in a headscarf. She can’t be more than twenty.

‘What do you want? Can’t you leave us alone? We haven’t done anything.’

I step forward. ‘I am Detective Inspector Adam Fawley of Thames Valley CID. We have a warrant to search these premises. Please open the door. It will be much better for everyone if we can carry this out in a civilized manner.’