Close to Home (DI Adam Fawley #1)(71)

‘Like I said to the other officer, he was in that bright yellow plastic they wear – ’

‘High-viz clothing?’

‘Yes, that’s right. A jacket and a hard hat, and even a face mask, you know, those white ones they use for sanding? The chap who took the Artex off our bathroom ceiling had one just like it. I should have realized, shouldn’t I, that it was a bit odd – I should have called you before. I’m just so worried it might have made a difference – you don’t think so, do you – ?’

‘Can you describe him? Height, weight?’

‘Well, just average, really. He was bending over behind the skip, so I couldn’t see very much.’

‘OK, do you remember anything about what he put in the skip – anything at all?’

‘I’m afraid I wasn’t really concentrating, Officer. Phoebe – that’s our chihuahua – she was barking because she doesn’t really like being in the car, and Elspeth was trying to quieten her down, and some horrible youth had just made a rude gesture at me on my way back from the cleaners because I tooted him when he walked across the road when the lights were on green. I don’t think that’s fair, do you? I had every right to be there – ’

‘The skip, Miss Brookes?’

She considers a moment. ‘Well, all I can say is that whatever it was, he could hold it easily in one hand, so it wasn’t that heavy. And it was wrapped in something. I’m sure of that. Not a plastic bag, though. It didn’t reflect the light. I definitely remember noticing that.’

And so, from decided contempt, Quinn ends up in grudging admiration. And all the more so when a few minutes later one of the forensics team calls him over and lifts something from the skip. Something light enough to lift in one hand and tightly wrapped in sheets of newspaper.

*

When I get to the John Rad, it’s almost dark. I spend ten minutes driving round in circles looking for the right department, and another ten finding somewhere to park. Inside, the corridors are deserted, apart from the odd weary nurse and cleaners pushing trolleys of mops and buckets. Up on the second floor, a motherly woman at the nurses’ station asks me if I’m a relative.

‘No, but I have this.’

She looks at my warrant card and then warily at me. ‘Is there some sort of problem we don’t know about, Inspector?’

‘No, nothing like that. The father – Mr Gislingham – works for me. I just wanted to see how Janet is.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she says, reassured. ‘Well, we won’t know for certain for a while, I’m afraid. She had severe abdominal pains and some bleeding earlier today, so we’re keeping her in.’

‘Could she lose the baby?’

‘We hope not,’ she says, but her face belies her words. At Janet’s age, the odds probably aren’t good. ‘We just don’t know yet. At this stage, there isn’t much we can do but keep her comfortable and trust Nature to right itself. Do you want to see Mr Gislingham for a moment? You did make all this effort to get here.’

I hesitate. I haven’t been in a maternity ward since Jake was born. We have a video of the birth – his tight little face hollering for his first air, his tiny fists opening and closing, and that tuft of dark hair he never lost even though they all told us he would. I’ve hidden the tape in the loft. I can’t bear the happiness. Its unbearable fragility.

The nurse is eyeing me, her face full of concern. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Sorry. I’m just tired. I really don’t want to disturb them.’

‘Last time I looked, your colleague was asleep in the chair. But let’s have a quick peek. He may be glad of a friendly face.’

I follow her down the corridor, trying not to see the cots, the dazed new dads. Janet’s in a room on her own. When I look through the glass panel in the door the curtains are drawn and she’s asleep, one hand curled round her belly and the blanket balled up in the other. Gislingham is on the chair at the end of the bed, his head thrown back. He looks dreadful, his face grey and shrunk in shadows.

‘I won’t disturb him. That’s not going to do any good.’

She smiles kindly. ‘OK, Inspector.’ She pats me on the arm. ‘I’ll make sure to tell him you were here.’

She chose the right profession – she’s just the person you’d want around you if you’d just had a child. Or if you’d lost one.

*

16 April 2016, 10.25 a.m.





94 days before the disappearance


Shopping parade, Summertown, Oxford

Azeem Rahija is sitting in his car outside the bank. On the opposite side of the road, the Starbucks is busy with Saturday shoppers. Azeem can see Jamie at one of the tables. He has a cup in front of him and a canvas bag at his feet. He’s drumming his fingers on the table and he keeps looking up at the door.

Azeem lights a cigarette and winds down the car window. Across the road, a man pushes open the coffee-shop door. Mid-forties. Tight jeans, a leather jacket. He’s talking on a mobile phone and gesturing a lot as he speaks. Two women at the corner table clock him as he goes past and he squares his shoulders a little. Jamie stares fixedly at him until he finishes the call and sits down, slinging the jacket over the back of the chair.

Azeem has no idea what they’re saying but it’s obvious it’s not going well. The man keeps shaking his head. It looks like Jamie is asking him why. Then there’s a long moment when neither of them says anything. The man gets up and points at the cup in front of Jamie. Jamie shakes his head. The man shrugs then turns and goes up to the counter to join the queue for coffee. He stops on the way to talk to the women at the corner table.