Close to Home (DI Adam Fawley #1)(9)
‘Sorry, Alex, I have to go.’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry. I’ll call you later. I promise.’
*
19 July 2016, 3.30 p.m.
The day of the disappearance
Bishop Christopher’s Primary School, Oxford
The bell is ringing for home time and children are streaming noisily out of their classrooms into the sunshine and the overheated cars their parents have waiting at the gate. Some run, some skip, one or two straggle, and some of the older kids gather in groups, talking and sharing things on their iPhones. Two of the teachers stand on the steps watching them go.
‘Nearly the end of term, thank God,’ says the older of the two as she scoops up a trailing sweatshirt and restores it to its owner. ‘I can hardly wait – this one seems to have been more than usually exhausting.’
The woman next to her smiles ruefully. ‘Tell me about it.’ Some of her own class are filing past now, and one of the girls stops to say goodbye. She’s a little tearful, because her family are going on holiday the following day and her teacher won’t be coming back next term. She likes her teacher.
‘Have a nice time in South Africa, Millie,’ says the woman kindly, touching her lightly on the shoulder. ‘I hope you get to see the baby lions.’
Millie’s classmates catch her up and follow her out. A couple of boys, a tall girl with plaits and one who looks Chinese. And last, in a wild rush, a blonde girl with a pale pink cardigan tied round her shoulders, carrying a Disney Princess bag.
‘Slow down, Daisy,’ calls the teacher as she hurtles down the steps. ‘You don’t want to fall over and hurt yourself.’
‘She’s in high spirits today,’ observes the older woman as they watch the girl run to join the two girls ahead.
‘The family are having a barbecue tonight. I expect she’s just a bit overexcited.’
The older woman makes a face. ‘I wish I was still young enough to get excited about soggy lettuce and over-cooked burgers.’
Her colleague laughs. ‘They’re having fireworks too. You’re never too old for those.’
‘OK, you have me there. I’m still a sucker for the pyrotechnics. Even at my age.’
The two women exchange a smile, then the younger one turns and goes back into the school while the other lingers for a few minutes watching the playground. In the weeks to come this moment will come to haunt her; the little blonde girl, standing in the sunlight at the school gate, talking happily to one of her friends.
*
‘So who the fuck’s been talking to the press?’
10.35. The incident room is hot. The windows are open and someone’s dug an ancient electric fan out of some storeroom or other. It hums as it moves, slowly, left to right, right to left. Some people are perched on desks, others leaning against them. I look at them, slowly, left to right, right to left. Most of them have no problem meeting my eye. One or two look embarrassed. But that’s it. If ten years of interrogation have taught me anything, it’s when at a wall, stop pushing.
‘I gave strict instructions not to make any reference in public either to the tights or what we found on them. And now the family have to hear about it on the bloody news. How do you think that’s going to make them feel? The information came from someone in this room and I fully intend to find out who it was. But I’m not going to waste valuable time doing that now. Not with Daisy Mason still missing.’
I turn back to the whiteboard. There’s a map with coloured pins stuck in it, and a clutch of blurry photos, obviously culled from phones, pinned along a rudimentary timeline. Most of the pictures have names attached; one or two have question marks. And next to them, Daisy herself. It strikes me for the first time, looking at the shots, how like her mother she is. How like and yet how unlike. And then I wonder why I’m so convinced of that, since I’ve never even met her.
‘Where are we with this supposed sighting?’
Someone behind me clears their throat. ‘We’ve got CCTV from every camera within two miles.’
The voice is Gareth Quinn’s. You know the look. Sharp suit and blunt razor. Acting DS, while Jill Murphy’s on maternity leave, and determined to make every minute of it count. I find him irritating, personally, but he’s not stupid and that look of his is useful when you need someone who doesn’t look too much like a copper. It won’t surprise you to learn he gets called ‘GQ’ by the station wags, a name he affects – a little too theatrically – to despise. I hear him come up behind me.
‘The canal is to the east of the estate here,’ he says, ‘so you have to go over one of these two bridges to get out, and neither have cameras. But there is a camera on the Woodstock Road going north here,’ pointing at a red pin, ‘and one here on the ring-road roundabout. If he wanted to get away quickly, he’d have gone that way, rather than south through the city.’
I look at the map, at the expanse of open land stretching to the west: three hundred acres uncultivated for a thousand years, and even in this weather, half underwater. It’s no more than five minutes from the Canal Manor estate, but you’d have to cross the railway line to get there.
‘What about Port Meadow – are there any cameras on the level crossing? I don’t remember ever seeing any.’
Quinn shakes his head. ‘No, and in any case the crossing’s been closed for the last two months while they build a new footbridge and re-lay part of the line. The work’s being done after hours, and there was a whole crew there last night. The old footbridge has been closed off prior to demolition, so no one could have got across to Port Meadow that way.’