Close to Home (DI Adam Fawley #1)(90)

1 February at 10.22

Liz Kingston I hope that now we’ve had a verdict Daisy can finally rest in peace and we won’t keep seeing all those stupid stories of people claiming they’ve spotted her. I saw three people doing that on Twitter only last week.

1 February at 10.23

Polly Maguire I saw some of those too. One of them was convinced they’d seen her at Liverpool Docks, only it turned out it was a child with short red hair. Someone else claimed they’d seen her in Dubai and another one somewhere in the Far East. Honestly, people can be so thoughtless. It doesn’t help poor Leo, having all these horrible rumours floating around.

1 February at 10.24

Abigail Ward I agree, and I just wanted to say that the best memorial for Daisy would be to donate to the NSPCC. Violence against children has to stop. You can pledge money here.

1 February at 10.26

Will Haines I agree, or a charity helping kids with FAS. I’ve worked with these children and they need so much support. If that’s really what Leo is struggling with, I just hope he gets the love he needs.

1 February at 10.34

Find Daisy Mason Great ideas – fitting tribute to two sweet innocent kids.

1 February at 10.56

Judy Bray I went past that level crossing on the train last week, and there were heaps and heaps of flowers. People had left pots of daisies. It was very touching. Some people in my carriage were in tears.

1 February at 10.59

*

Two days after the verdict, we have a day of sudden sunshine. A day in sharp frost-etched focus, beautiful in a way the soft edges of summer can never be. White wisps of mare’s-tail cloud are racing across an impossibly huge blue sky. I buy a sandwich and wander over to the recreation ground. A swarm of little boys are running about after a ball, and there’s a very elderly married couple sitting companionably on a bench on the far side. Funny how old men start looking like old women, and old women like old men. As if the differences of gender lose sway, and even relevance, as we near our common end. I don’t hear Everett approaching until she’s standing next to me. She holds out a coffee.

‘Do you mind company?’

I do, actually, but I smile and say, ‘Of course not. Have a seat.’

She sits hunched against the cold, her gloved hands curled round her cup.

‘I just got a call from Gislingham,’ she says. ‘They’re hoping they can take Billy home soon. The doctors are really pleased with how well he’s doing.’

‘That’s great news. I’ll drop him a line.’

There’s a silence.

‘Do you really think she did it?’ she says eventually.

So that’s it.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I do.’

‘You don’t think she was convicted for the wrong reasons? I mean, because people hated them, and because of Twitter and all that abuse, rather than because of the evidence?’

I shrug. ‘There’s no way of knowing that. All that matters is we got to the right result, however that happened. But I don’t think there was anything wrong with the evidence. We did a good job – you did a good job.’

She looks at me a moment, and then away, across the park. A couple of seagulls swoop down low over the playground and one of the toddlers starts crying.

‘There was one thing that kept bugging me.’

I take a sip of the coffee and breathe out a gust of hot sweet air. ‘What was that?’

‘Those gloves. The ones she dumped in the skip. They were wrapped in pages from the Guardian.’

‘So? What of it?’

‘When we were interviewing her, she just kept on and on – “we don’t read the Guardian, we read the Daily Mail”. She wouldn’t let up.’

I smile, but not unkindly. This is coming from conscience, and that’s something worth nourishing in this job. ‘I don’t think that means anything, Everett. She could have found a copy, bought a copy. It could even have been in the skip already. These cases always have loose ends – they’ll drive you mad, if you let them. So don’t let it worry you. We got the right person. And in any case, who else could it have been?’

She looks at me for a moment, then drops her eyes. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

We sit in silence a while and then she gets to her feet and smiles down at me, says ‘Thanks, boss,’ before making her way back to the station. Slowly at first, but as I watch, her pace quickens. By the time she’s going up the steps she is herself again, brisk and poised and objective.

As for me, I get stiffly to my feet and make my way to the car and head out towards the ring road. Five miles the other side, I take a right off Kidlington High Street and pull up outside a small yellow pebble-dashed bungalow. There are tubs of snowdrops either side of the door and brightly coloured dog toys strewn over the front garden. The woman who answers my ring is in her forties. She’s wearing a big Aran jumper and a pair of sweatpants, and she has a tea towel in one hand. I can hear an old eighties pop song on the radio in the background. When she sees me she smiles broadly. ‘Inspector – how nice. I had no idea you were coming.’

‘I’m sorry, Jean, I was just passing and I thought – ’

But she’s already waving me in. ‘Don’t stand out there in the cold. Have you come to see Gary?’

‘It’s not official – I just wanted to see how he’s doing. And please, call me Adam.’