It wasn’t unusual to have blue lights and sirens round the estate. When he was a kid there had been community coppers and Den had known them by name. Dad would call them in for vandalism or antisocial behaviour in the car park outside the shop. They’d often stop by for a bacon sandwich and a cuppa – Dad offered an unofficial discount to anyone in uniform. ‘It’s like protection, innit? Keep the people who matter on your side.’ Den didn’t recognise the officer who came in just after six, though, and walked straight up to the till.
‘Evening, mate,’ he said. ‘We’re looking for a missing girl. Have you seen her?’ He held his phone out. The little girl in the photograph was only just recognisable. The photo, cropped and blown up, had obviously been a bit blurry to start with. And the girl’s hair was down instead of tied back. But it was still Mina, and the pang of concern that had been gnawing away at Den’s stomach since Mrs C had been in got sharper.
‘I haven’t seen her today,’ he said.
‘Do you recognise her?’
‘Yes, she comes in here sometimes. I’d know if I’d seen her. She definitely hasn’t been in today.’ The staccato laugh at the end of his sentence – there, whether he wanted it or not.
‘How about yesterday?’
‘No. I don’t think so. Maybe.’
Dad came bustling out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘What’s going on? Another stabbing, is it? I blame the parents. These fucking kids need a bit of discipline. It’s like the Wild West out there.’
‘No, Dad, it’s the girl Mrs C was looking for earlier. You’ll know her.’ Den tipped his head at the copper, who took the hint and held his phone out across the counter towards Dad, who grew quiet as he studied the photograph.
‘There are so many kids in and out of here, mate. I’m in the back most of the time. I don’t know about this one, but that’s a bad do, for a child to go missing. Have you got posters we can put up? We need to get people looking.’
‘We haven’t got posters yet, but we will have if this goes on tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? Tomorrow might be too late! We need to get this out there now!’ Dad had come out from behind the counter. He was gesticulating wildly, invading the copper’s personal space.
‘Dad! It’s okay. They know what they’re doing, right? It’s their job.’
‘To be honest, sir, social media is the place to start these days. The force will be tweeting about it. We’ll send this picture to all the news sites. It goes straight to people’s phones. That’s what everyone uses these days.’
Dad shook his head. ‘Social media! People need to get off their phones and start looking in the garages and sheds and anywhere else. We need a search party! People can meet here if you like.’
‘Trust me, sir, we have this in hand. We’ll be doing house-to-house inquiries. If you think she might have been here yesterday, what time would that have been?’ He was talking to Den now and Dad stopped his grandstanding for a moment and looked at his son.
‘I don’t know. I can’t be sure. It might have been the day before. She sometimes comes in on her way home from school. It would have been around half past three.’
‘Do you have CCTV?’ He was scanning around now. Dad told him that there was one camera in the café and one outside. ‘Okay. I’ve got to get along this row of shops, but either myself or someone else will be back to look at the footage. I’ve noted it all down. Someone will be back.’ He checked his phone and frowned. ‘Hang on. I’m being told that you’re holding a pink hair scrunchie here? It was found on the floor?’
Den felt his face flush, like he’d been caught out. ‘Yes, it’s behind the till. Here—’ He laughed again, an automatic defence mechanism.
The scrunchie was drier but still grubby from the floor and now he noticed there was a dark hair caught up on it. He felt almost weak at the sight. It could be Mina’s – this could be the last trace of her. Irrationally he wanted to keep it, but of course he handed it over, dropping it into the plastic bag the officer held open.
‘And where exactly did you find it?’
He pointed to the spot on the floor, next to where Mrs C’s chair had been. ‘It was this afternoon.’
The officer sealed the bag, put it in his pocket and with a quick, ‘Cheers, mate,’ turned to leave. Dad saw him out, then stood in the open doorway watching him go.
‘It’s a bad business,’ he said. ‘Bad for the estate. Bad for us, maybe.’
‘How could it be bad for us?’
He tapped the side of his head. ‘Use your loaf, boy! What if she did come in here yesterday? What if that is her hair thing? What if you were the last person to see her? How many cop shows have you watched on TV? The last person to see her is the prime suspect! We don’t want people poking around into our lives – your life – do we?’
Dad’s words stirred the anxiety that was already swirling in the pit of Den’s stomach. His guts twisted with the sort of low pain that made him want to run to the toilet. ‘That’s TV, Dad, not real life,’ he said, trying to ignore his body. ‘If she’s on our CCTV it will help them narrow it down. Shall I look through the footage?’
‘No, no. I’ll do it. You stay out here.’
‘But you just said you didn’t recognise her. At least I know who I’m looking for.’
There was no arguing with Dad when he was like that. Logic didn’t come into it. Den watched him march back into the kitchen and through into the tiny office behind. Then he got out his phone, went onto Twitter and searched ‘missing girl, Fincham’. There was an official post from the Metropolitan Police, with the same grainy photo attached. It had already been retweeted seventy-five times. Den retweeted it himself and then took a screenshot of the photo and studied it.
Mina was smiling. When she was in the café after school, she was quiet, reserved, serious. It was nice to think of her more carefree like this. Except that the smile in the photograph bothered him. When you looked, it didn’t reach her eyes. The reserve was still there, the wariness. Was that really the best photo her family could come up with? What sort of life did she have?
He looked away from her face at the rest of the photo. It was cropped quite close, but it looked like it had been taken in a café. He could see the chairback and the edge of a plate. He held the screen closer. It was their chair, their plate. The photo had been taken here.