The first thing he did when he woke up was check his phone. Half past five. The #findMina hashtag was trending, but there was no news. The original tweet had been retweeted sixty thousand times now. The Facebook page had hundreds of comments and shares. Some of the comments, directed at Mina’s mum, had a nasty edge. ‘Shame on you.’ ‘How could you leave her?’ ‘Unfit mother.’ And worse. People had obviously worked out that she hadn’t been home on Wednesday night, but it was starting to feel like the focus had shifted – they were spending more energy hating on her than looking for Mina.
She’d been missing for two nights now. Every flat had been leafleted. The bin stores and garages had been searched. He wondered if everyone else was thinking the same as him now. If she was just staying out, hiding or something, or if she’d had some sort of accident, she would have been found. Even if she’d run away, she was so little that someone would have noticed her. No, she’d been on her way home and something had happened. Somewhere between the café and her flat.
His bedroom window looked out onto the estate. He sat up, leaned over and pulled back a curtain. It wasn’t raining anymore, but the sky was still heavy and grey. Together with the concrete of the blocks and terraces, it looked like an old photograph or a black and white TV or something.
There were so many windows, rows and ranks of them, in horizontal and vertical lines. Mina could be behind any one of them, taken by someone on this estate or any of the neighbouring ones or the ones beyond those. How do you find one little girl in a city of eight million people? Where do you start? What could he do to help?
The only thing was to open the café like normal, have the posters and flyers on display, spread the word. They opened at six-thirty to catch the early birds, so, after a shower and a bowl of cornflakes, he made his way downstairs. There was no sign of Dad so he started the morning routine without him, getting the chairs down from the tables, restocking the biscuits and crisps, checking the ketchup bottles and salt and vinegar pots. The café was bathed in the sulphurous streetlight coming in from the front – the shutters weren’t down like they usually were. He’d moved into the kitchen to unload the dishwasher when Dad appeared, unshaven and with deep shadows under his eyes.
‘You okay, Dad? Where’d you go last night?’
Dad shot him an aggressive look. ‘Nowhere. I didn’t go out.’
‘I heard the door and the van—’
‘I just moved it. Didn’t want some idiot scraping the side or taking off a wing mirror.’
He grimaced and rubbed the top of his protruding belly with the flat of his hand. Den knew from experience not to argue any further.
‘Dad, are you okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Heartburn. Have you put the float in the till?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Crack on, then, soft lad. It’s nearly opening time. Hey, you do it today.’
He threw a bunch of keys towards Den who instinctively put out his hand and caught them. At the same moment someone starting banging on the door.
‘Open up! Police!’
Den and his dad looked at each other.
‘What the hell is this?’ Dad said. ‘Here, give me those!’
He took the keys back and walked to the front of the café. ‘I’m coming!’ he shouted. It seemed to take an age to undo the locks and bolts. All the time Den was feeling stabs of anxiety in his stomach. Was it really the police? Dad opened the door a fraction. Someone put a shiny boot in the doorway.
‘Anthony Hammond?’
‘Yes.’
‘Open up.’
His boot was forcing the door inwards.
‘Okay, okay.’
He opened the door. There were two officers, both in uniform, both looking deadly serious. One of them was the guy who took the CCTV footage away. Den didn’t recognise the other one.
‘What is it?’ Dad said. ‘Have you found her? Have you found the girl? Why are you—?’
‘We’re here for your son, sir,’ looking past Dad towards Den. ‘Dennis Hammond. We’ve got a few questions.’
Den started to panic. He was suddenly catapulted back a couple of years into a tiny windowless room, smelling his own sweat, seeing the distaste in the interviewers’ eyes.
Dad was standing his ground, blocking their way in. ‘Why are you picking on him?’
‘Please, Mr Hammond, let’s keep this calm. We just want to take him to the station for a few questions.’
‘Ask your questions here! Are you arresting him?’
Nobody could outshout Dad when he got going. Hearing a noise behind him, Den glanced round. Now Mum was in the café, her long plait curled round over the shoulder of her dressing gown.
‘What’s going on? Why are you shouting?’
Dad spun round. ‘Go upstairs, Linda! I’m sorting this!’
‘It might be easier if you just come now, sir,’ the officer said, looking past Dad directly at Den. ‘Let’s get this over with, shall we?’
‘He’s not going anywhere!’ Dad screamed and put his hands on Den’s shoulders.
‘Dad, it’s all right,’ he said, even though he felt the opposite. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ll help them as much as I can and then I’ll come home. Please, go upstairs with Mum, have a cup of tea, then open the café. Carry on as normal. I’ll see you soon, yeah?’
At least he had stopped shouting.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong, Dad. It’s going to be all right.’
Den stepped past him and walked to the waiting patrol car. Dad was still standing in the doorway as he got in. Behind him Den could see his mum’s face crumple as she started to cry.