4
Sarah was running late. It was today that Detective Constable Lee Coutts was interviewing Erdem Sadiq, the grass who said he had information on Tania’s disappearance. Sarah had stayed late in the office to brief Lee before he left for the prison, but Lee – late twenties, glossy-haired and shiny-suited – hadn’t given the impression of being particularly interested in what she had to say. Still, the boss had said he was a good officer. Perhaps she hadn’t needed to interfere.
She dumped the job car in a residents’ bay and ran up the stairs to the flat. The safety chain was on and a man peered at her through the narrow gap between door and frame. Sarah saw stubbly wide grey cheeks, big ears, hair in his nostrils, pale blue eyes. She showed her warrant card and gave the code.
‘Lotus Cortina.’
The man unhinged the safety chain. He was short and dumpy, dressed in dark trousers with braces and a white buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A little behind him stood a loafing, loose-limbed, white bloke wearing a blue beanie hat from which curls escaped – Ewan, Robert’s social worker, Sarah assumed.
‘Welcome to my home,’ Robert said grandly, welcoming her in with a sweeping gesture.
Ewan smiled at Sarah to go ahead and they stepped inside, Robert shuffling behind them into the living space. The room carried a sour smell of bristles and old wool cloth and Palmolive soap.
All around the room, on shelves and in cabinets, in boxes piled up neatly on the floor, were hundreds of toy vehicles – lorries, sports cars, pick-ups, ambulances, mobile homes, fire engines, police cars, several car transporters, a bomb disposal van, camper vans, three snow ploughs, lined up side by side.
Sarah walked over to a collection of liveried police cars: Austins, a Mini Cooper van, a Daimler, a Ford Granada and a Capri.
‘Can I pick one up, Robert?’
‘Yes.’
She picked up a BMW with white livery, a red stripe along the middle panel and a T bar on the roof. It had the satisfying weight and detail of the old die-cast metal toys.
Robert said, ‘That’s a BMW E28 528i from 1987. Hampshire Constabulary were using them.’
Ewan was standing behind Robert and he shook his head vigorously. Clearly it wasn’t easy to stop Robert once he got started. It made Sarah smile in spite of herself. She put the miniature BMW back on its shelf and said, ‘Actually, Robert, I’m here to talk about Tania.’
Robert’s hands dropped to his sides. He looked like an old soldier repeating rank and number.
‘They asked me all about it on the day. I only saw Tania when she came into the hut to change into her skirt.’
Sarah had read the transcripts of the interviews. Robert had been adamant. He’d been in the park all day but he’d seen Tania only briefly, first thing in the morning when she’d asked to use his hut. The problem was that the interviewers had seen him only as a suspect. All they’d been interested in was breaking down his account and getting a charge. They hadn’t asked the other questions, the questions that might have led somewhere unknown.
‘Robert, can I sit down?’
He nodded. She took her place on the hard settee.
‘Do you want to sit too?’
He sat next to her. She noticed his shoes – black orthopaedic-type lace-ups, polished to a shine. Ewan moved over to the kitchenette. He began filling the kettle.
‘Do you remember that morning, Robert? The day that Tania went missing?’
‘Yes.’
She tried to prompt him into fluidity. ‘There’d been a storm.’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about Tania.’
‘She asked to change.’
‘How was she? Was she in a good mood?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t remember.’
It was even harder than Sarah had thought it would be to get Robert to talk. She wasn’t sure whether that was down to memory or reluctance. She said, ‘Did your mum tell you not to talk about it?’
Robert nodded.
‘I wish your mum was here. I would say sorry to her for what happened.’
‘Mum’s dead.’
‘I know, Robert. I’m sorry.’
‘’Sall right.’
There was a pause. Then Sarah said, ‘I’m not trying to trick you. I don’t think you hurt Tania. I think you were her friend. I know it upsets you to talk about it, but you see, you are very important. You might remember some little detail that would help me to find her. Her mum is still waiting for her to come home. I’m sure you want us to find out what happened.’
Robert scratched his nose. He looked across at Ewan, who was still standing at the sink. Ewan nodded. ‘If you can help, Robert, I think you should.’
Robert looked down at his feet and lifted his shiny toecaps a couple of times. Then he spoke.
‘It was the morning. All those trees, fallen down. Tania run up. She was excited, in a hurry. Said could she use my hut to change.’
‘OK.’
‘I waited outside. She come out of the hut in a skirt. I said did she want a cup of tea but she said no thank you and ran off. I went into the hut. Her jeans were on the floor. She’d left them there. The legs were pulled out the wrong way. I put them right, folded them. I was going to give them back to her.’
‘You didn’t see her again?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Tell me about the rest of the day. Did you stay in the park?’
Sarah let him talk.
He had been worried about the trees. There were branches everywhere, some hanging off. Dangerous. He had taken his big shears and his stepladder. It was hard work – climbing the stepladder with no one to steady it. Children whose schools were closed were playing.
Sarah imagined the busy park in 1987. Even though she had lived through it, the past still had a patina, almost as if it were a pastiche: big haircuts, the police in tunics, the Berlin Wall still standing. It was hard to believe in the reality of it all now, the real desires and actions, the fact that it had once had been the present, with outcomes that could have been different.
Robert had made himself tea, eaten his sandwiches. He’d walked the park, all its little side paths, its hidden places. He’d talked to the dog walkers, the mothers waiting by the swings. To help with conversation his mother had taught him the names of the flowers in the beds: yellow potentilla, white phlox, busy Lizzies in such bright colours he could not bear to be near them. His favourite thing was to stand by the main road and watch the cars.
There was nothing in Robert’s account that suggested to Sarah anything other than a lively park on the day after the storm. It was a small area and even if there had been a place, a quiet corner, where something could have happened, surely it wouldn’t have been possible to get a body out without a disturbance or someone seeing something? The following day the park had been thoroughly searched and there’d been an appeal for witnesses, but no one had come forward.
Sarah said, ‘You had a photo of Tania in your hut.’
‘Still got it.’
‘I thought the police seized it.’
‘The reverend made them give it back.’
‘Is it here?’
He shuffled over to a chest of drawers. He found it easily. The image had the broad white frame of a Polaroid and was in a bad condition. The colours were dissolving, getting closer to each other in hue. The image itself was limned over as if by a grey wash. Still, beneath this veneer the trace of a younger Robert remained, a huge smile on his face and his arm around Tania.
‘What a lovely picture. You’re both smiling. You liked each other.’
Robert looked down towards his shoes.
‘Who took the picture, Robert?’
‘No one.’
‘There must have been someone behind the camera. Who was that?’
‘Tania took it.’
‘How could she take it? She’s in it.’
‘She had one of those things. I don’t know what they call it. Makes a sound.’
‘She had a camera with a timer?’
Robert shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
They took a break. Ewan made everyone more tea, handed out chocolate digestives.
‘Let’s go back,’ Sarah said. ‘Right back to the beginning of your friendship. How did you first come to speak to Tania?’
‘I heard shouting.’
‘Shouting?’
‘Yes. I was worried. I hurried over. They were arguing.’
‘Who was arguing?’
‘Tania and a man.’
‘When was that?’
‘It was a sunny day. The park didn’t have so many people in it.’
‘OK.’
‘Tania was in her school uniform and the man saw me and he stepped back from her.’
‘What did he look like, the man?’
‘Tall.’
‘How tall?’
Robert shook his head. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Taller than you?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Taller than Ewan?’
Robert smiled broadly. ‘No!’
Sarah hid her disappointment. There was nothing distinctive about the man’s height.
‘Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Black, white?’
‘White.’
‘How old?’
‘Older than Tania.’
‘What you’d call an adult, a grown-up?’
‘Yes, a grown-up.’
A white male adult, possibly a bit taller than average height, possibly not. Great.
They were arguing the first time Robert saw them, but when he had appeared around the hedge, they had stopped. The man had said, ‘Oh bloody hell,’ and stepped back from Tania.
‘How was Tania, Robert?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Was she happy, sad, calm, angry?’
‘She was crying.’
‘Crying?’
‘Yes. But she stopped when she saw me. She said, “It’s all right.”’
After that Robert had become friends with Tania. Sometimes she stopped and talked to him in his hut or paused with him in the evening light. He had seen Tania and the man together from time to time.
‘Why did you never tell the police this?’
‘They never asked.’
‘Is that the only reason?’
Robert looked across at Ewan, who nodded encouragement.
‘Tania told me never to tell anyone. She was my friend.’
‘OK. So you saw Tania walking home through the park with this man?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘It was always after he dropped her off.’
‘Oh, he dropped her off?’
‘At the far side of the park. Sometimes he would stay with her in the park for a bit, but she would always walk home on her own.’
‘He had a car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you remember it?’
‘Of course. It was a green Series III XJ6 Jaguar.’
Sarah pulled into the parade ground at Hendon and called her new boss. She hadn’t been updated yet on what information Lee had gleaned from his visit to Erdem Sadiq at HMP Thameside.
‘Let’s have coffee in the canteen,’ Fedden said. ‘I’ll come down to you. I’m the fat guy in the blue suit.’
The white sky was slowly losing its brilliance and the parade ground was emptying of cars. Most people’s working day was either already over or ending. Sarah pushed the seat back and waited, thinking about this meeting and how much she wanted it to go well. Some senior officers had elusive reputations, but Fedden was not one of them. As soon as she’d got her posting, a sense of him had arrived quickly at her door. ‘Fedden?’ they’d said, smiling at her and narrowing their eyes as if not convinced this was a good idea. Been in the job forever. Likes a result. Bit of a hard nut. He had a famous turn, apparently: singing ‘It’s Not Unusual’ at boozy work dos. He had a nickname too, of course: the Bulldozer.
She wondered what Fedden had heard about her and what her nickname was.
He was exiting the murder block – Sarah recognized him easily enough from his own description. She got out of the car and he waddled towards her across the parade ground.
She offered her hand. ‘James.’
His hand was small, with short stubby fingers. ‘Everyone calls me Jim, please.’
They began to move towards the canteen, Sarah checking her pace to accommodate the DCI’s breathlessness.
‘Good holiday?’ she asked.
‘You’ve heard the joke? Once in a lifetime. I’m never bloody doing that again.’ He wheezed when he laughed and showed small gappy teeth in a wide mouth. ‘No, it was great, but I don’t know what’s wrong with Chipping Norton for a wedding. Damn sight cheaper, too.’
The canteen was virtually deserted, but a group of specialist search officers were queuing in front of the only available counter. It offered sugar food – coffees, paninis, chocolate brownies and flapjacks wrapped in cellophane. Fedden and Sarah stood slightly back.
‘So, our informant gave us a suspect,’ Fedden said, rubbing his hands together.
Upbeat, Sarah thought, that was the ticket: men like Fedden liked enthusiasm. ‘That’s good.’
The lady who was serving – grey-haired, tidy and patiently conformist in her neat blue uniform – glanced at Sarah and smiled. ‘What can I get you, dear?’
‘An espresso, please. What will you have, Jim?’
He pulled out his warrant card. ‘It’s on me. My usual, love. I’m having a flapjack. They’re really good, you should try one. Give us two, please.’
They moved towards an unoccupied table by a window that looked out over the parade ground. The silver birches that were part of the police memorial glowed like white bones in the fading light.
Fedden threw his capacious jacket over the back of a chair. ‘So this Erdem Sadiq chap says he knows who did it: Andrew Walker.’ He unwrapped the flapjack on his plate and took a bite. ‘I’m the last person to believe a grass, but I have to admit, the intel on Walker is good. Registered sex offender, so there’s evidence he may have these tendencies. Lived locally to Tania Mills in 1987.’
‘How did Sadiq say he got the information?’
‘They were cellmates. Walker told Sadiq he did it when they were sharing wank fantasies.’
‘That’ll be interesting if Sadiq has to give evidence in court.’
Fedden threw his head back and laughed. ‘Can you imagine the cross-examination?’
Sarah said, ‘“So Mr Sadiq, you were masturbating . . .”’
Fedden snorted with laughter. He controlled himself, wiped his forehead with a paper napkin. ‘Anyway, we’ve got enough to nick Walker. I’ve tasked Lee to get a Section 8 warrant.’
‘Sorry, I’ve missed all this. Lee hasn’t sworn it already?’
She wished immediately that she’d phrased that differently. The boss clearly wished she had too: there was a pulse of movement as his jaw tensed momentarily. Then he smiled.
‘He has. This afternoon . . . I’d have talked it through with you, but you were out on inquiries.’ He finished the flapjack and slugged some coffee. ‘I’m very keen to put the bad guys away . . .’
‘Me too.’
‘Great! Let’s crack on.’
‘But you said yourself, we’ve got to be sceptical. Sadiq’s got his own reasons for talking to us. He’s got previous for sexual assault on a thirteen-year-old and he’s up for sharing extreme images of children. Without a letter from us for the judge, he’s looking at a long sentence . . .’
‘Yes, but he’s not just made this stuff up. Walker lived in the area at the right time. How did Sadiq know that?’
‘I agree, the information’s definitely worth following up. But I’d prefer the softly softly approach. We need to do more research. Perhaps we could just delay the warrant?’
‘You know these guys, they always keep stuff, trophies. If Walker hears we’re sniffing around, he’s going to destroy anything he’s got. We’ll execute the warrant tomorrow. Lee’s organized a search team. Walker’s a continuing threat to women.’
It crossed Sarah’s mind that perhaps threat to women was what Fedden thought she wanted to hear.
He was still talking. ‘Lee can assist in interview . . .’
Sarah felt a sudden splash of heat across her neck and face. She had just caught sight of DC Steve Bradshaw entering the canteen, car keys in hand, with a bunch of other male detectives. He still had that reassuring look about him: the worn brown paper-bag face, the unassuming clothes, the soft brown shoes. The boss had seen him too, because he raised his hand in enthusiastic greeting. It was only as he turned towards them that Steve clocked Sarah. It came to her in a rush – as undoubtedly it had to him – how she’d thought of him as a friend and how all along he had been silently disagreeing with her. At the end of the Portland Tower investigation, he’d told her he’d joined the job to put the proper bad guys away, and that as far as he was concerned PC Lizzie Griffiths – young and inexperienced – just didn’t pass muster. That was before he’d told Sarah to get a dog.
Steve was shaking Fedden’s hand. ‘Boss.’ Then he nodded to her – ‘Sarah’ – and she nodded back. ‘Steve.’
Fedden said, ‘You two know each other?’
It was clear this was a good thing. Steve said, ‘We were at the DSI together.’
‘And you’ve both had enough of that! Bloody understandable. Impossible job. I saw they’ve issued a press release about that Portland Tower job.’
Sarah and Steve briefly caught each other’s eye. Sarah had known this news was coming, but it still caught her off guard. Steve tossed his car keys and glanced towards the men he had come in with, all now seated around a far table. ‘Anyway, sorry, I’ve got to go . . .’
‘That’s all right, quite understand.’
Steve turned to Sarah with a nod. ‘Sarah.’
‘Nice to bump into you, Steve. Just one thing.’
‘Yes?’
She smiled. ‘I took your advice.’
He tilted his head. ‘What advice was that?’
‘I got a dog.’
Briefly there was a little frown between his eyebrows, but it quickly dissipated. A smile passed uncertainly across his eyes. ‘Oh. Good. What sort of dog is it?’
Sarah smiled. ‘A spaniel. Daisy.’
Fedden looked between them, confused.
Steve lingered for a moment, as if on the edge of saying something. Then he glanced at Fedden and threw his keys again. ‘Well, gotta go. Catch you later.’
There was a pause as he walked away. Fedden said, ‘Bloody good detective.’
‘He is, yes.’
Fedden nodded towards the untouched flapjack on Sarah’s plate. ‘You not eating that?’
‘No.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Be my guest.’ She pushed the plate over. ‘If I may . . .’
He was chewing, and only nodded in reply.
‘The Tania Mills job. I need to develop some background on the victim.’
He swallowed. ‘I’d like to help but I can’t give you what I haven’t got.’
‘Just one officer –’
‘I’ve got three jobs going to court. I’ve just lost two seconded to child protection. One DC off with stress. We’re catching a murder every on-call nowadays. Honestly, we’re strained enough with live jobs.’
‘The moment we put Walker’s door in, this is a live job.’
Fedden leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie. He slipped it over his head and placed it on the table.
‘Look, do an appeal for information on Walker. Ask for witnesses, anyone who knew him. That might dig up a bit more background, find any links to Tania.’
‘I’m worried about that. He’s a sex offender.’
‘So what?’
‘We’d be putting him on offer.’
‘Would we? Why should anyone know where he’s living? In any case, we’re only interested in what he was up to then. If you’re really worried, use a photo from the time and don’t name him. You know: Anyone who has memories of this man . . . We can justify it. As I said, he’s a threat to women.’
When Sarah didn’t answer Fedden wiped his forehead with the paper napkin. ‘You’re still not happy?’
She tried to conceal any discomfort that might be leaking onto her face. ‘No, it’s OK.’
Fedden rubbed his pink bottom lip with his index finger. ‘Sarah. I have to tell you that you came here with a rep for being a bit difficult.’
Her skin was prickling. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I do my best to run a happy ship. Everyone’s welcome aboard but I’m the bloody captain.’
Sarah mustered a smile and a salute. ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’
Fedden leaned back, folded his arms across his chest. ‘No flapjack and you’re not drinking your coffee. What’s bloody wrong with you?’
‘I’ve got a coffee machine in the office. I’ve got something I need to do before I go off.’
He nodded and softened. ‘I like a grafter. I’ve heard good things about you too, Sarah.’
‘Glad to hear that.’
He started to move his chair back to stand. ‘So, are we done?’
‘If you could give me just one officer for a couple of days, even.’
‘Fuck. You’re like a bloody dog at a bone!’
‘One of my best qualities.’
In spite of himself, he laughed. ‘OK, bloody hell. Let me run something past you. There’s a girl in the office, works . . . what are we supposed to call it nowadays? Oh yes, reduced hours. Part-time, anyway.’
Sarah knew exactly who he was suggesting. She’d heard the rumours: lazy, unmotivated, not a proper cop.
‘It’s not Elaine, is it?’
‘You’ve heard about her, then?’
She shrugged innocently.
‘They didn’t call her Fat Elaine, did they?’
‘They did. You’re not selling her to me.’
‘Well, I’m fat, so don’t hold that against her. You can have her right now, with no other commitments, straight off the bat. How about it?’
‘The fact that you’re offering her to me lock, stock and barrel after all you’ve said about having no one available suggests you don’t think she’ll be much of a loss to the team’s strength.’
‘Oh come on. Give her a few days to see if she can prove the team wrong. If she’s useless, I promise to think of someone else.’
‘But then at least you’ll have the evidence to get rid of her.’
He opened his hands and shrugged. ‘Only if she’s not up to it.’
Someone had left an Evening Standard on top of one of the bins in the stairwell of the murder block. Sarah scooped it up and made her way up the stairs and along the corridor. The daylight had dimmed, and as she walked, she triggered the movement cells and the fluorescent lights flickered on. She popped her head into the incident room. Elaine was sitting alone at her terminal, inputting data. She looked up and Sarah said, ‘Can you join me as soon as you’ve got a moment?’
She put a capsule into her coffee maker.
The newspaper was folded at the relevant page and Sarah read the headline.
FEMALE POLICE CONSTABLE CLEARED OVER PORTLAND TOWER DEATHS
The Independent Police Complaints Commission has today asked for a review into whether body-worn cameras should be made compulsory for all police officers. The policing watchdog made the recommendation after announcing that PC Lizzie Griffiths, who was present at the deaths of PC Hadley Matthews and a teenage girl, Farah Mehenni, will face no disciplinary action.
PC Matthews and Miss Mehenni both fell from a London high-rise . . .
Sarah skipped to the end, the obligatory quotes, the inevitable dissatisfaction.
Younes Mehenni, the father of the dead girl, said he was bitter about the investigation. In a statement issued through his solicitor he said, ‘This isn’t justice. The British police have protected each other and covered up evidence of their corruption.’
But a spokesman for the Police Federation said, ‘Following the tragic events at Portland Tower, both a criminal and police investigation have shown no evidence of wrongdoing on the part of PC Lizzie Griffiths or her commanding officer at the time, Inspector Kieran Shaw. At the hearing Professor Millar gave evidence that Lizzie Griffiths has suffered severe Post Traumatic Stress as a result of witnessing the tragic deaths of her colleague PC Hadley Matthews and Farah Mehenni. She asks to now be left in peace to continue her career.’
Sarah folded the newspaper shut. So that was that. Due process had run its course. She had no reason to reproach herself. Work: that was the thing.
She sat and scanned through her notes from the interview with Robert McCarthy.
At first it was difficult, and then, suddenly, she had lost herself in the new investigation, reaching out to Tania, imagining her running to Robert’s hut in the park and changing into her skirt in such a hurry that she left her jeans behind on the floor.
Her thoughts turned to the man in the park, the man Robert had said Tania used to meet. He was impossible to trace on description: white, older than Tania, indeterminately tall. But he had driven a green Series III XJ6 Jaguar.
She googled it: saw a long sedan with alloy wheels, a sloping bonnet and chrome grille. It was a car that managed to be simultaneously both flash and conservative. The car of a man who had been doing OK and was pleased for people to know it.
She picked up the phone and rang the intelligence task force.
A high-pitched estuarial female voice at the end of the line told her that Series III XJ6 Jaguars had had a production run of 400,732 vehicles. ‘Stand by . . .’ After a pause, she explained exactly what that meant. ‘That’s the population of Stoke-on-Trent, or Oxford and Swindon combined.’
‘Did you look that statistic up specially, or did you know it already?’
‘Don’t be snarky. Just don’t want you to expect us to work miracles.’
There was a pause. Then the woman relented. ‘You got anything to narrow it down? Any sort of VRM, even partial?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It’s historic data. You’d have to go to the DVLA, but there’ll be lots of green ones.’
‘British racing green?
‘That’s right. They all loved it.’
‘OK, thanks for your help.’
‘Not a problem.’
Poor Tania. An older man with a low-slung Jag in British racing green – a cliché that couldn’t easily be traced. Perhaps Andrew Walker had had a Jag – but that would be just too lucky. She couldn’t even hope for that sort of luck.
Jag Man then: it seemed that Tania had had secrets. If she was dead – as she probably was – then perhaps it had been those secrets that had killed her.
Sarah certainly didn’t blame her. What fifteen-year-old doesn’t harbour secrets? She remembered her own teenage years, how she would notice some of the girls in particular, crave their company, find herself drawn to them. How she would try to hide her feelings.
She’d gone on a few dates with boys. Seen Robocop with one who had sneaked his arm around her and tried to kiss her on the mouth. She remembered other awkward fumblings at teenage parties: a boy undoing her bra, a clinch in the back of a car. It had felt – how could she phrase it – not quite right, unmotivated, like being on a geography field trip in an uninteresting country where you don’t really like the food.
Girls had been different, the opposite in fact. She had revelled secretly in their sweet beauty, their brand-new breasts in their school shirts, the charm of their strong calves when they played hockey on the sports fields, the neat V of their legs.
Then there had been Jessie Adams, a school friend: awkwardly thin, clever. She smoked cigarettes behind the bus stop, drove a car before anyone else and gave the other drivers the finger. Jessie: chaotic, wild, sleeping with too many boys. Adorable Jessie. Sarah watched her slyly, helped her out with her homework, covered her tracks for her when she bunked off school, tried to ingratiate herself without Jessie noticing how hard she was trying.
One summer’s afternoon, they climbed a tree together and spread themselves out on its broad boughs. Jessie talked about her father’s small-town affairs, her mother’s depression. Sarah, lying on the horse chestnut’s generous limb, watched the light filtering through the leaves in flickering splodges, settling and moving over the fine blonde hair on Jessie’s legs and arms. Jessie could have talked about shopping lists or the bus timetable: Sarah would have been happy. She had been in a half-dream of heat; her hand running down the ladder of Jessie’s ribs was no more than a gesture away . . .
A tap at the door and Elaine stepped into the room. ‘You needed to talk to me?’
Sarah slipped her chair back, rubbed her hand across her face. ‘Can I get you a coffee? I’ve got my own machine. It’s good.’
‘I’m all right, thanks. What’s this about?’
Sarah thought of all the things she could say but discounted them. There was no way to proceed other than factually, without emotion.
‘I need some help with Operation Egremont.’
A suspicious look flickered across Elaine’s face. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘I need to trace a person of interest. I want you to contact the victim’s school friends—’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not free for your inquiries. I work in the incident room.’
Sarah took a breath, but she couldn’t stop herself.
‘You are a police officer, a detective. The Met has provided you with specialist training. The boss has released you to work on Egremont. Is that a problem?’
Elaine knew she couldn’t refuse. Her eyes moved shrewdly across Sarah’s face. ‘I haven’t got a problem with working on Egremont . . .’
‘OK.’
‘But can you tell me, will this be outside my rostered hours? I have a negotiated shift pattern. I have family responsibilities. My husband’s in the job too. I have to work around him.’
Sarah sighed. It was so bloody tiresome!
‘How does your shift pattern work?’
‘I do short days, five days a week. I work this late turn to cover my husband’s early turn. No weekends.’
No weekends?
‘Does that suit you?’
‘No. Short days are shit. It was the best I could get.’
‘I wouldn’t be complaining out loud. It’s a lot better than I have.’
Elaine pursed her lips: not impressed.
‘I’m not even going to get into this. You can think what you like.’ She shut her mouth so hard that her jaw stiffened. Clearly she intended to stop but couldn’t. ‘And don’t expect me to feel sorry for you either. If you choose not to fight for a life outside the job, then that’s your decision.’ She looked at Sarah coldly. ‘In any case, mostly I find that the people who stay working late on their own haven’t got much to go home to.’
Sarah felt her face go stiff at Elaine’s rudeness. She tried to ignore the anger that was coursing through her.
‘Over the next week, organize your own shift pattern. I don’t care how you do it but I need you to do the work. Have as much overtime as you need. But I need to see results if you do incur.
Elaine started to get up, but Sarah began to speak again and she sat back down, a lifeless simulacrum of obedience.
‘I’ll email you a summary of actions before I go out. Main thing I want you to do is to talk to Tania’s friends about any possible boyfriends and to try and trace a man in a green Jaguar. Tania had a best friend, Katherine Herringham. She had arranged to meet her the morning she disappeared. She’d be the first person to speak to.’
Elaine left a silence before she spoke. ‘Are we done then?’
Sarah nodded. ‘Yes, we’re done.’
The door shut. Sarah closed her eyes. She was pleased to be alone. She was awash with feelings. Ashamed too at how she had spoken to Elaine using the brutal language of command. It had been retaliatory, of course. Only now was she allowing what Elaine had said to her to sink in. People who stay working late on their own haven’t got much to go home to. It was true. She wasn’t in any hurry to get home. The only responsibility she had was Daisy, and she was with the dog walker.
The Evening Standard was still open on the desk. Sarah reached into her bag and found the piece of paper on which Caroline had scribbled her number in the mini market. She dialled impulsively. The call was answered quickly and immediately Sarah regretted making it. She spoke in a rush.
‘Hi, yes, sorry to bother you. It’s Sarah here . . .’
The voice was throaty, playful. ‘Sarah?’
‘Detective Inspector Sarah Collins. I worked on—’
There was that teasing again. ‘Yes, I know who you are! I didn’t know you’d become an inspector.’
‘I just wanted to say . . . Look, you’ve probably seen the news now. No disciplinary . . .’
‘Yes, I saw it.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you yesterday. But I couldn’t. I hope you understand.’
There was a pause before Caroline spoke. ‘You sound more upset than me.’
‘No!’ That had come out too loud. Sarah toned it down. ‘No, no, not at all, I’m not. It’s just that . . . I know how much you cared about Farah and that you’d hoped, maybe, for a different result.’
‘Look, why don’t we meet? We could talk about it properly. We could get together, eat something. How about it?’
‘No. That is to say, I’d love to. But I can’t. It’s not really a good idea to socialize with witnesses.’
And that was a true thing to say, and reasonable. They ended the conversation.