‘And what’s his name?’ The room is silent. No one even breathes.
‘It’s a Dr S. Klaber.’
Maarten exhales. The blood pounds in his ears.
‘Sir, are you OK?’
His body is sweating, and his fingers type quickly, pressing the letters incorrectly, fumbling: Liv, where are you? He knows eyes are watching him.
The zing of the reply is fast: In town. Meeting Mum and Dad, then heading to carol service. Seb meeting us there. Probably leaving around 11.30pm – late one for girls. We’re hoping you and Imo will make it too?
Fingers damp and sticky, he replies: Don’t go to carols. Come to station.
The faces. Expectant.
‘We need to bring him in. Now.’
‘Yes, but I need to get his address, sir, and there’s no one at the clinic today. I’ve tried. I suppose I can try the medical council.’
Closing his eyes, Maarten feels the room swirl further around him, and says, ‘It’s OK. Dr S. Klaber – I know what the S stands for. It’s Sebastian Klaber. It’s Seb – it’s Imogen Deacon’s husband.’
‘Fuck! Shit… But…’
Maarten scans for Imogen, but she’s not back from her fag break. He looks at the ashen faces before him. Of course they’d never even considered it; not Seb. And yet he’s been hovering. His mind flashes to the night Seb had put his back to the cameras of the press, to shield him and Imogen; only he hadn’t been shielding them, he’d been scared of having his face in the press. Of being recognised. And he’s been around, all the time, asking about the case…
Christ, the stuff they’ve told him… He’d known when they’d finished with the search in the local area. He would have known where it was safe to put her.
The room is motionless, like a collection of statues. He needs to break this moment. But his daughter, planning her party with Becky…
‘Move. Sunny, take one car and Adrika organise the other but you need to check CCTV. We need to act now.’ And like a broken spell, the roar of the sound of movement in the room is deafening.
He thinks about Nic again – his girls – the whole of his calm tips on its head.
The vanished sun, bright with hope that afternoon, is long gone. The shade of night hangs heavy, and pushes them into Christmas Eve with force. The eleventh day, and the proverbial eleventh hour. They must find him.
*
‘Where’s DI Deacon?’ Maarten grabs his coat as he prepares to run down to the car. He needs to get Liv and the girls here. Until he knows they’re all safe – until he can see it, he can’t relax.
‘No idea, sir. Does she know?’ Adrika says.
‘No – we need to put her in a room. She’s got to get out of the way. Have Sunny find her – I don’t care what you tell her, but she goes in a room. Out of the way.’
‘She headed out for a fag and I haven’t heard from her since. I’ve got a team ready. We’re looking at outhouses up from the waterwheel that we think might fit a child in, and there are some sheds, the Roman ruins… We’re going now, to see if any are likely,’ Adrika says. ‘We’ve also sent Forensics to DI Deacon’s address, and a team to Klaber’s clinic.’
‘Right, good. Pull his bank statements too. See if you can find a link to the girls, or the phones he gave them. Shit…’ Too many thoughts in his head. Liv’s not answering her phone – she must have gone to the carol concert anyway and turned her phone off. Is Seb there, sitting next to Liv, unaware of their search? He feels sick.
Sunny was due to call in five minutes to confirm they had Klaber – that they had Seb.
It is still too much to reconcile. How can Seb be involved in this? How can it be him?
‘Oh, and… sir?’ There’s a hesitancy to her tone.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Tim Pickles.’
Pickles? It feels weeks since they had thought about him.
‘What is it?’
‘Well, the hospital’s called the station. What it will mean for John Hoarde, for that poor family…’ She is tired.
The lights are bright and Maarten can see shades of pewter in her skin.
‘He’s in trouble. He had a heart attack. It looks bad.’