Engine’s off and the wind squalls about the car. She should get out, look lively, jog up the steps ready for a new day, but instead she rests her forehead on the steering wheel.
‘Morning,’ says a muffled voice beyond her driver’s side window. Davy, of course, smiling in at her, coffee in hand, the light glowing behind those marvellous ears, like red quotation marks. She winds down the window and a tinny hail of cold rain buffets in.
‘How does my eye look?’ she says, trying hard to open it fully.
‘Looks normal to me. I’ve got you this. Warm you up. Haven’t we got a briefing at eight?’
‘Gimme a minute,’ says Manon.
She winds up the window, using both hands and all the force of her shoulder. Davy has stepped back and is standing beside the car, holding her coffee like a royal attendant. She flips down the sun visor to look in its cloudy mirror. Her left eye is half-closed, red, and sloping downwards as if she’s been punched. She opens the car door. It is perishing cold, the chill cutting into her ankles and toes and about her wrists and neck, making her hunch and tighten. She locks her car, takes her coffee from Davy and they walk up the steps of the station.
‘Come in, both of you,’ says Harriet, from the doorway of her office. She is pulling at her bra straps. It’s as if she’s never comfortable, the upholstery springing a tack.
‘What’s happened to you?’ she says, peering at Manon’s eye.
‘Oh, nothing. Bit sore, that’s all.’
‘Looks like you’ve been beaten up.’
Harriet’s jumpy. The girl has been missing for fifty-four hours now without a single firm lead but about six possible avenues for investigation. There is mercifully still no sign of their boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Gary Stanton, yet interference is palpably not far away: in the air space above them, the vague suspicion that calls might be passing between the Home Office and Cambridgeshire Commissioner Sir Brian Peabody, the odd mention perhaps at Annabelle’s or in the Pugin Room at the House, perhaps some quiet pressure filtering down to the Chief Constable, who will certainly be taking a keen interest. ‘Best brains on this Hind girl, old chap. Wouldn’t want a cock-up on something this big.’
Manon and Davy take up seats in Harriet’s office, Manon nursing her coffee with two hands.
‘What’s happened to her?’ says Harriet, pacing. ‘It’s like she’s evaporated. There’s no CCTV, no sightings …’
‘Where are we with the search?’ asks Davy.
‘Polsa’s widened it beyond Portholme Meadow – more than a hundred officers in all – and sometime today Spartan Rescue are going to start on the River Ouse.’
‘Take a week or two for a body to float up,’ says Manon.
‘What about that Graham Garfield chap, the Director of Studies?’ asks Harriet. ‘He was sniffing about on Saturday night.’
‘His wife says he was home with her after the pub,’ says Manon.
‘Think we have to be a bit circumspect about alibis given by wives and mothers.’
There is silence for a moment.
‘Right, the press conference with the Hinds. We’re going to watch Will Carter, see how he fares. Kim Delaney is trawling River Island for clothes similar to the ones Edith was wearing on Saturday night – jeans and a blue sweatshirt.’
‘Boss?’ says Colin, at the door. ‘We’ve got something.’
They all look at him.
‘Carter had another phone. Phone mast in Huntingdon picked up activity from a T-Mobile number registered to him on Saturday night.’
They all look at each other.
‘What sort of activity?’ asks Harriet.
‘Two calls, one at 5 p.m., another at midnight. That’s all we can tell before the full traces come in, but it puts him in Huntingdon on the night we think Edith disappeared.’
‘Where’s the phone now?’
‘Dunno, it’s switched off.’
‘Have we tracked his car out of Stoke yet?’ asks Manon.
‘No, we haven’t,’ says Harriet. ‘Nigel’s doing some work on the smaller routes, checking alternative cameras. We need to question him on this – no more tea and sympathy.’
‘Hang on,’ says Manon. ‘Let’s let him do the presser, see how he holds up. Then we’ll ask him about what his phone was doing in Huntingdon when he says he was in Stoke.’
‘I want officers on the door,’ says Harriet. ‘And I want us all over his alibi. House to house in Stoke around his mother’s address, see if anyone saw him leaving earlier than they both say. And CCTV.’
Manon perches one buttock on the edge of Colin’s desk and looks up at the monitor, which shows an empty table with four chairs behind it and microphones along the front, pointing at the chairs.
The rest of the team gathers around her: Colin in his swivelly chair; Kim back from River Island; Davy, of course; and the new recruit, Stuart Leach. Manon eyes him in her periphery, her eyes flicking from his shaven head to the monitor, then back to his broad shoulders in a billowing shirt (she loves a billowing shirt on a man, especially with sharp creases), his square jaw and dark eyes, which have a certain amused mischief in them. He catches her eye and smiles.
‘So, it was the boyfriend, was it?’ he says, and she can feel all his charm being launched at her like a hand grenade – mischief slash disrespect.
‘Looks like it. We don’t know for sure,’ she says, looking upwards at the monitor and simultaneously tightening her body under his gaze. She’s going to have to cut back on the Marmite toast. ‘Here they are.’
They watch as Harriet sits in the chair to the right of the screen. The Hinds then inch into view from the left, shuffling into their seats on half-bended legs and holding hands, their gaze downward. Will Carter enters last, wearing a mid-blue shirt that brings out the slate colour of his eyes. Manon can almost hear the female reporters in the room sitting up straighter. Flashes going, the electronic burr blending into the shuffling and murmuring of the crowd settling: TV news, locals, nationals, agencies, digital channels, web reporters. Manon sees the grey hollows beneath Sir Ian’s eyes. Lady Hind’s are red-rimmed. They are silvery in their ageing, as if covered by a hoar frost. Carter runs a hand through his hair and the cameras seem to flurry in response.
Harriet introduces the pertinent facts about the investigation, the timeline of Edith’s disappearance, details of the police hotline. Her glance repeatedly flicks to Will, whose gaze is directed at the cameras.
Somewhere in the room behind Manon, a phone starts ringing.
‘Crikey, already,’ says Colin. ‘Here come the tank-top-wearing schizophrenics.’
‘Shut it, Colin,’ says Manon.
‘It’ll be the ladies offering to comfort Mr Carter,’ says Kim. ‘Even if he’s killed her, he’ll get a few marriage proposals.’
They watch Harriet introduce Sir Ian. There is a pause before he speaks.
‘We are desperately worried about Edith,’ he says, lifting his gaze to the phalanx of reporters and cameras, and for a split second, utter distaste is visible on his face. Lady Hind strokes his hand. ‘She is a resourceful, clever, and talented girl, but the circumstances of her disappearance are obviously giving cause for mounting alarm. Edith, if you are watching this, please contact us to let us know you are safe. And if anyone out there has seen our daughter, do please contact the police.’
‘Mr Carter,’ says a female voice. ‘Keeley Davis, Hunts Post. You must be devastated.’
‘I am. I’m … I’m …’ Will Carter looks about the room. ‘I haven’t slept. This is torture, a nightmare. We just want to know where Edie is.’
Manon thinks she can see Lady Hind close her eyes in a tiny grimace, but perhaps she’s imagining it.
‘Sorry, one more question,’ says pushy Keeley Davis, who will no doubt be off to The Mail any day now, with her tight suit and that retro Nissan she drives, the automotive equivalent of a Prada handbag. ‘Was there anything about her behaviour in the days before she disappeared that gave you cause for concern?’
‘No, not at all,’ says Will. He is giving Keeley maximum eye contact, furrowed and serious and frankly adorable. ‘This is totally out of character. We were happy, are happy. We’re incredibly close. She is my world. Y’know, she was working hard on her PhD, looking forward to Christmas. Normal stuff.’
Harriet points to another member of the audience. ‘Yes, Terry.’
‘Terry Harcourt, The Mirror. Sir Ian, can you tell us more about Edith – what sort of girl is she?’
Sir Ian looks vaguely lost. ‘Well,’ he says, halting for a moment as if he hasn’t understood the question, ‘as I say, she is clever. She has a double first from Cambridge and is studying for her PhD. She is quite sporty, dedicated to the environment.’ Manon watches his bewildered face as the shutters click and the flashes blind him. He knows what they want – incontinent emoting. They want him and Miriam Hind to break down over ‘their angel’.
Harriet moves it along. ‘Yes, Andy, from The Herald.’
‘Sir Ian, you are physician to the Royal Family. Has the Queen sent you any messages of support?’
‘I don’t think that’s relevant to the purpose of this press conference,’ says Sir Ian.
‘Right, yes. Nick, ITN,’ says Harriet, pointing to the back of the room.
‘Sir Ian, you are personal friends with the Home Secretary. Is he putting extra resources behind this investigation?’
‘I can answer that one,’ says Harriet. ‘All the resources of the police force are at our disposal in the search for Edith. This would be the case for any high-risk missing person.’
‘Is it true you’re looking for a body?’ shouts a voice into the room.
Manon sees Lady Hind flinch. The room buzzes with enlarged murmurings.
‘What’s your name?’ asks Harriet.
‘Tony Thackeray, Eastern Daily Press. Missing person, more than forty-eight hours, sub-zero temperatures. This must surely become a murder investigation at some point. And isn’t it also true that Cambridgeshire MIT has been criticised in the past for not upscaling a missing person to suspected homicide early enough? The case of Lacey Pilkington …’
‘Shit,’ whispers Manon.
Sir Ian and Miriam frown at one another and then at Harriet, who says, ‘Our priority is to find Edith.’
‘Aye aye,’ says Colin, nodding at the screen. ‘Here’s Officer Dibble back from ’is holidays.’
They all notice Detective Chief Superintendent Gary Stanton, who has come to stand at the edge of the room, his body leaning against the wall. The buttons on his white shirt are straining; his civilian suit sharp and navy. He has the look of a man who has just stepped off a plane: his face and bald pate basted brown like a cooked turkey and shiny with good living. His gaze is on Harriet and she bristles with it.
‘We are going to have to wrap things up, I’m afraid,’ she says, shifting in her seat. She’s eager to collar Will Carter, Manon can see it in Harriet’s agitation – that’s why she’s closed it down so quick. ‘Thank you all for coming.’