THEY MADE GOOD TIME. Even managed to snatch a few hours’ shuteye at a hotel in Beverley, the East Yorkshire market town closest to Maxine O’Neil’s home. Carmichael woke Kate Daniels shortly before six to advise that the missing-person file had an important note attached. Anyone with information should seek out PC Ailsa Richards, a community liaison officer at the town’s police station.
‘She has close links with the family,’ Carmichael said. Her voice sounded thick, the result of another late night and very early morning. ‘She was the first to attend when Maxine went missing. I managed to catch her going off duty an hour ago. She’ll stay on and meet you there at seven.’
‘Thanks, Lisa. Anything else?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Call you later then.’
Hanging up, Kate rang Gormley’s room to make sure he was up and about, then jumped in the shower and joined him for breakfast. There was no way either of them could face the day without fuel. They ate in silence, neither with any real appetite for food – much less for informing the dead girl’s parents that they would never see their child again.
Kate wondered if the O’Neils were the type to leave their daughter’s stuff untouched, as was often the case when children went missing. She’d known cases where Christmas and birthday presents had lain unopened for years. One family kept a burning candle in the window the whole time, a beacon of hope they firmly believed would guide their loved one home to them.
It didn’t.
That depressing thought matched the weather outside. A veil of dense fog shrouded the outskirts of Beverley, making travel difficult. What little traffic there was on the road appeared out of nowhere like dark smudges on a white canvas, rendering headlights useless as drivers picked their way cautiously along.
They were late getting to the nick but PC Ailsa Richards was waiting in reception when they arrived. She gave them the hard copy of the missing-person file, confirming that she’d sent a copy electronically to Carmichael. Then they adjourned to a quiet office where they could talk without fear of interruption.
Ailsa Richards was about twenty-five years old, shorter than the average copper, with fair hair cut in a bob. She had an interesting face, a slightly crooked nose that had obviously taken a beating at some point. Her eyes were the colour of cornflowers, the left one with a green fleck in it the DCI couldn’t stop staring at.
She sat down, gestured for the other two to do likewise and then focused on the Humberside officer. ‘I understand you’re close to the O’Neil family, is that correct?’
PC Richards nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Are you properly involved with them, or is that a load of bollocks?’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Drop the ma’am, Ailsa. No offence intended, but people write things on forms that aren’t true sometimes.’
‘Not in this instance, I can assure you.’ Richards stood firm. ‘I’m not sure how you deal with things in Northumbria, but here in Humberside we try to do things right. I promised the family I’d keep them updated of any developments, big or small, good or bad. I’ve kept my word, visiting every three months for the past five years, never missed once.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ Kate meant it. If she was any judge of character, this officer was not only truthful, she had balls. She liked that. ‘I hope you understand my need to be sure. This is going to be a difficult day for everyone involved. The family don’t need a fuck-up and neither do I.’
The PC didn’t flinch.
Daniels studied her closely. It was important to see the whites of her eyes and work out how well or ill-equipped she was to deal with something as sensitive as a death message. To an outsider, they were all much of a muchness. But to anyone charged with the task of delivering them on a regular basis, there was a world of difference. The death of an elderly relative was often half-expected; the sudden death of a young person was deemed somehow worse; in the case of a road accident, an element of bad luck came into the equation. Most people understood and came to accept that eventually. But the deliberate, violent and senseless deaths, the ones where murder was involved, those were another matter entirely.
And then there was the worst type of all.
On a sliding scale of one to ten, the kind of death message Kate was about to deliver was in a league of its own. The O’Neils had waited five long years to hear news of a much-loved daughter. It was hard to imagine how they had coped, every single day dragging painfully on to the next, keeping themselves going by clinging to the hope that Maxine was out there somewhere. Living a new life – happy, even.
‘The O’Neils have other children?’ Gormley asked.
The PC nodded. ‘Two boys and a girl.’
‘How old?’
‘Twelve, nine and five.’
‘Mrs O’Neil was pregnant when Maxine when missing?’ Kate queried.
Another nod. ‘Seven months.’
The DCI glanced at Gormley, an unspoken message passing between them. From the look of him, his antenna had raised just as hers had. They were both remembering an enquiry they had worked some years ago where the victim’s father had turned to her for sex when his wife, the girl’s mother, was heavily pregnant. The girl threatened to go to the law, so he silenced her for good, concealing her body in the bottom of a chest freezer under legs of lamb and pork chops.
‘Who’ll tell them?’ the PC asked. ‘You or me?’
‘Depends on how you feel about that.’ Kate looked at Richards. When she made no comment, the DCI made an observation: ‘You know them personally, I don’t. But I can’t have you getting upset. If you’re going to do that, it’s best that I tell them.’ She paused, allowing her comment to sink in. ‘Do you usually ring before you visit?’
‘I didn’t used to, but . . .’ Richards looked away.
‘Let me guess. Every time you went to the door, every time they saw a Panda in the street, they were shitting themselves, right?’ Richards answered with a nod. Kate noticed the green fleck in her eye twitching slightly. ‘Well, as soon as they see me and DS Gormley they’ll know.’
For a moment, no one spoke.
‘I’m tempted to say if you want to do it, you do it, and if you look like you’re going to bottle it, I’ll interrupt. Question is: have you done it before?’
The PC shook her head.
‘Then this is no time to start, Ailsa. There’ll be difficult questions to answer. In situations like these you can’t afford to pull your punches. There are no mistakes to be made, get me? I can see you don’t want to do it and that’s perfectly fine. There’s no shame in that. How about I do it? I know you’ve been up all night but it would really help me out if you were on hand to pick up the pieces when I leave. Are we agreed?’
‘Thanks, boss.’
‘C’mon then, let’s get it over with.’