This was the sensible move:
Go to Susan and tell her everything. Admit the truth. Just deal with it. She was working the case, after all.
Sure, my experience with her father – the man in charge of the Furst investigation – complicated matters. But in the end, maybe the knowledge that someone knew his secret would only double his dedication to finding the girl.
Back on the induction courses I took with the Association of British Investigators, one of the instructors talked about our relationship with law enforcement:
“The police are not our enemy. Forget all this crap about being Britain’s second police force. There are limits to our skills. Our powers. There is no such thing as carte-blanche for an investigator. We have to know when to step back. When to say no. When to see that our clients are asking us to act outside the law. When to know that we ourselves are acting unlawfully, no matter how justified we believe our reasons to be.”
And more:
“An investigator is not a vigilante. An investigator is not an outlaw. He is a professional with a distinct sphere of influence. There are clearly defined edges to any case. We do not blur the lines. We do not lose ourselves in heroic fantasies or self-aggrandizing bollocks.”
In other words, we know when to quit.
I pulled my mobile, made to dial Susan’s number, but hesitated with my thumb over the call button.
We do not blur the lines.
I put the phone back down.
Wickes talked a good game. And I felt for him; his need to try and put right his own mistakes.
I could help him find the redemption he was looking for. It didn’t have to take me or him outside of the law to do that. Once we found out the truth, we called in the professionals.
And Wickes had said as much himself, men like us were uniquely placed to slip into the places the police could never go.
Heroic fantasy?
Self aggrandizing bollocks?
Maybe.
I dialled in another number.
Wickes answered in three rings.
I said, “You went to the school?”
“Got nothing.”
“All the same, I think someone’s bound to know something.”
“I have some leads,” he said. “A few things I could check out. Places she used to go. People she knew.”
“I want to give the school another shot,” I said. “They knew Mary and they knew Deborah. I don’t know, maybe someone there knows something.”
“They don’t,” he said. “She wasn’t social. Wouldn’t have mixed with her fellow teachers. They’ll tell you what I already know, that she was a recluse. Kept herself to herself. Probably appeared aloof to everyone. Nobody really knew her.”
“Sometimes,” I said, “It just takes asking the right question.”
Wickes was silent. Finally, he just hung up on the line.
I didn’t call back. Figured he was under enough pressure.
That was all.