Hushabye by Celina Grace Page A

don’t you do Casey and Mrs Bright and we’ll track down Nick Fullman together?”
    “Fine,” said Kate. “Let’s check back later.”
    She said goodbye and hurried off to find her car keys.
     
     

Chapter Eleven
     
    The paparazzi at the gates of the Fullmans’ house had thinned in numbers slightly, and their replacement was, at first sight, more picturesque. A heap of blooms, a mountain of flowers: bouquets, baskets, single-stemmed white roses. Blue ribbons everywhere, tied to the trees and the fence and the gateposts.
    As Kate drove through, she caught sight of a tiny blue teddy bear with white, fluffy paws.  A middle-aged couple stood by the makeshift shrine, reading the inscriptions on the bouquets. Who were they mourning, these people who’d brought the flowers? Dita or Charlie? He’s not dead , said Kate to herself, fiercely, because at the thought of Charlie dead, something seemed to collapse inside of her. She knew, logically, that he probably was. But logic didn’t seem to have anything to do with it. I can’t think of him dead , she thought, fingers clenched on the steering wheel. I can’t .
    She thought of all the blue ribbons fluttering in the cold January wind and felt something else, a surge of anger. What good were ribbons? What possible difference would tying a ribbon around a tree make? Would it get them one step closer to Charlie? Stupid, stupid , she hissed through gritted teeth, parking the car a little too abruptly by the front door.
    The sight of Casey shocked her out of her anger. Zombie was the word that first came to mind when the door opened. Hollowed eyes, blonde hair darkened and flattened by grease, Casey swayed a little on her feet. She turned, saying nothing, and walked back through the house like a somnambulist, the dirty ends of her tracksuit trousers trailing on the floor.
    Mrs Bright was there in the kitchen, perched on a stool by the breakfast bar, the local paper spread out before her and a half empty glass of orange juice in front of her. Kate greeted her and asked where Mr Fullman was.
    Mrs Bright rolled her eyes. “At work? Where else is he ever?”
    Kate nodded. She hesitated again, wondering whether to question Mrs Bright or to follow Casey. She decided on the latter. Casey worried her, seriously worried her.
    She knocked on the door of the bedroom, although it was half open and she could see the dirty soles of Casey’s feet dangling off the edge of the enormous bed. There was no answer so she pushed open the door.
    Casey was lying face down, her head buried in the pillows. Kate said her name, gently at first and then with more urgency. At last, Casey turned her head to look at her.
    “What?”
    “Casey, please sit up. I need to speak to you.”
    In the end, she had to help her up, almost prop her against the headboard. Casey’s pupils were huge and she stared blearily ahead, saying nothing. Kate was uncomfortably reminded of a doll from her childhood, a rare toy she’d been given by a neighbour, which had had the same blank stare, the same empty eyes.
    “Casey,” she said once more. “I told you we’d find Charlie for you and we will. But you have to help us. I need to talk to you about Ali Saheed.”
    That broke Casey’s stupor. She flicked a frightened sideways glance at Kate.
    “Why?”
    “It’s important.”
    “I told you, he couldn’t have done this. He wouldn’t.”
    “Why would you say that?”
    Casey paused for a second.
    “He always said family was important, even though he didn’t have any kids of his own. He likes children. He was really happy for me when I got pregnant. He said so.”
    Kate sighed inwardly.
    “People don’t always mean what they say, Casey. Believe me, as a police officer I know that.”
    Casey started to cry.
    “This is a nightmare, it’s a nightmare. I can’t believe it’s happening. I think I’m going mad.”
    Kate fought against the urge to hug her, pat her on the back, rock her into comfort again.
    “I just