mean.’
‘The police don’t want us there. Forensics are all over it.’
‘What if she’s been run over, what if she’s injured somewhere? And we don’t know. Ian, we
don’t know
.’
‘That’s why they’ve used sniffer dogs, to locate her by the scent of blood.’
‘You know an awful lot all of a sudden,’ she says, and it comes out more harshly than she intends.
‘We’ve got to
think
. Where could she have gone?’ They are both prone to this, thinking their way out of their predicaments, as if sheer force of intellect could control the random world.
‘France? I mean, I know we haven’t been for years and years, but she does speak the language.’
He shakes his head. ‘Border control – she hasn’t got her passport, remember? You should ring Christy and Jonti.’
‘Yes. They won’t know anything, but yes. She hasn’t seen Jonti in years. Does Rollo have any ideas?’
‘No, he says not, but he says he’s setting up a Find Edith Facebook page or something. I wish it didn’t take so long for him to get here. Miri,’ he says with a sudden gasp.
‘I know,’ she says.
They are in this together; they love Edith together with lion-like force. Whatever rows there had ever been between them evaporated when Edith tottered towards them on chubby legs or made a funny face or delighted them in the myriad ways she did, and they would find themselves looking in the same direction, grinning stupidly at their girl. Together. Thank God they are together. The only person in the world who feels as much terror as she does is here, by her side.
She starts to cry. ‘If she’s not all right then I will never be all right.’
‘Darling Miri, come here,’ says Ian, taking her in his arms. ‘We’ll find her. We’ll keep on looking until we find her.’
Manon
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
‘The police don’t want us there. Forensics are all over it.’
‘What if she’s been run over, what if she’s injured somewhere? And we don’t know. Ian, we
don’t know
.’
‘That’s why they’ve used sniffer dogs, to locate her by the scent of blood.’
‘You know an awful lot all of a sudden,’ she says, and it comes out more harshly than she intends.
‘We’ve got to
think
. Where could she have gone?’ They are both prone to this, thinking their way out of their predicaments, as if sheer force of intellect could control the random world.
‘France? I mean, I know we haven’t been for years and years, but she does speak the language.’
He shakes his head. ‘Border control – she hasn’t got her passport, remember? You should ring Christy and Jonti.’
‘Yes. They won’t know anything, but yes. She hasn’t seen Jonti in years. Does Rollo have any ideas?’
‘No, he says not, but he says he’s setting up a Find Edith Facebook page or something. I wish it didn’t take so long for him to get here. Miri,’ he says with a sudden gasp.
‘I know,’ she says.
They are in this together; they love Edith together with lion-like force. Whatever rows there had ever been between them evaporated when Edith tottered towards them on chubby legs or made a funny face or delighted them in the myriad ways she did, and they would find themselves looking in the same direction, grinning stupidly at their girl. Together. Thank God they are together. The only person in the world who feels as much terror as she does is here, by her side.
She starts to cry. ‘If she’s not all right then I will never be all right.’
‘Darling Miri, come here,’ says Ian, taking her in his arms. ‘We’ll find her. We’ll keep on looking until we find her.’
Manon
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
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