this a joke?”
“That was emailed to the station this morning by Madeleine's father”, Garland says.
“Emailed?” Frank says, stunned by the nature of the way the information has been communicated.
“Someone emailed it to him, he emailed it to us”, Garland continues, as though re-explaining something simple to grasp.
Frank looks at the page in astonishment. He can't believe what he's actually looking at.
“Have you spoken to him?” he says finally.
“Yes”, Garland says.
“And what did he say?”
“He told me to deal with it”, Garland says flatly.
“Deal with it? What a fucking dick”, Frank barks, so close to banging his fist down on the table again, Garland prepares for it. “Don't let the press get hold of this yet. I want to sit on it a while and see how it develops. Tell that fuck Parker not to involve the press either.”
“Don't worry, he won't”, Garland reassures him. “Even if it's real, I don't reckon he has any intention of paying it. He definitely doesn't want that information out freely. It looks bad enough he hasn't yet commented on his daughter's kidnapping.”
“Did you ask him about that?” Frank says.
“Yes”, Garland says. “He told me it's nobody's business but Maddy's.”
“What a fucking world we live in”, Frank says. “If it was me in her place, and my daddy had the money, he'd pay it just so he could kick the shit out of me when he saw me again.”
“I guess not everyone has such a special connection with their families”, Garland says sarcastically.
Frank growls. The picture he has on his desk of his mother, pulling exactly the same face as he is now, looks just like him.
“Good work officer Garland”, Frank says, commending him. “Next to Edwards, you look like a fucking sheriff. Go get yourself a treat from the cookie jar and don't come back until you've got something more solid for me to go on. Go on fuck off, I've had enough bad news for one day.”
Garland nods.
“Sir”, he says by way of a goodbye, and disappears back out to the chaos of the open plan office he works in.
The assistant returns to the shop floor with a selection of real hair wigs that once belonged to the local theatre company.
“I think your sister might be in luck”, he says placing the wigs down onto the counter top and pushing them around unnecessarily once there. “As long as she doesn't mind it smelling a little bit stale, although I guess she can just wash that whole odour off. I've got several different shades of blonde, from the almost white, through the golden sun-kiss, to the nearly brunette, that I'm sure will serve your purpose just fine. What do you reckon?”
“I reckon you've outdone yourself”, River says, picking up the golden one, with thin fair hair that would almost reach Maddy's waist.
“You learn anything new?” The assistant says. “I see you switched off that junk.”
“Nothing more than the fact that perhaps I better work out more, if girls fall in love with fellas because of their arms”, River says, and the both of them share a laugh. “I reckon this'll be just perfect.”
“Now son”, the assistant says fidgeting even more than usual, “I reckon I ought to let you know, before you get your hopes up and all that, that these wigs are real hair, and they don't come cheap. People used to lease them on a day by day basis, and it was the cost of them that forced me to change the quality of my stock.”
“That doesn't matter”, River says. “I'll buy it outright. I've got money to spend, and no cost is too much for my baby sister.”
“I'm talking six hundred dollars, but we can work out a deal if you want to maybe only take it for a few days or so. Just to give her the idea.”
“That's alright”, River says. He takes the roll of one hundred dollar bills out of his pocket again, counts out six and passes them to the assistant, who seems a little shocked by the young man's wealth. He takes the money, looks at the boy, licks
“That was emailed to the station this morning by Madeleine's father”, Garland says.
“Emailed?” Frank says, stunned by the nature of the way the information has been communicated.
“Someone emailed it to him, he emailed it to us”, Garland continues, as though re-explaining something simple to grasp.
Frank looks at the page in astonishment. He can't believe what he's actually looking at.
“Have you spoken to him?” he says finally.
“Yes”, Garland says.
“And what did he say?”
“He told me to deal with it”, Garland says flatly.
“Deal with it? What a fucking dick”, Frank barks, so close to banging his fist down on the table again, Garland prepares for it. “Don't let the press get hold of this yet. I want to sit on it a while and see how it develops. Tell that fuck Parker not to involve the press either.”
“Don't worry, he won't”, Garland reassures him. “Even if it's real, I don't reckon he has any intention of paying it. He definitely doesn't want that information out freely. It looks bad enough he hasn't yet commented on his daughter's kidnapping.”
“Did you ask him about that?” Frank says.
“Yes”, Garland says. “He told me it's nobody's business but Maddy's.”
“What a fucking world we live in”, Frank says. “If it was me in her place, and my daddy had the money, he'd pay it just so he could kick the shit out of me when he saw me again.”
“I guess not everyone has such a special connection with their families”, Garland says sarcastically.
Frank growls. The picture he has on his desk of his mother, pulling exactly the same face as he is now, looks just like him.
“Good work officer Garland”, Frank says, commending him. “Next to Edwards, you look like a fucking sheriff. Go get yourself a treat from the cookie jar and don't come back until you've got something more solid for me to go on. Go on fuck off, I've had enough bad news for one day.”
Garland nods.
“Sir”, he says by way of a goodbye, and disappears back out to the chaos of the open plan office he works in.
The assistant returns to the shop floor with a selection of real hair wigs that once belonged to the local theatre company.
“I think your sister might be in luck”, he says placing the wigs down onto the counter top and pushing them around unnecessarily once there. “As long as she doesn't mind it smelling a little bit stale, although I guess she can just wash that whole odour off. I've got several different shades of blonde, from the almost white, through the golden sun-kiss, to the nearly brunette, that I'm sure will serve your purpose just fine. What do you reckon?”
“I reckon you've outdone yourself”, River says, picking up the golden one, with thin fair hair that would almost reach Maddy's waist.
“You learn anything new?” The assistant says. “I see you switched off that junk.”
“Nothing more than the fact that perhaps I better work out more, if girls fall in love with fellas because of their arms”, River says, and the both of them share a laugh. “I reckon this'll be just perfect.”
“Now son”, the assistant says fidgeting even more than usual, “I reckon I ought to let you know, before you get your hopes up and all that, that these wigs are real hair, and they don't come cheap. People used to lease them on a day by day basis, and it was the cost of them that forced me to change the quality of my stock.”
“That doesn't matter”, River says. “I'll buy it outright. I've got money to spend, and no cost is too much for my baby sister.”
“I'm talking six hundred dollars, but we can work out a deal if you want to maybe only take it for a few days or so. Just to give her the idea.”
“That's alright”, River says. He takes the roll of one hundred dollar bills out of his pocket again, counts out six and passes them to the assistant, who seems a little shocked by the young man's wealth. He takes the money, looks at the boy, licks
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