silk scarf? Dark hair. Pretty girl.' It was the man in the camel-hair coat speaking. He'd taken his hat off in a courteous gesture that surprised her, and she noticed the way he gripped it in his suntanned hand. He seemed nervous.
'She just asked me the time. She caught the train for Southampton,' said Fiona. A train announcement, resonant and unintelligible, interrupted her and she waited for it to finish. 'At least, that's what she said she was going to do.'
'She had a big green plastic bag with a shoulder strap,' said the man.
It was, she decided, a question. 'She had a bag,' said Fiona. 'I didn't notice anything about it.'
'Are you all right, madam?' said the policeman. He'd noticed her reddened, tear-filled eyes.
'I'm quite all right,' she said firmly. She looked at her watch and got to her feet to show that she was about to leave.
The policeman nodded. He wanted to believe her; he wasn't looking for more trouble. 'It's the gentleman's daughter,' explained the policeman.
'My name's Lindner. Adam Lindner. Yeah, she's only sixteen,' said the man. 'She ran away from home. She looks older.' He had a soft transatlantic accent that she couldn't place.
'We'll phone Southampton,' said the policeman briskly. 'They'll pick her up when the train gets there.'
'Was there anyone with her?' asked the father authoritatively.
Fiona looked at him. He was tall and athletic; in his late thirties perhaps. His moustache was full but carefully trimmed. He had doleful eyebrows and a somewhat squashed nose in a weather-beaten face. He was handsome in a seemingly uncontrived way, like the tough-guy film-stars whose photos she'd pinned above her bed at school. His clothes were expensive and too perfect, the style that foreigners selected when they wanted to look English: a magnificent camel-hair overcoat, a paisley-patterned tie, its knot supported by a gold pin through the shirt collar, and the shiny Oxford shoes. 'Yes,' she said, 'there was a man with her.'
'A black man?'
'Perhaps. I didn't notice. Yes, I believe so.'
'It makes it easier from our point of view,' said the policeman.
A gust of wind lifted discarded newspapers and other litter so that it moved enough to scare the birds. Conversation faltered as English conversations do when minds turn to the delicate and devious rituals of leave-taking.
'We have your phone number, Mr Lindner,' said the policeman. 'As soon as we hear from Southampton the desk sergeant will phone.' It ended there. The policeman had other work to do.
'If that's all?' said Fiona, moving away. 'I have to get a taxi.'
I'm going to Maida Vale,' the man said to Fiona. 'Can I drop you off anywhere?' She still couldn't recognize the accent. She decided he was a merchant seaman, or oil worker, paid off after a long contract and enjoying a spending spree.
'It's all right,' she said.
'No, please. It's pouring with rain again and I would appreciate company.'
Both men were looking at her quizzically. She resented the way that men expected women to explain themselves, as if they were second-class citizens. But she invented an explanation. 'I was seeing someone off. I live in Marylebone. I'll get a cab.'
'Marylebone: I go right through it.' And then, 'Thank you, constable, you've been most helpful.'
'Children do funny things,' said the policeman as he took his leave. 'It will be all right. You'll see.'
'It was bad luck,' said the man. 'Another fifteen minutes and we would have stopped her.' Fiona walked towards the cab rank and he fell into step alongside her. 'Will you look at that rain! You'd better ride with me.' There were about fifty people standing in line for taxis and no taxis in sight.
'Very well. Thank you.'
They walked to his car, talking about the treacherous English weather. His manner now was ultra-considerate and his voice was different in some way she could not define. She smiled at him. He opened the door for her and helped her into the seat. It was a Jaguar XJS convertible: grey, shiny and
'She just asked me the time. She caught the train for Southampton,' said Fiona. A train announcement, resonant and unintelligible, interrupted her and she waited for it to finish. 'At least, that's what she said she was going to do.'
'She had a big green plastic bag with a shoulder strap,' said the man.
It was, she decided, a question. 'She had a bag,' said Fiona. 'I didn't notice anything about it.'
'Are you all right, madam?' said the policeman. He'd noticed her reddened, tear-filled eyes.
'I'm quite all right,' she said firmly. She looked at her watch and got to her feet to show that she was about to leave.
The policeman nodded. He wanted to believe her; he wasn't looking for more trouble. 'It's the gentleman's daughter,' explained the policeman.
'My name's Lindner. Adam Lindner. Yeah, she's only sixteen,' said the man. 'She ran away from home. She looks older.' He had a soft transatlantic accent that she couldn't place.
'We'll phone Southampton,' said the policeman briskly. 'They'll pick her up when the train gets there.'
'Was there anyone with her?' asked the father authoritatively.
Fiona looked at him. He was tall and athletic; in his late thirties perhaps. His moustache was full but carefully trimmed. He had doleful eyebrows and a somewhat squashed nose in a weather-beaten face. He was handsome in a seemingly uncontrived way, like the tough-guy film-stars whose photos she'd pinned above her bed at school. His clothes were expensive and too perfect, the style that foreigners selected when they wanted to look English: a magnificent camel-hair overcoat, a paisley-patterned tie, its knot supported by a gold pin through the shirt collar, and the shiny Oxford shoes. 'Yes,' she said, 'there was a man with her.'
'A black man?'
'Perhaps. I didn't notice. Yes, I believe so.'
'It makes it easier from our point of view,' said the policeman.
A gust of wind lifted discarded newspapers and other litter so that it moved enough to scare the birds. Conversation faltered as English conversations do when minds turn to the delicate and devious rituals of leave-taking.
'We have your phone number, Mr Lindner,' said the policeman. 'As soon as we hear from Southampton the desk sergeant will phone.' It ended there. The policeman had other work to do.
'If that's all?' said Fiona, moving away. 'I have to get a taxi.'
I'm going to Maida Vale,' the man said to Fiona. 'Can I drop you off anywhere?' She still couldn't recognize the accent. She decided he was a merchant seaman, or oil worker, paid off after a long contract and enjoying a spending spree.
'It's all right,' she said.
'No, please. It's pouring with rain again and I would appreciate company.'
Both men were looking at her quizzically. She resented the way that men expected women to explain themselves, as if they were second-class citizens. But she invented an explanation. 'I was seeing someone off. I live in Marylebone. I'll get a cab.'
'Marylebone: I go right through it.' And then, 'Thank you, constable, you've been most helpful.'
'Children do funny things,' said the policeman as he took his leave. 'It will be all right. You'll see.'
'It was bad luck,' said the man. 'Another fifteen minutes and we would have stopped her.' Fiona walked towards the cab rank and he fell into step alongside her. 'Will you look at that rain! You'd better ride with me.' There were about fifty people standing in line for taxis and no taxis in sight.
'Very well. Thank you.'
They walked to his car, talking about the treacherous English weather. His manner now was ultra-considerate and his voice was different in some way she could not define. She smiled at him. He opened the door for her and helped her into the seat. It was a Jaguar XJS convertible: grey, shiny and