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‘Bye,’ Fount said to him. ‘What a prick,’ said Fraser. ‘It’s meeting pricks like that that makes me actually look forward to getting back to my desk.’ I knew that wasn’t true. However high she’d climbed, at heart she was a street cop through and through. We were in the car. Woodley and I had pulled on our seat belts, we were ready to leave; Fraser was taking a few moments to rage. ‘I bet he wishes he was still sucking at his mammy’s breast. What do you reckon?’ ‘I think we need to be careful. He’s almost too much of a cliché, he looks so good for it on paper. Young, single male, all of that. But I think we need to be careful not to make assumptions about him.’ She ignored me. ‘You know as well as I do that if there’s a cliché there’s usually a good reason for it. Christ! That little prick’s given me a headache with his skanky flat and his self-obsessed, smug little bucket and spade ideology. He needs to get out of the sandpit and get into the real world. Knights of Isthcar, what’s that about when it’s at home?’ She sighed. She looked tired. She was putting in the hours this week, just like everyone else. ‘I suppose it makes a change from asking for a lawyer. I feel like I’ve got something in my eye, have I got something in my eye?’ Fraser pulled down the mirror and pulled down an eyelid. ‘I don’t think he did it,’ I said. She flicked the mirror back up brusquely. ‘What makes you say that?’ ‘I agree that he looks good for it on paper, but he couldn’t take his eyes off your legs in there, and your…⁠’ I felt shy suddenly. ‘My what, DI Clemo?’ ‘Your shoes, your red shoes.’ ‘Oh right. Well, for a moment there I thought you were going to say something else.’ Woodley snorted from the back seat and then tried to turn it into a cough. ‘So what’s your point, Jim?’ ‘My point is that somebody interested in children is not usually interested in women, especially not in a fetishistic way. He couldn’t take his eyes off the red shoes. I was watching him.’ ‘I still want him brought into the station. We can’t possibly rule him out because he looked at my shoes. You know that as well as I do. Woodley, I saw what you did at the end there. Very smart. When we bring him in, I want you to interview him and get to the bottom of his dirty little mind whichever way it bends.’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’ I could hear the sound of a grin in Woodley’s voice. ‘I’m not your “ma’am”,’ she said. ‘“Boss” will do. Right, come on, Jim, what are we waiting for?’

RACHEL Halfway through the morning Nicky announced, ‘I’ve spoken to John. He wants us to go round to his house so we can agree together on a design for a “Missing” flyer, and print some there. He’s got a laser printer.’ I’d never been to John and Katrina’s new house. Not past the front door anyway. I’d spent plenty of time standing on the gravel outside when I’d dropped Ben off for the weekend. ‘Will Katrina be there?’ ‘I expect so, yes, but at this point I think you need to think of her as another pair of hands. She wants to help and we need all the help we can get.’ I thought of the blog and the comments I’d read this morning. ‘Any port in a storm?’ I said. ‘Exactly!’ she said, and she smiled just a little. It pleased Nicky when I said that because it’s what our Aunt Esther used to say. ‘You’d been through a storm,’ she would say if we ever discussed the circumstances that had led us to live with her. ‘A terrible storm, and I was your port.’ ‘A safe haven,’ Nicky would say and Esther would agree. Esther had taken us in after our parents’ death. She was our mother’s much older sister. She brought us to her house immediately after the accident that killed our parents and we never left after that. She sheltered us from gossip, which sometimes hung around us like a cloud of biting midges. She gave us the chance to have a childhood, or her version of one. It wasn’t a usual upbringing, because Esther was a spinster, who’d always lived alone. She taught English Literature A level to the children of the local wealthy at a small private school and could quote a huge amount of poetry by heart. She also played bridge and had a passion for growing roses. She wore knee-length skirts and flat shoes, with simple cardigans, and had bobbed flyaway white hair that she clipped back with kirby grips. She kept gold-topped milk in the fridge, which the birds had invariably pecked at before she brought it in in the morning, so each lid had neat puncture marks in it when it arrived on the breakfast table. I don’t think Esther was a naturally maternal figure. She was unaccustomed to young children apart from a regular annual visit she’d made to our family before our parents died, so when Nicky and I arrived suddenly in her life she treated us as miniature adults, and shared her passions with us. She surrounded us with art and music and books, she pointed out the possibility of beauty in life. Nicky drank this up as if it were nectar, and fell into Esther’s arms gratefully. I was different. When I was growing up I always felt like the baby that I’d been when we arrived there, a bit of an addendum to their lives, too little to understand things properly, always in bed when the proper conversations took place. It was ironic, as I’d never known our mother or father, that I was the one who found it most difficult to accept Esther in her role in loco parentis, while Nicky, nine years old when we arrived, wouldn’t leave her side. As a teenager I’d meanly thought that Esther was fusty, tweedy and better suited to another era, more like other people’s grandparents than their parents. I’d rejected her gentle offerings of culture and knowledge because they hadn’t immediately bolstered me, or given me an obvious direction or purpose. That came later in life, when I took up photography, when I sat beside John in St George’s concert hall and fell in love with him and with classical music, and then I regretted that I’d never

‘Bye,’ Fount said to him.<br />

‘What a prick,’ said Fraser. ‘It’s meeting pricks like that that makes me actually look forward to<br />

getting back to my desk.’<br />

I knew that wasn’t true. However high she’d climbed, at heart she was a street cop through and<br />

through.<br />

We were in the car. Woodley and I had pulled on our seat belts, we were ready to leave; Fraser<br />

was taking a few moments to rage. ‘I bet he wishes he was still sucking at his mammy’s breast. What<br />

do you reckon?’<br />

‘I think we need to be careful. He’s almost too much of a cliché, he looks so good for it on paper.<br />

Young, single male, all of that. But I think we need to be careful not to make assumptions about him.’<br />

She ignored me. ‘You know as well as I do that if there’s a cliché there’s usually a good reason for<br />

it. Christ! That little prick’s given me a headache with his skanky flat and his self-obsessed, smug<br />

little bucket and spade ideology. He needs to get out of the sandpit and get into the real world.<br />

Knights of Isthcar, what’s that about when it’s at home?’<br />

She sighed. She looked tired. She was putting in the hours this week, just like everyone else.<br />

‘I suppose it makes a change from asking for a lawyer. I feel like I’ve got something in my eye,<br />

have I got something in my eye?’ Fraser pulled down the mirror and pulled down an eyelid.<br />

‘I don’t think he did it,’ I said.<br />

She flicked the mirror back up brusquely.<br />

‘What makes you say that?’<br />

‘I agree that he looks good for it on paper, but he couldn’t take his eyes off your legs in there, and<br />

your…⁠’ I felt shy suddenly.<br />

‘My what, DI Clemo?’<br />

‘Your shoes, your red shoes.’<br />

‘Oh right. Well, for a moment there I thought you were going to say something else.’<br />

Woodley snorted from the back seat and then tried to turn it into a cough.<br />

‘So what’s your point, Jim?’<br />

‘My point is that somebody interested in children is not usually interested in women, especially not<br />

in a fetishistic way. He couldn’t take his eyes off the red shoes. I was watching him.’<br />

‘I still want him brought into the station. We can’t possibly rule him out because he looked at my<br />

shoes. You know that as well as I do. Woodley, I saw what you did at the end there. Very smart. When<br />

we bring him in, I want you to interview him and get to the bottom of his dirty little mind whichever<br />

way it bends.’<br />

‘Yes, ma’am.’ I could hear the sound of a grin in Woodley’s voice.<br />

‘I’m not your “ma’am”,’ she said. ‘“Boss” will do. Right, come on, Jim, what are we waiting for?’

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