Кара Хантер - In the Dark

‘OK. I can do that.’

She turns to her computer. There’s a tired piece of cardboard stuck to the screen with Blu-Tack . You don’t have to work to be mad here, but it helps. There’s also a plastic troll with beady eyes and bright blue acrylic hair. Everett hasn’t seen one of those since she was at school.

The woman taps the keyboard then sits forward.

‘I have one Vicky and three Victorias on file here in January 2014. The Vicky is still signing on now and the three Victorias have got jobs, one with Nando’s, one at Oxford Brookes and one with a cleaning firm. Though that probably won’t last. Too much like hard work for most of them.’

‘Is there any way our Vicky could have been claiming without being on that database?’

The woman shakes her head. ‘No. She’d be in here somewhere.’

‘Perhaps by another name?’

‘Doubt it. She’d have had to show us two forms of ID. Passport, driving licence – you know the sort of thing.’

Everett sighs. How is it possible, in a digital world, to leave no trace at all?

***

Quinn clatters up the final few stairs to the flat and opens the door.

‘Pippa? Are you there?’

But all he hears is the sound of his own voice. The congealing remains of last night’s dinner are still on the table, but the bags that had been stacked in the corner are gone. The only sign she was ever there is a pair of black lacy knickers, draped over one corner of the widescreen TV.

‘Shit,’ he says out loud. ‘Shit shit shit.’

***

When I look up at Baxter’s face my first thought is that I’ve never seen him look so animated.

‘Sorry to bother you, boss, but I’ve just come off the phone with Christine Grantham. Used to go out with Rob Gardiner when they were at university.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘There’s something he hasn’t been telling us. Something big.’

***

In Banbury, the local forensics team are in Lingfield Road. It takes them over an hour, but eventually they find the missing netsuke rolled up in a towel and hidden under a loose floorboard. The officer bagging them up looks at one more closely as she labels it. An otter, a tiny fish gripped between its teeth. You can almost feel the water on its coat. ‘Are these funny little things really worth all that trouble?’ she asks Somer.

‘Oh yes, I suspect these are worth a good deal. Walsh probably hid them after he saw the news about Harper – he knew it was only a matter of time before we tracked him down.’

The woman raises her eyebrows. ‘Just shows you. Looks like a load of old plastic tat to me. The sort of thing you used to get in cornflakes boxes.’ She grins, sealing the bag. ‘Showing my age. You probably don’t remember that.’

Somer smiles. ‘Actually, I do.’

‘OK, that’s the lot. I’ll get them photographed for you.’

‘Thanks – I’ll need something to send the insurance company. So we can prove exactly where these things came from.’

There’s the sound of feet on the stairs and Gislingham appears with one of the other forensics officers. Between them, they’re carrying a computer, swathed in plastic.

‘Any luck?’ asks Somer.

Gislingham makes a face. ‘We’ve been through upstairs and the loft, and there’s nothing. The computer doesn’t even have a password on it, and deffo no dodgy images or porn sites in the browser history. If he’s a paedophile he’s got a funny way of showing it.’

‘And that’s definitely the only machine he has – no laptop or tablet?’

He shakes his head. ‘Judging from the state of this thing our man is not exactly what I’d call a gadget geek. I mean look at it – it’s probably fifteen years old. These guys are going to rake it over just in case. But if you ask me, this is a dead end.’

*

Two hours later, at the school, Somer is wondering whether that’s going to be the theme of the entire day. Though perhaps ‘brick wall’ is a better analogy this time round. As she sits in the school secretary’s office, watching her fiddle about with a computer that’s clearly beyond her, she wonders, as she has many times before, what it is about schools and doctors’ surgeries that makes their administrators such paradigms of the passive-aggressive. Is it the job that does it or is that sort of person attracted to the job in the first place? The secretary at the last school she worked at could be the clone of the woman she’s looking at now. The same rigid hair, the same blouse and skirt and cardigan in shades of blue that don’t quite match, the same glasses hanging on a chain.

‘What date was it again?’ asks the woman, poking at the keyboard.

‘June 24th, 2015,’ says Somer, for the third time, with the same smile she had for the previous two, though her jaw is starting to ache with the effort.

The woman looks over her glasses at the screen. ‘Ah, here we are. According to the timetable, Mr Walsh had a double period with the third form that morning.’

‘And what time would that have started?’

‘Ten thirty.’

‘Nothing before that?’

The woman looks at her. ‘No. Like I said, he had the double period. Nothing else.’

‘And he was definitely here that day – he wasn’t off sick?’

The woman sighs audibly. ‘I would have to check the absence records to tell you that.’

Somer refreshes her smile. Again. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

More tapping at the keyboard, and then the phone rings. The woman picks it up. It’s clearly some immensely detailed query about the admissions process, and as Somer sits there, telling herself not to get pissed off, the door to the head’s office opens.

Sometimes – just sometimes – the uniform is useful.

‘Can I help you?’ asks the man, coming towards her. ‘Richard Geare, I’m the head.’ And then, seeing her smile (a real one this time), he smiles in turn. ‘It’s not spelled the same way, before you ask. I guess my parents weren’t to know. I tell myself it helps my cred with the kids, but I’m not sure it does really. They probably don’t even know who he is. Now if it was Tom Hiddleston, that might be different, but I’m a good ten years too old to pull that off.’

‘PC Erica Somer,’ she says, shaking his hand. ‘Miss Chapman is helping me with some information.’

‘About?’

‘One of your teachers. Donald Walsh.’

Geare looks curious. ‘And why, may I ask? Is there some sort of problem?’

Somer glances at the secretary, who’s still talking on the phone but trying to signal to the head. ‘Perhaps we could go into your office?’

The room is surprisingly modern for a school that takes so much care to look traditional. Smooth pale grey walls, a vase of white peonies, a desk in dark wood and steel.

‘You like it?’ he says, seeing her looking round. ‘My partner did it for me.’

‘She has good taste,’ says Somer, taking a seat. Geare does the same.

‘He, in fact. But yes. Hamish has great taste. So, how can I help you?’

‘I’m sure you’ve seen the news. The girl and young child who were found in a cellar in Oxford?’

Geare frowns. ‘What on earth can that possibly have to do with Donald Walsh, of all people?’

‘The house they were found in – it belongs to Mr Walsh’s uncle. His aunt’s husband, strictly speaking, they’re not actually related.’

Geare puts his fingertips together. ‘And?’

‘We’ve been trying to establish who visited the house, and when. Miss Chapman was helping me with a particular date in 2015. Checking whether Mr Walsh was in school that day.’

‘So that girl had been down there as long as that?’

Somer hesitates, just for a moment but long enough for Geare to register.