Кара Хантер: Close to Home

If I’m pushing back it’s not because I doubt what she’s saying, it’s because I really don’t want this to be true. But her cheeks are pink – she’s on to something. ‘Mrs Bampton says she couldn’t see the man’s face at that distance, so she can’t give us a description.’

‘So how does she know it was a girl he had with him?’

‘Because she was wearing fancy dress. She was wearing a flower outfit .’

***

09.00

Thames Valley Police@ThamesValleyPolice

Can you help find Daisy Mason, 8? Last seen on the Canal Manor estate #Oxford Tuesday midnight. Any info call on 01865 0966552

RETWEETS 829

09.08

BBC Midlands@BBCMidlandsBreaking

There will be a police press conference at 10 a.m. this morning about the disappearance of 8-yr-old Daisy Mason

RETWEETS 1,566

09.11

ITV News@ITVLiveandBreaking

BREAKING: Oxford police to detail the search to find 8yo #DaisyMason at 10 a.m. Will give details of sighting of possible suspect

RETWEETS 5,889

***

For the first fifteen minutes, the press conference was pretty uneventful. The usual questions, the usual non-answers. ‘Early stage of the investigation’ – ‘Doing everything possible’ – ‘Anyone with information’. You know the drill. The audience was edgy – knowing this could be big, but lacking an angle and going in circles. The possible sighting had provoked a momentary flurry, but without either a photo or a description it wasn’t adding up to much. One of the usual suspects tried to elbow herself into the limelight with a pretty crass attempt to make it personal (‘DI Fawley, are you really the appropriate officer to lead a child abduction investigation?’), but everyone else steered clear. I was checking my watch – they’d just about had their allotted quarter of an hour – when someone at the back got up. Looked about seventeen. Sandy hair, pasty skin rapidly going very red as everyone turned to look at him. Not from one of the nationals, I knew that. Probably some intern for the local not-much-more-than-ad-sheet. But I underestimated him, and I should have known better.

‘DI Fawley, can you confirm that you found an item of clothing near the scene that may belong to Daisy? Is that true?’

It was as if the air had been electrified. Two dozen people suddenly fizzing with attention.

I hesitated. Which is, of course, always fatal.

There were hands in the air now, the sound of furious tapping at tablet screens. Six or seven people were trying to cut in, but Pastyface was standing his ground. In both senses.

I noted, in the nanosecond it took me to reply, that he deliberately hadn’t detailed exactly what we’d found. But it’s not because he doesn’t know. It’s because he wants to keep that bit of the scoop to himself.

I took a deep breath. ‘Yes, that is true.’

‘And this – item – was covered in blood?’

I opened my mouth to reply, to set him straight, but it was too late. The room was in an uproar.

***

At 10.15 DC Andrew Baxter sets up a flip chart at the front of the church hall on the Banbury Road that’s been commandeered for the search teams, and props up a large-size map of North Oxford. The immediate area has been covered, and with the number of locals turning up and phoning in, asking if they can help, the next phase needs proper organization.

‘Right,’ he says, raising his voice above the din. They can hear the police helicopter over their heads. ‘Listen up. We need to be clear who’s doing what so we don’t end up chasing our tails or falling arse over tit. Feel free to choose your own cliché if those don’t hit the spot.’

He picks up a red marker pen. ‘We’ve divided the next search areas into three zones. Each team will have at least a dozen police officers and a trained Search Adviser whose responsibility will be to collate evidence and make sure an overenthusiastic Joe Public isn’t doing more harm than good.’

He takes the pen and draws a line round a section of the map. ‘Team one, under Sergeant Ed Mead, will take the Griffin School, all hundred bloody acres of it. Most of it’s open space, thankfully, but there’s still quite a number of copses and wooded areas, and the undergrowth along the east side of the canal. The school’s whipped in a bunch of sturdy sixth-formers to pitch in – the head of PE used to be in the army so I’m sure he knows the drill. No pun intended. Team two, under Sergeant Philip Mann, will take the towpath alongside Canal Manor and the nature reserve to the west of the canal. Volunteers from the local wildlife trust will meet you there – apparently some birds are still nesting so they’ll be on hand to ensure we don’t do any unnecessary damage. There are also residential narrowboats along that stretch, and we need to question the owners.’

He draws more lines on the map. ‘Third team, under Sergeant Ben Roberts, will take the recreation ground, the car park by the level crossing and the college sports grounds off the Woodstock Road. Plenty of locals happy to help there too.’

He snaps the top back on the pen. ‘Any questions? Right. Keep in touch by phone, and we’ll convene another meeting if the search needs to be widened or if the helicopter turns up something. But let’s hope that won’t be necessary.’

***

I’m halfway out of the press room when my phone rings. It’s Alex. I stare at it, wondering whether picking up is a good idea. I have one of those bland factory-decided pictures on the screen. Trees and grass and sky. I didn’t choose it – I didn’t really care what it was, I just had to get rid of what I used to have. That picture of Jake on Alex’s shoulders I took last summer, the sun behind them making his dark hair glow red. I’d just told him he was getting a bit too big for piggyback and he was grinning at me and doing it anyway. The picture always made me think of a poem we read once at school, ‘Surprised by Joy’. That’s what Jake looked like in the picture, surprised by joy. As if his own happiness has taken him unawares.

I pick up the call.

‘Hello, Adam? Where are you?’

‘I’m at the station, a press conference. Something came up – I didn’t want to wake you – ’

‘I know – I heard – it was on the news. They said there’s a child missing.’

I take a deep breath. I knew we’d face something like this sooner or later; it was just a matter of time. But knowing something will happen doesn’t always make it easier when it does.

‘It’s a little girl,’ I say. ‘Her name is Daisy.’

I can almost hear her heartbeat. ‘The poor parents. How are they holding up?’

It should be a straightforward question, but I don’t have a straightforward answer. And that, more than anything else so far, brings home to me how puzzling the Masons are.

‘It’s hard to tell,’ I say, opting for flat honesty. ‘I think they’re more in shock than anything. But it’s early days. There’s no evidence of harm. Nothing to say we won’t find her safe and well.’

She says nothing for a moment. Then, ‘I sometimes wonder if that’s worse.’

I turn away and lower my voice. ‘Worse? What do you mean?’

‘Hope. Whether that’s worse. Worse than knowing. At least we . . .’

Her voice dies.

She’s never talked like this before. We’ve never talked like this. They wanted us to – they told us we had to. But we just kept putting it off. Off and off and off until we couldn’t talk about it at all. Until now. Of all times. She’s crying now, but quietly, because she doesn’t want me to hear. I can’t decide if it’s out of pride or because she doesn’t want me to worry. I glance up and one of the DCs is beckoning to me.