`And to repeat, Sasha is only fifteen. She's very much loved and her mother is desperate to have her home.'
I look one more time round the room and sit back in my chair.
A man halfway down raises his hand. `Paddy Neville, Reading Chronicle. Is there anything to suggest this was an abduction?'
`We aren't in a position to rule out anything at this stage, but at present we have no actual evidence to suggest that.'
`Have there been other recent incidents of this type, Inspector?' Another journalist. Bearded, glasses, one of those knitted ties. I don't recognize him. And he doesn't give his name.
`No.'
`Are you talking just about Thames Valley or more widely?'
I fix his gaze. `There are none that I'm aware of.'
He raises his eyebrows. `Really? What about the incident on April 1st?'
The other hacks start to look round at him; there's a stirring, a sense that there may be more to this than meets the eye. More than we're letting on. And there's nothing the hacks love more than a police cover-up. I can hear the murmurs rising: `What incident?' `Do you know what he's talking about?' And judging by their faces, a couple of the locals are pretty pissed off that an out-of-towner has scooped them; the BBC Oxford bloke for starters. At the other end of the dais, Harrison has started jiggling his leg up and down; I can feel it through the floorboards. Though thankfully the press can't see that behind the drapes and the large sign saying THAMES VALLEY POLICE: REDUCING CRIME, DISORDER AND FEAR. Something tells me I may not be doing very well on that last one.
`Inspector Fawley?' says the man as the noise in the room intensifies. `Was there or was there not an incident involving a young woman on Monday April 1st?'
`There was an incident, yes. But the young woman sustained no significant harm.'
`Hang on a minute,' asks a woman in the front row. `No significant harm `“ what sort of mealy-mouthed crap is that?'
And she's right. Some are born bullshitters; the rest of us just have bullshit thrust upon us.
`We have no evidence indicating a link `“'
Knitted Tie pushes his glasses up his nose. `Don't you mean, no evidence yet?'
Harrison's leg-jiggling intensifies.
Knitted Tie checks back through his notes, but that's just grandstanding; he knows it and I know it.
`According to my sources, the victim of the attack on April 1st lives less than a mile from Sasha Blake.' He looks up at me. `Now clearly I'm just a rank amateur when it comes to investigative policing, but that looks suspiciously like a link to me.'
There's some laughter at that. But it's the hard, dry kind. The mood in the room has changed and I can feel Fiona Blake's eyes on me. She's wondering why we didn't tell her about this other girl, why we didn't do something to stop it happening again `“
Knitted Tie is still looking at me. The room is growing silent.
`But perhaps I've got it wrong,' he says. `You tell me, Inspector `“ after all, this is your patch, not mine.'
He's holding my gaze now, watching my reaction. And that last comment was definitely a message, and a pretty thinly veiled one at that. This man is Fleet Street.
`As I said, we have no reason to believe there is any link between these incidents. Should that situation change, we will, of course, make an announcement at the appropriate time.'
Hands are going up all over the room now, but Knitted Tie isn't giving up that easily.
`That first incident `“ is it true the victim was abducted in a van?'
A pause. Only two heartbeats, but that's one too many.
`Yes,' I say. `We believe a van was involved.'
You can almost hear the intake of breath. The woman in the front row glares at me. Everyone else is scrambling to write all this down. Everyone apart from Knitted Tie. He couldn't make it any clearer: all I've just done is confirm something he already knew.
The questions are machine-gunning now, no one is bothering to wait their turn.
`What sort of van?'
`Who was this girl?'
`Why didn't we know about this before?'
I hold up a hand. `As I said, we have no reason `“'
``“ to believe there's a connection,' says Knitted Tie, who's still on his feet. `I know. I heard you the first time. But surely any reasonable person would think it was at least worth checking `“'
`We are,' I say, quickly. Too quickly. I shouldn't show how rattled I am. `But, as I'm sure you're aware, I am not at liberty to divulge any information that might compromise an active investigation.'
He nods, a nasty smile spreading slowly across his mouth. `But presumably we can take it as read that this `њchecking`ќ of yours also extends to other incidents employing a similar MO?'
I turn to fully face him. I can still see Harrison out of the corner of my eye, staring at me. Because I'm on thin ice here, and he and I both know it. I can't lie, but there's no bloody way I'm telling this pushy git of a journalist any more than I absolutely have to.
`Of course.'
He nods slowly. `And that would include past cases too, I take it? Even `“ theoretically `“ those officially classed as closed?'
He stops; raises an eyebrow. Goads me.
`DI Fawley has given you your answer,' says Harrison quickly. `I think this would be a good moment to bring things to a close. And let me remind you all that our sole priority `“ my sole priority `“ is to find Sasha Blake safe and well and reunite her with her family. And, in the meantime, we would ask you to respect Mrs Blake's privacy, at this very anxious time.'
It takes five minutes to clear the room. And throughout that whole time I feel the journalist's eyes on me.
He knows. Of course he bloody knows. But he hasn't got enough to go on. Not yet.
Back in reception, I see him go up to a woman who's clearly been waiting for him. The two of them speak for a moment then walk away towards the door, their heads bent together. The woman has light-brown hair twisted into a clip at the back of her head. Crisp, anonymous clothes, which sit oddly with her heavy crГЄpe-soled boots. She looks vaguely familiar.
And not in a good way.
* * *
`Why wasn't I told?' Fiona Blake is so angry she can barely speak. Fury is crackling round her like static.
Somer opens her mouth and closes it again. She can understand the anger; she's just not sure how it's going to help. She glances round nervously to check who's in earshot: there's always one or two press who think they might get a scoop if they hang about and eavesdrop. She takes Fiona's arm and steers her back down the corridor to the witness suite. As soon as the door closes Fiona yanks her arm away and turns on her.
`You got me to sit up there, in front of all those `“ those `“ vultures `“ answering their questions `“ letting them poke about in my life `“ and you didn't even tell me there'd been another girl?'
`I know it must look that way, but `“'
`But what? But what?'
Somer hesitates. `The other incident. We were working on the basis that it was a hate crime. That's why we've been wary about saying anything to the press.'
Fiona is staring at her. `A hate crime `“ what do you mean, a hate crime?'