‘So if he’d done it, we’d have found her by now?’
‘Probably. I can’t see him covering his tracks that well.’
I nod. ‘Did you believe the story about the circus?’
He’s more equivocal now. ‘If it did happen like he says, I find it hard to believe Daisy reacted so badly. OK, she might not get on with her parents, and she might have that fantasy a lot of kids do about being adopted. All the same, it’s a bit of an extreme reaction, isn’t it? But, hey, I’m hardly the one to ask. I don’t know how eight-year-olds think.’
But I do. ‘Everything seems enormous when you’re that age.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It was something Everett said. A couple of days ago. And she’s right. Kids that young get things out of proportion. Especially bad things. They can’t put them in perspective, and they can’t see beyond how bad they feel right then. If children under twelve commit suicide, that’s usually the reason why.’
I stick my spoon in my coffee and stir it. I can feel Quinn looking at me. Wondering how to react. It’s more than I’ve ever said to him before. More than I’ve said to pretty much anyone.
The café door swings open and I see Gislingham coming briskly towards us. On a mission, clearly. ‘Challow just called,’ he says as he gets to the table. ‘He’s tested the mermaid costume.’
‘And?’
‘There’s a rip in it, at the neck, but given it was being worn by kids week in, week out, it could just be normal wear and tear. There wasn’t any blood, but there was DNA. Four different individuals. Sharon Mason, who we know handled it; Daisy Mason, likewise; and another unknown female, presumably Millie Connor.’
‘And the fourth?’
‘Male. A pubic hair, to be precise.’
There’s a rock in my chest. ‘Barry Mason?’
‘Yup, in one.’
Quinn makes a face. ‘The same Barry Mason who claims not to know the costumes were switched – who claims not to know there even was a mermaid costume.’
‘Ah, but that’s where it gets complicated,’ says Gislingham. ‘Sharon says she found it under his gym kit, so if it came to court his defence is bound to argue that his DNA got on the costume that way.’
‘But if Barry was the one who hid it, that in itself would be proof enough – ’
‘We can’t prove that,’ says Gislingham, not letting Quinn finish. ‘It could have been Sharon, trying to frame him. He’s going to say that, isn’t he, even if it’s bollocks? And there’s one more thing.’ He turns to Quinn. ‘We checked the time of the 999 call to the fire service, like you asked.’
Quinn sits back. ‘And?’
‘You were right. The call came through at 2.10. That’s nearly ten minutes after Sharon got out of her burning house, leaving her son inside.’
‘OK,’ I say, ‘give Ev a call and get her to ask Sharon what the hell she thinks she was doing. Not in those exact words, of course.’
—
Quinn collects the empty cups and we’re getting up to go when I catch sight of the desk sergeant gesturing to us from the doorway. It must be something important to get him off his ample behind. And then I see: he has a young woman with him. Mid height, long auburn hair. She has a raffia bag over one shoulder and that’s when I realize I’ve seen her before – at the school. Right now, half the men in the place are staring at her. I sense Quinn straighten his shoulders, but it’s not him she’s come to see. Or so it seems. She scans the room anxiously then alights on Gislingham and comes quickly towards him. I see Gislingham slide Quinn a glance, and I have to admit, the look on Quinn’s face is priceless. DC two, DS nil.
‘DC Gislingham,’ she says, slightly breathless. ‘I’m so glad I caught you. I asked for your colleague – the woman – I forgot her name – ’
‘DC Everett – ’
‘ – only they said she wasn’t here so I thought I should talk to you instead.’
Gislingham turns to me. ‘This is Daisy’s teacher, boss. Miss Madigan.’ He introduces Quinn too, but I can see she’s too distracted to register who either of us are. Which Quinn clearly finds peculiarly devastating.
‘It’s the fairy story,’ she says, turning to Gislingham again. ‘Daisy’s fairy story. I was packing up the flat and found it behind the desk. It must have slipped down there when I was marking them. I’m so sorry – it’s all my fault.’
Gislingham smiles. ‘No worries, Miss Madigan. Thanks for bringing it in.’
‘No,’ she says, ‘you don’t understand. That’s why I’m so worried. At least now I look at it again.’ She stops, then puts a hand to her forehead. ‘I’m not expressing this very well, am I? What I meant to say is that reading the story now, all these weeks later, after what – ’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I think there’s something in it that I missed at the time. Something awful.’
She turns to the bag and pulls out the sheet of paper. When she passes it to Gislingham I can see her hands are trembling. He reads it, serious now, then hands it to me. The woman’s cheeks have gone red and she’s biting her lip.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says softly, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I will never forgive myself if something’s happened and I could have prevented it. What she says about the monster – how could I not have seen – ’
Her voice falters and Gislingham moves a step closer. ‘You couldn’t have known. Not just from this. No one could. But you did the right thing, bringing it in.’ He takes her gently by the elbow. ‘Come on, let’s get you a nice cup of tea.’
As they walk away towards the counter I hand the story to Quinn. He scans it and looks up at me.
I know exactly what he’s thinking.
The Sad Princess
By Daisy Mason, age 8
Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived in a hut. It was horribelhorrible. She did not know why she had to live there. It made her sad. She wanted to isscape escape but a wicked witch wood would not let her. The wicked witch had a monster that looked like a pig. The little girl wanted to run away and she tried to be brave but every time she tried the monster came into her room and held her down. It really hurt. Then the little girl found out she was reely really a princess in dizgise disguise. But she could only go and live in the castle like a real princess if someone killed the wicked witch and the monster. Then a prince came in a red charrit chariot and she thoght thought he would take her away. But he diddent didn’t. He was mean. The little girl cried a lot. She was never going to be a princess. She did not live happily ever after.
The end
***
Back in my office I open the window as wide as it will go and have a fag, standing there. The venetian blinds are thick with dust. I’ve always hated those bloody things. I wonder for a moment about calling Alex, but I don’t know what I would say. Silence has become an easy lie. For both of us. There’s a father and son waiting at the crossing. It looks like they’re on their way to Christchurch Meadow – the boy is carrying a bag of sliced bread to feed the ducks. They may even see swans, if they’re lucky. I think about Jake, who loved swans too, allowing myself a thin ration of memory from the tiny hoard my heart marks safe. I think about Daisy, and the father who turned into a monster. And I think about Leo. The lonely boy. The ghost in his own life. Missing in subtraction. Because where, in everything I’ve heard today, was Leo?