Mukerjee’s eyes give little away behind her mask. She nods and reaches for the evidence bags.
* * *
It’s a small 1970s block on the outskirts of Claygate. Red brick, windows a shade too small, balconies that say more than a census about the people inside: an orange space hopper and a tricycle on one, assorted plastic plant pots crowding out a single garden chair on the next, a washing line strung with running gear on the top storey, a tattered pro-EU banner draped across the railings.
‘Andrea Sullivan lives at number three,’ says PC Tomlinson, ‘which by my reckoning should be on the ground floor.’
‘You don’t say,’ mutters his colleague.
‘Come on, Malloy,’ he says, with just a touch of irritation, ‘this is what qualifies as interesting, in this job. This woman, Rowan, she’s all over the papers.’
That’s as may be, thinks Malloy, as she follows him towards the entrance, but I reckon the chances of her actually being here are approximately zero. If she’s doing a runner, she’s long gone.
They push through the heavy main door, which opens with a wrenching squeal, then go down the corridor to the third door. A brass number, a sign saying no junk mail, no hawkers. There’s no sound from inside.
Tomlinson raps on the door. ‘Surrey Police, Ms Sullivan. Can you come to the door, please.’
They can hear voices from somewhere above their heads, the sound of steps on the concrete stairs. But nothing inside.
Tomlinson tries again, louder now. Still nothing. Malloy has the jaded face of the cynic who’s rarely wrong.
‘OK,’ says Tomlinson. ‘You stay here, I’m going to check outside – see if I can find her car.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
29 October
12.33
Mukerjee opens out the two letters and lays them flat on the table. They’re stained, and still a little damp, but they’re both legible. One’s a thick textured sheet of notepaper with a lawyer’s comps slip still clipped to the top: Brockman Fells LLP, and a New York address. The writing on the sheet underneath is shaky and irregular, as if completed at several attempts. One word at the bottom: ‘Dad’. The other letter is handwritten too, this one on cheap lined stationery. And even without the standard wording at the top, I know where this one came from. I’ve seen paper like that before. I bend to read the first, then gesture to Quinn and Gis to do the same. A moment later Quinn looks up.
‘So the social worker was telling the truth.’
I nod. ‘Not that I ever doubted it. She had no reason to lie.’
Gis takes a deep breath. ‘But it’s not just that, is it?’
* * *
‘Who are you and what the fuck are you doing?’
Malloy looks up and almost loses her balance. She’d been crouched down trying to look through the letterbox, an undignified posture at best, and even worse when you’re caught out doing it.
The woman looking down at her is thickset with dark hair in a spiky short cut, a pair of grubby jogging bottoms and a plastic basket of laundry under one arm. Malloy clears her throat. ‘Sorry, Miss –?’
The woman’s eyes narrow. ‘Ms Sullivan. Andrea Sullivan. Your turn.’
Malloy straightens up. Where the hell is Tomlinson when you need him?
She pulls out her warrant card. ‘PC Julie Malloy, Surrey Police. We’re trying to track down Camilla Rowan.’
The woman raises an eyebrow. ‘And? What’s that got to do with me?’
‘You signed her out this morning, so naturally –’
‘Naturally,’ she says, sarcastic. She leaves a pause. ‘Look, as far as I know she’s seeing her probation officer later this afternoon. What she does before that is none of my business. Or yours. Unless something’s come up –’
‘Not at all,’ says Malloy quickly. ‘Just a bureaucratic cock-up. Someone probably forgot to get the right forms done. You know what it’s like.’
She rolls her eyes and Sullivan seems to thaw a little. ‘I ought to, fifteen years on the job.’
Malloy slides a glance over Sullivan’s shoulder. Still no sign of bloody Tomlinson. How long does it take to check a bloody car park?
‘Do you know where Rowan was going when she left Heathside?’
Sullivan sighs. ‘Look, you’d better come in.’ She hitches the basket on to her hip and fiddles in her jogger pockets for her keys. She has three locks so it takes a while but eventually they’re inside.
She takes the washing through to the tiny kitchen, then comes back to the sitting room. She obviously hasn’t lived here long; there are still pictures wrapped in bubble plastic leaning against one wall and a stack of cardboard boxes labelled in big letters with red felt-pen, lounge, spare room, bedroom.
She doesn’t offer Malloy to sit down, so they stand awkwardly between the furniture, slightly encroaching on each other’s personal space.
Malloy gets out her notebook. A useful thing to occupy your hands, as she’s discovered in situations like this more than once.
‘So Ms Rowan didn’t say where she was going, when you were completing the release procedures?’
There’s a knock on the front door. Sullivan goes to open it and returns with Tomlinson behind her. He catches Malloy’s eye and gives a minute nod.
‘This is PC Tomlinson,’ says Malloy brightly. ‘He was just having a quick fag outside.’
Tomlinson looks momentarily startled but then smiles sheepishly. ‘Keep trying to give the bloody things up.’
Sullivan gives a quick dry laugh. ‘Yeah, you and me both, mate.’
‘Ms Sullivan tells me she has no idea where Camilla Rowan might be,’ continues Malloy.
‘I see,’ says Tomlinson. ‘Do you know how she was planning to get to her hostel from Heathside? Bus? Minicab?’
‘Like I said, no idea.’
‘You didn’t by any chance give her a lift? Given you came off shift at exactly the time she left?’
‘Not sure how hot your map-reading skills are, mate, but Dorking’s hardly on my way. And in any case, it’s strictly against the regs, even if I’d wanted to. Which I didn’t.’
‘Do you know if she has access to any sort of vehicle?’
Sullivan raises her eyebrows. ‘I doubt it, she barely had enough cash for a sodding Happy Meal.’ She looks from one to the other. ‘Is that it? Cos if there’s nothing else, I have things to do.’
‘Of course,’ says Malloy with a smile. ‘It’s obviously just an admin mix-up. We’re sorry to have troubled you.’
As soon as they’re outside Malloy turns quickly to Tomlinson and lowers her voice. ‘We need to run an urgent vehicle check.’
Tomlinson frowns. ‘On what? Her car’s still here.’
‘You didn’t see – when she got back to the flat she was carrying that basket of washing.’
‘So?’
‘So, I don’t think she brought it back home with her from work, do you? She wasn’t wearing a coat either and I never heard the main door open. I think she was upstairs – I think she brought that washing down to do it for someone else. Looked like old lady stuff to me, as well.’
Tomlinson grins. ‘Big knickers, eh? So you’re thinking a neighbour, maybe?’
Malloy nods. ‘More likely a relative. And Sullivan clearly hasn’t been living there long – maybe her mum was already in one of the other flats and she’s moved here to be closer to her?’
‘And in that case,’ says Tomlinson slowly, ‘it’s possible that dear old mum has a car too –’