I stood up: "Thanks, Paul. Has anyone any questions?"
"Was there an alarm?" someone asked.
"No," I replied.
"He might be an amateur in practical terms," someone else suggested, 'but he seems to be well genned-up on the theory if he's got away without leaving a trace behind."
"Good point," I said. "I haven't told you what he stole. It appears that the only thing missing is a small quantity of jewellery, sentimental value only." I knew what they were thinking, so I said it for them: "And one little girl," I added.
Nigel was next in the limelight. He told us about the frantic efforts of the night before to get as many people as possible on the streets armed with photographs. We'd enquired in all the places where she might have been seen and all those where we hoped she hadn't.
Nothing.
Acting Detective Sergeant Jeff Caton had supervised the raid on the bus station earlier this morning. Sparky and myself had been there, too. I invited Jeff to say his piece.
"Morning," he began. "The KGP school bus is run by Carter's Coaches.
It arrives at Heckley bus station at about eight and leaves at eight fifteen, prompt. Yesterday was no exception. The missing girl did not get on it. Her father dropped her off in Bridge Street, right outside the station. Sometimes, if there was a parking space, he would walk through the station to where the coach waited, a distance of approximately seventy-five metres. Yesterday he couldn't find a vacant place, so he double-parked to drop her off. He nipped to the news agent kiosk to buy a paper and then left. The proprietor of the kiosk recognised the photograph of Georgina and remembers exchanging pleasantries with her father. He sees them arrive most mornings.
Georgina sometimes buys sweets in another shop, but didn't yesterday.
Fourteen other people who use the bus station every morning at that time recognised her face. Only two claimed they saw her yesterday.
None of the other kids who use the bus saw her, nor did the driver.
Somewhere between her dad's car and the school bus she vanished without a trace." Like a snowflake that falls into the palm of your hand.
Superintendent Wood read a press release he had prepared and told us that he was planning on recording an appeal on television tomorrow morning. None of us felt optimistic as we left the meeting to make our individual contributions to the search. The simple explanation had not been forthcoming; now we were contemplating the grotesque one.
Chapter 3
I went up to Gilbert's office and had a coffee with him. "Strong, black and preferably with caffeine," I requested.
"Coming up. Would you like a tot of something stronger in it?"
"No thanks. Did you ring Annabelle?"
He placed the coffees on two mats on his table. "Yes, she said she understood. She'll realise what it's all about when she reads the papers." He dunked a digestive biscuit and manoeuvred the soggy mass into his mouth just before it collapsed.
"That's a disgusting habit," I protested.
"One of life's little comforts, Charlie. Help yourself." He swallowed the remainder and went on: Annabelle's a nice girl. Too good for you, if the truth be known. You'll lose her if you don't watch it."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence; it's just what I need."
"No, you don't understand. It's not you, it's the job. Just look at yourself; take stock. You went to art college, got a degree in batik dyeing or something ' "It was in art."
"OK, art. You pretend to like decent music, appreciate good food. The fact that you listen to jungle drums and eat rubbish is due to circumstances. You could look reasonably tidy if you changed your clothes more often ' "I change my clothes as often as anyone," I protested.
"Well, you always look crumpled. Sometimes I don't know if you're supposed to be a Hell's Angel or an out-of-work violinist."
"I like looking crumpled. I feel comfortable when I'm crumpled. And look at yourself. You had that shirt on yesterday."
"No I didn't." It was his turn to be indignant.
"Yes you did."
He looked down at it. "Did I? Must have picked the wrong one up this morning. Blame it on the early start. Anyhow, we're not talking about me. The point I'm making is that you've some hard thinking to do.
Charlie the Artist could just about pull Annabelle. Charlie the Policeman never will. She needs more than you can give her as you are at present, but she's worth the effort. If I were you, I'd make it."
I hadn't a clue what he was talking about. "Are you telling me I ought to resign?" I asked, incredulously.
He shook his head. "No, of course not." He dunked another biscuit.
"But outside that door all hell's breaking loose, and I'm in here trying to sort out your love life. Last night, if I'd been in your shoes, I'd have gone round to Annabelle's for supper."
I stared at him for several seconds. "No you wouldn't," I declared.
"Yes I would, if I wanted her."
"I don't believe you. I don't believe you and I think you're wrong."
"Maybe, maybe not. Now, what are we doing about finding this kid?"
I left Gilbert concocting a speech for the television cameras and drove round to see Mr. Dewhurst. A patrol car was parked in the lane. I pulled in behind it and had a word with the driver:
"Is he in?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any problems with the press or passing ghouls?"
"No, but it suddenly seems a popular road for dog-walkers to use."
"Does it? Is anybody talking to them?"
"Yes, sir, we are. Most of them say they didn 't come this way yesterday, but the few who did didn't see anything."
"Fair enough. Keep at it."
There was a Toyota Supra parked on the drive as well as the Nissan. The registration plate bore Dewhurst's initials, MJD. Personal number plates should be compulsory they are a lot easier to remember. I glanced round the garden at nothing in particular, then pressed the bell push. I was just considering whether it would be polite to ring again when the door was opened by an elderly lady. I fished in my pocket for my ID card.
"Good morning, I'm Inspector Priest. Is Mr. Dewhurst available?"
"Have you found her?" she demanded, and for a brief moment her face lit up with hope.
I shook my head. "No, I'm sorry, we've no news yet. You must be…?"
"Mrs. Eaglin. Georgina's grandma." Her face sagged back to the hopeless expression it had borne a moment earlier. "You'd better come in." She took me through to the sitting room and invited me to sit down. "Miles is asleep," she told me. "We waited up until about four o'clock this morning and then I insisted that he take one of my pills.
Do you want me to wake him?"
"No, I'll catch him later. If we have no success today we're thinking about making a television appeal tomorrow morning. We'd need Mr.
Dewhurst down at the station at about nine thirty, if he agrees to it.
Sometimes they produce good results. I'd be grateful if you could forewarn him."
"What do you think's happened to her, Inspector? She's such a lovely girl…" Mrs. Eaglin's eyes filled with tears and she sniffed into a tiny lace handkerchief. Her fingers were clenched as tightly as the arthritis would allow.
When she'd composed herself I said: "We're hoping that Georgina played truant from school and became too frightened to come home; or maybe she got lost. We're talking to any other children who were absent on Monday. Alternatively, she may have been abducted by, say, a childless woman who wants her for her own daughter. That happens more often than you'd realise."
I didn't mention that we were dragging the canal, and that the helicopter was scouring the fields and woods with the latest heat-seeking technology. We also had a long print-out of sex offenders, and were slowly working our way through it. Silly men who'd led blameless lives after flashing in the park thirty years ago were having their pasts raked up in front of their families. It hardly seemed fair, but we were grasping at the wind.