Though as she finishes the call it’s clear that last bit was rather wide of the mark, judging by the looks she’s now getting.
‘So we have no idea where she is?’ says Tomlinson.
Winfield glances at him, then down at the release form. ‘She has an appointment with her probation officer at three fifteen – she’ll have to attend for that or she’ll be recalled.’
Tomlinson makes a face. ‘It’s a long time till three fifteen –’
‘I am aware of that,’ snaps Winfield.
‘Actually, ma’am,’ begins Doyle, not sure at all if this is a good idea, ‘it might be worth trying Officer Sullivan –’
‘I thought you said she’d gone off shift?’
Doyle feels herself going red again. Like she’s a kid in the playground crapping herself about snitching on the school bully. ‘No, I mean, she may know where Rowan is.’
The governor is frowning but Tomlinson’s sharp; he’s got there already. ‘They were an item, those two?’
Doyle nods. ‘I think it’s been going on a while.’
The governor is the one flushing now, dark-red blotches creeping up her neck. She turns to the officers. ‘I suggest you accompany me to my office,’ she says briskly, ‘and I’ll get you Sullivan’s home address.’
They head off down the corridor but, just as they reach the stairs, Winfield turns back and nods.
‘Well done, Doyle. That was the right call.’
Doyle allows herself a small smile at the governor’s retreating back. Seems today is not quite so shit, after all.
* * *
Adam Fawley
29 October
12.30
I really don’t want to be standing as near as this to Ian Barnetson. Even the other side of the table is way too close. It’s hardly his fault; in fact, he deserves props for quick thinking. We might never have found this stuff otherwise. But, Christ, he smells.
Quinn’s actually holding his nose and even Gis is looking a touch bilious, though Nina Mukerjee doesn’t seem that bothered. But I guess liquid excrement is all in a day’s work for her. And unlike the rest of us, she has a mask.
‘It’s all in miraculously good condition,’ she says, looking up at Barnetson. ‘Considering it’s been underwater for over a week.’
He nods. ‘The backpack was good quality – kept most of the shit out. We’ve entered the wallet and the rest in evidence, but I thought these were best left to you.’
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.’
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?’