Millie shrugs. ‘He said he was going to play football after school.’
Julia Connor smiles. ‘I remember now. That team from High Wycombe, wasn’t it? Let’s hope he wins. Otherwise he’ll be even more bad-tempered than usual, playing in the rain.’
She picks up the bags again and takes them through to the kitchen, where she turns on the radio and starts unpacking the shopping.
It must be at least half an hour later that the front doorbell rings. The two little girls start and exchange a glance, then Daisy edges back further out of sight and Millie creeps forward to where she can see down the stairs. There’s a figure shadowed against the frosted glass. Julia Connor comes through from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she says as the door opens. ‘Must be ages since we last – ’
‘I’m so sorry to trouble you, Mrs Connor – ’
‘Oh, Julia, please – you make me sound like my mother-in-law.’
‘This is so embarrassing, but have you by any chance seen Daisy? She was supposed to be home by four o’clock sharp and she’s still not back, and it’ll be getting dark soon. Her father will be so worried.’
Julia is a picture of concern. ‘Oh dear, how awful. But I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. She probably just stopped off at a friend’s on the way home and lost track of the time. Have you tried calling round?’
Sharon Mason flutters her hands, seemingly in despair. ‘I never seem to know who her friends are these days, never mind have their numbers. I can’t remember the last time she brought someone home. You were the only person I could think of.’
Julia reaches out and touches her hand. ‘Let me ask Millie for you – she might know.’
Millie looks up at the sound of her name but Daisy immediately grips her arm and puts her finger to her lips. Then she shakes her head slowly, her eyes all the while intent on Millie’s face.
‘Are you still up there, Millie?’ calls her mother. ‘Did you see Daisy after school today?’
Millie stands up and goes to the head of the stairs, where the two women can see her. ‘No, Mummy. I don’t know where she is.’
Julia turns to Sharon with an apologetic look. ‘I’m so sorry, I really don’t know what to suggest. Perhaps you can give me your number and I can call you if I hear anything? And such a shame about your evening out too.’
Sharon frowns. ‘What evening out?’
Julia flushes. ‘Well, the handbag – the shoes. I just thought you must be going out. Sorry – I didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘Of course I’m not going out. My little girl is missing.’
Julia opens her mouth, then fails to find anything to say. But she dutifully writes down Sharon’s number before watching her step carefully down the uneven gravelled drive and back down the close. Then she shuts the door again and returns to the kitchen. Upstairs on the landing, Millie turns to Daisy. ‘You’re going to be in awful trouble.’
‘It’s OK – I’ll go down in a minute when your mum’s not looking and let myself out.’ She smiles broadly. ‘Don’t worry. She won’t even notice.’
*
Amy Cathcart is sitting in the Hill of Beans coffee shop in the centre of Newbury, watching the TV on the wall behind the bar, waiting for her friend to arrive. She’s twenty-seven, blonde, petite, GSOH, likes children and animals, and enjoys long country walks. At least that’s what her profile says. In reality she’s rather closer to middle height, walking bores her and her sense of humour is wearing thin. Right this minute the culprit is Marcia, who’s a quarter of an hour late, but her job, the world and herself are all equally wearying. Equally disappointing. That very morning she’d had an invite to yet another wedding, in yet another fancy hotel. Her wardrobe is gaping with outfits she can’t wear a second time with the same crowd, and she’s getting mighty tired of being that person on the far left of the group shot whose name no one can remember ten years on.
Marcia pushes through the door, her eyes still on her phone. She tucks a wisp of perfectly red-gold hair behind her ear as she stares at the screen, presses a couple of times, then finally looks up.
‘Amy! So sorry I’m late. Been on the phone all morning. Bloody copywriters – never do what they’re asked. They’re all too busy thinking they’re the next Dan Brown to focus on the sodding brief.’
They kiss and Marcia hitches herself up on the stool. ‘What you having?’
‘Americano. But it’s my turn.’
Marcia flaps dissent away. ‘Least I can do. So tell me – what have you been up to? Met anyone interesting?’
It’s six months since Amy joined the dating site, and it’s been – to put it charitably – a mixed bag. She’s beginning to think she might be at a difficult age – there seems to be precious little between the slightly-too-desperate divorced and the never-been-married-and-you-can-see-why. Last Christmas her mother gave her a magnet for the fridge that said: ‘Men are like a box of chocolates – leave it too long and all that’s left are the nuts.’ Which is exactly the sort of catty and irritatingly accurate thing she’d expect her mother to come out with. Though this time, it might just be different.
‘Well,’ she begins, ‘there is a guy I’ve been emailing. We haven’t met yet, but he sounds more promising than most of them. Not that that’s saying very much.’
‘Name, age, income, baggage?’ It’s Marcia’s standard catechism.
‘He’s called Aidan. He’s thirty-nine and he works in the City. Divorced but no kids, thank God.’
The coffees arrive and Marcia stirs through the froth on her cappuccino and licks the spoon. ‘So when are you going to see him?’
‘Possibly next weekend. He’s got some big takeover he’s working on, so he hasn’t had a lot of time. Though he’s sent me loads of texts. Sometimes when he’s actually in one of the meetings. About how boring it is and how all the banker types are playing “my dad’s bigger than your dad”. Though I’m not getting my hopes up – not till I meet him. I mean, remember Mr Licky?’
Marcia opens her eyes wide. ‘Oh Lord. Fate worse than actual death. So go on – show me some of those texts.’
Amy starts to say no – it’s too soon – they’re private – but Marcia’s having none of it. ‘Come on, it isn’t actual sexting, is it?’
‘No, of course not – ’
‘Well then, where’s the harm? Gimme. Come on, give it here.’
Amy hands over her phone and sits back as her friend scrolls through the messages. She pretended to mind but actually she rather likes having one up on Marcia for once. Marcia’s never had trouble finding men, and has an enviable track record as dumper, not dumpee. Surely it must be Amy’s turn eventually. Even if Mr Right is too much to hope for, at least a relationship that gets off the ground before it crashes and burns.
But that’s exactly what happens. Right there, at precisely 10.06, as she lifts her cup to her lips and her eyes to the TV screen.
*
Interview with Sharon Mason
21 July 2016, 11.49 a.m.
In attendance, DI A. Fawley, Acting DS G. Quinn
AF: Our apologies for keeping you waiting, Mrs Mason. Would you like a cup of tea?
SM: No thank you. I had some earlier. It was disgusting. It tasted like you made it with evaporated milk.
AF: As we explained earlier, we’re trying to pin down exactly when Daisy was last seen, and where. You told us that you weren’t aware that the daisy costume was being worn that night by Millie Connor?
SM: I was busy. Sorting out the food, doing the drinks. People always ask for something you haven’t got. And it was dark - there were children running about all over the place. I just assumed it was her. You’d have done the same.
AF: Actually, Mrs Mason, I’m not sure I would. But we’re not here to talk about me. Do you know what happened to the mermaid costume Daisy swapped with Millie? Have you seen it in the house?
SM: No, I’ve never clapped eyes on it. It’s certainly not in her room.
AF: And did Daisy wear her usual uniform to school that day? Have you checked if that is in the house?
[pause]