‘So you can’t actually prove you were there?’
‘Sorry, didn’t know I’d need a bloody alibi, did I?’
‘And what about afterwards?’
‘After what?’
‘Well, I can’t believe you sat there all afternoon like some sad stood-up teenager. How long did you give it before you gave up?’
He shifts in his chair. ‘Dunno. Half an hour, maybe.’
‘And then you left.’
He hesitates, then nods.
‘What time was that?’ says Quinn.
‘Around four. Four fifteen maybe.’
‘So why didn’t you go home then?’
He glowers at me. ‘Because I’d already rung Sharon to say I was going to be late and I didn’t want to get roped into all the pissing about for the bloody party. All right? Satisfied? That makes me a lazy git, not a murderer. There’s no law against that.’
I wait. ‘So what did you do? Where’d you go?’
He shrugs. ‘Just drove about a bit.’
Another pause. Then we get to our feet and he looks from one to the other. ‘You mean, that’s it? I can go home?’
‘Yes, you can go home. Though I’m surprised you want to, given the reception you’re likely to get.’
He makes a face. ‘It was a figure of speech. There are plenty of hotels in this sodding town. In case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘On which subject, don’t go anywhere without telling us first. We still need to check your whereabouts that afternoon.’
‘I’ve already told you, I can’t prove it.’
‘CCTV doesn’t lie, Mr Mason. Rather like DNA.’
Am I imagining it or does something flicker across his face at that?
‘I want a lawyer,’ he says sullenly. ‘I’m entitled to see a lawyer.’
‘You can see whoever you like. Be sure to tell them you’ve not been arrested.’
At the door I pause and turn towards him. ‘What did Daisy call you?’
He blinks. ‘Sorry?’
‘It’s a simple enough question. What did Daisy call you?’
I use the past tense deliberately, intrigued to see if he challenges it. But he doesn’t seem to notice.
‘Daddy?’ he says, sarcastic. ‘Perhaps the odd Dad on occasion. Sorry, but we don’t go in for Pater where I come from. What the fuck difference does it make?’
I smile. ‘Perhaps none. I was just curious.’
*
At 10.35 a.m. the following morning Everett knocks again at the door of the Dawsons’ house. She can see the cat perched on the back of a chair in the front room, eyeing her suspiciously through the geraniums in the window box. The door opens to a tired but distinguished-looking man with greying hair.
‘Yes?’ he says with a frown. He has a strong Ulster accent. ‘We don’t buy at the door.’
Everett raises an eyebrow and her warrant card. ‘Neither do I. Detective Constable Everett, Thames Valley CID. May I come in?’
He has the grace to blush, then stands back and gestures for her to pass. She walks through the passage down into the big white and ash kitchen on the lower ground floor, where Eleanor Dawson is pouring coffee.
‘Oh, Detective!’ she says gaily. ‘I didn’t realize you were coming back.’
‘I wasn’t expecting to, Dr Dawson. I came to see Portia. Is she here?’
Patrick Dawson glances at his wife. ‘She’s upstairs. What is this about? I thought she’d already told you everything she knows.’
‘I just have a few more questions. Could you call her down?’
There’s an awkward few moments as the three of them wait in silence for Portia to appear. Which she does, eventually. And warily.
‘What does she want, Mum?’ she says, her eyes wide. She sounds very young – she is very young.
Eleanor Dawson goes to her daughter and puts her arm round her. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, darling. I’m sure it’s just routine.’
Everett takes a step towards her. ‘I just wanted to ask you again about the day Daisy disappeared. You see, my colleague looked at the TV footage from the school gate and it looks like you followed Daisy. Even though that’s not your way home. Is that right?’
Portia looks up at her mother. ‘I didn’t do anything, Mum,’ she says in a small voice.
‘I know you didn’t, darling. Just explain what happened to Constable Everett and everything will be fine.’
‘So did you follow Daisy, Portia?’ says Everett.
There’s a pause, then a nod. ‘Just for a little way. Then I had to come back so Mum could take me to my maths class.’
Eleanor Dawson intervenes. ‘That’s absolutely correct, Constable. The class starts at 4.30 so Portia must have been back here by 4.15 or we’d have been late. Feel free to confirm that with them. It’s the Kumon Study Centre on the Banbury Road.’
Everett hasn’t taken her eyes from Portia. ‘I’m still curious why you followed Daisy that day.’
‘I just wanted to talk to her.’
‘Because you two were best friends – that’s what you told us, isn’t it?’
Portia seems to have realized where this is tending, because she just stares. Tears start to well in her eyes.
‘You see, Portia,’ says Everett gently, moving towards her, ‘we’ve been told you’d fallen out with Daisy. And when DC Baxter looked at the CCTV for the week before the party, we saw the two of you having a big argument – you hit her and pulled her hair and shouted at her. There’s no sound, but it’s easy to see what you were saying. You’re saying you hate Daisy and you wish she was dead.’
Portia hangs her head and the tears roll down her face. ‘She was mean to me. She said my dad didn’t think I was clever enough to be a doctor like him and being good at drawing wouldn’t get me anywhere – ’
‘Oh, darling,’ says Eleanor Dawson, reaching out and wiping the tears from her daughter’s cheek. ‘You mustn’t believe everything Daisy told you. She was always making things up.’
Portia is shaking her head. ‘But I know this was true because she sounded just like Daddy – she did his voice and everything – ’
Eleanor Dawson shoots an angry look at her husband, then crouches down and whispers, ‘It’s all right, Portia. No one thinks you did any harm to Daisy.’
Portia is still shaking her head. ‘But you don’t understand – I made one of those voodoo curse things like we saw in the museum and I stuck pins in it and wished she was dead, and now she is and it’s all my fault . . .’
Patrick Dawson steps firmly between Everett and his family. ‘I think that’s enough, Constable. You can see you’re distressing my daughter. And you can’t seriously suspect her of having anything to do with that child’s death. She’s only eight years old, for heaven’s sake.’
Everett looks at the sobbing girl and then back at her father. ‘We don’t yet know that Daisy Mason is dead, sir. And you might consider all this is just trivial playground squabbling, but children take that sort of stuff deadly seriously. As your daughter obviously did. And you’d be surprised what kids can be capable of, if pushed. Even if they are only eight.’
*