—
At the bottom of the Masons’ garden the barbecue is still smouldering, the metal giving tiny clicks as it cools. The chains of the swing are bound together tightly with duct tape, so it can’t be used. There’s a stack of garden chairs, a gazebo (folded) and a trestle table with a gingham cloth (also folded). Underneath, there are green cool boxes labelled BEER, WINE, SOFT DRINKS. There are two wheelie bins on the patio behind me, the one for recycling gaping with cans and bottles, the other stacked with black bags. It occurs to me – as it should have done straight away – that Sharon Mason has done all this. The tidying, the folding up. She went round this garden making it presentable. And she did it after she knew her daughter was gone.
Gislingham joins me from the kitchen. ‘DC Everett says nothing useful from the house-to-house so far. No one we’ve spoken to who was at the party remembers seeing anything suspicious. We’re collecting their camera photos though – should help with the timeline. There’s no CCTV on the estate but we’ll see what we can find in the surrounding area. And we’re checking the whereabouts of known sex offenders within a ten-mile radius.’
I nod. ‘Good work.’
Challow straightens up and waves us towards him. Behind the swing, a fence panel is loose. It looks solid from a distance, but push it hard enough and even an adult could squeeze through.
Gislingham reads my thoughts. ‘But could someone really get in, take the kid and get out without anyone noticing? In a garden this size, with that many people about? And the kid presumably struggling?’
I look around. ‘We need to find out where the gazebo was and how big it is. If they put it across the bottom of the garden, it’s possible no one would’ve been able to see that hole in the fence, or anyone going through it. Add to that the fireworks – ’
He nods. ‘Everyone looking the other way, lots of bangs, kids screaming – ’
‘ – plus the fact that most of the people here were parents from the school. Bet you any money the Masons had never met some of them before. Especially the fathers. You’d need balls of steel, but you could walk in here and pretend to be one of them and you might just get away with it. And people would actually expect you to be talking to the kids.’
We start up the lawn towards the house. ‘Those photos you’re collecting, Chris – it’s not just a timeline we want from them. Start ticking off their names. We don’t just need to know where people were, but who they are.’
*
At 7.05, out in the close, DC Everett is ringing at another door. Waiting for it to open, waiting to fix her professional smile and to ask if she can come in and speak to them for a moment. It’s the fifteenth time she’s done it now and she’s telling herself not to be irritated that she got lumbered with the house-to-house, while Gislingham gets to be inside the only house that matters. At the heart of things. After all, you can count on the fingers of one hand the times a child abduction turned on What the Neighbours Saw. But to be fair, some of these people were actually in the Masons’ garden when their daughter went missing. Though considering how many potential witnesses were in that small space, Everett’s had little of any real use thus far. It was ‘a nice party’, ‘a pleasant-enough evening’. And yet at some point in the middle of it a little girl disappeared and nobody even noticed.
She rings again (the third time) and then steps back and looks up at the house. The curtains are pulled back but there are no signs of life. She checks her list. Kenneth and Caroline Bradshaw, a couple in their sixties. They could easily be on holiday before the schools break up. She makes a note next to their name and goes back down the drive to the pavement. One of the uniforms comes up to her, slightly out of breath. Everett’s seen her about at the station, but she’s only just out of training at Sulhamstead and they’ve never actually spoken. Everett’s trying to remember her name – Simpson? Something like that. No – Somer. That’s it. Erica Somer. She’s older than most new recruits, so she must have done something else first. Rather like Everett, who has a false start in nursing to her name. But she keeps that one quiet, knowing that all it would do is give her male colleagues one more excuse to make her the one to break bad news. Or knock on bloody doors.
‘There’s something in one of the bins – I think you should see,’ Somer says, gesturing back from where she came. She’s straight to the point, no nonsense. Everett warms to her at once.
The bin in question is on the corner where the close turns in from the side road. A forensics officer is already there, taking pictures. When he sees Everett he nods, and the two women watch while he reaches into the bin and pulls out what’s lying on the top. It unpleats like a snakeskin. Flaccid, empty, green. Very green.
It’s a pair of tights, ripped at one knee. And small enough for a child.
*
Interview with Fiona Webster, conducted at 11 Barge Close, Oxford
20 July 2016, 7.45 a.m.
In attendance, DC V. Everett
VE: Can you tell us how you know the Masons, Mrs Webster?
FW: My daughter Megan is in the same class as Daisy at Kit’s, and Alice is the year above.
VE: Kit’s?
FW: Sorry – Bishop Christopher’s. Everyone round here just calls it Kit’s. And we’re neighbours, of course. We lent them the gazebo for the party.
VE: So you’re friends?
FW: I wouldn’t say ‘friends’ exactly. Sharon keeps herself to herself. We talk at the school gate, like you do, and sometimes I go jogging with her. But she’s far more disciplined about it than I am. She goes every morning, even in the winter, after she drops off the kids at school. She’s worried about her weight – I mean she hasn’t actually said so, but I can tell. We had lunch once in town – more by accident than anything - we bumped into each other outside that pizza place on the High Street and she couldn’t really say no. But she ate next to nothing – just picked at a salad –
VE: So she doesn’t work, then, if she runs in the mornings?
FW: No. I think she did once, but I don’t know what. It’d drive me mad, being stuck indoors all day, but she seems totally absorbed in the kids.
VE: So she’s a good mum?
FW: I remember all she talked about at that lunch was what great marks Daisy had got for some test or other, and how she wants to be a vet, and did I know which university would be best for that.
VE: So a bit of a pushy parent?
FW: Between you and me, Owen – my husband – can’t stand her. You know that phrase about sharp elbows? He says she has scythes. But personally I don’t think you can blame anyone for wanting the best for their kids. Sharon’s just a bit more obvious about it than most of us. In fact I think the Masons came here in the first place for the schools. I don’t think they can afford to go private.
VE: These houses aren’t exactly cheap . . .
FW: No, but I just get the feeling things are a bit tight.
VE: Do you know where they lived before?
FW: Somewhere in South London, I think. Sharon never talks much about the past. Or her family. To be honest I’m a bit confused why you want to know all this – aren’t you supposed to be out there looking for Daisy?
VE: We have teams of officers searching the area and checking local CCTV. But the more we know about Daisy, and the family, the better. You never know what might prove to be significant. But let’s talk more about last night. What time did you arrive?