‘Right,’ he says, raising his voice above the din. They can hear the police helicopter over their heads. ‘Listen up. We need to be clear who’s doing what so we don’t end up chasing our tails or falling arse over tit. Feel free to choose your own cliché if those don’t hit the spot.’
He picks up a red marker pen. ‘We’ve divided the next search areas into three zones. Each team will have at least a dozen police officers and a trained Search Adviser whose responsibility will be to collate evidence and make sure an overenthusiastic Joe Public isn’t doing more harm than good.’
He takes the pen and draws a line round a section of the map. ‘Team one, under Sergeant Ed Mead, will take the Griffin School, all hundred bloody acres of it. Most of it’s open space, thankfully, but there’s still quite a number of copses and wooded areas, and the undergrowth along the east side of the canal. The school’s whipped in a bunch of sturdy sixth-formers to pitch in – the head of PE used to be in the army so I’m sure he knows the drill. No pun intended. Team two, under Sergeant Philip Mann, will take the towpath alongside Canal Manor and the nature reserve to the west of the canal. Volunteers from the local wildlife trust will meet you there – apparently some birds are still nesting so they’ll be on hand to ensure we don’t do any unnecessary damage. There are also residential narrowboats along that stretch, and we need to question the owners.’
He draws more lines on the map. ‘Third team, under Sergeant Ben Roberts, will take the recreation ground, the car park by the level crossing and the college sports grounds off the Woodstock Road. Plenty of locals happy to help there too.’
He snaps the top back on the pen. ‘Any questions? Right. Keep in touch by phone, and we’ll convene another meeting if the search needs to be widened or if the helicopter turns up something. But let’s hope that won’t be necessary.’
*
I’m halfway out of the press room when my phone rings. It’s Alex. I stare at it, wondering whether picking up is a good idea. I have one of those bland factory-decided pictures on the screen. Trees and grass and sky. I didn’t choose it – I didn’t really care what it was, I just had to get rid of what I used to have. That picture of Jake on Alex’s shoulders I took last summer, the sun behind them making his dark hair glow red. I’d just told him he was getting a bit too big for piggyback and he was grinning at me and doing it anyway. The picture always made me think of a poem we read once at school, ‘Surprised by Joy’. That’s what Jake looked like in the picture, surprised by joy. As if his own happiness has taken him unawares.
I pick up the call.
‘Hello, Adam? Where are you?’
‘I’m at the station, a press conference. Something came up – I didn’t want to wake you – ’
‘I know – I heard – it was on the news. They said there’s a child missing.’
I take a deep breath. I knew we’d face something like this sooner or later; it was just a matter of time. But knowing something will happen doesn’t always make it easier when it does.
‘It’s a little girl,’ I say. ‘Her name is Daisy.’
I can almost hear her heartbeat. ‘The poor parents. How are they holding up?’
It should be a straightforward question, but I don’t have a straightforward answer. And that, more than anything else so far, brings home to me how puzzling the Masons are.
‘It’s hard to tell,’ I say, opting for flat honesty. ‘I think they’re more in shock than anything. But it’s early days. There’s no evidence of harm. Nothing to say we won’t find her safe and well.’
She says nothing for a moment. Then, ‘I sometimes wonder if that’s worse.’
I turn away and lower my voice. ‘Worse? What do you mean?’
‘Hope. Whether that’s worse. Worse than knowing. At least we . . .’
Her voice dies.
She’s never talked like this before. We’ve never talked like this. They wanted us to – they told us we had to. But we just kept putting it off. Off and off and off until we couldn’t talk about it at all. Until now. Of all times. She’s crying now, but quietly, because she doesn’t want me to hear. I can’t decide if it’s out of pride or because she doesn’t want me to worry. I glance up and one of the DCs is beckoning to me.
‘Sorry, Alex, I have to go.’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry. I’ll call you later. I promise.’
*
19 July 2016, 3.30 p.m.
The day of the disappearance
Bishop Christopher’s Primary School, Oxford
The bell is ringing for home time and children are streaming noisily out of their classrooms into the sunshine and the overheated cars their parents have waiting at the gate. Some run, some skip, one or two straggle, and some of the older kids gather in groups, talking and sharing things on their iPhones. Two of the teachers stand on the steps watching them go.
‘Nearly the end of term, thank God,’ says the older of the two as she scoops up a trailing sweatshirt and restores it to its owner. ‘I can hardly wait – this one seems to have been more than usually exhausting.’
The woman next to her smiles ruefully. ‘Tell me about it.’ Some of her own class are filing past now, and one of the girls stops to say goodbye. She’s a little tearful, because her family are going on holiday the following day and her teacher won’t be coming back next term. She likes her teacher.
‘Have a nice time in South Africa, Millie,’ says the woman kindly, touching her lightly on the shoulder. ‘I hope you get to see the baby lions.’
Millie’s classmates catch her up and follow her out. A couple of boys, a tall girl with plaits and one who looks Chinese. And last, in a wild rush, a blonde girl with a pale pink cardigan tied round her shoulders, carrying a Disney Princess bag.
‘Slow down, Daisy,’ calls the teacher as she hurtles down the steps. ‘You don’t want to fall over and hurt yourself.’
‘She’s in high spirits today,’ observes the older woman as they watch the girl run to join the two girls ahead.
‘The family are having a barbecue tonight. I expect she’s just a bit overexcited.’
The older woman makes a face. ‘I wish I was still young enough to get excited about soggy lettuce and over-cooked burgers.’
Her colleague laughs. ‘They’re having fireworks too. You’re never too old for those.’
‘OK, you have me there. I’m still a sucker for the pyrotechnics. Even at my age.’
The two women exchange a smile, then the younger one turns and goes back into the school while the other lingers for a few minutes watching the playground. In the weeks to come this moment will come to haunt her; the little blonde girl, standing in the sunlight at the school gate, talking happily to one of her friends.
*
‘So who the fuck’s been talking to the press?’
10.35. The incident room is hot. The windows are open and someone’s dug an ancient electric fan out of some storeroom or other. It hums as it moves, slowly, left to right, right to left. Some people are perched on desks, others leaning against them. I look at them, slowly, left to right, right to left. Most of them have no problem meeting my eye. One or two look embarrassed. But that’s it. If ten years of interrogation have taught me anything, it’s when at a wall, stop pushing.
‘I gave strict instructions not to make any reference in public either to the tights or what we found on them. And now the family have to hear about it on the bloody news. How do you think that’s going to make them feel? The information came from someone in this room and I fully intend to find out who it was. But I’m not going to waste valuable time doing that now. Not with Daisy Mason still missing.’
I turn back to the whiteboard. There’s a map with coloured pins stuck in it, and a clutch of blurry photos, obviously culled from phones, pinned along a rudimentary timeline. Most of the pictures have names attached; one or two have question marks. And next to them, Daisy herself. It strikes me for the first time, looking at the shots, how like her mother she is. How like and yet how unlike. And then I wonder why I’m so convinced of that, since I’ve never even met her.
‘Where are we with this supposed sighting?’