Unable to continue reading, Karl hunched over the tabloid. How long since he had thought about Ed Stone? An insignificant-looking drummer, always in the background of the band, his dark urges hidden. The court case could have been harrowing but he had pleaded guilty and was quietly dispatched to jail.
The band found a new drummer and radically changed their image and their music. Their new music bored Karl. It lacked challenging rhythms but it attracted a younger audience. Karl gave the band the front cover of Hitz and an interview when the first album featuring their new sound was released. Barbara had warned him against publishing Ed Stone’s letter of repentance. She forecast a vicious backlash and was proved right. Karl had known there would be hate mail, accusations that he had allowed a paedophile to peddle his depraved opinions in print. Ed had confided to him that he would be dead shortly afterwards. Far better a swift death than the beatings and rapes he was enduring in jail. Karl was the last person he phoned. On the day after his letter was published, he slit his radial artery with a shard of glass he had managed to smuggle into his cell. It was a fitting weapon to end his life, symbolic and deadly. Nothing could stop the flow of blood, just as nothing had stopped the hate mail that piled up on Karl’s desk. The increased sales of Hitz proved the old adage that there was no such thing as bad publicity and Lar Richardson had refused to take any action against his editor.
Amanda Bowe had crafted his profile with care. He closed his eyes. Tiredness was catching up on him. Too little sleep, and what he had managed to catch was riddled with nightmares that were becoming dangerously real. How did she know about Arizona? Was her reference to his time there a throwaway line or a chilling indication that she was investigating that dangerous period of Karl’s life; a distant haze of red dust and splintering sunshine that still haunted his dreams?
His mobile rang again. Sergeant Moran sounded as brusque as ever. The police would like to search his house on the off-chance that Constance could have left a clue to her whereabouts there.
‘It’s purely routine,’ she said. ‘As your house appears to be her second home, it could help us in our investigations.’ She paused, then added, ‘If you’ve any objections, I’ll organise a search warrant.’
‘I’ve no objections,’ Karl replied. ‘But I’m in the city handing out leaflets.’
‘I’m aware of that.’ Her tone suggested she had full knowledge of his movements. ‘I suggest you leave now. We’ll be waiting for you when you return.’
Chapter Six
The sounds from upstairs were intrusive, doors opening, drawers being pulled out, furniture being shifted as the police moved methodically through each room. Was this a routine search, as Sergeant Moran had indicated, or was something more sinister going on? What were they expecting to find? He should have demanded a search warrant and contacted his solicitor before allowing them into his house. But why should he need a solicitor or a search warrant? He was jumping ahead too fast but the jittery suspicion that he was under investigation grew.
Unable to keep still, he carried a mug of tea into the living-room. Outside on the pavement, a petite red-haired woman had erected a television camera and was filming two squad cars parked on the road. Other journalists had arrived, including Amanda Bowe and her photographer. She was laughing over something he had said, her head flung back, her stance relaxed as she waited for the police to emerge.
Karl drew the curtains and hunched into an armchair. He was under siege inside and outside his home.
Sergeant Moran came into the living-room and sat opposite him.
‘Do you recognise this?’ She laid a transparent plastic bag between them on the coffee table.
He stared at a fragment of white material inside the bag. Something belonging to Sasha, he thought at first. One of her many hairbands or vests. But the guard’s watchful expression warned him that it had nothing to do with his daughter. He recognised the shape. Two small triangles of cotton trimmed with lace, a strap on either side, a row of pink love hearts on the band.
‘Do you recognise it?’ she repeated.
‘It’s a bra,’ he replied.
‘Well observed.’ She waited for him to ask the obvious question.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Between the wall and the base of your bed,’ she said. ‘Does it belong to your wife?’
He knew nothing about bra sizes but if Nicole had ever fitted into this one it must have been when she was a pubescent teen. She yearned to have the figure of an athlete but her breasts were full and heavy, wonderful to hold.
He shook his head.
‘Could it belong to Constance Lawson?’
He was about to say, ‘She doesn’t wear a bra’ but how would that sound? What interpretation would Sergeant Moran take from it? He had no idea if Constance wore a bra and, if she did, how it had ended up in his bedroom. Was this a trap? Evidence planted to incriminate him?
‘I don’t know if it belongs to her. If it does, I’ve absolutely no idea how it got there.’
‘Has she ever slept in your bedroom when she stayed over?’
‘Never,’ Karl replied. ‘She sleeps in the spare room.’
‘So, can you explain how we found it in your bedroom?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Don’t you think it strange that we should find it there?’
‘Of course I do. Maybe she slept there when we were on holidays and forgot it. Justin has a spare key. We come and go from each other’s houses all the time.’
‘You obviously have a close relationship with your brother.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Yet you didn’t think it necessary to warn him about his daughter’s reckless behaviour on the beach?’
‘I know it seems wrong but—’
‘Seems?’ She clamped her lips and pressed her fingertips together with the same vigour. ‘She’s thirteen. Didn’t you have any regard for her safety?’
‘I trusted her. She was adamant she’d never do anything stupid like that again.’
‘Yet you went straight to that cove as soon as you heard she was missing.’
‘It was a possibility—’ He stopped, unsure how to continue.
‘That she broke her promise to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Her father claims you take her regularly into an adult environment.’
Her voice, never losing its monotonous tone, stoked his panic. ‘I get free tickets for concerts all the time. Sometimes, I give them to Constance and her friends when I believe they’ll enjoy the band.’
‘You allow her to roam backstage in an unsupervised environment.’
‘She’s always accompanied by me and her friends.’
‘Who are just as young as Constance. Are you in the habit of currying favour with thirteen-year-olds, Mr Lawson?’
‘I’m her uncle. We get on well together. Is that a crime?’
‘Did I imply it was a crime?’
‘No…’
‘Then why mention that possibility?’
‘It was a turn of phrase.’
‘Choose your phrases carefully, Mr Lawson.’
His eyes stung as he held her gaze. ‘If you’ve any further questions, Sergeant Moran, I’ll be contacting my solicitor.’