‘Karl, what can you tell us about Connie’s disappearance?’ She raised her voice as he was ushered past. ‘Do her parents know you’re being questioned by the police? Is it true that you were seen in the vicinity of Cronin’s orchard in the early hours of this morning?’
He ignored her questions as he mounted the steps, shoulders hunched, hood up. Already, he was acquiring the posture of the guilty. Heat spread across his neck and chest. His imagination had not been playing tricks on him when he stood in front of the old house and sensed another presence behind him. The police had been following him in the darkness, waiting out of sight until he emerged from Dominick’s cottage, then keeping him under observation when he entered Cronin’s Orchard.
The familiar smell of freshly percolating coffee greeted him when he entered the station, but this homely aroma did nothing to lessen his apprehension. The interrogation room immediately rocked him back to Arizona. Grey walls, harsh, fluorescent lights overhead, some chairs, a wide table over which secrets were extracted with clinical precision. His nervousness increased when he was left on his own. He was aware of the tactics, the mind games that would be played out in this bleak room.
Two plain clothes detectives entered and sat opposite him. The female detective, who introduced herself as Detective Garda Newton, wore a denim jacket with frayed cuffs and a shapeless pair of jeans. Her fingers were long and slim, short, square-cut nails. In contrast, Detective Garda Hunter’s jacket and trousers were sharply tailored, and his round-necked top had a discreet designer logo on the pocket.
‘You do understand that you’re here in a voluntary capacity to help us with our enquiries?’ he said.
Karl nodded. The detectives seemed relaxed, with none of the aggression he had experienced from the police in Arizona; but this was a stage, carefully set. He told them about the night on the beach with Constance, the times she had spent in his house, the concerts they’d attended together. The pressure built slowly. Detective Hunter had a slight twitch in his right eyelid. It was barely perceptible yet Karl found himself watching out for it, having realised that it was always a prelude to a more ominous question.
‘Mr Lawson, can you tell us what were you doing this morning between 3 and 4 a.m.?’ he asked. Detective Newton laid on the table some photographs that had been taken with a night camera. Karl was instantly recognisable, walking towards the derelict house.
‘I was following up on a hunch that my niece could have met some friends there on the night she disappeared,’ he said.
‘Why would she do that?’ Detective Hunter asked.
A logo on a wall of graffiti. How was he to explain his suspicion that Constance had been in that oppressive basement?
‘Constance is a fan of the band, Blasted Glass. I wanted to find out if she’d painted their logo on the basement wall as a dare.’
‘Blasted Glass?’ His eyelid twitched. ‘The band that that paedo…?’
‘Yes. But the band has changed—’
‘Ed Stone is dead,’ said Detective Newton. ‘How can he be connected in any way with your missing niece?
‘I didn’t say he was connected. As I’ve already told you, Constance hangs out with a gang of kids who do crazy things. It was a hunch I thought was worth following up.’
‘Because you saw some scribbles on a wall?’ she asked.
‘Not scribbles. Graffiti. She’s always drawing their logo on her copybooks.’ It was important to talk about Constance in the present tense.
‘You’d know that, wouldn’t you?’ Detective Hunter leaned closer, a whiff of garlic on his breath. ‘Seeing as how you have this “close relationship” with your niece.’
‘I love my niece. I’d walk through fire if it helped to find her.’
‘That’s heartening to hear.’ Their eyes locked. ‘She phoned one of her friends and told her she was calling to your house. You’re a regular fixer, apparently.’
‘But she didn’t call—’
‘What about your brother and his wife?’ Detective Newton’s expression was impassive as she interrupted Karl once again. ‘They’ve suffered a lifetime of grief since their daughter disappeared. Right now, you can end their uncertainty by telling us what went on that night between you and Constance.’
Karl half-rose, then slumped back in the chair. ‘Nothing was going on. This is bullshit. I’m entitled to consult my solicitor.’
‘Why do you need a solicitor if we’re taking bullshit?’ asked Detective Hunter. ‘You’re not under arrest, Mr Lawson. You’re simply helping us—’
‘I demand to speak to my solicitor.’ He could no longer control his panic. The expression on their faces, the standard disbelief. Was it something they learned in training college?
He continued to answer their questions until Detective Newton pushed back her chair and stood. ‘You’re free to go, Mr Lawson.’
‘Free?’
‘Until we need you again. If that happens you’d be well advised to have your solicitor with you.’
He blinked when he emerged into the sunshine and saw the assembled media. Eric Walker ran alongside him, recorder in hand. The red-haired camerawoman filmed him. He had seen her on a few occasions on Cherrywood Terrace but, now, for the first time, he realised she was working for LR1.
He broke free from the group and ran towards a taxi. Cameras were pointed like guns at the windows. Lips moved but the questions being shouted at him were inaudible.
‘You’re either a celeb or a crim,’ the driver said as he accelerated away. ‘As long as you pay your fare, I don’t want to know.’
Back home, he made coffee, strong, black. It scalded his tongue. He hardly noticed the pain. Angelina’s email was the first one he saw when he switched on his laptop.
I’m sorry, Karl. I’ve had a meeting with Lar. A tough one, I’m afraid. He reminded me in no uncertain terms that my responsibility is to the Richardson Magazine Group, not to individual staff members. Due to this conflict of interest I’m unable to work with you. As we discussed this morning, the media coverage you’re receiving is unfortunate and damaging. I’ve asked my nephew, Fionn Drury, if he’s free to represent you. You may have someone else in mind but Fionn’s an excellent solicitor. I highly recommend him. His details are attached if you want to contact him.
Karl was checking Fionn Drury’s website when his mobile rang. He wasn’t surprised to see his employer’s name on the screen. After reading Angelina’s email, he had known it was inevitable that Lar Richardson would make contact.
Lar had once confided to Karl that his youthful ambition had been to play guitar with a rock band. Instead, he established Hitz. Fifteen other magazines followed but Hitz remained his favourite, his indulgence, his nostalgic salute to dead dreams, flares and mullets. He had always been willing to support Karl whenever he stepped over the editorial line. But not any longer. Hitz’s advertisers were becoming nervous about the publicity surrounding its editor. Three major clients had pulled out of their contracts and more were expected to follow.
‘You’re fired,’ Lar said.
Unlike Angelina, he didn’t say he was sorry. Why use three words when two would suffice? And Lar Richardson never apologised for his decisions.