It was always going to happen, of course. Tyler’s been gone for five days and, though it’s not the first time, there had to be a point where someone decided to involve the police. Given I’ve heard that Frank finds a lot of things that have fallen from lorries – not to mention his smoking preferences – I wouldn’t be convinced he’d made the call. I wonder if it was Olivia.
‘My husband’s at work,’ I say. ‘His name’s Dan. He’s a deputy head and he has a parents’ evening tonight. I don’t know what time he’ll be back.’
It’s PC O’Neill who cuts in before his colleague can reply: ‘We can make a start with you,’ he says.
‘Do I need to come to the station?’ I ask.
‘Not necessarily. If you’re comfortable, we can talk here. We’re a lot more informal than people tend to think.’
He has a kind smile, which reminds me of Dan’s. Not too broad, not overdone. There’s almost a shyness about it, but, without words, it says, ‘I understand’. The problem is that I’ve seen that a lot in my marriage. I’m not sure if Dan does understand or, more importantly, if he cares.
And it’s that which makes me edgy about PC O’Neill. Now more than ever, I associate this smile with mistrust.
I’m slow to respond, not completely sure what to say. I eventually settle for a weak, ‘Okay.’
The two officers have stood to greet me but PC Marks makes a movement towards the stairs. ‘Did you say you had some photographs we could look at, Olivia…?’
My daughter watches me for a moment and then gets the none-too-subtle hint. She pushes up from the sofa and leads the constable to the stairs.
We listen to their creaky ascent and, after the bedroom door closes, PC O’Neill speaks up: ‘Your daughter makes a superb cup of tea,’ he says.
It’s so out of the blue that I can’t do anything other than laugh. ‘That’s if you can get her to make one. I don’t suppose you can convince her to clean her room, can you…?’
He laughs this time. ‘I’m not sure our resources quite stretch to that.’
‘I thought that’s what ASBOs were for…?’
The constable settles onto the sofa and I sit on the other. He takes out a small notepad, resting it on his knee. His hat is now abandoned on the coffee table, next to his colleague’s.
‘We’ve spoken to Mr Lambert,’ he says, ‘and he insists the reason his son is missing is because of some sort of argument between the two of you.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I snap back. ‘Tyler’s gone missing before.’
A nod: ‘Your daughter has filled us in on that – but I believe he’s never been gone for five days…?’
‘I don’t know.’
He gives me that knowing smile again. Parents united and all that.
‘Tell me about the argument.’
His pencil is poised over the pad. It’s a small gesture but it doesn’t feel like it. It’s a long time since I’ve given any sort of statement to the police – even if he is calling it informal. It’s not the same as telling them about a broken window; it feels as if I’m under investigation myself. What if it was the argument that made Tyler disappear? Does that make it my fault?
‘We’ve never really got on,’ I say.
‘Tyler Lambert and yourself?’
‘Right.’
‘How long has he been seeing your daughter?’
It takes me a second. ‘Eighteen months, something like that. I don’t know – I think he was seeing her before I knew about it. Back when she was seventeen. He’s five years older than her.’
PC O’Neill scratches something onto his pad but I suspect he already knows this if he’s spoken to Tyler’s father and Olivia. There’s nothing illegal going on, even if it doesn’t feel right to me.
‘Is it the age gap of which you don’t approve?’
‘In part.’
He smiles calmly. ‘I have a daughter myself. Not quite Olivia’s age – but she’s getting there.’
It’s irrelevant, of course. Dan does this – linking happenings to something he’s seen or dealt with at school. I suppose there’s no specific reason to be suspicious. It’s how people think, how they talk. One person’s experience is aligned to their own. I do it. The problem is that, with my confusion and now suspicion, I’m not sure who I trust. Is he saying this to try to trick me, or is it a genuine parent-to-parent interaction?
‘You’ve got all this to come,’ I reply meekly.
He tilts his head, conceding the point. ‘What else is it that you don’t approve of?’
‘Tyler doesn’t have a job and it doesn’t seem like he wants one. Olivia works really hard for a low wage – and then uses part of her money to buy things for him. I don’t think many parents would approve of that.’
PC O’Neill is tight-lipped. ‘And is that what you argued about on Saturday?’
‘I suppose. It wasn’t really an argument, not like that. I asked how the job hunting was going and he took it the wrong way.’
There’s a pause, and then: ‘Which way was he meant to take it?’
I snort at that. ‘Well, yes. Okay. He took it the exact way it was meant. Either way, he stormed off, slamming the door behind him. It’s not like I knew he wouldn’t be seen again.’
There’s a scratch of pencil on pad and then the officer looks up to me. ‘Is this the main reason why you don’t get on?’
‘Do any mothers get on with their daughter’s unemployed boyfriends?’
‘Good point.’
PC O’Neill pushes back into the sofa, wiggling his backside, making himself more comfortable. ‘How is your daughter’s relationship with Mr Lambert?’
It feels strange to hear that. Mr Lambert. It makes Tyler sound like a grown-up. He is, of course, but it never seems that he acts like it.
‘You’re better asking her,’ I reply.
‘We are – but I think your input would be useful as well.’
I shrug, wishing I had the cup of tea he had. I could do with it right now. ‘Olivia and Tyler break up and make up,’ I say. ‘They fall out over things all the time. I’ve stopped asking Olivia about what’s going on between them. Sometimes he disappears for a weekend but he always comes back.’
‘Any idea where he disappears to?’
‘You’d have to ask Olivia. I have no idea.’
Something new goes on the pad and I wonder if he’s written ‘no idea’.
‘Olivia’s set up a Facebook page,’ I add. ‘It’s called Find Tyler. I don’t think she’s having much luck.’
‘She showed us.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you know much about your daughter’s friends?’
I puff out a long breath. ‘I used to when she was at school. There were birthday parties and trips out in the summer. I’d hire a van and drive them off to the zoo, or a few of us mums would carpool. Then Olivia hit about fourteen and that was that. She stopped talking about what was going at school, or about her friends. She was out a lot, or using her phone to message them. I know hardly anything about her friends now.’
‘Do you know much of what she gets up to in her free time?’
‘She works evening shifts at the Cosmic Café and I pick her up every now and then. The owner pays for her taxi other times. Sometimes she says she’s staying out with Tyler.’
‘But you don’t know what they get up to?’
I shrug. ‘They’re eighteen. What am I supposed to do?’
‘I’m not criticising.’
I stare at the floor and it feels like he is. All of this reeks of reckless mother. The opinion pieces almost write themselves. I’ll be in the Daily Mail; some privileged wife of an MP banging on about how I’m a terrible example of twenty-first-century parenting.
‘Tyler smokes weed,’ I say, looking to push the blame for all this back onto him. ‘He smells of it a lot and I’ve caught him with cannabis a couple of times.’
I expect a response, not quite a leap-off-the-sofa, call-for-the-riot-squad-reaction, but something. Instead, PC O’Neill calmly adds a few words to his pad.
‘Do you know if there are harder drugs involved?’
His question takes me by surprise, not because I haven’t asked myself the same thing, but because it’s so unruffled.
‘I hope not.’
‘Have you seen any signs?’