‘In terms of the victim’s usage, nothing past 8 p.m. on Saturday night, when she texts the friend, Helena Reed,’ says Colin.
‘What does she say in that last text?’
‘“There in five. E.”’
‘Anything else?’
‘Before the party she does some texting. Someone called Jason F.’
Manon reads Colin’s screen.
What time u getting there? E
Later, somewhere to be first.
Don’t be long, will you?
Why not?
Wouldn’t like you to miss anything …
‘There are others, too,’ Colin says. ‘She texts her tutor, Graham Garfield, to say, “Hope to c u tonite.” He replies, “What’s going down?” Trying to pretend he’s not fifty-seven, if you ask me.’
‘And she says?’
‘“Karaoke, tequila, and bad behaviour.” To which he replies, “On my way!”’ says Colin.
‘What about Facebook?’
Colin clicks on his screen and up pops a collage of Edith – her neck, her arms, brown legs crossed, laughing, her head thrown back. Edith cuddling a cat. Edith in cut-off shorts. Edith wearing a Stetson. Black and white, some with colours blown out by Instagram, which gives them a smoky, Seventies sheen. Beneath these are comments to the tune of ‘Gorgeous!’ and ‘Beautiful, beautiful girl’ and ‘Stunning’. Each photo is ‘liked’ by Will Carter. In a few she’s in a living room, stretched out on the sofa with her feet in Will Carter’s lap as he nurses a goblet of red. In many of the images, another girl is somewhere off-centre or in the background, curled in an armchair reading; just a half of her face, a lick of her hair.
Over four hundred photographs.
‘They’re all of herself, pretty much,’ says Colin.
Edith’s posts are random music lyrics, Bruce Springsteen mostly. The odd literary article about Seamus Heaney or Toni Morrison. Bo Diddley is my new jam. Nick Cave is my new jam.
‘She has four hundred and eighty-two “friends”,’ Colin adds, drawing quote marks in the air.
‘D’you know how many I’ve got?’ says Manon, a yawn stretching her face, while Colin scrolls down. ‘Four. One’s my dad. One’s the electrician. I’m not even sure I know the other two.’
‘She’s a member of these groups,’ says Colin, clicking again. ‘Guerrilla Gardeners.’
‘What do they do?’
‘They grow food on communal ground. Recipes … Here’s a photo of a hot pot they made using free veg picked from a community wasteland garden. She’s a member of Cycle Power – a lobbying group which aims to ban cars.’
‘Scroll up a minute. What’s that?’ says Manon, pointing at the screen.
Colin clicks on the image and Manon reads Edith Hind’s caption:
Bunting made from recycled copies of the FT. Happy Christmas, planet!
She and Colin look at each other.
‘It’s a wonder she wasn’t murdered sooner,’ says Colin.
‘Those are exactly the sorts of thoughts I want you to keep to yourself,’ Manon says, rising. ‘Keep at it, Colin. Her hard drive, Google searches, matches on all her phone records.’ And then she marches across MIT to Harriet’s office.
‘So what was the interview with Carter like?’
‘Seems genuinely worried,’ says Harriet, hitching at her bra strap. ‘Keeps crying, pacing, asking for an update on the search. We need to be all over his weekend in Stoke. We can ask the Hind parents a bit more about their relationship, and the friend, Helena, whether there was anyone else in the background, boyfriend-wise. Tabs are already ringing the press office, Fergus said.’
‘It won’t be like Soham,’ says Manon. ‘Not in this climate, not after phone hacking. Things have changed.’
‘Don’t bet on it, not with her parents being who they are.’
‘Who are her parents?’
‘Sir Ian and Lady Hind. He’s an ear, nose, and throat surgeon. Fits the Royal grommets or something.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Yup. We have to tread carefully; the type who’ll complain over anything.’
‘Is it a ransom job then? He must be worth a bit.’
‘We’d have heard from them by now. Anyway, I’m not handing this to any centralised fucking crime unit, no way.’
She gets up, pacing behind the desk, as if the speed of her thoughts is physical. The wings of her jacket are pinned back by her hands on her hips. She’s full of fire, unbridled. If Manon ever went missing, she’d want Harriet to head up the search.
‘Once Polsa’s on board, the pressure will ease off a bit,’ Harriet says, as much to herself as to Manon.
The police search adviser and his specialist teams knew how to find people, or at least where to look. They would take the search further and wider than that clumsy first night: across meadows, along railway tracks, into woods, behind the doors of lock-up garages, in attics and cellars, and soon enough down below the opaque surface of rivers.
Harriet looks at her watch. ‘Eight thirty. If she went missing shortly after midnight on Saturday, then we’re talking thirty-two hours. It’s sub-zero out there.’