‘Hang on,’ says Manon. ‘Let’s let him do the presser, see how he holds up. Then we’ll ask him about what his phone was doing in Huntingdon when he says he was in Stoke.’
‘I want officers on the door,’ says Harriet. ‘And I want us all over his alibi. House to house in Stoke around his mother’s address, see if anyone saw him leaving earlier than they both say. And CCTV.’
Manon perches one buttock on the edge of Colin’s desk and looks up at the monitor, which shows an empty table with four chairs behind it and microphones along the front, pointing at the chairs.
The rest of the team gathers around her: Colin in his swivelly chair; Kim back from River Island; Davy, of course; and the new recruit, Stuart Leach. Manon eyes him in her periphery, her eyes flicking from his shaven head to the monitor, then back to his broad shoulders in a billowing shirt (she loves a billowing shirt on a man, especially with sharp creases), his square jaw and dark eyes, which have a certain amused mischief in them. He catches her eye and smiles.
‘So, it was the boyfriend, was it?’ he says, and she can feel all his charm being launched at her like a hand grenade – mischief slash disrespect.
‘Looks like it. We don’t know for sure,’ she says, looking upwards at the monitor and simultaneously tightening her body under his gaze. She’s going to have to cut back on the Marmite toast. ‘Here they are.’
They watch as Harriet sits in the chair to the right of the screen. The Hinds then inch into view from the left, shuffling into their seats on half-bended legs and holding hands, their gaze downward. Will Carter enters last, wearing a mid-blue shirt that brings out the slate colour of his eyes. Manon can almost hear the female reporters in the room sitting up straighter. Flashes going, the electronic burr blending into the shuffling and murmuring of the crowd settling: TV news, locals, nationals, agencies, digital channels, web reporters. Manon sees the grey hollows beneath Sir Ian’s eyes. Lady Hind’s are red-rimmed. They are silvery in their ageing, as if covered by a hoar frost. Carter runs a hand through his hair and the cameras seem to flurry in response.
Harriet introduces the pertinent facts about the investigation, the timeline of Edith’s disappearance, details of the police hotline. Her glance repeatedly flicks to Will, whose gaze is directed at the cameras.
Somewhere in the room behind Manon, a phone starts ringing.
‘Crikey, already,’ says Colin. ‘Here come the tank-top-wearing schizophrenics.’
‘Shut it, Colin,’ says Manon.
‘It’ll be the ladies offering to comfort Mr Carter,’ says Kim. ‘Even if he’s killed her, he’ll get a few marriage proposals.’
They watch Harriet introduce Sir Ian. There is a pause before he speaks.
‘We are desperately worried about Edith,’ he says, lifting his gaze to the phalanx of reporters and cameras, and for a split second, utter distaste is visible on his face. Lady Hind strokes his hand. ‘She is a resourceful, clever, and talented girl, but the circumstances of her disappearance are obviously giving cause for mounting alarm. Edith, if you are watching this, please contact us to let us know you are safe. And if anyone out there has seen our daughter, do please contact the police.’
‘Mr Carter,’ says a female voice. ‘Keeley Davis, Hunts Post. You must be devastated.’
‘I am. I’m … I’m …’ Will Carter looks about the room. ‘I haven’t slept. This is torture, a nightmare. We just want to know where Edie is.’
Manon thinks she can see Lady Hind close her eyes in a tiny grimace, but perhaps she’s imagining it.
‘Sorry, one more question,’ says pushy Keeley Davis, who will no doubt be off to The Mail any day now, with her tight suit and that retro Nissan she drives, the automotive equivalent of a Prada handbag. ‘Was there anything about her behaviour in the days before she disappeared that gave you cause for concern?’
‘No, not at all,’ says Will. He is giving Keeley maximum eye contact, furrowed and serious and frankly adorable. ‘This is totally out of character. We were happy, are happy. We’re incredibly close. She is my world. Y’know, she was working hard on her PhD, looking forward to Christmas. Normal stuff.’
Harriet points to another member of the audience. ‘Yes, Terry.’
‘Terry Harcourt, The Mirror. Sir Ian, can you tell us more about Edith – what sort of girl is she?’
Sir Ian looks vaguely lost. ‘Well,’ he says, halting for a moment as if he hasn’t understood the question, ‘as I say, she is clever. She has a double first from Cambridge and is studying for her PhD. She is quite sporty, dedicated to the environment.’ Manon watches his bewildered face as the shutters click and the flashes blind him. He knows what they want – incontinent emoting. They want him and Miriam Hind to break down over ‘their angel’.
Harriet moves it along. ‘Yes, Andy, from The Herald.’
‘Sir Ian, you are physician to the Royal Family. Has the Queen sent you any messages of support?’