‘Says here he was arrested for indecency in 2008 but let off with a caution,’ she says, frowning.
‘Had some high-profile customers,’ says Stanton, ‘who didn’t wish a prosecution to come to court.’
Stanton has a look of distaste. He is a man who likes to avoid confrontation, like a loyal dog tied to a railing – he does not wish to bark or snap, certainly not at the wrong heels.
‘Interesting,’ says Manon, still reading. ‘Says here Dent was clean.’
‘Well, to our knowledge,’ starts Harriet. ‘A forensic postmortem will tell us more.’
‘Not necessarily,’ says Stanton, turning away from them back to the window where the sky has darkened to a slate blue, smeared with the yellow street lamps over the car park. ‘Toxicology will have washed away. PMs on river deaths are pretty inconclusive, in my experience. He’ll have been beaten about by tree roots, got at by animals. Cause of death unascertained, I’ll put money on it. To think that’s what we pay them three grand for.’ He shakes his head.
Manon guesses he’s marvelling at the riches of forensic pathologists in their BMWs with cream leather seats.
‘Speaking of money, the cost of the Hind investigation is getting to the point where the Home Office is going to have to bail us out. I’ve had a note from Sir Brian Peabody about it.’ He waves a bit of paper at them. ‘Polsa teams, SOCO, television appeals. Now this forensic PM and more officers on Dent. The profile of it, well, it’s making our good Commissioner jumpy.’
‘What’re we supposed to do?’ asks Harriet. ‘Stop looking for her? Not look as hard?’
‘Just look more cheaply,’ says Manon.
‘They’re not pulling the plug,’ says Stanton. ‘But we’re under scrutiny, that’s all. If we had a body, then we’d have an unlimited murder budget, but Edith Hind – it’s moot whether she’s a high-risk misper, a suspected homicide, or even just a misper in Peabody’s view.’
‘Is there anyone who seriously thinks she’s alive?’ asks Harriet.
‘Look, Peabody’s just looking ahead,’ says Stanton. ‘Enquiry gets to this size, and there’s always an enquiry into the enquiry, questions in Parliament about how much we spent, what result we got and why we didn’t know it was “so-and-so” three weeks before we caught him. Everyone throwing in their wisdom with the benefit of hindsight. Doesn’t help that Hind is mates with Galloway. I can see how itchy Peabody is about that. There are already mutterings about a review of our investigation by another force.’
‘Bound to happen, sooner or later,’ says Harriet.
‘Manon, I want you to go to Cricklewood first thing tomorrow. Liaise with Kilburn CID. Visit the Dent family, get what you can out of the mother and the brother. Then you can pop up to Hampstead and update the Hinds.’
‘Perhaps she should inform Sir Ian that his dear friend’s austerity budget means there aren’t enough resources to find his daughter,’ says Harriet. ‘Let’s see him bring that up at their next Hampstead dinner party.’
‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ says Stanton, with a smile at Harriet that says: we’re on the same side.
‘Least I don’t have to tell them we’ve hooked their daughter out of the Ouse,’ says Manon.
Stanton closes the door to his office. They watch him turn the spindle on his Venetian blind and disappear.
‘D’you need a lift anywhere?’ asks Harriet, as she and Manon put their coats on.
‘No. Getting the train to Bedford to pick the car up. Shouldn’t take long. I forgot to ask – how was Buckaroo with Elsie? Did she throw in a custard cream?’
‘Long,’ says Harriet, picking her bag up off the floor. ‘Very, very long. It’s not a game I’d recommend for someone with advanced-stage Parkinson’s.’
‘No, no, I can see hooking those little plastic …’
They both shake their heads at the thought of it.
‘I just didn’t think it through,’ Harriet says sadly. ‘I’m a complete fucking idiot sometimes. She wouldn’t give up, though, I’ll give her that.’
‘S’pose you should steer clear of Operation as well.’
‘Anyway, how was yours? Wild partying, I bet.’
‘I went to the movies instead. Swedish season at the arts cinema. Bumped into that dog walker, actually – chap who found Taylor Dent.’
‘Oh yeah? Davy mentioned his amazing barn. Said he fancied the pants off you.’
‘Oh,’ says Manon, flushing like a marzipan fruit. ‘I don’t think he did.’ And her inner world shudders as if a host of celestial doves were fluttering up inside her ribcage.