Authors: Michelle Davies
‘I understand it’s a difficult situation,’ she said quickly, with as much politeness as she could muster. She really didn’t have time to stand on the doorstep arguing:
every minute wasted was one less spent looking for Rosie. ‘However, the press coverage may well prove invaluable in finding Rosie quickly. There are two uniformed officers stationed at the
gate to make sure residents still have easy access.’
‘I’m sure the silly girl’s just run off somewhere and all this nonsense is a waste of everyone’s time, mine and yours included.’
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. ‘What makes you say that? Do you know Rosie?’
‘Heavens, no,’ Mrs Roberts sniffed, as though to suggest so was an insult. ‘I have nothing to do with her or her parents. They keep to themselves, as do I.’
I’m not surprised they do if you’re the sort of person they have to live near, thought Maggie sourly.
‘Why do you think she’s run off then?’ she asked.
The reply came with a sneer. ‘She’s fifteen years old, for heaven’s sake. She’s probably doing it for attention and now we’re the ones suffering.’
While the selfishness of some people rarely shocked Maggie – people wanting something that wasn’t theirs was at the root of most crimes, after all – this woman was something
else. Time to end the conversation.
‘Rosie’s been missing for almost twenty-four hours now and her parents are frantic with worry,’ she said. ‘I know they’ll appreciate the support of their neighbours
at this difficult time so I’ll tell them you popped round.’
Maggie shut the door before the woman could react.
Returning briskly to the kitchen, she wondered if the rest of the neighbours were as stuck-up and self-serving as Mrs Roberts was. It would certainly explain why their door-to-door inquiries had
drawn a blank. Umpire had revealed as much when he called her half an hour ago to update her on the investigation so far. FLOs weren’t expected to attend every single incident room briefing
because their place was with the victims’ relatives, but it was vital they were kept in the loop and any important developments passed on immediately.
Umpire said the last known sighting of Rosie was still at 10.33 a.m., just before the CCTV cameras installed in the Kinnocks’ back garden were switched off.
‘Does Rosie know how to deactivate the system?’ Maggie had asked.
‘Yes. Her dad showed her what to do in the unlikely event she ever needed to reset it.’
‘So the cameras were switched off before Rosie got changed out of her shorts into her party skirt and then went missing?’
‘It looks that way,’ said Umpire.
He said he’d be over later, after briefing the rest of the team at the Major Crime incident room he’d commandeered at Mansell police station. There was a station in Haxton but it was
run on a part-time basis by volunteers and only dealt with minor matters such as processing documents for traffic offences. It had neither the capacity nor the technological set-up required to run
a Major Crime investigation.
The ease with which Umpire spoke to her on the phone made Maggie relax about what Belmar had told her the previous evening. If Umpire had been aware of what was being said about them his voice
would’ve betrayed him with the same awkwardness he showed when certain female officers flirted with him. Instead, they seemed to be edging back to how they were before the Megan Fowler case
changed everything.
That case had been tough on everyone involved. Megan was only eight – the same age Maggie’s nephew Scotty was now – when she was strangled and her body dumped behind some
garages near her home on the west side of Mansell. Some killers take trophies from their crimes and Megan’s had, for some inexplicable reason, hacked off her long blonde hair. It was a detail
Umpire wanted to withhold from public consumption: he wanted to use the evidence to wheedle out anyone who claimed to have knowledge of the murder by establishing if they knew about Megan’s
hair being cut.
But that included not telling Megan’s parents. Umpire said he didn’t trust them not to divulge the detail, especially as they were making regular statements to the press about
catching her killer. So, to maintain secrecy, he decided to delay them viewing Megan’s body so they wouldn’t see what the killer had done to her.
As their FLO, Maggie disagreed vehemently with the tactic: Paula and Jamie Fowler needed to see their little girl as soon as possible so they could begin the grieving process. She pleaded with
him, suggesting they cover up what was left of Megan’s hair with a shroud so the parents couldn’t tell the rest was gone, or swear them to secrecy. But still he wouldn’t
budge.
As the days dragged on, Maggie was horrified to see Megan’s mum Paula being driven to the cusp of a breakdown as her imagination conjured up scenarios of what the killer had done to Megan
that were far worse than the reality. Again and again Maggie tried to convince Umpire to tell the parents why they couldn’t see Megan but he still refused. He couldn’t risk the killer
evading arrest. After a long night wrestling with her conscience, Maggie cracked and told Paula the truth. To let her continue to suffer was a cruelty she simply was no longer prepared to
inflict.
Once the news had sunk in, Paula agreed to keep it a secret even from Jamie. She understood the enormity of what Maggie had done and what she was risking to ease her pain.
Umpire remained unaware Paula knew until two days later, after he’d arrested Megan’s killer, a twenty-one-year-old man with learning difficulties who lived in the next street and had
attacked the little girl because she was rude to him. He cut off her hair because he erroneously thought it would stop him getting caught.
Maggie hoped that with the arrest made, that would be the end of it. But when Umpire turned up at the house to tell the Fowlers they had someone in custody, a distraught Paula let rip and
accused him of playing God with her family’s feelings.
Umpire’s anger towards Maggie erupted like a volcano. Not only did she remember every word he said to her, but other little details also stayed with her: the swollen vein in his temple
that pulsed as he swore at her on the pavement outside the Fowlers’ house; the sensation of cold sweat trickling down her back as she absorbed his fury; the taste of the five cigarettes
she’d chain-smoked afterwards to calm down.
The memory of that confrontation made her shiver now as she stood in the Kinnocks’ warm kitchen. At some point she must find the courage to ask him why he had withdrawn his complaint, but
for now she was going to enjoy the ceasefire.
She checked the time on her watch, a chunky silver Seiko designed for a male wrist and a Christmas present given reluctantly two years ago by her parents, who didn’t understand why she
didn’t want a ‘nice ladies’ style’ like the one Lou picked out. Maggie tried to explain she liked the weight of the Seiko against her wrist, the way it made her feel
anchored, but her parents remained baffled.
It was 7.40 a.m. and she was expecting Belmar to arrive by eight. She poured herself another coffee from the pot she’d brewed and checked her phone. She’d sent Lou a text earlier to
see how she and the kids were, but imagined her sister was too busy getting them ready for school to reply. She’d try to call her later. She was dying to know how Scotty’s performance
had gone.
Although patrol officers were stationed outside Angel’s Reach and by the security gate, Maggie was the only police presence inside the house. A handful of Matheson’s techs were
re-examining the back lawn but the search was now being concentrated beyond its boundaries, to the meadow where Rosie’s skirt had been found shoved into a bush and into Haxton village
itself.
She added milk to her coffee. The Kinnocks hadn’t surfaced yet but she doubted they were asleep. The worry would have kept them awake for most of the night. Just before midnight they had
received the news that Matheson’s lab tests had confirmed the blood on the lawn was Rosie’s and it was a match with the blood on the skirt. Mack and Lesley took themselves off to their
bedroom after that, rather than keeping vigil downstairs. Maggie knew not to judge – every family was different and there was no right or wrong way to behave in their situation. Some families
liked to stay up all night discussing endlessly what was going on, as though voicing their fears somehow diluted them. Others, like the Kinnocks, preferred to keep their counsel.
Maggie had slept on the purple sofa in the lounge. She’d been loath to make herself at home in one of the guest bedrooms without checking first and she would not disturb the Kinnocks for
something she regarded as trivial. She’d spent enough nights crashed out on Lou’s sofa to know she could still function the next day on a few snatched hours and had found a throw in the
laundry room next to the kitchen to keep herself warm.
She’d lain awake for an hour before falling asleep though, replaying the moment Lesley saw Rosie’s skirt. She was angry with herself that she hadn’t reached the French doors
first and even more so with the eager probationer whose bright idea it was to bring the skirt to Matheson rather than call him to the meadow where it was found so it could be secured as a secondary
crime scene. Umpire was furious it had been removed from its hiding place and potential forensic evidence destroyed. The probationer was already off the case and back on traffic duty.
Maggie returned the milk to the fridge. It was the biggest one she’d ever seen and must’ve cost thousands, yet its contents were at odds with the flash exterior: the shopping
she’d unpacked for Lesley yesterday was mostly Tesco own-brand and the only luxury item, if you could call it that, was a Finest range ready meal of salmon en croute. Maggie imagined that if
she had unlimited funds, she’d buy the best of everything: steak, lobster, champagne, you name it. All that money and Lesley still bought Tesco Everyday Value streaky bacon.
‘Is there any news?’
She jumped in fright and turned to find Mack standing right behind her. He looked exhausted and the clothes he wore were the same ones he’d had on yesterday. She hadn’t heard him
enter the kitchen and, glancing down, saw why: his feet were bare and wouldn’t have made a sound on the slate tiles.
‘I’m afraid not,’ she said apologetically. ‘But DCI Umpire is coming over to talk to you and your wife shortly.’
Mack stared at Maggie like he had no idea what to say. Mindful of Umpire’s warning that she must not mention the police were aware he’d only stayed one night at the Old Course Hotel,
she kept the conversation light.
‘Shall I explain what it is we do as your family liaison? We didn’t really have a chance to go through it yesterday.’
‘Go on then,’ said Mack, his Scots accent lending his voice an abruptness Maggie cautioned herself not to take personally.
She recited the statement she gave every family at the start of an investigation, give or take a word.
‘DC Small and I are here to offer you and your wife practical support such as helping you understand what stage the inquiry is at and providing all possible information where we can. There
may be some things we aren’t able to share if they could jeopardize criminal proceedings but we’ll let you know if that’s the case and why.’
Unless my DCI refuses to let
me
, she silently added. ‘What we can’t help you with – what I’m afraid neither of us is trained to provide – is counselling. But there are organizations such as
Victim Support who can do that and we can contact them for you.’
It was a distinction she hated making. She disagreed passionately with the no-counselling rule for FLOs, put in place to protect them from becoming emotionally overburdened. No, she wasn’t
a trained counsellor, but she had ears, didn’t she? Most of the time that was all the families wanted – someone to listen to them. How could she be with them day in and day out and then
excuse herself when they wanted to talk about how they were feeling? She’d happily listen to whatever they wanted to unload on her. But however dismissive she was of the rule, Maggie felt she
had no choice but to stick to it.
‘I can call them now if you want,’ she said.
Mack shook his head. ‘That won’t be necessary.’
They all say that at the beginning, she thought.
We don’t need any help. We can cope.
That’s because they’re praying it’ll all be over in a few hours. But what
if those hours stretch into days or even weeks? What then?
‘Well, it’s something for you to consider,’ she said. ‘I should also let you know that myself and Belmar will be making a note of conversations we have with you and your
wife.’
Mack frowned. ‘Why?’
‘It’s nothing to be alarmed about, Mr Kinnock. Logging our conversations makes it easier for us to check if there’s anything you need us to do, such as finding out certain
information, or if you want to go over anything you’ve already raised.’
She didn’t add the aside that always popped into her head at this point in her speech, which was that logging all conversations also gave them the opportunity to review any discrepancies
in the family’s statements and flag up any suspicious comments or behaviour to the SIO.
‘I do have one question,’ he said. ‘About the skirt you found.’
‘Yes, about that . . .’ She cringed. ‘I’m very sorry—’
‘No, that’s not what I meant. Are you certain it’s Rosie’s?’
Taken aback, she said yes, they were. ‘Your wife confirmed it.’
‘I know, but she’s very upset and could be mistaken. I’ve never seen it before and it’s not the kind of thing Rosie wears. I certainly wouldn’t let her wear
something so short.’
‘Mr Kinnock—’ Maggie began, but he interrupted her, clearly agitated.
‘That skirt does not belong to Rosie.’
Maggie could hear the desperation in his voice and faltered. Of course he didn’t want it to be Rosie’s. None of them wanted it to be Rosie’s.
‘Even if it does prove to be someone else’s,’ she said carefully, ‘as we told you last night, the lab tests have confirmed the blood on the skirt is your
daughter’s. DCI Umpire will be able to explain more when he arrives.’
Mack squeezed his eyes shut behind his glasses and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. When he opened his eyes again they were filled with despair. But instead of breaking down, as he looked
as though he was on the verge of doing, he pulled his shoulders back and exhaled.