Authors: Michelle Davies
Her heart beat wildly as fear overwhelmed her. Rosie knew better than to go out without letting her know first. She bolted back downstairs, pulse racing. In the kitchen she checked the
marble-topped units but there was no note from Rosie saying where she’d gone on any of them. On the island counter she found a small pile of letters that must have been delivered while she
was out. Lesley tore through the envelopes in case a message from Rosie had got muddled up with them. Usually she steered clear of any post they received, scared of what she might find. While bills
held no fear for her these days, it was a new kind of demand that gave her sleepless nights: begging letters from strangers wanting a slice of their fortune. Mack usually dealt with them so she
didn’t have to read the threats and the pleas from people she didn’t know and didn’t want to.
There was no note from Rosie in the pile, so she dropped the letters back onto the counter and checked the corkboard on the wall next to the fridge, in case Rosie had pinned a note over the
photos, cards and slips of paper listing the phone numbers of her school, their GP, dentist, the golf club. The corkboard stuck out like a sore thumb against all the marble, but it was the one
concession she’d wrestled out of Mack when she argued the kitchen would be too sterile if they stuck to his plan of keeping every utensil and container out of sight, and every wall bare, so
as not to spoil the sleek lines of its design. It was the same corkboard from their old kitchen in Mansell and gave Lesley a sense of home in a house she otherwise hated.
There was no message awaiting her attention. Her eyes strayed to the centre of the board, to a photograph of Rosie hugging Mickey Mouse, taken when she was nine and they’d scraped together
enough money to go to Disney World in Florida. Rosie’s hair was shorter then, cut into a neat bob that fell just below her ears, and had yet to darken to the brunette it was now. It was one
of Lesley’s favourite pictures, which was why it had pride of place in the centre, with everything else orbiting it like planets around the sun. As nine-year-old Rosie beamed out at her, she
began to shake. She had to be somewhere. She wouldn’t just go off . . .
Then it hit her. Kathryn. Rosie’s best friend, who lived next door and was in the same year at her school. What was the betting she had the day off too? Rosie had probably gone round to
see her and lost track of the time.
Buoyed by the certainty that’s where Rosie was, Lesley fetched her phone from her bag, which was on the floor next to the shopping. She’d call Rosie first and if she didn’t
pick up, she’d try Kathryn next. She pressed her thumb down on the ‘R’ key, which was programmed to speed-dial her daughter’s number.
Walking back out onto the terrace, she lifted her face to greet the sun as she waited for Rosie to pick up, luxuriating in the warmth on her skin. It took a few moments before she became aware
of the faint echo of a phone ringing. Puzzled, she followed the noise down the terrace steps and onto the lawn. Reaching the picnic blanket, she saw Rosie’s iPhone lying on top of it, the
word ‘Mum’ and a picture of Lesley illuminated as it rang. She hung up, trembling.
Rosie never went anywhere without her phone, the thing was practically glued to her hand. She’d never leave it behind unless forced to. Lesley looked wildly up and down the garden.
‘ROSIE!’
There was a rustle in the line of fir trees that stood sentry along the bottom of the garden.
‘Rosie, is that you?’
As she took off towards the trees, the grass suddenly felt sticky beneath her bare feet. She stopped, surprised, and looked down. There was a dark, damp patch on the grass, like something had
been spilled. She reached down and grazed the blades of grass with her fingers and, as she drew her hand back, she let out a strangled cry. The tips of her fingers were stained red and when she
lifted them to her nose and inhaled, she could detect a strong metallic scent, like the smell of pennies.
Or blood.
On the stage at the front of the hall, a girl of around ten was wailing the words to ‘Over the Rainbow’, skinny knees exposed in a blue gingham dress and cheeks
daubed with clown-like circles of blusher. As the girl hit a high note, a woman on the front row whooped loudly and clapped.
‘I thought this was assembly, not a football match. Or maybe she thinks it’s
The X Factor
.’
Four rows back, Maggie Neville laughed louder than she intended to as her sister Lou whispered in her ear. An older-looking man sitting directly in front cast a dirty look over his shoulder, to
which Lou’s eight-month-old daughter Mae, cradled on her mum’s lap, responded by bursting into noisy wails. No amount of soothing noises or rocking would placate her.
‘Give her to me,’ whispered Maggie as people turned to look. ‘I’ll take her outside for a bit.’
‘Thanks,’ Lou replied in an undertone, handing Mae to her sister with a grateful smile. ‘Scotty should be on in about ten minutes.’
Scotty was Lou’s middle child and his class was performing ‘Any Dream Will Do’ from
Joseph.
For a little school, Rushbrooke Primary liked to aim high with its
assemblies and today’s celebration of musicals was no exception.
Cradling her niece to her chest, Maggie pushed her way along the row towards the side of the hall, where the exit was. A man swore as she trod on his foot.
Outside in the playground she sat down on a bench so low it could only have been designed with children in mind and Mae’s wails quickly subsided to a whimper. It was just after 2.30 p.m.
and the sun pulsed strongly in the afternoon sky. Maggie wished she’d worn a skirt instead of the wool-mix trousers that were part of her usual work attire and were making her overheat. Her
laundry basket was overflowing as usual that morning and the trousers and tomato-red T-shirt she had on were the only clean clothes she could find.
From across the playground Maggie could hear the low hum of traffic barrelling along the M40, the motorway that carved through the Chiltern Hills to the north of Mansell town centre. One
carriageway took drivers all the way to Oxford, the other to London.
‘Mrs Green, are you . . . Oh, I’m sorry, seeing you with the baby there I thought you were Scotty’s mum.’
Maggie identified the young woman approaching her as Donna, the teaching assistant from Scotty’s class.
‘No, I’m his aunt.’
‘I should’ve realized you weren’t Mrs Green, seeing as your hair is so different,’ she said with a laugh.
Maggie self-consciously brushed her long fringe out of her eyes. Lou owed her auburn tint to Clairol Nice’N Easy but her own hair was still the same dark honey blonde of her youth, still
the same shoulder-length style. Boring, according to Lou, but Maggie liked that it wasn’t fussy. In between work and helping out with the kids, she didn’t have the time or inclination
for anything more elaborate.
‘Scotty always talks about you,’ said Donna, whose own hair was cropped short and dyed peroxide blonde. Maggie could see she had a tattoo of a seahorse on the inside of her wrist.
‘He loves having a police officer for an auntie.’
Maggie flashed her a tight smile. The last thing she wanted on her day off was to be drawn into a conversation about her work as a detective constable with Mansell Force CID. Experience taught
her that when meeting a police officer in a social setting, people either saw it as an opportunity to rant about the lack of beat officers or criminals being let off with lenient sentences, or to
ask crass questions like, ‘Do you ever use your handcuffs in bed?’ which she never knew quite how to answer without appearing completely humourless.
But Donna only wanted to talk about Scotty.
‘He was so excited you could come today,’ she chattered on. ‘Normally we have our assemblies in the morning but this one’s been quite the production. If we’d done
it earlier we’d have been late starting lessons.’
‘I’m glad I could make it,’ said Maggie, meaning it.
Swinging a day’s personal leave at short notice wasn’t easy but when she found out Scotty had a line to sing by himself, she didn’t want to miss it. Afterwards they were
collecting Jude, Lou’s eldest, from football practice, then going to Pizza Hut for their tea.
Donna leaned forward to tickle Mae’s cheek and Maggie caught a whiff of cheese and onion crisps on her breath. Her own stomach growled to remind her that all she’d eaten since
breakfast was a Dairylea triangle, squeezed straight into her mouth from its foil wrapper. She’d been too busy helping Lou finish Scotty’s costume to manage anything else.
‘Between you and me,’ said Donna conspiratorially, ‘if I have to hear the songs one more time I’ll scream. Still, the kids do love putting on a show and you must be proud
Scotty has a line to sing all by himself. He’s such a kind, sweet-natured boy,’ she added, as though Maggie might be clueless about her own nephew’s character. ‘He’s a
credit to your sister. It can’t be easy for her, coping on her own. We did wonder if his stepdad might come today but I guess after everything . . .’
She trailed off as Maggie eyed her suspiciously. Did Donna really know the circumstances of Lou’s break-up with Rob or was she fishing for gossip to pass around the staffroom? Not prepared
to test either theory, Maggie rose to her feet, hitching Mae, by now gurgling happily, onto her hip.
‘I’d better get back inside,’ she said politely.
The hall felt even stuffier after the fresh air of the playground. A sullen-looking boy wearing boxes sprayed with silver paint and matching tights had joined the girl in gingham on stage and
was singing through gritted teeth. Maggie pushed back along the row, this time managing to avoid standing on any feet. As she eased into her seat, Lou, red-faced and flustered, turned on her.
‘Your phone keeps ringing and I can’t work out how to turn the sodding thing off,’ she whispered, handing Maggie her mobile in exchange for Mae.
‘Shit, sorry.’
Checking the screen, she was surprised to see she’d missed three calls from Detective Inspector Tony Gant. It was, what, two months since they’d last spoken?
‘I need to make a quick call. It’s work.’
‘But you’ll miss Scotty,’ Lou replied sharply.
The man in front turned round and glared again. Lou stuck her middle finger up at him.
But Maggie was already out of her seat, bag slung over her shoulder. ‘I won’t. I’ll be one minute.’ There were loud tuts as she went back along the line.
Maggie paced up and down the playground as she waited for her call to be answered, her empty stomach cramping with nerves. DI Tony Gant was the Family Liaison Coordinator for her force and she
was among a hundred or so officers he’d recruited from the ranks to train as a specialist family liaison officer for Major Crime cases. Or she had been until Gant received a complaint about
her conduct during her last case and she was suspended from his roster. Four months on, Maggie still wasn’t cleared to return to FL duty and her last evaluation with the Force Welfare
Department had been a fortnight ago. As she stalked the playground she feared Gant was trying to reach her because her assessor, Wendy, had found cause to make her suspension permanent.
‘DI Gant,’ a male voice barked.
‘It’s DC Neville, sir. Sorry I missed your calls.’
‘Hello, Maggie. How have you been?’
Unprepared for small talk, she could only stammer the briefest of replies. ‘Not bad. You, sir?’
‘Fine, fine. Have you got your notebook to hand?’
Maggie said yes as she delved in her bag to find it.
‘I need you for a case. Missing teenager.’
She sank down onto the same bench she and Mae had sat on earlier. ‘Really?’
‘Don’t sound so surprised. Four months is plenty of time to have learned your lesson and I can’t afford to have decent FLOs sidelined indefinitely. Luckily for you, Wendy
agrees and has signed you off just in time for DCI Umpire to personally request you.’
Maggie was glad to be already sitting down. Stunned, she asked Gant to repeat himself and he chuckled as he did.
‘Yes, it turns out you’re forgiven. Right,’ he said sharply, as if there was nothing else to discuss on the matter, ‘the girl’s disappearance is being treated as a
critical incident because blood found at the scene suggests she didn’t go willingly. Hence why Major Crime are running it. Umpire’s the Force Senior Investigating Officer on this one
and he wants you as lead FLO to her parents.’
‘But what about his complaint?’ she asked.
‘Withdrawn.’
The word hung in the air like a bubble that might pop at any second. Then relief flooded through her.
Family liaison was something she did a few times a year, a specialist sideline to her day job as a detective constable. Although she was stationed in Mansell with Force CID, as a Major Crime FLO
she could be deployed anywhere within the force’s jurisdiction, for however long the case took. Some old-timers dismissed family liaison for bringing little more to an investigation than tea
and sympathy and historically they could have successfully argued the point, until a series of high-profile cases – including the 1989 Marchioness boat disaster on the River Thames and the
murder of London teenager Stephen Lawrence in 1993 – highlighted how vital the role was and how officers required specific training for it. A national strategy was put in place after those
cases, following the light-bulb realization that if the public saw FLOs as being the face of the police, the role had to be taken more seriously.
As Maggie saw it, an FLO was the conduit between the investigating team and the family – broadly defined as partners, parents, siblings, children, grandparents, guardians and those with a
close relationship to the victim, such as best friends – and her job was to conduct the flow of information between them. She had to make sure the family understood what was going on –
if the victim was dead, that included explaining the sometimes baffling coroner’s process – while uncovering every pertinent detail of the victim’s daily life to feed back to her
colleagues. By asking the right questions, she could elicit information from the family that was vital to the case – or even catch them out if they were the guilty party. It wasn’t just
about sitting on someone’s sofa enquiring how many sugars they took.