The Missing (8 page)

I didn’t want to let it out, especially not in front of him. Geoff was the staffroom flirt and he’d been pursuing me since I started working at Edgeworth. The only reason he was still interested was because I wasn’t. As I tried to think of a nice way of getting rid of him, I found myself being pulled into his arms for what was supposed to be a reassuring hug. Geoff manoeuvred himself so that his entire body was in contact with mine, pressing himself against me. My skin crawled. I patted his back feebly, hoping he would let go, while mentally debating the relative merits of the swift-knee-to-the-groin approach versus taking one of his grabby hands and bending the fingers back. Too polite to do either, I gazed dully over his shoulder – straight into the eyes of Andrew Blake, who was crossing the car park himself, heading for the school hall.

‘Geoff,’ I said, beginning to wriggle. ‘Geoff, get off me. That’s enough.’

He loosened his hold on me so he could look down at my face. He was still looking intensely sincere, an expression I felt he had been practising in the mirror. ‘Poor little Jenny. It’s no wonder you’re upset about her. Did you hear, they’re saying it was one of us who found her? I wonder who that could have been. Who goes jogging around here?’

He knew very well that I ran to keep fit; he’d offered
to
run with me more than once. I shrugged, managing not to react, and took a step back to put a few important inches of air between us. ‘It’s really dreadful. But seriously, I’m coping. I just had a moment of being upset.’

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’ He reached down and took my hand. ‘It’s just a sign of what a caring person you are.’

Oh, please
.

‘Maybe we should sit down and talk about this over a drink. You deserve it. You’ve done your duty. Let’s get out of here.’

I thought fast as I worked my hand free. ‘Sorry, Geoff. I’m going to the press conference. I just want to keep in touch with the investigation. You know.’

Without waiting for a reply, I started towards the school, heading for the door Blake had gone through. The press conference should have started already, I thought, checking my watch. I hadn’t been planning to go, but anything was better than being interrogated by Geoff in some tacky bar, sipping a warm Coke and watching his every move.

I slipped through the door at the back of the school hall, closing it behind me. The room was absolutely packed – journalists at the front, photographers along the aisles and cameramen at the back of the room. Some of the other teachers were there, standing to one side. I found myself a spot beside Stephen Smith, who nodded at me wordlessly. He looked exhausted and upset. Once again, I felt the slow burn of rage at whoever had done this.

At the front of the room, DCI Vickers was sitting at
the
centre of a long table. Jenny’s parents were to one side of him and I spotted Valerie Wade not too far away, standing beside Blake. On the other side of Vickers was the press officer who was running the press conference, and beside her was Elaine. I guessed that she had insisted on representing the school, in case there were any questions that might reflect badly on us. She looked terribly nervous. So, it had to be said, did Vickers, who was shuffling his papers and patting his pockets while the press officer introduced him.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m just going to announce the preliminary results of the autopsy, which we’ve had performed today, and then pass you over to the Shepherds, who would like to make an appeal for information. We’ve been informed by the pathologist that Jennifer Shepherd drowned some time yesterday.’

Drowned?

At his words, every journalist in the room stuck a hand in the air. Vickers, who had no sense of the theatrical, was looking through his papers again. My eyes were locked on the Shepherds, who clung to one another. Mrs Shepherd was weeping silently, while her husband looked like he had aged ten years over the course of the past thirty-six hours.

The press officer selected one of the waving journalists to ask the question everyone was thinking. ‘How did she drown? Is there any chance that this was an accident after all?’

Vickers shook his head. ‘No. There are suspicious circumstances to do with this death, and we are quite
sure
that we are not dealing with an accident. These are preliminary results from the autopsy, but the pathologist is quite definite about the cause of death.’

I flashed back to the woods, to Jenny lying fully clothed in a hollow, nowhere near a source of water. I hadn’t even seen a puddle nearby. Wherever she’d drowned, it hadn’t been where I’d found her body.

Vickers was still speaking and I stood on my tiptoes, straining to hear what he was saying. ‘We aren’t yet sure where Jenny died, or the circumstances, and for that reason her father, Michael Shepherd, has agreed to make an appeal for information, in case anyone out there can tell us where Jenny was between Saturday evening around six and Sunday night.’

‘Sunday night,’ another of the journalists repeated. ‘So that was when she died, you believe?’

Vickers shook his head slowly. ‘We’re not sure of that at this stage. We’re waiting for further information from the pathologist, but that’s the margin of time we’re interested in at present.

‘We want to know where Jenny was during that time, and who she might have been with. We want to know if anyone saw her. We want to know if anyone is acting suspiciously, or has been behaving in a strange manner since the weekend. We want any information that might lead us to her murderer, no matter how insignificant it might seem.’

Just as Vickers said the word ‘murderer’, Diane Shepherd gave a sob. Instantly camera flashes exploded around the room. Her husband glanced at her, then spread a piece
of
paper in front of him, flattening it out with his hands. Even from the back of the hall, I could see the tremor in his fingers. At a nod from the press officer, he began to speak, faltering a little, but seeming to be very much in control.

‘Our little girl, Jenny, was just twelve years old. She’s – she was a beautiful little girl, always smiling, always laughing. She’s been taken from us too soon. This is our worst nightmare, as it would be for any parent. Please, if you have any information about this crime, anything at all, please tell the police. Nothing will bring her back, but at least we can try to get justice for her. Thank you.’

He swallowed convulsively as he finished, then turned to wrap his arms around his wife, who was now crying hysterically. Valerie ran forward and whispered in Michael Shepherd’s ear. He nodded and got to his feet, supporting his wife. The pair followed Valerie to the side door that led out of the hall. As the door closed behind them, a confused babble of questions rose from the assembled reporters.

‘Is this the work of a paedophile?’ one shouted above the others and Vickers leaned back in his chair, gathering his strength before replying.

‘We don’t yet know …’ I heard as I opened the door at the back of the hall and slipped out. I couldn’t stand to hear any more speculation. The journalists were just doing what they had to do, but the atmosphere in the room made me feel uncomfortable. I was heartsick for the Shepherds and tired to my very bones. The rest of the press conference would be too much to bear.

Lost in thought, I didn’t realise that the Shepherds were walking towards me, guided by Valerie, until they had almost passed by. I was standing beside the main door to the car park, where their car was waiting.

‘Mr Shepherd,’ I said impulsively, ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

He turned and looked at me, his eyes coal-black with hostility, and I shrank back against the wall. Valerie ushered him on with a pert little nod in my direction and I watched them go, open-mouthed. Then I realised – of course. He knew exactly who had discovered the body; he would have been told. I was the one who had taken away the desperate hope that she might be found alive and well. I could understand why he might be upset with me, even though it was far from fair.

I swallowed, fighting for composure. I could cope, I told myself, with a bit of misdirected loathing, even though it stung.

‘Are you OK?’

I looked up to see Andrew Blake leaning over me, concern on his face.

‘I’m all right. I just don’t understand why those poor people couldn’t be allowed some privacy. Was there really any reason to drag them out in front of the press like that?’

‘We’ve got to take advantage of the media interest at this stage, before they start criticising us for not finding the killer. The parents make good TV. We’ll be at the top of all the news bulletins.’

‘Practical as ever,’ I observed.

‘So what? It’s not like we can get on with doing anything useful at the moment. My boss is stuck in there, trying to cope with that pack of sharks. Every time I try to get out and do some actual policing, I get hassled by them. Not to mention the fact that they’re conducting their own investigation. They’re doing more interviews than we are. I’ve heard back from the guys who are doing door-to-door – the tabloids have got there first. They’re stepping all over this, getting in the way, and they’ll be the first to tell us that we’ve cocked it up when they’re the ones who are causing the problems.’ His voice had risen. He ran his hands through his hair and paced back and forth a couple of times before turning to face me again. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t shout at you. It’s not your fault.’

‘I’m used to it,’ I said lightly. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He looked quizzically at me, but I shook my head. I wasn’t going to elaborate.

‘It just frustrates me. The first few days of the investigation are the most important, and what are we titting about with? Play-acting for the media instead of actual investigating. And if we wanted to get press attention for something they could actually help with, we could whistle for it.’ He sighed. ‘But we still need to do it, just in case something comes of it. And if we didn’t give them information and access to the family, they’d be ten times worse.’

‘You don’t think the Shepherds’ appeal is going to be useful?’

‘It never is, in my experience. What sort of killer is going to come forward just because he sees the parents
looking
upset? If you’ve got the balls to murder a kid, don’t tell me that a few tears on camera are going to remind you that you’ve got a conscience.’

‘But maybe the family of the murderer – his wife, his mother …’

Blake was shaking his head. ‘Come on. Look at what they’ve got to lose. Most people wouldn’t give a shit if it meant they had to hand over a family member to the cops.’

‘Really?’ I couldn’t believe it. ‘They’d rather live with a murderer?’

‘Think about it,’ Blake said, ticking off the points on his fingers. ‘Total upheaval – your whole family gets turned upside-down. Loss of income – could be the chief earner who gets nicked, and that’s you and your family living on benefits. You get bricks through your windows, graffiti, people whispering about you when you go down to the shops. The neighbours hate you, so there’s no more chatting over the fence. And that’s before you consider that your potential witnesses who are supposed to point the finger at the killer are more than likely related to him. Would you turn in someone you loved?’

‘But Jenny was murdered! She was a twelve-year-old girl who hadn’t done anything wrong. How could anyone feel any loyalty to someone who was responsible for that death?’

He shook his head. ‘Loyalty is a strong emotion. It’s hard to go against it and do the right thing. You can understand why someone might prefer to look the other way.’

I thought back to the journalists’ questions. While Blake was in such a forthcoming mood, there was something I needed to know. ‘The autopsy … Did they … was she … assaulted?’

He hesitated for a second. ‘Not as such.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Not recently,’ he said slowly, and his mouth narrowed to a grim line as my eyes widened.

‘So you could tell – there were signs –’

‘We could tell that she was four months pregnant. That made things easy.’ His voice was low, clipped, matter-off-act. I couldn’t even pretend that I had misheard.

‘But she was a
child
,’ I managed to say eventually. There wasn’t enough air in my lungs; I couldn’t take a deep enough breath.

‘Almost thirteen.’ He was frowning. ‘I shouldn’t have told you that – any of it. You’re the only one who knows, outside the police. If it goes any further, I’ll know you leaked it.’

‘There’s no need to threaten me. I won’t say anything.’ I couldn’t imagine telling anyone what Blake had just told me. What it implied was too terrible to contemplate.

‘I wasn’t trying to threaten you. I just – I could get in serious trouble for talking out of turn, OK?’

‘So why did you tell me in the first place?’ I said, nettled.

He shrugged. ‘I suppose I didn’t want to lie to you.’

I didn’t say anything in response – I couldn’t. But my face burned. I barely knew the detective, but he had a definite talent for wrong-footing me.

He looked down at me compassionately. ‘Why don’t you get out of here? No reason why you should have to hang around, is there?’

I shook my head and he turned to go back into the school hall. With his hand on the door-handle, he paused for a second, steeling himself. Then he pulled open the door and was gone.

My cheek is buried in one of the cushions that sit along the back of the sofa. As I breathe in and out, the silky fabric draws towards my mouth a little and then falls back again. I watch it through my eyelashes. In. Out. In. Out.

I have been asleep for a while – not long. My neck is stiff from the awkward way I am lying, and I am cold. I want to go to bed. I think about why I have woken up. I hear voices: my parents and two strangers, one male and one female. I stay absolutely still and keep my breathing regular while I listen to them. I don’t want to be asked any more questions. I am in trouble and I hate Charlie for it.

‘Any problems at school, do you know? Bullying? Not doing his homework?’

My mother answers, her voice faint and distant. ‘Charlie’s a good boy. He likes school.’