LITMIR.BIZ

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her. ‘But we would hardly know, it’s not like we live in each other’s pockets. I mean, we see them regularly enough, but they live on the other side of London. Their business is their business.’

      ‘I understand,’ said Sally. ‘And I’m sorry I had to ask, but when a young woman goes missing we need to cover every possibility, no matter how unlikely.’

      ‘Of course,’ Mrs Graham said, ever understanding. ‘Anything to help try and find her.’

      Sally could see the pain and loss swelling in Mrs Graham’s chest and throat. She felt a sudden sense of panic, something screaming at her without warning to run from the house, to get away from these people before they began to transfer their nightmares on to her, before she would be expected to comfort Mrs Graham, to tell her everything would be fine. Sally stretched out of her chair and placed her untouched tea on the table.

      ‘You’ve been very helpful, but I’ve taken up enough of your time.’ Sally found herself almost backing out of the room before Mrs Graham stopped her.

      ‘You don’t think anything bad has happened to her, do you?’ she asked. ‘Nothing really bad’s happened to her, has it?’

      ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine,’ Sally reassured them, desperate to escape the house and the Grahams.

      ‘If anything’s happened to her, I don’t know what we’d do,’ Mrs Graham tortured her. ‘She’s our only child. She’s always been such a wonderful daughter. She’s a good person. No one would want to hurt Louise, would they? She’s not the sort of person anyone would want to hurt. I mean, these terrible men you hear about, they go after prostitutes and young girls whose families don’t care about them, let them wander the streets at all hours, don’t they?’

      Sally almost grabbed at the pain that suddenly throbbed in her chest, Sebastian Gibran’s face looming in her mind, straight white teeth and red eyes. Nausea gripped her body, the blood rushing from her face, her lips turning blue-white as she tried to swallow the bile seeping into her mouth. She wanted Mrs Graham to stop, but she wouldn’t.

      ‘Louise just isn’t the sort of person these people go after. She goes to work and then goes home. I’ve seen programmes on the telly, they always say murderers select their victims, don’t they, that somehow the victims attract these terrible men, they do something that draws these lunatics to them, as if there’s something wrong with them.’

      Sally knew she was close to vomiting, even if her empty stomach forced out nothing more than saliva and bile. She managed to speak.

      ‘Could I please use your toilet?’ she asked, clamping her lips closed the moment the words were out.

      Mrs Graham spoke through rising tears. ‘Of course. It’s off the hallway, second on the left.’

      Sally staggered from the lounge into the hallway, trying to remember Mrs Graham’s directions, pushing every door she came to until she found the toilet and fell inside, somehow managing to close the door before pulling her hair back with one hand and thrusting her face deep into the bowl. Instantly her stomach compressed and her eyes rolled back into her skull as she violently retched, time after time, the agonizing pain in her belly yielding nothing but a trickle of bile, thick, green and yellow, as bitter as hate. Finally the retching ceased. Sally blinked and tried to focus through watering eyes, standing and checking herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red – she’d ruptured tiny capillaries – but some colour was returning to her face and lips. She rinsed her mouth and dabbed a little of the cool liquid on to her eyes, carefully drying them with a towel without rubbing too hard. After a few minutes she decided she looked passable and headed back to the Grahams, a rapid escape uppermost in her mind.

      As she re-entered the lounge, the still-seated Grahams looked up at her like two Labradors waiting for their master’s command. ‘Are you all right?’ Mrs Graham asked.

      ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Sally pretended.

      ‘You don’t look very well, dear,’ Mrs Graham pursued. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

      ‘Just a virus,’ Sally invented. ‘Anyway, thanks for your time, and if there’s anything you think of, please let me know.’ She recovered her computer case, pulled a business card from the side pocket and handed it to Mrs Graham. ‘In the meantime, if we have any news we’ll let you know straightaway.’

      ‘Thank you so much.’

      Mrs Graham’s gratitude only added to Sally’s rising guilt. ‘No problem,’ she called over her shoulder, heading for the front door, both the Grahams in pursuit. Rather than wait for them to open the door for her, she fumbled at the locks and handles herself, tugging the door open and stumbling into the driveway, pulling in chestfuls of fresh air through her nose. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ she promised.

      ‘Please find her,’ pleaded Mr Graham, his eyes glassy. ‘We don’t care what she’s done, tell her. We just want to know she’s safe.’

      ‘Of course,’ Sally answered as she stretched the distance between them and her, only stopping when Mr Graham said something she didn’t understand.

      ‘We have some money,’ he called to her.

      ‘Excuse me?’ Sally floundered. Was he trying to bribe her to find his daughter?

      ‘If someone asks for money to let her go, we have money. Not much, but it might be enough,’ he explained.

      ‘No,’ Sally told him. ‘This isn’t about money. We’re not expecting a ransom demand.’

      ‘Then what is it about?’ Mr Graham demanded.

      ‘We don’t know yet,’ Sally answered truthfully, the need to escape now overwhelming. ‘Let’s just hope she comes home safe and well soon.’

      ‘And if she doesn’t?’ Mr Graham asked. ‘What then?’

      Sally searched frantically for an answer, trying to think what the old Sally would have said to him, but nothing came.

      ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know.’

      Sean sat at his desk feeling hungry, tired and thirsty. He’d kept promising himself he’d stop for a quick breakfast, but another intelligence report, another door-to-door inquiry questionnaire, another possible sighting of Louise Russell would catch his eye and delay rest, food and water for a few more minutes. It would be the same once the time for breakfast became time for lunch. A rapid-fire knocking on the door frame of his office made him look up from an intelligence report about a night-time prowler seen in the vicinity of the Russells’ house some weeks before Louise’s disappearance. DS Dave Donnelly’s considerable bulk filled the entrance.

      ‘Morning, guv’nor,’ he began. ‘How’s everything in the garden today? Bright and rosy, I assume.’

      ‘It’ll be a lot brighter when you get the door-to-door organized properly,’ Sean reprimanded him.

      ‘I’m only trying to save resources,’ retorted Donnelly. ‘I don’t want to waste any more time and people on this than necessary. String it out for a couple of days and then she’ll be home and we can get on with what we’re supposed to be doing.’

      Sean needed Donnelly on side, he couldn’t allow him to keep believing the case was a waste of their time. Donnelly was the mirror image of Sean – he dealt only with what was in front of him. He processed evidence, pressed witnesses hard, interviewed suspects skilfully, but he did it all on the basis of tangible evidence, not theories and hypothetical conclusions. And he got results doing things his way. Sean, on the other hand, was instinctive, imaginative, using the evidence as a guide not a rigid map, unnerving suspects in interview by telling them what they had been thinking as they were committing their crimes rather than relying on things he could prove. They complemented each other – and if the team was to be effective, they needed each other; a fact Sean grasped better than Donnelly.

      ‘Listen to me.’ Sean looked him in the eye, his voice

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