fountain pens inside. ‘Nice pens.’
‘She loved writing — you know, the old fashioned way,’ said Mrs Watson. ‘Poems, essays. She was very bright. She had a place at Cambridge next year.’
Brook looked at her. Past tense again. ‘Where?’
‘Cambridge,’ she repeated, louder and slower for Brook’s benefit.
‘No, where did she write? I don’t see any papers or writing books here.’
‘She had a notebook for ideas. If it’s not there, she must have taken it with her.’
‘What about a diary?’
‘Not sure. But it’s all online these days, isn’t it?’
Jim Watson returned with Noble. ‘It’s gone. She must have taken it.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Watson. ‘She’s gone abroad somewhere.’
‘It’s a possibility,’ said Noble.
‘ “Live Forever. Question Mark”,’ said Brook.
‘Pardon?’
‘Is that one of her poems?’
‘How did you. .?’
‘It’s written on this blotter here,’ said Brook, peering down at it. He gestured to Noble to add it to the Exhibits Officer’s list then pulled off his latex gloves. ‘Or maybe she copied it from the leaflet.’ He smiled at the Watsons then looked casually at the walls.
‘Jim Morrison, James Dean, River Phoenix,’ he said, noting the posters dotted around Adele Watson’s walls. ‘Young, beautiful and immortal,’ he added, suddenly thoughtful. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked, nodding at a fourth poster.
The Watsons shook their heads.
‘It’s Kurt Cobain,’ said Noble. ‘He was lead singer with Nirvana.’
‘Was?’ enquired Brook.
‘He shot himself.’
‘And that?’ Brook enquired, pointing to a poster of a young blond man over Adele’s bed.
Watson scoffed loudly. ‘That? That’s a faggot.’
His wife frowned at him. ‘That’s Alexander Skarsgard. He’s in
‘What’s that?’ asked Brook.
‘It’s a show about vampires, if you can believe it?’ spat Watson. ‘And it’s full of faggoty actors like him pretending to be men.’
‘You’re not a fan,’ observed Brook patiently.
‘Please,’ he sneered. ‘People will swallow anything.’
‘I like it,’ said his wife. ‘The men are hot.’
‘Jesus, Roz, give us a break.’
‘Your husband’s right, Mrs Watson,’ Brook said gravely. ‘All actors are gay.’ Noble looked away, trying not to smile.
Watson became animated. ‘Thank you, Inspector. But try telling that to my wife and daughter.’
‘I mean, proper women are attracted to real men,’ continued Brook. ‘Firemen, soldiers. .’
‘Exactly,’ Watson agreed.
‘. . builders,’ Brook threw in.
Watson went back into his shell as his wife squinted suspiciously at him. ‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ he muttered.
‘So Adele is more interested in actors than builders,’ said Brook.
‘Well, her boyfriend isn’t an actor,’ said Mrs Watson.
‘Boyfriend?’ enquired Noble, looking at Brook. ‘You didn’t mention that before.’
‘With a Porsche, as well,’ said the shrivelled woman. ‘You should speak to him.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘She didn’t tell me. Jim saw him though.’
‘I never saw him,’ blustered Watson. ‘But he dropped her off last week and she was crying. She said he’d dumped her.’ He smiled coldly at the detectives. ‘So maybe that’s who you should be out looking for.’
‘And you don’t know his name?’
‘No,’ said Watson.
‘Perhaps Adele mentioned him in an email?’ suggested Brook.
‘No. Her laptop’s gone — I told you.’
Brook held up a hand in apology. ‘So you did.’
‘And he drove a Porsche,’ said Noble, making a note.
Watson hesitated now. ‘Not definitely. But a sports car of some kind. Or maybe it was a saloon.’
‘You told me it was a Porsche,’ said Roz Watson.
‘Either way, an older man,’ prompted Brook, fixing his eye on Watson. ‘With money.’
‘I would think.’
Brook smiled warmly at the husband and wife. ‘Well, if you could go downstairs and finish that list of contacts with PC. .’
‘. . Crainey,’ finished Noble.
‘Right. And keep out of Adele’s room in case Scientific Support Officers need to do any work.’
‘There’s something wrong there,’ said Brook, when they were standing under the streetlight outside the front gate.
‘I know. They seemed more angry than concerned.’
‘And they didn’t mention their daughter by name the entire time. At the Blake house it was Becky this and Becky that — same with Mrs Kennedy and Kyle.’
‘Now you mention it,’ said Noble, passing Brook a cigarette.
‘Another odd thing — he seemed happy telling us his daughter had been dumped. That’s not normal. Contrast that with a typical father like Fred Blake who thinks no one’s fit to breathe the same air as his daughter. Anybody dumping Becky Blake would be bad-mouthed for the rest of his life.’
‘Think Watson has an idea who the boyfriend is and plans to confront him?’
‘That might explain his memory loss over the Porsche.’ Brook took a deep lungful of smoke. ‘But there’s more to it than that. His daughter’s missing but he hardly seems surprised or worried.’
‘Like he knows where she’s gone?’
‘Or maybe
‘Something to do with him, you think?’
Brook shrugged. ‘Possible. We need to search the house.’
‘Looking for what!’ exclaimed Noble.
‘The laptop, for one thing. And something containing Adele’s writings.’
‘You think Watson took Adele’s laptop?’
‘Maybe. Or maybe she hid it herself. Either way, Becky and Kyle both left their laptops behind. So where’s Adele’s?’
‘Maybe they need one between the three of them so she took it.’
‘And not even put it in its case?’
‘It’s odd. But why would Watson take it?’
‘No idea. Perhaps he thinks there’s something on it — a poem or a piece of writing or an email — he doesn’t want anyone to see.’
‘Containing what?’
‘Who knows? It may be no more than father and daughter butting heads over her choice of boyfriend, but girls can be pretty vitriolic behind your back.’
‘What about Mrs Watson? Do you think she’s covering for her husband about something?’
‘I’m not sure she knows there’s anything amiss, not deep down.’ Brook smiled sadly. ‘Maybe even he doesn’t.’
