I dug back into my wallet and came out with a photo Katie dressed in funeral black with a huge smile on her face. Heading off to see Green Day at the Aberdeen Exhibition and Conference Centre. Her first big gig. She went missing Friday night. We got the card on Saturday.
He blushed, then lowered his head. Stared at his shoes. I m sorry, but I don t know what you re talking about. Now you have to go.
I reached in, took a handful of his shirt, and pulled, banging his forehead off the door. Pin back your lugs, you little shite: he s got my daughter, her birthday s tomorrow, and I will tear your fucking head off if I think it s going to help me find her. Are we crystal clear on that?
Ron?
They made me promise
We sat in the lounge while Ellie Chadwick poured tea from a red teapot. She was a slight woman in a pair of bright green jeans and a pink fluffy jumper. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, the fringe spirit-level straight; wearing enough makeup to get a job on the counter at Debenhams. Couldn t have been a day over thirty.
Ron sat on the other side of the coffee table, scowling at a slice of Battenberg. We promised.
She put down the teapot and picked up the photo of Katie. You promised, Ronald Chadwick, not me. Ellie traced Katie s hair with a finger. Your daughter s pretty.
She s a pain in the arse but she s mine.
Our Brenda was the same. Always getting into trouble. Ellie turned, opened a drawer in the TV unit and pulled out a small photo album. Flipped to a page near the end, then placed it on the table in front of me. A young girl with glasses, and hair like her mum s, grinned up at me from a funfair somewhere the carousel horses out of focus behind her. She had one arm around a thin boy with floppy blond hair and a big gap between his front teeth.
I pointed at the picture. This the boyfriend?
Dawson Whitaker. He lives over in Newbridge it s probably the poshest bit of Bath, you should see the houses To start with we thought she d done really well for herself, his family s loaded, but
Ellie, that s enough! Ron banged his hand on the table, making the crockery rattle.
Oh shut it, Ron. Christ You re just like my mother.
You got any idea what that bastard ll do to us if he hears we ve been talking to the cops?
I don t care, Ron, OK? I m sick of it: I m sick of being scared all the time. I m sick of hiding Brenda s pictures and pretending she doesn t exist. She was our daughter. Ellie took the album back, then slipped the funfair photo out from behind the clear plastic sheeting and handed it to me. She disappeared four days before her birthday. Then that card arrived, and it was exactly like the ones in the papers
Ron scowled. Ellie, I m warning you
She took a deep breath. That s what he does, isn t it? He tortures them, and he kills them, then he sends you these sick birthday cards.
Have you still got it?
Ron snorted. Have we still got it?
Ellie shook her head. Dawson s dad took the card when he came over. The only time we ve ever met him. He said if we told anyone about what happened, if we got the police involved, someone would burn our house down with us in it.
Ron picked the marzipan off his Battenberg. Don t forget the rape first, that s the best fucking bit.
He was only trying to scare us.
He did a bloody good job then, didn t he? He s a drug dealer, Ellie, he kills people all the time. It s what they do. Ron wadded his marzipan into a ragged ball. I don t want to be raped
The school was a fancy collection of sandstone buildings on the southern outskirts of Bath, with a coat of arms mounted above the gates and a lodge house. Windows like a cathedral, crenellations, and ten or twelve acres of sweeping parkland, all hidden behind an eight-foot-high wall. Very imposing. Very exclusive. And very expensive.
Dawson Whitaker s dad must have been shifting a hell of a lot of drugs.
I parked my crappy Renault behind a line of Range Rovers and BMW four-by-fours, none of which looked as if they d ever seen so much as a muddy puddle. A rugby pitch was laid out in the grounds, and a group of about thirty kids sprinted up and down, passing the ball back and forth every time a bloke in a black tracksuit blew his whistle.
My phone rang. I pulled it out and read the screen: Parker. I pressed the button. This important?
Silence from the other end. Then, Embers Fuck man, I just heard. You OK?
What do you think?
Shite Anything I can do? You want me to go see Michelle, or something?
Maybe someone should. She doesn t like you, Parker.
Aye, I know, but she s family. Katie s family. Can t sit on my arse and do nothing.
It s not
I ll get her flowers or something, yeah? A pause. I m really sorry.
A woman appeared at my shoulder, wearing a dark trouser suit with the school crest on the breast pocket, silver hair immaculately coiffured. Think we re going to win next week, don t you?
I hung up on Parker, put the phone back in my pocket.
Which one s Dawson Whitaker?
A little frown. I m sorry, I don t think we ve met. Are you a parent?
Until five o clock tomorrow. I pulled out my warrant card.
I need to speak to Dawson.
Ah, I see Is he?
No: potential witness.
Well, in that case I m sure Mr Atkinson will be happy for you to have a word. Do follow me.
Down the hill and across to the pitch. The massive white H of the goal posts glowed like honey in the setting sun, the sky a deep and crystal blue.
The whistle blared and the kids changed direction again, getting slower. The guy in the tracksuit made a megaphone with his hands.
Come on, pick up your feet! Five more! Jenkins, don t cuddle it: it s a rugby ball, not your teddy bear!
This close it was easy to pick out Brenda Chadwick s boyfriend: still skinny; still with floppy blond hair; mouth hanging open, showing off the gap between his front teeth.
One second, please. My guide walked over to the man with the whistle. Talked to him in a low voice, pointing back at me.
He shrugged, then gave an extra long blast on the whistle. Phweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Whitaker, over here, at the double! The rest of you: laps!
Dawson trotted over, all elbows and knees, a rugby ball tucked under his arm. Sir? Posh-boy accent, his voice doing that uncomfortable teeter between a wee kid s and a proper grown-up s.
The children thundered past, puffing and panting and groaning. Off in the middle distance, Mr Atkinson and the woman in the trouser suit shared a joke. Giving us a little privacy.
Dawson shrugged, an exaggerated gesture that seemed to haul his arms up at the elbows. I don t know. It all happened really quickly, we d been arguing she wanted to go to the new Disney film on the Wednesday for her birthday, I d got tickets to an Ingmar Bergman retrospective at the Watershed. It was nothing serious. I mean the relationship and the argument.
Relationship? He was thirteen; since when did thirteen-year-old boys call it a relationship? But you saw him, right? The man who took her?
It was only ever a casual thing, but she got a bit clingy. Truth be told, I was going to break it off after her birthday. Didn t want to spoil the day.
Yes, because nothing said HAPPY BIRTHDAY! like an evening watching Swedish existential cinema.
I pulled out the photo of Katie. She s my daughter.
He raised an eyebrow. Very gothic.
The Birthday Boy s got her and he s going to kill her tomorrow. Did you see him?
Dawson closed his mouth, looked away over my shoulder. My father doesn t like me talking to police officers.
