Julius sat down at the table of twelve, satisfied his comments would be well reported and well received. Job done. He could now relax and schmooze with these journalists, networking with them for his own gain, and enjoy the free three-course meal. It didn’t escape his notice that sitting at the centre of the large but intimate table, he was the tiniest bit Christ-like, wasn’t he, with his Brexit disciples surrounding him, attending to him? Yes, he liked how important he felt; he liked the attention. He wouldn’t be deigning to notice how swiftly they all wanted to leave. He was skilled at editing uncomfortable stuff out of his life. He’d edited Anna out almost immediately after the split was announced, and he was quick to manage the PR around it, manipulating the press release to make it seem as if he were blameless, as if they had simply drifted apart. He knew Anna wouldn’t object. What would it benefit her to scatter the bleached bones of their failure so publicly?
As the gathered few mercifully took their leave, Julius noticed a figure in a dark coat, hanging back near the door. He presumed the man was a driver come to collect one of the reporters, who’d boldly wandered into the room.
Julius was annoyed at the breach of protocol, never mind the security risk. ‘Excuse me, matey, if you’re here to pick someone up, you should wait outside. Surely you know that?’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Lindon-Clarke, perhaps you don’t recall me?’ The man stepped forward. ‘I’m DI Mike Thripshaw.’
Julius furrowed his brow. This name meant nothing. DI Thripshaw helped him out. ‘It’s been seventeen years. I was the head poncho on the investigation into the abduction of your daughter, Florence.’
‘Oh God, yes, sorry.’ Julius’s heart (or place where his heart should be) sank. This idiot. Again.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not a pigment of your imagination, so it would be grand if you could sit down, please, sir.’ DI Thripshaw was firm. Julius didn’t argue. ‘And if we could have the room to ourselves?’
Julius ushered the remaining couple of journos, who were dawdling and gulping down the last of their crèmes brûlées, out.
‘Well?’ said Julius impatiently. ‘Is there some news on the gypsies?’
‘Ah well, that’s one of the things I’ve come to tell you. There’s been a big seed change in the investigation and we had to change tact entirely.’
‘What do you mean, man?’
‘Well’ – Thripshaw coughed – ‘these past years have been a steep learning kerb for us at the Met and we have to acknowledge that in our determination to dissolve this mystery, we resumed that we had our suspects, the Romanian group, but they alluded us and there was flatly no further intel coming from there. The tail went cold. Nothing. Nada …’
‘Yes. Yes … so?’ Julius remembered just how much he had wanted to punch this irritating bozo back then, but just what the hell was he doing here, now?
‘Listen, I’m not looking for an escape goat, but it was our superiors who told us to lay off it. But to be honest, this particular case has stayed with me. I’ve never once taken for granite the misery that’s been caused to you—’
‘For God’s sake, man! Is there some news, or have you come here to torture me?’
‘No, no, my apologies, Mr Lindon-Clarke, I’m not a stranger to going off on a tandem, I’m aware of that. No. The fact of the matter is, Florence has turned up.’
‘What! Turned up? What do you mean?’ Julius exploded.
‘She and her mother walked into a police station in Bristol this morning.’
‘She was with Anna?’
‘No, no, the woman who took her and raised her, a Ms Parker.’
Julius paused and thought hard. He was in a curious liminal space, acutely aware that this was giant news. His daughter had returned. He knew instantly what he wanted to do.
‘Kirsty!’ he shouted for his PA, who came rushing in. ‘Grab any of those journos who are leaving. There’s something they’ll want to know and we need to do it now to catch the evening papers. Go! Now! Quick!’
No fool, she headed straight for the bar.
Julius turned to Thripshaw. ‘I want that Parker woman arrested immediately!’
Back Home: Hope and Minnie
It had been a long day at the police station. Once the officers believed Hope, and cross-checked her story with the Met police in London, they interviewed her in great depth. She was provided with a legal-aid lawyer and she was interviewed on camera, under caution, and then released on bail to go home with Minnie, who had sat patiently waiting by the front desk for her mother. Hope was warned that some officers from London might wish to talk to her, and that she should not leave Bristol for any reason.
Hope had no intention of fleeing although Minnie had suggested it when they cuddled up on the sofa the night before.
‘What about if us three got on a plane tomorrow, instead of going to the police station? What about if we went and lived somewhere on the other side of the world?’
‘Like where …?’ said Lee.
‘Like, I dunno, like Spain or something. That’s where criminals go, isn’t it?’
‘Hardly on the other side of the world, hon,’ Hope reminded her, ‘and besides, you don’t have a passport. I couldn’t get you one. Always been sad about that.’
‘Oh yeah. I’ve never really travelled anywhere. I’d like to some day,’ Minnie said dreamily.
‘Maybe now you can,’ Hope
