“Sir,” said Fleet, as he approached. Nicky dropped back a pace, but lingered just behind Fleet’s shoulder.
“Ah,” said Burton, turning. “Detective Inspector. I understand you wanted to speak with me. It must have been important for you to have driven out all this way.”
Detective Inspector, Fleet noted, not Rob. “I believe it is, sir.”
Fleet had tried several times to contact the superintendent over the phone, only to be told each time that he was unavailable. When he’d finally learned where Burton was, he’d decided to corner the superintendent in person. Yet now that he had the man’s attention, Fleet couldn’t help but be distracted by the activity around him. All about there were signs of precisely what he’d feared was happening when he’d seen the uniformed officers trooping from the woods. Here, as by the river, the search was being wound up.
“Sir, if I may, I was hoping to convince you—”
“Superintendent? Superintendent Burton? Harry Boxall from the Sun. Any chance of a quick word?”
Fleet turned to see a man in a shabby raincoat blundering across the clearing. There was a photographer behind him who was much better prepared for the weather, from the hood on his mountain-grade jacket right down to the rain cover on his camera.
“How the hell did they get through the cordon?” Fleet muttered. Then, raising his voice, he started to wave the two men back. “For Christ’s sake, Boxall. You know better than to—”
Burton laid a hand on Fleet’s shoulder, and indicated to a uniform who’d intercepted the men to allow them to approach.
“Superintendent Burton,” said Boxall, as he drew near, “is the search for Sadie Saunders being called off? And what about the investigation out here?”
“Our inquiries on both fronts remain ongoing,” replied Burton, smoothly. “The activity you are witnessing is simply a case of resources being redirected in the most appropriate way. The combined investigation is already the most extensive, and most expensive, in the county’s history, and we are satisfied that the commitment in terms of manpower will soon be seen to have paid off.”
Fleet turned to his superior. Had Burton really just said what Fleet thought he had?
“Does that mean an arrest is imminent, Superintendent?” said the journalist, who’d obviously interpreted Burton’s words in the same way Fleet had.
“It does indeed,” Burton replied. “And it means we are confident justice will be served. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there is still important work to be done.” He signaled to Nicky, who spread her arms and started forward, herding the journalist and his photographer back the way they’d come.
“Detective Inspector Fleet!” Boxall pressed, resisting Nicky’s attempts to move him. “How do you respond to accusations that the police are responsible for the death of a minor? That the course of the investigation before the superintendent’s intervention led directly to events out here in the woods?”
Fleet noticed Nicky glance toward him, and he heard the photographer capture the expression that fell like a shadow across his face. It was . . . It was a fucking ambush. Burton had set the whole thing up. He’d done exactly what Fleet had accused him of wanting to do the day they’d spoken at the Overlook. He was walking away, opting to protect his precious budget rather than waste any more money searching for the truth. And he was using a tabloid hack to convey the threat he’d implied before: either Fleet made an arrest that justified their focus on Sadie’s friends, and in doing so spared the force its blushes, or he’d be hung out to dry himself.
Dimly, Fleet heard Nicky’s voice filtering through the rain. “You heard the superintendent,” she was saying. “You got what you came for. Now, seeing as we’re out here in the woods, let’s make like a tree, shall we? That means leave in case there’s any confusion.”
The superintendent was walking away in the opposite direction, toward the barns. Fleet hurried after him. He caught up with Burton halfway across the clearing.
“Sir. Sir.” Fleet failed to keep the anger from his tone, and Burton turned to him sharply. The superintendent was in full uniform beneath his yellow waterproof jacket, and the rain trickled from the peak of his cap. In contrast, the water was running straight from Fleet’s hair into his eyes.
“I know what you’re going to ask, Detective Inspector, and the answer is no.”
“But we have evidence, sir. The kids—Sadie’s friends—found a phone that places Sadie in the woods not fifteen miles from where we’re—”
“I know all about the phone,” said Burton. Then, taking in Fleet’s reaction, “Don’t look so surprised, Detective Inspector. Forensics notified me the moment your DS asked them to shift their priorities. As I instructed them to. And from what I understand, all you have is a mobile without an owner. There is nothing to specifically connect the phone to—”
“There’s a photograph, one only Sadie and her friends were likely to—”
“Don’t interrupt me, Detective Inspector,” said Burton, cutting in himself.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. But if you’ll just hear me out . . .”
“I don’t need to hear you out,” said Burton. “You want me to authorize yet another search of the forest. An area, need I remind you, that spans more than thirty thousand acres, and after we have already committed over a hundred officers over the course of the past eight days. Officers, need I remind you, who are badly needed elsewhere. Although even if I had two hundred officers out here—a thousand—we would barely be able to scratch the surface. As recent results show.”
“But the phone . . .”
“The phone proves nothing. All the evidence we have—the
