“Fuck the coat,” Fleet said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, fuck the coat. And fuck the river, too. Sadie was never in the river.”
Burton drew himself to his full height. “And you know this how, Detective Inspector?”
“Because, for one thing, we would have found her by now. In spite of the currents, in spite of the tides. Because of them, in fact. In case you’re forgetting, sir, I have experience here. I happen to know what I’m talking about.”
Burton did everything but sneer. “Make up your mind, Rob. Your history in this town is either relevant or it’s not. It’s not a card you get to play as and when it suits you.”
Fleet bit down, hard. “The other thing to bear in mind,” he said, doing all he could to keep his voice steady, “is that the evidence has moved on. At first it made sense to focus on the river, to focus on Mason, too, but now, in light of the phone—”
“To coin a phrase,” said Burton, “fuck the phone. If the phone is all you have, you’re wasting both your breath and my time.”
“It’s not just the phone,” said Fleet, tightly. “It’s the search party, too. It’s what happened twenty feet away from where we’re standing.”
“The search party? How does the search party change anything? A bunch of kids thought it would be a good idea to go wandering in the woods, for reasons known only to themselves, and an argument turned into a tragic accident, leaving one of them dead. We’ve always known what happened out here, Detective Inspector. The only question is who the public decides to blame.”
“I’m not disputing what happened, Superintendent. The part I’m questioning is why.”
“We know why! I’ve just told you why! Because a bunch of misfit teenagers—”
“I agree that’s how it looks, sir, but the truth is, I don’t think even the kids themselves understand what was really going on out here. And that’s what I’m trying to get to the bottom of. And I think, if we can figure that out, we’ll also find out what happened to Sadie.”
Superintendent Burton’s face was as thunderous as the sky above him. “Didn’t I tell you not to interrupt me, Detective Inspector?”
This time Fleet didn’t apologize. He returned the superintendent’s stare.
“You sent me here to find a missing girl,” Fleet said, blinking away the rain in his eyes, “because finding people is what I do. If you still want me to find her—to find out what happened to Sadie Saunders—then I’m telling you, we need to search the woods. Again. Properly this time. Not the way we did the first time, before we diverted toward the river. And not the way we’ve been doing it over the past forty-eight hours, with half the manpower that should be out here and in barely a fraction of the area we need to cover. Methodically, this time. Tracing the same route as Sadie’s friends.” He took a breath. “It’s your operation now, clearly. Sir. But if you want to be able to call it a success—to stand onstage and take the plaudits and feel like you actually earned them—then I’m telling you what needs to be done. Budget be damned. Backtracking be damned.” Fleet shook his head. He knew he’d already said too much, but he couldn’t seem to shut himself up. “Christ, Roger, have you been sitting counting figures for so long that you’ve forgotten what police work actually involves? Sometimes you have to change course. It’s called following the evidence.”
Burton’s face had turned from gray, to red, to deathly pale. For a moment, the only sound was the patter of the rain.
“Sir—” said Fleet, and Burton raised a palm. Slowly, he let it fall, and then he stepped so he and Fleet were toe to toe.
“The only reason I’m not suspending you right now,” he said, his voice low but full of venom, “is because it would be tantamount to admitting we messed up just as badly as everyone is saying we did. As they’re saying you did, in fact, Detective Inspector Fleet.” Burton leaned closer still. “And as much as you deride those little figures you believe I’m so obsessed with, you seem to forget that without them, neither you nor any copper out here would have a job in the first place. You’d be swigging cider, sponging from the state, just like every other middle-aged male in this decrepit pisshole of a town.” He jabbed a finger at Fleet’s chest. “Do not. Fucking. Forget that.”
The superintendent opened his mouth to say something more, but stopped himself when a pair of uniformed officers who were crossing the clearing came within earshot. When they noticed the expression on Burton’s face, they dropped their eyes and veered away.
Burton took a breath, and exhaled audibly through his nostrils.
“We’re wrapping things up,” he said. “Here, at the river. The search teams have uncovered all they’re going to.”
“And Sadie?” said Fleet.
“Will be found, eventually. Probably by a bunch of mushroom pickers a month from now if she’s really out here in the woods, or else washed up on a beach twenty miles along the coast. In the meantime, there will be a press conference at the station this time tomorrow, at which you will announce that Mason Payne has been arrested for the suspected murder of Sadie Saunders, and for whatever charge you can come up with that will put a lid on the debacle out here in the woods.” Burton pulled back his shoulders and straightened his cap. His tone, when he went on, was dangerously even. “And in case you’re struggling with the figures, Detective Inspector, that gives you twenty-four hours to clean up your mess. If you don’t, I swear to God . . . you’re
