“With respect, sir, they’re teenagers. I don’t imagine they cared. And anyway, it turned out to be something else entirely.”
Burton sniffed. “You’re not kidding. A funeral procession, is what it turned into. How the hell does one of them end up dead?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. But they’re all claiming they either didn’t see or they can’t remember.”
“Can’t remember?”
“I know how it sounds. But when it happened, it would have happened fast. And if there was a tussle, it’s entirely possible there was a lot of confusion. Maybe no one actually meant for it to happen.”
“You mean it was an accident?” said the superintendent.
“I didn’t say that. All I’m really saying is, it doesn’t look to be as straightforward as we first thought.”
“Christ, Rob. The last thing I need right now is complications.”
Fleet bit his tongue. A missing girl. Her brother dead. The search continuing along the river, and—what? A new search out in the woods? At what point during recent events had the superintendent assumed there wouldn’t be complications?
“We’ll get to the bottom of it, sir. It will take a bit of time, that’s all. It doesn’t help that they’re minors.”
The superintendent grimaced in apparent frustration. He shook his head again. “It’s the parents I feel most sorry for. First Sadie, now this. I spoke to them this morning, you know. Mr. and Mrs. Saunders.”
The parents. It was always the parents that people felt most sorry for. The assumption seemed to be that because the parents were grieving, they could be absolved of all responsibility. Which wasn’t how it worked in Fleet’s book.
“We haven’t given up on Sadie yet, sir,” Fleet said. “She’s still out there somewhere.” Although he thought of something one of Sadie’s friends had said, about watching a sand timer. And there was no question it had just about run out. After disappearing from her house in the middle of the night, Sadie had now been missing for seven days. They had no leads, no firm suspects, and no evidence that didn’t complicate the picture further. Christ, they weren’t even sure yet what kind of case they were working.
Burton looked at him intently. “Have they given you anything to go on in terms of Sadie? Why were they looking for her in the woods, twenty miles from the river?”
“That’s partly what I was trying to say. I’m not sure they were looking for her. Maybe one or two of them thought they were, but . . .” Now Fleet was the one to shake his head. He was talking in riddles, his own uncertainty undermining the clarity he knew the superintendent prized. “Bottom line is,” Fleet went on, “they’re saying that they still don’t know where Sadie is, or what happened to her.”
“And do you believe them?” asked Burton.
“I . . . No,” Fleet said. “I don’t know. To be honest, I’m not sure what to believe. But, as you’re aware, I’ve had a feeling they’ve been holding back on us from the start.”
The superintendent thought for a minute, then exhaled deeply. He lifted his face toward the rain. “Come on,” he said, turning to Fleet. “Let’s get some coffee. All we’re doing out here is getting wet.”
It was Burton’s walk that had taken him to the superintendent’s office, Fleet often thought. Wherever he was going, whatever the route, he moved with purpose. He strode, in fact, and Fleet had to exaggerate his own step to keep up. Someone watching would more likely have assumed Burton had been called to a phone call with the prime minister than to an appointment with a pot of coffee. Although coffee, of course, wasn’t really the point. The man was mingling, showing his face—to the troops, to the volunteers, to the cameras. That was why he’d driven down here on such short notice. He couldn’t not, after the debacle in the woods. Already the media attention was more intense than ever, and the brass had to be seen to be in control.
Fleet might have been resentful at the implied affront—he was the one who was supposed to be running things, after all—but the truth was he didn’t much care. Burton could give the orders if he wanted to, so long as he didn’t stop Fleet from doing his job. In fact, the more Burton flounced about in front of the cameras, the less Fleet was obliged to do it, and the more time he had for proper police work.
They headed toward the Overlook, a café-cum-visitors’-center that had become the de facto headquarters for the search. Volunteers were being fed and watered in the main restaurant, while the police had been given access to a large back room to allow them to coordinate activities beyond the media’s glare.
Fleet didn’t want any coffee. For the past week, it had felt like he’d subsisted on nothing but. It was just as well, though, because Burton seemed to have forgotten that’s what they’d come in for. After spending ten minutes pressing flesh with the volunteers, pausing every so often for a camera flash and obliging Fleet to do the same, Burton led the way behind the counter, into the squad’s makeshift command center. TVs, telephones and computers had been set up on foldaway desks, and the floor was a potential lawsuit of power cords. There were three officers seated at the workstations, and when Burton strode in, they stood up.
“Give us the room, please, ladies and gentlemen.”
Fleet tried to hide his surprise: that anyone would actually use that phrase outside a Hollywood movie; and that Burton had something to impart that he hadn’t foreseen. Whatever it was, it was unlikely to improve Fleet’s day.
“How’s Holly?” Burton asked him, once the junior officers had filed outside.
“Holly? She’s . . .” Clearly Burton hadn’t heard about the split. Not that he should have. Fleet and his wife had kept their troubles to themselves, their separation a yearlong secret. It would all come out when the divorce went through, obviously, but Fleet was happy to
