“We need to start looking somewhere,” I told her, picking up Cat and depositing her in her arms.
“Good luck, I suppose,” she muttered as I ushered her from the office towards Agnes. She shot to her feet, already clutching Billie’s bag and pulled her in for a hug, managing not to squish Cat in the process.
“Stay safe,” I told her as she wriggled free from Agnes’s arms.
“You too,” she muttered, turning and following Agnes to the stairs. Smith joined us.
“Got a lead?”
“We might do,” I answered. “A bridge that Edward liked to go to, close to the park where he saw Freya.”
Smith frowned. “Monk Bridge?”
I turned and looked at her, confused. “You know it?”
“It’s a bridge, sir. Everyone knows it,” Mills said dryly from over my shoulder.
Smith ignored him. “Why would she go there, sir? With all due respect.”
“I have no clue,” I answered. “But I don’t know where else to look,” I admitted, already striding towards the stairs. I had Sharp’s words from before ringing in my ears about my instincts, and I decided to go with it.
If my gut said to go to Monk Bridge, then that’s where I would go.
Twenty-Eight
Thatcher
Thankfully, Mills had no objection to my tunnel-visioned decision to head out, following me down to the carpark. I’d swapped my coat in for a police jacket, a radio clipped to my shoulder so that we could better communicate with the other officers out on the streets looking for Freya. There’d been no sign of her at home, so we’d sent Dunnes to introduce himself to Mrs Fox in the hope that she’d be willing to help us, or at least, that she’d let us do what we needed to do.
I jumped into the car, the headlights automatically turning on in the low light. It was getting dark fast, and I hoped we found Freya before night fully came in, hoped that we wouldn’t have to start again in the morning. For her safety, as much as anything else. There was a part of me that knew we could be wildly off base—that Freya might have hunkered down in a café, might have returned to university and was staying with a friend, but I didn’t pay those thoughts much heed. She was tangled up so much in all of this, Edward’s business, Billie’s and Stella’s that I didn’t think she could put it aside even if she wanted to. From what she’d said to Billie, she hadn’t finished yet.
As I drove away from the station into the street-light flooded city, Mills spoke into his radio.
“Any sign of her?” he asked. A variety of responses came back one by one.
“No sign,”
“Not here.”
“No, sir.”
Mills listened to them all, his face unchanging. “DCI Thatcher and I are heading to the river, Monk Bridge, following a lead.” He gave me a quick glance, and I nodded. “Waters, head out and stick to the surrounding roads. If she is there and she runs, we need someone on the perimeter.”
“Heading there now,” Waters’s rough voice answered.
“Dunnes?” Mills asked next, staring out at the darkening city, the few people on the streets hurrying home from work. The traffic wasn’t great, red lights stared down at me menacingly, but I didn’t want to turn the sirens on, didn’t want to scare Freya off.
“I’m with Mrs Fox now. We’re keeping a watch from the house. She’s concerned, for various reasons.”
“Does she have an idea where Freya might be?”
“None. Said if she’s not with her friends, she’s home by now. This is unusual behaviour, and Freya’s not been answering any of her calls or texts.”
Mills looked to me, unsure of how to respond.
“Assure her that we’re doing our best to find Freya and make sure she’s safe,” I called, loud enough for Dunnes to hear it. “When we find her, we’ll be taking her to the station.”
There was a crackling pause as Dunnes relayed this message, then he came back.
“She said she’s sure you are. And she asks that you be gentle with Freya,” he added.
“We will,” Mills answered for us both. “Keep us updated,” he added before ending the conversation. Then he slumped down in his seat a bit, rubbing his face with his hands.
“Has it occurred to you that we’re going to a bridge?” He asked.
“It has,” I replied darkly. I just hoped we got our timing right, that we hadn’t squandered enough time already. I managed to slip through the traffic and pulled over to a road not far from the river and the old grey bridge that ran over, the traffic dawdling idly over.
We headed down towards the bank, and the path, often found teeming with cyclists and runners, was empty, still wet from today’s rain. The grass leading down to the river was slippery, the water looking inky black in the low light, the tunnel of the bridge a shadowed black hole. Not a place to come alone at night.
I pulled my torch from my pocket as we walked, turning it on and letting the light bounce along the path, not wanting to aim directly in anyone’s eye, not wanting to tip Freya off to our being here. A few birds flew overhead, squawking noisily, looking for somewhere to roost, and with them gone, apart from the traffic above us, it felt very quiet, very still. Even the cars were few and far between, and none of them could see us down here, as close to the bridge as we were.
Mills stopped, tugging my sleeve, and I dropped the torch slightly, the light falling over a shadow close to the base of the bridge. They were sitting, their knees brought up to their chest, toying with something in their hands. I lifted the torch, letting enough of the light shine on their features. Freya looked up, squinting as the brightness and her eyes fell on us. She scrambled to her feet, slipping on the grass, standing dangerously close to the river, the hard winds making the current seem stronger
