He takes a step towards the bed. His cheeks are burning now. A mist is forming in front of his eyes. He doesn’t want to be like this, but it’s her fault. She’s provoking him. She’s ruining the moment.
‘Poppy! Look at me, girl! God help me, if I have to—’
And then Daisy is in front of him. Standing between him and Poppy. There’s a smile on her face. Good little Daisy.
‘I’ll throw for her,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘I’ll take her turn. She doesn’t understand the game. I don’t think she’s ever played before. And she’s tired. It’s been a long day for her.’
Malcolm stares down at the child. So delightful. So charming.
And she’s right, of course. What was he thinking? It’s Poppy’s very first day. He’s pushing too hard, expecting too much.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Yes. You throw her darts. She can play next time. You can explain it to her so she doesn’t feel embarrassed.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that. Come on, let’s carry on with the game. I think I can win this one.’
His eyes follow Daisy as she moves back to stand in front of the dartboard. He sees the intense concentration on her face, and then hears the squeal of delight as her dart hits the twenty.
His mind begins to clear. There are things he needs to tell Harriet. Things that can’t wait much longer.
But the time has to be right. The new girl has to be more settled. Harriet has to be happy with the family they have.
When that happens, he’ll reveal his plans to her.
17
It shouldn’t be like this.
This is a school day, thinks Maria. I should be making Poppy’s lunch. I should be brushing her hair and putting it into a ponytail. I should be making sure she finishes her breakfast and brushes her teeth. I should be telling her how smart she looks in her school uniform. I should be letting her know about all the wonderful things that life has in store for her.
Not this. Not sitting in the back of a car, on my way to a police station. Not agonising over what I can say to bring back my precious child. Not wondering if Poppy is even still alive.
Maria didn’t sleep a wink last night. Of course not. It wasn’t even worth trying. She and Craig spent the entire night downstairs in her parents’ house. When they weren’t crying, they were trying to make sense of it all, but every suggestion they made defied logic.
There is no sense to this. This is nothing less than pure evil. Nobody puts a child through something like this unless they are a monster.
And that’s what gives Maria the most pain. Monsters don’t care. Monsters don’t listen to reason.
So what do I say? she wonders. What words can I use that will make any kind of impact on this creature?
She looks across to Craig. He seems not to notice her eyes on him, willing him to offer comfort. He stares straight ahead. His own eyes are red-raw.
When she reaches for his hand, she feels him jolt at her touch. He turns his grief-torn face to her. They speak to each other without words. They exchange their loneliness.
Because that’s how this feels. So lonely. They are victims, but it seems as though everyone is against them. Where there are no outright accusations, there are certainly insinuations. And where there are no insinuations, there are looks of disbelief and suspicion.
Take Maria’s own mother, for Christ’s sake. Her questions last night. Is it possible you said something to Poppy that would make her want to leave? Was there ever a time when you left her alone with a stranger?
I mean, fucking hell, Mother. What kind of questions are those? What kind of parents do you think we are? What happened to your own maternal instincts all of a sudden?
Maria turns to look at the back of Jason Oxburgh’s head. Even he isn’t on their side, she thinks. Not really. Yes, he makes all the right noises, but what he shows them is the tip of the iceberg. There’s a vast unseen mass beneath the waves. Things he knows but can’t reveal. Things he believes but cannot voice. Suspicions he harbours. He’s a policeman, after all, and being cynical is his job. He’d lock them up in a heartbeat if he had grounds.
But he can’t have grounds, she thinks, because we are innocent.
And so we sit here in silence and try to hold back the pain.
*
It’s a circus.
She doesn’t think she has ever sat in front of more than one camera simultaneously. Now there seem to be dozens of them. The continual flashes are blinding. Journalists shout out Maria’s and Craig’s names, trying to get them to stare directly into their lenses.
The hubbub dies down when the policeman at their table begins speaking. He’s a senior officer of some kind – a superintendent, Maria seems to recall being told. She reckons he is trotted out for a lot of events like this. Someone who won’t embarrass the force in front of the media, but who probably has very little to do with the case directly.
Most of what he says doesn’t penetrate Maria’s consciousness. She’s heard it all before, and the awareness that her turn is coming is too terrifying to allow her to concentrate.
The superintendent keeps it brief, then hands control to Maria and Craig. Cameras click and flash again. Maria clears her throat.
When the words tumble out, it’s as though they aren’t under her control. She feels like a ventriloquist’s doll, opening and closing her mouth mechanically as somebody else provides her voice. All her careful preparation goes to pot as her emotions take over and purge her of what she really wants to say. It could be nonsense – she has no idea. She knows only that she has to tell the world how much she loves Poppy and how much she wants her back unharmed.
When she can go on no longer – when she breaks down and has to cover her eyes with the tissues somebody has passed to her – the bombardment of questions begins, and she is glad that Craig takes over to handle them.
She wants only to get out of here now. Baring your soul to millions of viewers is too difficult. Relief floods in when the superintendent says a few closing words to plead for anyone who has any information, however insignificant it may seem, to get in touch. She lowers the tissues. Becomes aware of Craig grasping her other hand tightly in his.
And then something else. Something that will stay in her mind for a long time.
The detectives. Jason and the others dealing with their case. She sees them in the audience – a small knot at one edge of the room. They are staring at her. Their collective gaze is intense, tightly focused. Their expressions are impassive.
She knows then that they are appraising her.
Like a pack of hyenas, they are waiting for her defences to fall, her weaknesses to be revealed.
18
The return journey seems a continuation of the one that brought them there. Stony silence. Empty stares through the windows.
Eventually she can stand it no longer.
‘Did we pass?’
In the driver’s seat, Oxo turns his head slightly.
‘What’s that?’
‘Did we pass? Did we pass the test?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you—’
‘I saw you. You and the other detectives. The way you were watching us. You were waiting for us to make a mistake. You still don’t believe us.’
Beside her, Craig suddenly becomes aware of what she is saying. He takes her hand again.
Oxo shakes his head. ‘No, that’s not true, Maria. What you have to realise is that we have a lot invested in you when you’re on a public stage like that. What you say up there can make or break a case. Your voice is our voice, and so obviously we want what you say to have maximum impact.’
‘Hmm,’ she says.
Craig speaks up then. ‘So what did you think? Will it help? Will crying our eyes out in front of millions of viewers make any difference?’
‘Absolutely. I’ll check when I drop you off, but right now the police switchboard will be on fire. I guarantee it. I won’t lie, a lot of it will be a waste of tim
e, but all we need is one crucial piece of information. Just one. So yes, it was worth it. I thought you did a brilliant job back there.’
Maria bites her lip. This whole thing seems so theatrical, such a charade. The facts seem to be secondary. All that matters is the show they put on, the masks they wear, the characters they play. The audience insists on actual tears, on physical and mental breakdown. Nothing less will do if this crowd is to honour the actors with its begrudging support.
That’s how it feels to Maria. And she’s had enough.
‘I want to go home,’ she announces.
‘Don’t worry,’ says Oxo. ‘No more interviews for now.’
‘No, I don’t mean my parents’ house. I mean home. Our home.’
‘I, er, I don’t think that’s a good idea. The press will be camped outside, and—’
‘I don’t care. That’s my house. It’s where Poppy lives. It’s where she’ll head back to if she can. I want to be there, with all of Poppy’s things around me.’
Oxo hesitates before replying. ‘Let me make some calls, okay? We’ll go to your parents first, I’ll make the calls, and if they say it’s okay—’
She blows up then. ‘What is this? Am I under arrest or something? I just want to go home! Is that such a strange fucking request?’
Craig leans into her. Puts a hand on her thigh. ‘Maria,’ he says, ‘stay calm. Remember what you said to me yesterday. They’re just doing their job.’
‘I don’t care what I said yesterday. I’ve had enough of this shit. I’ve had enough of being made to feel like a criminal. I’m going home whether you and the police like it or not, and you can’t stop me.’
‘I’ll make the calls,’ repeats Oxo. ‘We’ll see what we can do.’
*
It takes an age.
Maria sits in front of an untouched mug of tea while her mother fires more questions at her. Through the window she can see DC Oxburgh meandering up and down the garden, his mobile phone clamped to his ear and his free hand gesticulating as he tries to cut through whatever red tape is in his way.
When he finally comes back in, he tells her that her request should be authorised, but that it’ll be another couple of hours before the search teams complete their work and get out of there.
So she waits. A fresh cup of tea appears, and she watches this one go cold too. Craig hovers, paces, consults his watch, checks the television news. She wishes he would just sit next to her and offer some reassurance. At the same time, he probably senses that she would bite his head off if he were to utter so much as a single misjudged word. He has never felt comfortable with his in-laws. Right now, she can’t blame him. It’s as if they have completely failed to find the right perspective on things.
She wonders if they, too, have their suspicions about her and Craig.
Could that be possible? Her own mother and father? Could they entertain the notion that she has committed an unspeakable act against their granddaughter?
She’s not going to confront them. She doesn’t want to hear any lack of conviction in their replies. She’d rather not have another agony to pile onto her existing woes.
It’s lunchtime before Oxo gets the all-clear.
The relief galvanises Maria into action. She rushes upstairs, throws her things into her travel bag. Yells at Craig to get his arse into gear.
She doesn’t care that her goodbyes to her parents are hurried. They fling question after question at her as she hastens to the car: You’ll let us know if there’s any news, won’t you? You’ll ring us if you want us to come over? She says yes to every one of them. She’s not really sure if she means it.
It turns out that Oxo was right about the press. At the first sight of the approaching cars, they put down their sandwiches and flasks, and spring into action brandishing microphones and cameras.
Oxo reminds her and Craig to say nothing, then ushers them through the chaotic scrum. Maria finds it easiest to duck her head and keep her eyes on the ground. She wishes she could block out the sounds too: more than one question is couched in terms that suggest she might know more than she’s telling. She wants to punch those tabloid journalists in the face.
They eventually bob under the police tape at the gate to their house. Beyond this, there are no vultures shrieking for titbits of news.
There’s a uniformed copper at the front door. He nods at Oxo, but doesn’t even acknowledge the presence of the real homeowners.
And then they are inside, and the door gets closed behind them. The journalists fall silent.
She didn’t expect to feel overjoyed, but she did at least expect some kind of warmth, some sense of being bathed in familiarity. Some connection with what has been lost.
Not this, though.
She sees the wrongness as soon as she enters. It’s not wanton vandalism, but it’s certainly disrespect. Things out of place, pictures askew, black marks on the walls.
Oxo sees her studying the dark smudges. ‘Fingerprint powder,’ he explains. ‘Sorry. I’ll get it cleaned off.’
She says nothing. She walks from room to room, noting the disruption. She suspects that Oxo won’t see all of it, that even Craig will hardly notice. But every little alteration shrieks at her. They tell a story of infiltration, of probing at her most personal possessions.
She turns and heads upstairs. Craig touches her arm as she passes him in the hall, but she shrugs him away.
She knows to expect change in Poppy’s room, but the scale of it stuns her. The dark stains are everywhere here, as though some hellish creature has left its imprint on everything. Furniture has been shifted out of place. Drawers have been left half-open, their previously neat contents now jumbled and spilling out. Poppy’s bed has been completely stripped, leaving only a bare mattress.
This is devastation. This is worse than it was after the intruder entered. It’s as if he has been back to finish the job, to make his impact on this torn family even more keenly felt.
Poppy seems further from them than ever before.
Leaning against the wall, Maria stares at the cold, empty bed until the tears cloud her vision and the screams erupt from her mouth.
PART TWO
19
‘A week!’ yells Blunt. ‘A whole bloody week. And what have we got to show for it? Fuck all – that’s what!’
The detectives assembled in the incident room keep their counsel. It’s never wise to interrupt their boss when she’s in full flow, and especially when she’s as incandescent as this.
Even Cody, usually Blunt’s most favoured soul, decides not to raise his head above the parapet on this occasion.
She’s right, of course. A week has gone by since the abduction of Poppy Devlin, and the team has made zero progress in finding her. They don’t know why she was taken. They don’t even know if she is alive or dead, although the latter is a pretty good bet after all this time.
‘Cody!’ says Blunt. ‘Prove me wrong. Status report.’
Shit, he thinks. So much for trying to stay below her radar.
He sits up, clears his throat. ‘Right. Okay. Well, we’ve extended the house-to-house in the area. Talking to everyone we can who lives there, works there, or has visited there.’
‘Fine. And?’
‘Er, not much to go on so far. We’ve been interviewing a large number of people known to us for various offences, specifically crimes involving children, but also others who may have operated in the Otterspool area. Whoever got into the Devlins’ house knew something about breaking and entering.’
‘What about those on the Devlins’ list? Anyone promising there?’
After repeated pressure by Oxo on the Devlins to come up with the ranked list of people who might want to do them harm, the couple had eventually relented. Cody understands the reticence: it can be difficult to look at everyone around you – friends, colleagues and even family – and question whether it’s possible, just possible, that they might consider acting in a way that might hurt you. If the answer is yes, fo
r whatever reason, then they should appear somewhere on the list.
‘I’m afraid not. We’ve interviewed every one of them, some more than once. At the moment we’ve got no reason to suspect any of involvement.’
‘Sightings?’
‘Lots of reports of little girls supposedly matching Poppy’s description, but so far we’ve discounted every one. We even had one woman who called us in to take a look at her neighbour’s daughter, despite the girl having lived there since she was born. The woman thought her neighbour might have made a swap.’
Blunt sighs heavily. ‘Okay. What about forensics?’
Cody shakes his head, half-expecting Blunt to blast it from his shoulders.
‘Christ on a bike! Is there anyone in this room who can improve my day by sharing some positive progress about this case? Grace, what about you?’
As Grace gets to her feet, Cody feels a pang of sympathy for the Intelligence Analyst. She’s not the most confident of people at the best of times. Being roared at by Stella Blunt is likely to reduce her to jelly.
‘As DS Cody says, we’ve been inundated with reports since day one. I’ve been cross-correlating all the intelligence data as best I can, searching for matches, patterns, contradictions. I’ve also been examining CCTV footage from the area, although without knowing what it is we’re looking for—’
‘Yes, yes, Grace. Get to the point. Has all this intelligence generated any substantial lines of inquiry?’
‘Nothing of substance, no.’
Blunt looks away for a moment, drumming her fingers on the desk next to her. To Cody she looks like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode.
Unsure as to whether the spotlight is still on her, Grace begins to lower herself tentatively to her seat. She springs up again when Blunt fires another salvo at her.
‘And the Devlins? Where are we with them?’
‘Well . . . We’ve examined their phone records, their computer, their bank accounts, their insurance, their emails, their—’
Don't Make a Sound Page 9