`How was your day?'
She can hear him stretch now. `OK. Not exactly exciting.'
`Have you heard from the girls about the summer?'
Saumarez has two daughters who live with their mother in Vancouver. Somer hasn't met them, but they're due over for the long school holidays. She's been trying not to let the prospect completely freak her out.
`Still waiting for confirmation on the flights.'
She tries to think of something to say, but the long day is taking its toll.
`It'll be OK,' he says, reading into her silence. `Really. They're nice kids. They just want me to be happy.'
And you make me so.
He doesn't say it, but perhaps he doesn't need to.
`Can't wait to meet them,' she says, realizing, suddenly, and with a jolt of happy amazement, that she actually means it.
* * *
Adam Fawley
2 April 2018
09.15
There are different types of silence, in this job. There's the silence of anger and impotence, when we have absolute knowledge but absolutely no evidence and can't do a damn thing about it. There's the silence of pity, at the terrible things people go through, even `“ or especially `“ at the hands of those who are supposed to love them. And there's the silence of failure and regret, when we've done everything we can but it just isn't enough. But when Somer pins up the copy of Faith's birth certificate it's a different sort of silence entirely. You can almost smell the dread. At where this might go, what it might turn out to be.
`So you think it could be a hate crime?' says Gislingham, turning to me.
I nod. `I hope not, but yes. It has to be a possibility.'
Everett is looking uneasy. `But she's still insisting she wasn't attacked. How can we even start investigating it properly if she won't tell us what actually happened?'
`We'll just have to hope she changes her mind,' observes Baxter, who appears to be taking over Gis's old role as Principal Stater of the Bleeding Obvious.
There's another silence. A silence of evaluation. Of deliberation.
`So how do you want us to play it?' Quinn now.
I take a deep breath. `We start by re-interviewing Faith. Formally, this time, and as a matter of urgency. I'm sure I don't need to remind you that this needs to be handled extremely carefully, but there's no getting away from it: we need to know who else besides her family knows about her status.'
`I can check her social media again,' says Baxter. `See if there's anything online `“ if she's logging on to any discussion boards for trans kids. Nothing popped the first time but I wasn't exactly looking for it.'
`That's an excellent idea, Baxter,' says Gis, who's clearly putting his recent `Giving Feedback' session to good use (`be positive, use their name'; I should know, I was sent on that damn course myself).
`Yes, I agree,' I say. `And let's see if we can track down the father as well.'
Gis nods and makes a note.
I glance round again. There's only one person who hasn't said anything.
`Any thoughts, DC Asante?'
He considers, and he takes his time doing it. Evidently he, at least, isn't afraid of silence.
`No,' he says eventually. `I think we've covered everything.'
* * *
Everett and Somer are in the car, across the road from 36 Rydal Way. There's no sign of life inside. The postman knocked five minutes ago but no one answered. They can still see him, a few doors along, talking to an elderly woman with a chihuahua barking tetchily in the crook of her arm. Somer makes a face; her grandmother had one of those when she was a child. She's hated crabby little dogs ever since.
She looks at her watch. `The college said Faith had called in sick, so she should be here. And surely the mother must have left for work by now.'
`And taken the delightful Nadine with her,' says Ev heavily. She pushes open the car door. `So let's just cross our fingers we have more luck than the postie.'
The two women walk up the path to the front door. The street is now completely deserted, apart from a couple of jackdaws scrapping over some raw and unidentifiable roadkill. It's not the happiest of omens.
Ev rings and waits. Then rings again, longer this time.
`I can't hear anything.'
`Give it a minute,' says Somer. `She's probably trying to see who it is. I would be, if I was her.'
And sure enough, they eventually hear the sound of footsteps inside, and the door opens. But slowly and not very far.
`What do you want?' Her face is scrubbed clean now, but there are still red rims round her eyes. She has the same ragged old jumper wound about her like a straitjacket. `Mum's not here.'
`It's you we wanted to talk to, Faith,' says Somer. `On your own, if that's OK. It's quite important.'
`Doesn't Mum have to be with me?'
Ev shakes her head. `You don't need anyone with you unless you want them to be. You're a victim. Not a criminal. You haven't done anything wrong.'
She leans on those last words, trying to get the girl to meet her gaze. We're on your side `“ we want to help.
`We can do this whichever way makes you feel more comfortable,' says Somer. `At the station with your mum or someone else you trust, or here, with just us. We thought that might be easier, but seriously, it's entirely your call. We'll do whatever you prefer.'
Faith hesitates. `I told you `“ it was just a bad joke.' But her eyes are wary all the same. Because she can see something in their faces; something that wasn't there before.
Somer steps forward. `We know, Faith,' she says softly. `We know about you `“ about Daniel.'
The girl bites her lip and her eyes fill with tears. `It's so unfair,' she whispers. `I never did anyone any harm `“'
`I'm sorry,' says Somer, reaching out and touching her lightly on the arm. `I wouldn't have brought it up if I didn't have to. But you can see why we're worried. What you do with your own life is no one else's business and we're absolutely with you on that. But we don't want this to happen to another girl. Someone else in your position. Something like this `“ it's not OK. Even if it was `њjust a joke`ќ. And if it wasn't `“'
She leaves the sentence unfinished. She knows the power of silence. Silence in a good cause.
The girl takes a deep breath and blinks the tears away. `OK,' she says at last. `OK.'
* * *
Tony Asante is in a cafГ© on Little Clarendon Street. One of those achingly trendy places with displays of muffins and shiny cakes and sourdough bread. The place is packed, and a couple of students taking up space with laptops are getting side-eyes from people in the queue. As is Asante, though he's too absorbed to notice: the cup of coffee in front of him is long since empty, but he's still sitting there, staring at his phone, switching every minute or so between different web pages. Baxter may have been the one assigned to social media, but he won't be doing what Asante is doing. Or going where Asante has gone.
* * *
Faith takes the two women through to the kitchen at the back of the house. Ev had been steeling herself for yet more mauve but it proves to be just anonymous cream cupboards and worktops that look like granite but probably aren't. The fridge is barnacled with Post-its and to-do lists and jolly little magnets. A woolly sheep, an enamel cat, three ducks in formation; a large pink heart saying Daughters start as your babies but grow up to be your friends, and another, square and yellow with a sprig of daffodils, Just be yourself. That's plenty wonderful enough.