All the Rage

`˜Can we speak to Mr Ramsgate?'

`˜I'm afraid Keith's on-site. You can talk to me, though. I'm Pauline. His wife. And the manager.'

She takes them through to an extension which opens off the kitchen, fitted out with cheap but functional office furniture: a filing cupboard, a couple of desks, a big pinboard with charts of their different jobs. There's a PC as well, but it's obvious Pauline is more of a paper person. There are stacks of files and invoices covering almost every surface. Out the back, two white vans are parked up on the concreted garden. One has the rear doors open and a couple of lads are loading supplies.

`˜Have you got permission to run a business from here?' asks Quinn, gesturing at the vans.

The woman shrugs. `˜We're not overlooked, so why should anyone else be bothered? But if you want to push it the answer is yes. We do.'

If Quinn thought it was a good way to get her on the back foot he appears to have misread his woman. They're staring at each other now and Ev suspects Pauline won't be the first to blink.

She decides to have a go at good cop and see if that works any better.

`˜Mrs Ramsgate, we were hoping you could help us. There was an incident involving a van on Monday 1st April. So we're talking to all van owners, just to eliminate them from our enquiries.'

`˜What sort of `њincident`ќ?'

`˜It's just routine, Mrs Ramsgate.'

`˜Doesn't sound like it to me. And how come you're picking on us? There must be hundreds of vans in this city.'

Pauline, evidently, didn't come down in the last shower of rain.

Everett takes out two sheets of paper and puts one down on the table. `˜This is from the CCTV at the petrol station on Cherwell Drive, taken that morning. We think this vehicle here may be one of yours.'

The quality isn't good, and there's a lorry blocking most of the view, but it's just about possible to see the front of a white van with a ladder strapped to the top of it, and on the side a word beginning `˜RA`“'.

Pauline's eyes narrow. `˜I can only see two letters. That doesn't prove it's one of ours.'

Everett nods, looking at the second sheet. `˜You're right. There are actually three builders with names beginning like that in a ten-mile radius from here. Yourselves, Razniak Ltd and Rathbone Sons. We're just working through them alphabetically.'

Pauline gives a heavy sigh; a waft of nicotine prickles Everett's nose. `˜So you want to know where our vans were? Is that it?'

`˜If you don't mind.'

Pauline folds her arms. `˜I know exactly where they were `“ everyone was on the same job.'

`˜And where was that?'

`˜Out at Bicester. Complete hotel refit `“ we'll be on it for weeks.'

`˜And what time would your people typically start work?'

She bridles a little. `˜Seven thirty on the dot. It's not a bloody holiday camp.'

`˜So you're saying you can account for all your blokes that morning?' says Quinn. `˜No flat tyres, sick cats, dental emergencies?'

Pauline glares at him. `˜They were all there except Ashley Brotherton. It was his nan's funeral that day. She brought him up after his mum walked out.'

`˜What does he do?' says Ev. `˜As a job?'

Pauline shoots her a look. `˜He's a plasterer.'

`˜And where is he today? At Bicester, I assume?' asks Ev, hoping her voice isn't giving her away. And that Pauline doesn't realize Quinn's telegraphing behind her back. `˜Just so we can have a quick chat and eliminate him from our enquiries?'

Pauline lifts her chin. `˜He's not due on-site till later so I expect he's at home.'

Everett smiles brightly. `˜Well, if you could just let me have his address then. And the reg number of his van. If you don't mind.'

* * *

`˜She's not in any trouble, I just need to know where she is. I'm sorry to call you on your mobile but I've texted everyone I can think of and spoken to the school and I know she's not there `“ I'm going out of my mind `“ please, Isabel.'

Fiona hates the pleading in her voice, the desperation. It's like a bad smell.

`˜But I don't know where she is.' Isabel's voice rises into a wail. `˜I told you `“ she got off the bus and I didn't see her after.'

`˜Is there anyone else she could be with?' She can feel the tension in her jaw, the weight behind her eyes. `˜She told me she doesn't have a boyfriend, but is there someone she likes? A boy who might have stopped and offered her a lift?'

`˜No, really `“'

`˜Someone she'd have trusted `“ someone she knew from school perhaps `“'

`˜I'd have told you already `“ why won't you believe me?'

There's the sound of voices in the background, playground noises; it must be morning break. Fiona takes a deep breath. `˜So you really don't know where she could be?'

`˜I'm sorry. I really don't.'

There's the sound of a bell now and a moment later the line goes dead.

* * *

Every time Everett goes to Blackbird Leys she forces herself to find something good about it. A nice garden or a tree in blossom or even just a particularly sassy local cat. She hates giving in to stereotypes but, no matter how hard she tries, the place always seems to do its best to defeat her. As they drive up Barraclough Road there are two men slumped on a bench surrounded by beer cans, and an overturned bin has spewed rotting food and rubbish halfway across the road. She swerves and Quinn swears. He hates being a passenger, but there was no way he was bringing his car here. And however determined she is not to prejudge this place, she really can't blame him. As they pass, one of the men waves his can at her and shouts, `˜Fuck off!' And they aren't even in a squad car.

`˜It's about ten houses further on,' says Quinn, squinting at the numbers. `˜Ninety-six, right?'

The house is on the corner at the end of the terrace. These houses must have been The Next Big Thing once but the seventies architecture hasn't aged well. The windows are too small and the whole of the ground floor is dominated by the garages jutting out from the facade. But all they are now is receptacles for junk: modern cars are too big to even get through the doors. Unlike its neighbours, 96 still has some scrubby grass out the front rather than a concrete parking space, but like the rest, the roof sags as if it just can't be bothered any more.

Ev pulls up and they get out. There's music coming from upstairs; someone's in.

`˜I'll go round the side,' says Quinn. `˜See if I can spot the van.'

Ev nods, takes a deep breath and rings the bell.

The music stops, but there's no other sign of life. She rings again. And a third time. Quinn appears round the corner.

`˜Did you find the van?'

He nods. He's not smiling. `˜I could see some cable ties in the back. Looked the same type to me.'

`˜That doesn't prove anything. They're hardly distinctive.'

`˜Just saying.'

There's a noise from inside now `“ the sound of chains being taken off and a bolt sliding back. The door opens slowly. It's an elderly man, breathing heavily from the effort. He's wearing a threadbare cardigan and a pair of brown slacks that hang loosely off his thin hips. His face and hands are freckled with dark age spots.

`˜Mr Brotherton?' says Ev, holding up her warrant card. `˜DC Verity Everett. Could we come in for a moment?'

The man looks suspicious. `˜What's this about?'

`˜It's about your grandson. Ashley, isn't it?'

`˜What about him? He hasn't done anything. He's a good lad `“'

`˜No one's saying he isn't,' she says quickly. `˜We just need to ask him a couple of routine questions. It'll only take five minutes. Is he in?' She smiles. She can see the old man wants to deny it but they both know hip-hop isn't likely to be top of his own playlist.