Gallagher looks across at me. `But Somer has a point, doesn't she. Even if you're right, we need a lot more than just his word. And without either the CCTV or that witness `“' She shrugs helplessly. `We're stuck, aren't we?'
But I'm not so sure.
I get up and reach for my jacket.
`Where are you going?'
`Keep Scott here. There's someone I need to talk to.'
* * *
Bruno picks up his pace as they get towards the turning for the pub. More bushes, more litter, more interesting smells. Ursula has to drag him away from a particularly well-loved lamp post, only to find him bounding off suddenly and ploughing into a ditch half-filled with blackish water. She goes to the edge and peers down, frowning at where he's worrying away at something. Which isn't like Bruno; he hasn't done anything like this for months. At first she can't see what he's got hold of, but then the dog moves and she catches sight of something pink. She recoils a little `“ she's had her fill of disembowelled rats over the years `“ but something about the shape, the colour `“
A moment later she's taking out her mobile phone.
`Is that Thames Valley Police? My name is Ursula Hollis. It's about that girl `“ Sasha Blake. I think you need to come.'
* * *
Adam Fawley
9 April 2018
15.45
We look at the footage again and then the woman sits back in her chair. She's in her seventies, with short thick white hair and a rather tired navy cardigan. But there's nothing tired about the look on her face. She's one of the sharpest people I've encountered in a long time. When I first met her, I told Alex she reminded me of that woman who used to play Miss Marple on TV in the eighties. I didn't realize then how close to home that was.
`It was a pretty good stab `“ for an amateur,' she says, turning slightly towards me. I sense a little stiffness in her movement and sit forward so she can see me more easily. `Perhaps you should consider learning to do it properly. Looks like it might come in handy in your line of work.'
I smile. `Only if you promise to teach me. But I was right, yes? That's what you're saying?'
She gives me a heavy look. `I'm afraid so. Judging from what I've just seen, there's something very wrong here, Inspector. Very wrong indeed.'
* * *
The house is a new build on the outskirts of Marston, designed to look old in that Poundbury sort of way Somer always distrusts. It's tidy, well-kempt, but curiously lifeless, and the woman who opens the door is very much the same.
`Mrs Webb? I'm DC Erica Somer and this is DC Everett. We'd like a quick word with Patsie if she's around?'
Denise Webb frowns. `She's not at the Blakes'?'
`No. We did call Mrs Blake, but she said she hadn't seen her.'
`I suppose she must be here then,' she says. `You'd better come in.'
`You haven't seen her today?'
The woman shrugs. `You know what teenagers are like `“ if you see them at mealtimes you're doing well.'
They follow her into the hall and through to the kitchen. The house has a slightly echoey quality to it, as if it's not fully furnished, not quite lived in. It feels like a show home, and the studiously monotonous colour schemes aren't helping.
`Have you been here long?' asks Somer.
`A couple of years. Since my husband left.'
Somer bites her lip; this job is strewn with bear traps. `I'm sorry.'
`Life goes on,' she says. `You don't have any choice. Not if you have kids.'
`Patsie has brothers and sisters?'
`Just a brother. Ollie. He's at college in Cardiff. Engineering.'
Everett looks around. `It's a big house for just the two of you.'
She shrugs. `My boyfriend's here on and off. But Patsie spends more time at her friends' than she does here.'
There was a quick bitterness in her voice, but then it's gone just as fast and she shrugs again. `Like I said, life goes on. Her room's upstairs. You can't miss it.'
The staircase is carpeted in thick taupe-brown shagpile that seems to swallow their feet. The curious sense of muffledness grows even stronger as they make their way soundlessly up the steps, past pictures that are an odd mix of Ikea and Victorian kitsch. Somer frowns. She can't get a handle on this place at all. With her expensive blonde highlights and Boden top, Denise Webb looks full-on yummy mummy, but when she turned away Somer could see the coils of a snake tattoo creeping up from under her sweater and across the back of her neck.
At the top of the stairs she stops and looks round, but Ev is already touching her arm and pointing. The door to the room on the left is half open. It's obviously the master suite, given the size of it. The bed is made, but there are clothes strewn across it. Male clothes. But again, not the ones Somer might have expected. No suits or shirts, but T-shirts, heavy-duty jeans, a tool belt. And on the floor, a pair of steel-capped work boots.
`Maybe it isn't a coincidence that Patsie's suddenly spending a lot of her time somewhere else,' says Ev in a low tone.
They exchange a glance.
`Remind me, will you,' says Somer softly, `to check where this bloke was the night Sasha disappeared.'
Ev's eyes widen. `You don't think `“'
`No, I don't. I just want to cover all the bases, that's all. We don't want anything coming back to haunt us, just because we couldn't be bothered to do a couple of routine checks.'
She doesn't mention Fawley's name. She doesn't have to.
On the other side of the landing, there's the door to what must be Patsie's room. There's a bead curtain hanging from the lintel, and the strings are tinkling slightly in the draught of their arrival.
`Takes me back,' says Ev. `My gran had one of those. I didn't think you could still get them.'
Somer takes a step closer and reaches for one of the strings. The beads are pink, silver, blue; glittery, iridescent. And heavy. Much heavier than she'd expected.
`These must make a hell of a racket when you open the door,' she says.
Ev joins her. `Perhaps that's the point,' she says in a low voice. `There's no lock.'
Neither of them likes where this is going, but they can't afford to jump to conclusions. Somer raises a hand and knocks. `Patsie? It's DC Somer, can we come in?' There's the sound of footsteps and a moment later the door opens. Patsie is barefoot, in denim shorts and a black Ariana Grande T-shirt. She has a bruised look around the eyes.
`What do you want?'
`We've just got some new information. Something we weren't expecting. I know it's boring but it means we have to ask you some more questions.'
Patsie's eyes narrow. `It's about that creep Scott, isn't it?'
`I'm sorry, Patsie, but we're not allowed to talk about it here. We need to take you back with us to St Aldate's, so we can record the interview.'
Patsie rolls her eyes. `Seriously?'
`I'm sorry. We wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.'
She sighs. `Yeah, yeah. I get it. But you've got to promise me you'll actually nail that creep, OK?'
* * *
Interview with Patsie Webb, conducted at St Aldate's Police Station, Oxford
9 April 2018, 4.45 p.m.
In attendance, DC V. Everett, DC E. Somer, Mrs D. Webb (mother)
ES: So, Patsie, we're hoping you can help us by answering a few more questions.PW: I've told you everything I remember already.ES: This is about something that happened before Sasha died. The morning of Saturday 17th March.PW: I don't get it `“ what's that got to do with it?ES: The incident involves Mr Scott, your art teacher.PW: Oh right. That perv. I thought you said you arrested him?VE: We did. Which is all down to you, incidentally `“ to the information you gave us.PW: He deserves it, the bloody weirdo.DW: Actually, I think you should be grateful to my daughter for all the help she's given you.VE: Oh, we are, Mrs Webb. In fact, Graeme Scott has been here answering questions today.PW: He's here? Like, now?VE: There's no need to be alarmed. He can't talk to you.ES: So, can we talk about that Saturday morning, Patsie? Do you remember where you were?PW: [shrugs]