Little Face (7 page)

I know that David loves Florence as much as I do. The urge to comfort him is so firmly embedded in me that it will be a struggle to fight
it. I must, though, if he continues to insist that the baby downstairs is
our daughter. I will have to learn to regard his pain with total detachment. This is what danger and fear do to a person, to a marriage.

`Shall we lie you on your changing mat for a bit of a kickabout?' he
says now. His voice floats up from the little lounge, directly underneath
our bedroom. He sounds calm and efficient, for my benefit, I suspect.
He is playing the role of the rational one.

A jolt of adrenaline shocks me into action. The camera. How could
I have forgotten? I leap up off the bed, run to my wardrobe and
throw open the door. There, on top of a pile of shoes, is my hospital
bag, not yet unpacked. I rummage frantically and find my camera, a
little black box with curved edges that contains the first photos of Florence. I open the back, stroke the smooth black cylinder of film with
my thumb. Thank God, I murmur to myself. Now, surely, I have a
chance of being believed.

October 3, 2003, 1.30 PM

THERE WAS NO sign of Charlie in the CID room. Shit. Without her,
Simon could hardly find out from Proust what David Fancourt had
said. Colin Sellers and Chris Gibbs, two of the other Ds in Charlie's
team, were working their way through a tower of files with what
looked to Simon like slightly overdone urgency. For which there could
only be one explanation.

Simon turned and saw Detective Inspector Proust in his office in the
corner of the room. It was more of a glass box than an office, a bit like
an exhibition case in an art gallery, one in which you might find the
cross-section of a dead animal, except that the bottom half was made
of cheap plasterboard which, for some reason, was carpeted-the
same drab, ribbed grey as the CID room floor. The inspector's top half
was visible through the glass as he orbited his desk, holding the phone
in one hand and his `World's Greatest Grandad' mug in the other.

David Fancourt must have left, then. Unless Proust had handed him
over to Charlie. Perhaps that was where she was, in an interview
room with that bastard. Simon sat down beside Gibbs and Sellers,
drumming his fingers on the desk. The CID room closed in on him,
with its peeling green paint and smell of stale sweat, its constant computerised hum. A person could suffocate in here. Pinned to one wall
were photographs of victims, blood visible on some of their faces
and bodies. Simon couldn't bear to think of Alice in that condition. But
she wasn't, she couldn't be. His imagination wouldn't allow it.

Something nagged at his subconscious, something to do with what
Charlie had told him about the Laura Cryer case. He wasn't wise
enough to stop fretting about it and allow it to come to him effortlessly
later. Instead, he sat in his chair, shoulders hunched, and made his brain
pound trying to dredge it up from the murky depths of his memory.
Pointless.

Before he was aware he'd made a decision, Simon was on his feet
again. He couldn't sit and twiddle his thumbs when he had no idea if
Alice was okay. Where the fuck was Charlie? Free, for once, of her
restraining influence, he marched over to Proust's office and knocked
on the door, hard, beating out a rhythm of emergency. With Proust,
you normally waited until you were summoned, even if you were a sergeant, like Charlie. Simon heard Gibbs and Sellers speculating in
whispers about what his problem was.

Proust didn't look as surprised as he might have done. `DC Waterhouse,' he said, emerging from his cubicle. `Just the man I need to see.'
His voice was stern, but that told Simon nothing. The inspector always
sounded severe. According to his wife Lizzie, whom Simon had met at
a couple of parties, Proust used the same tone when he spoke to his
family that he used in court and at press conferences.

`Sir, I know David Fancourt's been in.' Simon got straight to the
point. `I know his wife and daughter are missing. Is he with Charlie?'

Proust sighed, flaying Simon with his glare. He was a small, thin,
bald man in his mid-fifties, whose bad moods were able to travel
beyond his skin and contaminate whole rooms full of people. Thus he
ensured that everyone benefited from keeping him happy. The Snowman; Proust knew about the nickname and liked it.

`Listen very carefully, Waterhouse. I'm going to ask you a question,
and I want you to tell me the truth, even if you know it means big trouble for you. If you lie to me . . . ' He paused to stare portentously at
Simon. `If you lie to me, Waterhouse, you can consider your career in
the police force to be at an end. You will rue this day. Do we understand each other?'

`Yes, sir.' Pointless to say that neither of the alternatives sounded
particularly appealing.

`And don't think I won't find out if you lie, because I will.'

`Sir.' Frustration coursed through Simon's veins, but he tried to
look calm. There was no short-cut when talking to Proust. You had to
jump through the many hoops he set up. He started each conversation
with a firm view about how it ought to be structured. He spoke in
paragraphs.

`Where are Alice and Florence Fancourt?'

`Sir?' Simon looked up, startled.

`Is that the only word you know, Waterhouse? Because if it is, I'd be
happy to lend you a Thesaurus. I'll ask you again: where are Alice and
Florence Fancourt?'

`I've no idea. I know they've gone missing, sir. I know that's why
Fancourt came in this morning, but I don't know where they are. Why
would I?'

`Hmph.' Proust turned away, rubbing his nose. Deep in thought, perfecting his next line. `So anyone who suggested that you and Mrs Fancourt are closer than you ought to be would be incorrect, would they?'

`Yes. They would, sir.' Simon feigned indignation. With some success, he thought. Proust's controlled pauses raised the stakes so high
that he ended up watching everybody's finest performances. `Who said
that? Is that what Fancourt said?' Or perhaps it was Charlie, the traitor. Simon knew only one thing: he couldn't lose this job. He'd done
it better than most, first as a bobby and then in CID, for seven years.
He'd half-wanted to lose all his previous jobs, to go out in a blaze of
misunderstood glory once things started to go wrong. The dental
hospital, the tourist information bureau, the building society-he
hadn't cared about any of them. They were full of dullards who
droned on about `the real world' every time they saw Simon with a
book in his hand. As if books weren't as real as cash ISAs, for fuck's
sake. No, he'd regarded getting the sack from those shit-holes as a tribute, proof of his worth.

His mother had disagreed. Simon could still picture the way her face
had drooped when he'd told her that he'd been fired from his job as
an art gallery security guard, his fourth in two years. `What will I tell
the priest?' she'd said.

No reply from the Snowman. Simon could feel beads of sweat
forming on his forehead. `Fancourt's a liar, sir,' he blurted out. `I
don't trust him.'

The inspector took a sip from his mug and waited. Alarmingly
cool, like an ice cube down your back on a hot day.

Simon knew he probably ought to keep his mouth shut, but he
found he couldn't. `Sir, shouldn't we look at the Laura Cryer case
again, in the circumstances?' Proust had nominally been in charge of
the investigation three years ago, though it had been Charlie, Sellers,
Gibbs and the rest of the team who'd done all the work. `I've just told
Char ... Sergeant Zailer the same thing. Alice Fancourt didn't trust
David Fancourt either. It was obvious she didn't. And women know
their husbands, don't they? Sir, given that Fancourt's first wife was
killed and now Alice has gone missing as well, shouldn't Fancourt be
our prime suspect? Shouldn't that be our first line of enquiry?' He wasn't normally so talkative. Proust would have to see the logic of what
he was saying if he repeated himself enough.

"`Women know their husbands!"'

Simon jumped. The sudden increase in volume told him that his turn
was over and he had used it unwisely. Proust was going to make him
pay for trying to determine the direction of their dialogue. He shouldn't have said so much, so urgently. He'd introduced a new element;
Proust hated that.

`Women know their husbands, do they? And on that basis, you suspect David Fancourt of murder?'

`Sir, if ... '

`Let me tell you something, Waterhouse. Every Saturday night, my
wife and I have dinner with some-tedious-body or other, and I have to
sit there like a prat while she makes up stories about me. Giles this, Giles that, Giles doesn't like lemon meringue pie because he was
forced to eat it at school, Giles prefers Spain to Italy, he thinks the people are more friendly. Seventy-five per cent of these stories are fiction,
pure and simple. Oh, there's a grain of truth in some of them, but
mostly they're made up. Women do not know their husbands, Waterhouse. You only say that because you're not married. Women talk
drivel because it entertains them. They fill the air with random words,
and they don't much care whether what they're saying has any basis
in fact.' Proust was red in the face by the end of his speech. Simon
knew better than to reply.

`A pretty, manipulative woman spins you a yarn and you fall for it!
Darryl Beer killed Laura Cryer because she fought for her handbag. He
left half the contents of his scalp all over her body. What are you playing at, Waterhouse? Hm? You could end up where I am if you play
your cards right. You could be a seriously good detective. I was the first
person to say so, when you were here on secondment. And you've
struck lucky more than once recently, I'll grant you that. But I'm
telling you now, you can't afford any more mistakes.'

Struck lucky? Simon's fists itched to fly through the air in the direction of Proust's smug face. The inspector made it sound as if anyone
might have achieved what Simon had in the past month, when he must
have known damn well no-one else could or would have, certainly not
anyone presently working in CID. At least, no-one else had, and that
was what fucking mattered.

And what was all this shit about `any more mistakes'? Simon had
had a couple of Reg 9s but never anything serious. Everyone had the
odd Reg 9, minor disciplinary stuff. And, unless his memory was
playing up, Proust had just described Alice as manipulative. That
opinion must have come from Charlie, who was herself capable of
being ruthlessly manipulative. Alice seemed to Simon to be an utterly
straightforward person, entirely without guile. He clamped his mouth
shut and started to count inside his head. By thirty-two, he still wanted
to knock Proust to the ground. And Charlie, while he was at it.

`What is it with you and women, Waterhouse? Why don't you get
yourself a girlfriend?'

Simon froze, eyes fixed on the floor. This was something he definitely didn't want to talk about. To anyone, ever. He kept his head
down and waited for Proust to finish his rant.

`I don't know what's going on in your personal life, Waterhouse, and
I don't care, but if it affects work then I care. You come in here, giving it "Charlie this" and "Alice that"-this is CID, not a tawdry soap
opera. Sort yourself out!'

`Sorry, sir.' Now was a bad time to start shaking. It was probably the
effort of suppressing all his anger and frustration. Simon hoped Proust
hadn't noticed, Proust who noticed everything. Why had he said that,
about girlfriends?

`Look at the state of you! You're a mess!'

`I'll ... sorry, sir.'

`So let's be absolutely clear: apart from your official involvement
with Alice Fancourt over the allegations she made about her baby,
you've had no contact with her at all. Is that correct?'

`Yes, sir.'

`You aren't carrying on with her?'

`No.' This, at least, was true. `She had a baby less than a month
ago, sir.'

`What about while she was pregnant? Before she was pregnant?'

`I've only known her a week, sir.'

Was it really only last Friday? It felt like longer. Simon had been on
his way to pick up some CCTV footage his team needed for an ongoing misper, when he'd heard PC Robbie Meakin's voice on his radio,
asking for any car to go to a residence called The Elms, on the Rawndesley Road. `Woman by the name of Alice Fancourt. Says her baby's
been abducted.'

Simon had been struck by the coincidence. He'd passed that property only about twenty seconds earlier and noticed the open, wroughtiron gates that must have been specially made to incorporate the name of the house in two large circles: `The' on the gate on the left,
`Elms' on the right. Classier than those painted wooden signs, Simon
had thought. `I'm there. I'll take it,' he'd told Meakin. Reluctant
though he was to be saddled with another case when he already had
more than enough in his crime cue, he would have felt guilty ignoring
this one when he was on the spot. It was a baby, after all.