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Reid said nothing. He took a sip from his coffee, keeping his eyes on his sergeant.
‘He’s used his debit card.’
‘He?’
‘Sorry, sir. Samuel Foulkes, sir.’
Reid smiled inside. Ashcroft’s penitence was rather pathetic, yet very satisfying. He motioned him to sit down. There was no need to rub things in at this stage. He would bide his time. ‘How about some details, Sergeant?’ he said.
‘Sixteen twenty-five hours this afternoon. In a garage just south of Gainsborough.’
‘Gainsborough?’
‘North-west Lincolnshire, sir.’
‘How much fuel did he buy?’
‘None, sir. He only spent nine quid. We reckon it must have been food.’
‘And why the hell wasn’t I told this before now?’
Ashcroft flushed at the sudden savagery. ‘It only came through to us ten minutes ago, sir.’
‘Well, it bloody well shouldn’t have. It’s critical information. And all it tells us is where he was several hours ago. He could be anywhere by now.’
Ashcroft nodded. ‘I agree, sir. I told Evans to prioritise it. But I guess if Foulkes has used it once, the chances are he’ll use it again. Probably today.’
Reid considered this. Maybe Ashcroft was right.
‘Also, sir, it has occurred to me that if Foulkes was planning on driving a lot further, wouldn’t he have put some fuel in the car? In which case, maybe the Gainsborough area is where they were headed. Maybe they are holing up somewhere round there.’
This made sense and yet Reid wasn’t entirely convinced. From what he had read in the files on both Sam Foulkes and Maggie Rogers, they were both pretty smart operators and using a bank card to buy food or whatever didn’t seem that clever.
‘Well, sir?’ Ashcroft had sunk back into his chair, relaxing a fraction.
‘Go through everything we’ve got on them. Anything and everything. Why are they in North Lincolnshire for God’s sake? Is it someone they know? Did one of them used to go on holiday there? Or work there? Or have a granny or a lover who lived there? We need to find them. Fast.’
* * *
‘This is nice.’ Beth looked round the bedroom, taking in the floral bedding and curtains, the pink wicker chair and the dressing table with a mirror all the way along the back of it. She sat on the stool in front of it and stared at herself. She saw Sam’s reflection. He was watching her in that way he had when he cocked his head to the side. As if there was something he was puzzled about.
‘Can we stay here for more than one night?’ she said as she unzipped the rucksack and began to lay its contents out on the dressing-table surface. Her Snow White costume and wig, the doll, her DVDs, loom bands, a necklace which she had made with her mother at a holiday art class and her new magazines.
She glanced up at Sam, but still he didn’t answer her question.
She looked back at herself in the mirror, at the short hair and the football shirt. ‘I’ve had enough of this kit,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be a boy any more. I want to be me. Or Snow White.’
Sam remained silent.
She got up and carried the magazines over to the bedside table. She wanted to read them later.
‘Beth.’
‘What?’ She didn’t look at him. If he was going to ignore all her questions, why shouldn’t she ignore him?
‘We believe in telling the truth, don’t we?’ he said.
She felt uneasy. That was the sort of thing that her mum used to say, usually after she had received a letter from school. That was the tone of voice she used too, all calm and lovey-dovey.
