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60
Samuel
Donal and I return to our desks. For a minute we sit in a stunned silence, unable to believe what has just happened.
Lucy Lamb has just delivered us her brother.
My contact in Chicago is on his way with a colleague to the restaurant where Lucy informed us that Henry Lamb would be breakfasting with a male friend. Very soon we will find out whether or not we will be able to question him about what happened to Birdie Dunlop-Evers. Very soon, I hope, we will be able to put away these files and these papers, put away the world that the bag of bones found by Jason the mud-larker on the banks of the Thames two weeks ago has built inside my head, the world that fills my quiet moments and my sleep and all the gaps in between, this world of abuse and darkness and wealth, this world that spewedfour vulnerable children out on to the streets and left them to fend for themselves.
But first we need to hear from Henry and for now there is nothing for Donal and me to do other than sit here and stare at the wall.
‘Kind of hot, don’t you think?’ Donal pronounces, suddenly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Lucy Lamb. Those dark eyes. The sunken cheeks. Very …hot.’
I roll my eyes at him. His live-in girlfriend left him about three months ago and he has gone from being the sort of man who tells you all about putting up shelves at the weekend and taking the kitten to the vet to the sort of man who talks only about hot women. He needs another girlfriend, very soon. This lasciviousness does not suit him.
I open up my email for something to do other than discuss Lucy Lamb’s cheekbones with Donal. There is one from Philip Dunlop-Evers. He writes every day.Just checking in. I know you’re busy. I’m sure you’ll let me know when you hear anything.
I press reply and type.
We are very close to interviewing a prime suspect, a man who was a teenager living in the house at the time of Birdie’s disappearance. We have also tracked down Justin Redding, who was very helpful but was not, it seems, living in London at the time. I am hoping to have something to share with you by the end of the day. I will send you an update, or please feel free to call me.
He won’t call me. He’s too polite. He imagines that I am too busy to take phone calls. He is a very nice man. Nicer, so it seems, thanhis sister, who has been painted in very troubling colours by both Lucy Lamb and Justin Ugley. I think of those tiny bones, so delicate that we thought at first that they belonged to a child. But now it appears that they belonged, quite possibly, to a monster.
Donal and I both jump then at the sound of my ring tone. I grab my phone and press reply.
‘Hello. DI Owusu. This is Agent Jacobs calling from Chicago. We have your interviewee ready for you. Are you ready to join us on video?’
‘Yes. Yes, we are. Give us three minutes. Thank you so much.’
I glance at Donal and I nod. He nods back and we head once again to the interview room.
