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‘Wolfy,’ he says, ‘check for CCTV; I repeat, check for CCTV.’
‘There’s no CCTV,’ I say. ‘I don’t think there is. Not on this street anyway. There might be on Thameside. It’s not that kind of…’ I look at Matt. There are pink tracks down his cheeks where the dust from the cycle ride has been washed away. The tense set of his shoulders makes me aware of my own. It’s like we’ve both been dropped from a height; it’s taking a conscious effort of will just to hold our bones in place.
DS Simmonds stands up, addresses himself to Matt. ‘And you came back?’
‘Yeah. Ava called me and I came back.’
‘You saw you daughter when you left for work?’
‘Yeah. Yeah. Of course.’
‘And where were you when you got the call?’
‘At Richmond Bridge? On the towpath. I got a puncture, otherwise I’d have been at work by then.’
He nods. ‘All right, well I suggest you both stay here, in case little Abi returns or anyone tries to contact you.’
Matt takes a step forward. ‘Can’t I help search?’
I stand up too. ‘I want to search. I need to find her. Please.’
Matt grips my arm. He’s about to say something – something about me being pregnant, I’m sure – when another woman appears in the back garden, crossing in front of the glass sliding doors. She is not in uniform. She is big and tall and she is in my kitchen, but I have no idea who she is.
‘Ava Atkins?’ She holds out her hand when I nod. ‘I’m Detective Constable Lorraine Stephens. I’m your family liaison officer.’ Her hand is warm and dry. She has large dark-green eyes and short grey hair. ‘I’ll be here with you, all right? I’ll be here with you while the police do their job and we’ll keep you updated with any developments.’
Matt is following Simmonds out of the house. I hear footsteps, someone running back up the side path. Matt reappears at the back door.
‘Bella’s got a photo of Abi from yesterday, they’re going to print it off.’ His glance rests on my belly. ‘Will you be OK?’
I nod, my eyes clouding over once again. ‘Go.’
Five
Matt
The patrol car is parked out front. At the end of the street, the sight of blue-and-white tape winds him. There are cones on the tarmac. Three police vans have parked on Thameside Lane, their back doors open, a clutch of police officers in conference, glancing about.
Neil is with them, pointing towards the near end of the street. Another siren announces yet another police van, which parks on the double yellows a little further down, hazards flashing. Two guys in naval combats and waterproof jackets jump out of the front and make their way to the back. One of them opens the door to two German shepherds, tongues pink and lolling, eyes brown and quick.
Matt bends double, clutching at his stomach. ‘Oh God.’
Neil claps him on the back. ‘Come on, mate. We’ll find her.’
Matt makes himself breathe. Sweat prickles all over his scalp, his face. When he’s sure he’s not actually going to vomit, he rises slowly.
‘Sir?’ One of the dog handlers is at his side. ‘My name’s Ian Mitchell, all right? I’m going to have to ask you for an item of your daughter’s clothing. Something recently worn?’
Matt stares at him a moment. Realisation dawns. Another lurch of nausea.
‘Of course,’ he says.
Neil squeezes his shoulder. ‘I’m going to help search, all right?’
‘Sure.’
Neil jogs back into Riverside Drive. Matt follows, leading the dog handlers back to the house. He leaves them on the pavement, telling them he won’t be a moment. A policewoman stands sentry beside the taped-off front door. He heads round the side, across the back of the house, to where Ava is sitting with her back to him, opposite the family liaison officer on one of the two small sofas by the patio doors.
‘Matt?’ His name is loaded with tears. She has turned to look at him and her face and eyes are red.
