An Individual Will Read online

  Chapter Four

  Amberton police station has its address at 4 Piper Street on the east side of Amberton known as Abbey Green, mostly or wholly on account of the abbey surrounded by a green. It stands back off the street obscured from view by London Plane trees. Our senior burghers prefer not to overstate our community’s need for law enforcement.

  My office, or the office wherein I worked, was built for function rather than comfort, though the facilities manager had assured me that it met all workplace Health and Safety regulations. There were two desks, one of which you could sit behind and, as it were, interview or have a meeting with someone; the other was smaller and pushed against a side wall. Both desks accommodated a phone and a computer and a paper tray stack. There was a slide door cupboard, where you could hang your coat or dump your bag and/or brolly.

  Simon was annoyed with me, or perhaps displeased would be a more accurate description, though he would doubtless have used a more pub-masculine expression like pissed off. He was – somewhat – pissed off with me. I had offended him by not speaking on the return journey. I do not, as some people do, enjoy speculating aloud or brainstorming in the very early stages of an investigation because so very much is possible then. The less you know about something, the more you can speculate about it. Knowledge, evidence, closes off certain avenues and areas of speculation. Indeed, an investigation can be deemed a success when there is no room left for reasonable speculation.

  I did worry that I wasn't terribly good for Simon. He didn't much care for me. An impression to begin with – vague at first, and then sharply, regrettably, distinct. I had heard him disparagingly refer to DC Neil Taylor as a card-carrying member of the Barbara Black fan club. Neil, it seems, had openly disagreed with Simon's poor opinion of me.

  “You don't much care for me, do you, Simon?” Framed as a question for politeness’ sake. Something like it had to be said; it was not a trivial indulgence. We were alone in the office with other things to be getting on with.

  He took a moment to shift gear, then said, “Whatever my feelings about you personally, ma’am, I hope I don’t allow them to affect our professional relationship, or the way in which I do my job.” Very formal, probably rehearsed.

  “Can’t be easy for you, though, Simon. Rather a strain I would have thought. It would be perfectly understandable if you felt moved to canvass your colleagues on the subject in the hope of finding some who shared your feelings – though obviously you’d want to be discreet about it.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” he said. Bleached of feeling; he might have been responding to a request for a file.

  Was it my fault? I worried that perhaps it was – at least, partly. I had thought him faintly ridiculous. An initial impression, which I'd worked hard to mitigate. Ten years my junior, he had a taste for designer clothes, and was always sharply suited and booted, his silk tie neatly knotted in place. He styled his hair with gel; made it defy wind and gravity. Is it unfair to judge the apparently superficial superficially? Surely one should have more personality than one’s clothes.

  “Check up on the family, Simon. Find out their history. I’m particularly interested in Martha’s perspective, since she seems to be the long-term support network.”

  “Martha who?” he said. He had screwed his face into the worried expression of a man who might have missed something, but didn’t think so.

  “Martha I-don’t-know-her-surname-but-would-like-you-to-find-out-and-speak-to-her.”

  “Who is she? What’s she got to do with anything?”

  “She’s the lady with the lamp, Simon, the shoulder to cry on, the stalwart presence, the dependable support network. He phoned her while we were there. She’s probably on her way round as we speak. I’d like you to meet her.”

  “What’s my reason for going back so soon?”

  “Concern, Simon,” I said, smiling. “You can do concern.”

  A moment after Simon had gone, Ron Turner, the desk sergeant, put his head round the door and said portentously, “A potentially delicate situation, I think, ma’am.” I wondered if he’d watched Simon go before coming in. He had been with the police nearly forty years and was discreet to a fault.

  The potentially delicate situation was Lisa Markham, and the situation had achieved, or surpassed, its potential: Lisa Markham had just reported a dead person missing.