I waited for the red man to turn green; then I sprinted across the road and caught up with him just as he turned the corner to the stone steps up to the steep hill. He’d put his earphones in now. I could hear him humming very quietly under his breath. He walked fast and I was out of breath by the time we got to his street. I didn’t realise how fit he was.
Then he was outside his house, looking for his keys, opening the door, closing it behind him. He had a certain swagger to his entrance, like he was lord of the manor.
I was standing outside a kind of empty building plot; it had a big wooden gate across it and high brick walls overhung with flowering foliage. I peered through a hole in the gate and saw a huge piece of empty land covered in flowers and rubble; it didn’t look quite real, like a secret park or fairyland. I could see the foundations where a big house had been. The land must have covered at least an acre, maybe even more. Above it the sky had turned violet and gold. There was a notice taped to the gate.Apparently they were going to build some flats here. The notice was dated three years ago. I hoped that no one would ever build flats here, that it would just stay like this, hidden away, growing layers and layers, getting denser and denser.
I saw a movement to one side. Something fleeting and shiny. A fox.
It stopped for a moment and stared at me. Right at me.
My stomach rumbled. I hitched my schoolbag up on my shoulder and headed home.
22
One morning, a few days after Valentine’s night, Owen’s doorbell rings. He waits for Tessie to answer it but she appears to be out.
After the second ring, he goes to the intercom and says hello.
A female voice responds. ‘Hello. Is this Owen Pick?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good morning, I’m Detective Inspector Angela Currie. We’re making door-to-door inquiries about a missing person. Could I ask you to spare a minute to answer a few questions?’
‘Erm …’ He peers at himself quickly in the mirror by the front door. He hasn’t shaved for three days and his hair is in dire need of a wash. He looks dreadful. ‘Yes, sorry, sure. Come in.’
Angela Currie is a heavy-set young woman, short and broad, with disproportionately small feet. She has what looks like naturally blonde hair braided across her hairline and tucked into a bun at the back. She has a nice face and is wearing a flick of black eyeliner across each eyelid.
Behind her is an equally young man, introduced as PC Rodrigues.
‘Could we come in?’
‘Er …’ Owen looks behind him at the open door to Tessie’s flat. How to explain that there is nowhere to sit in his own home as his aunt won’t let him in her living room? ‘Is it OK if we talk out here?’ he says.
He is aware that this makes it sound as if he is trying to hide something.
‘It’s my aunt’s flat,’ he explains. ‘She’s a bit funny about letting people in.’
DI Currie tips her chin to look into the space visible through the crack of the apartment door. ‘No problem,’ she says.
They settle themselves on the small bench next to the stairs leading to the two upper-floor flats. It wobbles precariously, not really designed for sitting on but for resting parcels and such on. DI Currie has to sit with her head bent slightly forward to avoid the mail baskets nailed to the wall above.
‘So,’ she begins, ‘we’re investigating the disappearance of a local girl. I wonder if I could show you some photographs?’
Blood rushes to Owen’s head. He doesn’t know why. He nods and tries to cover the hot parts of his face with his fingers.
DI Currie pulls a printout from an envelope and passes it to him.
It’s a photo of a pretty girl, mixed race by the looks of it, though hard to ascertain precisely her ancestry. She’s wearing large hoop earrings and her hair is worn in a similar style to DI Currie’s, a kind of tight plait close to the skull, holding it to one side. She’s wearing what looks like a school uniform and is smiling.
He passes the sheet back to the detective and awaits another question.
‘Have you ever seen this girl before?’
‘No,’ he says, his hand moving from his face to the back of his neck, which he can feel growing blotchy and hot. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Where were you on the night of February the fourteenth, Mr Pick?’ He starts to shrug; then DI Currie says, ‘It was Valentine’s night. That might make it easier to recall.’
He sucks in his breath, covers his mouth with his hand. Yes. He knows what he was doing on Valentine’s night.