Rush of Blood (14 page)

It had been good of Jeff Gardner to call. He was a great guy. With a lot of the cops, she felt like they were just saying
shit they’d said too many times before and there was no real feeling in it, but he was different. Like it still meant something.

Patti sat on the floor, her back against the couch, some comedy show on the TV she didn’t remember switching on turned up
loud. The rain was coming down in sheets outside. Still plenty warm enough in the house because the ice in her martini pitcher
was almost melted, though she could not be bothered to get off her ass and go to the refrigerator.

The photos were spread out on the rug between her legs.

There were a couple of old ones from back when Amber-Marie was a baby. Sleeping in her stroller or lying on her back in the
grass and kicking those pudgy little legs for all she was worth. There were even one or two with her daddy in them, which
must have been some kind of miracle, because the way Patti remembered it, that useless dick wasn’t around more than five minutes
after she was born.

Mostly it was just Amber-Marie though. Or the two of them.

She kept coming back to the pictures from Sarasota. Amber-Marie
on the beach and in the ocean, pointing at stuff on the street. She could sulk with the best of them when she didn’t get her
own way, Patti knew that better than anyone, but there wasn’t a single picture from that vacation where she wasn’t smiling.
Not those stupid awkward ‘camera’ smiles either.

Her baby had a different kind of smile.

There was a bunch of great shots with her and Amber-Marie around the pool at the Pelican Palms. One of those nice British
guys had taken them, though she’d given up trying to remember his name. There were a couple of Amber-Marie on her own – sitting
on the edge of the pool with her legs in the water – that he’d kindly snapped before giving Patti her camera back. He knew
what he was doing for sure, they were really great pictures, but looking at them now she felt hot suddenly and a little sick.
She was almost certain they had been taken on that last morning.

They might well have been the last photographs taken of Amber-Marie before she disappeared.

She reached for the plastic pitcher and poured herself another glass. A fair amount of martini ended up on the floor so, cursing
to herself, she pushed the photos out of the way and leaned down to mop up the mess with the bottom of her T-shirt. She leaned
back and clutched at the edge of the rug like it might stop her falling. Some fat idiot on the TV was arguing with his wife.

Patti took a drink and sucked on the sliver of ice until it was gone.

Jenny sat with the wife in the conservatory. The smell of furniture polish fought it out with the fresh flowers in the middle
of the table and it was obvious that the woman of the house had been up since the crack of dawn, cleaning the place from top
to bottom. Those who reached for the Cif if the police were paying a visit were not necessarily any nicer – certainly no less
guilty – than those who made rather less effort, but it definitely made the process a little more enjoyable.

The week before, tagging along on a job with Andy Simmons, Jenny had sat in the corner of a room that reeked of feet and fried
food and whose owner only looked up from his fifty-inch plasma screen to shout at the dog curling out a turd behind the sofa.

Afterwards, walking to the car, Simmons had said, ‘That counts as being house-proud on this estate.’

‘We’d been to Orlando,’ the wife said. ‘You know, done the whole theme park bit when the kids were younger.’ Angela Finnegan
had already described the building of their extension in a fair bit of detail, talked about the problems with local teenagers
hanging about in the park over the road and made it clear just how handy the house was for Gatwick Airport. Now, though Jenny
had yet to ask any of the
questions she had sat up preparing the night before, they were at least talking about the holiday that was the reason she
was there in the first place. ‘We’d never been to the other side of Florida though, so we thought we’d give it a try.’

Jenny glanced across at the collection of framed photographs on a side table. Two serious-looking children, a boy and a girl,
in school uniform. In another picture, a different boy in a different uniform; a year or two older and trying his best to
smile, but not quite pulling it off. ‘You’ve got nice-looking kids,’ she said.

The wife smiled and said, ‘It’s complicated.’ She pointed to the photograph of the boy and the girl. ‘Those two are mine,’
she said. ‘Laura’s fourteen and Luke’s a year and a bit older. Poor little bugger’s up to his eyes in GCSEs at the moment.’

‘They put them under so much pressure now, don’t they?’ Jenny said. ‘It’s ridiculous.’ The wife pointed to the other photograph.
‘That one’s Nick. He’s Barry’s son from
his
first marriage.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Like I said, it’s a bit complicated.’

‘Most modern families are,’ Jenny said.

‘I suppose so.’

‘So you took the three of them to Disney?’

‘No, just my two. Barry’s ex was a bit touchy about all that when we first got together. Things are easier now.’

‘Good.’

‘You got kids?’

Jenny saw the woman glance down at her left hand. She lifted it without thinking and tugged at her earlobe. ‘Not just yet,’
she said. ‘Career comes first.’

‘Of course—’

‘I’m kidding,’ Jenny said, hoping she looked like she meant it. ‘Just not got round to it.’

‘Well, it’s difficult, isn’t it?’ The wife nodded, serious. ‘With what you do, I mean. It must be pretty full-on.’

Jenny looked at her watch. Said, ‘Talking of which …’

‘I’m really sorry,’ the wife said. ‘He promised me he’d be home by
now.’ There was an edge to her voice suddenly, angry or just embarrassed, it was hard to tell. She got up and moved across
to where she had put her handbag on a window ledge. She rummaged inside for her phone then walked away into the kitchen with
it. ‘Let me see where he is …’

It was a little after midday on a Thursday afternoon. When Jenny had spoken to the wife two days earlier to arrange the appointment,
she had been assured that this was a convenient time for her and her husband. That they would both be available. Jenny had
set off good and early to get there in time and ended up having to kill half an hour window-shopping.

‘Where are you?’ Jenny heard the wife say. Then: ‘Oh, all right then, well, hurry up. We’re waiting …’

‘Is there a problem?’

The wife shook her head and slid her phone back into her bag. ‘He’s just pulling up outside,’ she said. ‘He got held up on
site, I’m really sorry.’

‘It’s fine.’ Jenny leaned down for her own bag and began arranging her papers on the nicely polished table.

It was a good job that the wife had apologised for her husband’s lateness as he clearly had no intention of doing so himself.
He walked in sighing and shaking his head, as though it were all the fault of far too many other people to mention. After
tossing his car keys down on to the worktop, he walked across and dropped into a chair next to his wife without even bothering
to take his jacket off.

‘This is Detective Constable Quinlan,’ the wife said.

The husband said, ‘Hello.’

‘Do you need a couple of minutes?’ Jenny asked. ‘I mean, if you want to get a drink or something, take your coat off …’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘Fire away.’

Jenny smiled and picked up her pen, thinking: suit yourself. It may just have been the result of a particularly shitty morning
at work, or he may have been on edge for some other, more personal reason. Some people, Jenny knew very well, were uneasy
talking to the police for no
other reason than because they
were
talking to the police. It made them feel guilty, even if they hadn’t done anything. Guiltier still, of course, if they had.

Whatever the reason for Barry Finnegan’s discomfort, Jenny was enjoying it.

‘You told the police in Sarasota that you were on the beach at the time Amber-Marie Wilson went missing.’ She looked from
one to the other. ‘Is that right?’

‘That’s right,’ the wife said. ‘I mean, yes, that’s where we were. It’s
such
a gorgeous beach. We tried to get there as often as we could, didn’t we?’

‘Well, you like it more than I do,’ the husband said.

‘Barry gets bored. Plus he burns if he’s not careful, so …’

‘Can you remember what time you got to the beach?’

The wife thought for a few seconds. ‘We were there from about twelve o’clock, I think. We got back to the resort about three.’
She nodded. ‘I think three hours is plenty, even in the shade.’

‘So you had lunch on the beach?’

‘We didn’t have lunch at all,’ the wife said. ‘We got into the habit of skipping lunch whenever we could. The breakfasts over
there are so enormous that you’re not really hungry until dinner time anyway. On top of which, three meals a day over there
is
not
very good when you’re trying to watch your waistline.’ She reached across and playfully patted her husband’s belly. ‘Which
some of us are.’

Jenny watched the husband flinch and quickly move his wife’s hand away. When he looked up and saw that Jenny was watching,
he smiled and shook his head as though amused by what his wife had said. Jenny didn’t think either of them was particularly
big and had been pleased to see that the wife was clearly as fond of biscuits as she was. More than the Dunning woman, at
any rate.

‘So, did you talk to anyone when you were at the beach?’

‘Not that I can remember,’ the wife said. ‘Barry?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘So what, you just read? Sunbathed, whatever?’

The wife nodded. ‘Swam a bit to cool off … had a nap, I seem to remember. Oh, and Barry went off to buy some fags, didn’t
you, love?’

The husband turned quickly to look at her. He cleared his throat then started talking as he turned slowly back to Jenny. ‘That’s
right, I was running low.’ He nodded like it was all coming back to him. ‘Getting through the duty-frees a bit quick …’

‘So how long were you gone for?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Just a few minutes, or …?’

‘More like an hour, wasn’t it?’ the wife said. ‘At least forty-five minutes, anyway.’ She looked at her husband. ‘You drove
back into the village, didn’t you, love?’

The husband was still nodding, nice and slowly. Talking to the table-top. ‘I went for a beer, if you must know. A couple of
beers, and a few fags.’ He looked up at Jenny, leaned forward. ‘You can’t smoke on that beach, and you can’t even have a bottle
of beer. Stupid, isn’t it? I took a couple of bottles in a coolbox the first day and some old git told me I was breaking the
law. On the beach, for God’s sake. So … I went to buy a packet of fags from one of the places in the village and stayed for
a drink. Watched the world go by for a bit.’ He nodded towards his wife. ‘She had her nose in her book and I was getting too
bloody hot. So …’

‘Can you remember the name of the bar?’ Jenny asked.

He shook his head. ‘Sorry.’

‘They’re all the same along there, aren’t they?’ the wife said. ‘Decks and big umbrellas, plastic parrots, what have you.’

He nodded. ‘That’s right.’

Jenny shrugged and scribbled something. ‘Did you see the girl?’

‘Sorry?’ Now it was the wife’s turn.

‘Well, chances are she walked along that main street through the village after she left the resort, and you know, you said
you were just sitting and watching the world go by. I mean, I know it’s a long shot …’

‘Of course I didn’t see the bloody girl,’ the husband said. ‘I would
have said if I’d seen her, wouldn’t I? I would have told the police at the time.’

‘You
told
them you were at the beach,’ Jenny said.

‘Yes—’

‘When you weren’t.’

‘Right … because the fact that I nipped into the village to buy some fags and have a swift pint is neither here nor there,
for heaven’s sake.’ He was looking from his wife to Jenny and back; his voice rising in pitch and volume. ‘I mean,
obviously
I would have said if I’d seen the girl. “
Did you see the girl?
” That’s a stupid question.’

The wife reached towards him. ‘All right, love—’

‘Maybe they should start sending somebody with a bit more experience to do stuff like this. Somebody who knows what they’re
doing.’ The husband pushed back his chair, stood up and braced himself against the table. After the smallest of nods towards
his wife, he leaned down towards Jenny. ‘What did she say you were? A detective
constable?
’

Jenny could feel the colour coming to her cheeks and hid it by looking down for a few seconds. Gathering her papers, and her
thoughts. ‘I’m sorry that you’re so upset about this, Mr Finnegan, but at the end of the day that can’t be helped. And the
fact is it really doesn’t matter what an officer’s rank is, because if you want to get anywhere, you have to ask
both
sorts of questions.’ She paused, then looked up at him and slid her card across the table. ‘The clever ones and the stupid
ones. Because you know what? Sometimes it’s the stupid ones that get you the right answers.’

Fifteen minutes after the police officer had left, Angie carried two mugs of tea out into the garden. Barry was smoking. He
was standing at the edge of the patio, looking out across the lawn that Angie had paid the gardener extra to come in and cut
the day before. It was not a particularly warm afternoon, but there was no wind to speak of and Angie could just make out
the low drone of traffic on the M23 as she laid Barry’s tea down on the plastic table.

She said, ‘There you go, love,’ but he ignored her.

She sat at the table and drank her own tea. She took Quinlan’s card out of her pocket and stared at it. ‘Do you know, she
never even mentioned those photographs I sent? Not once. I mean, even if nothing came of it and that wasn’t why the police
over there got in touch with the police over here, you’d think somebody might at least have said thank you. Don’t you reckon?
No wonder people don’t bother trying to help the police when you get no thanks for it.’

Barry said nothing. She could see the tension in his shoulders.

‘You all right?’ she asked.

When he turned, it was clear that his mood had not got any better. He was smoking in the same way he always did when he was
angry; like a market trader or a teenager trying to look hard. The cigarette cupped in his palm, pinched between thumb and
second finger.

‘Why the hell did you have to go and say that?’

‘Say what?’

‘That business about me going to buy fags, being gone for an hour.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘The
problem?
Jesus …’

‘I just thought we should tell them exactly what happened,’ Angie said. ‘We didn’t mention it when we were over there. That’s
all.’

Barry flicked his nub-end on to the grass. ‘Have you any idea what you made me look like?’

‘Don’t be so bloody daft,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose she thought for a minute that you were lying about anything.’

He turned and stared at her. ‘Who the hell said anything about lying?’

‘Exactly … that’s what I’m telling you.’

‘I meant that you made me look stupid.
Stupid
, all right? Nothing to do with anybody lying.’

‘Stop shouting.’

‘We didn’t mention it over there because nobody asked us.’ He stepped towards her, started to point. ‘We told them we went
to the beach because that’s what we did. Nobody asked us for a minute-by-minute breakdown, did they?’

‘All right—’

‘Now you come out with all
that
in front of a copper. How do you think that makes me look? It makes me look like a bloody idiot.’

Angie laid her mug down, none too carefully. ‘Listen, stop shouting the odds, all right, because
I
wasn’t the one who came marching in late with a face like fourpence, was I? I don’t care how bad your morning was or what
your twat of a brother’s been up to. That woman was a police officer, for God’s sake, not some punter moaning because you
didn’t put her roof on right.’ She shook her head. Her eyes were narrow and the lines deepened around her mouth as it tightened.
‘I can’t believe the way you showed me up, talking to her like that …’

They said nothing for a minute. Barry lit another cigarette. He shifted slowly from foot to foot, then walked across and pulled
out a chair at the table. ‘Lying?’ he said, the anger gone now. He sat down. ‘For crying out loud, Ange, who’s talking about
anybody lying?’