The Shut Eye (12 page)

And both times she had been looking at the photo of Sandra and Mitzi.

What did it mean? Was she getting visions? Like Richard Latham? Like … what had Sandra called him …

Like a shut eye?

How else to explain it all? Was Mitzi in a garden somewhere? Or in a house where she could see the garden from the window? Was the dog trapped somewhere without water? Anna hoped not; the thought of that thirst without the relief of the kitchen tap was horrific, and she shuddered.

Was she in psychic communication with a lost dog?

It was ridiculous. Ludicrous.

Embarrassing.

Down below, through the kitchen window, the garage came into focus, and she wondered whether she should tell James what had happened, what she’d seen. With his good sense and logic, she was sure James could explain it.

Explain it
away
?

It would not be hard to do. Anna could be easily persuaded out of it. Because – as Sandra had also said – it was like magic, and everybody knew that magic was just a clever distraction, a misdirection. Sleight of hand and smoke and mirrors, and a willingness in the observer to be deceived, baffled and bamboozled.

But what if it wasn’t?

What if there was even the tiniest sliver of reality to be found in the layers of lies and self-deception? Wasn’t that why crowds still flocked to watch the girl sawn in half or the confetti turned into doves? Wasn’t it because people
wanted
to believe that somewhere, somehow, there really
was
such a thing as magic? That their lives might one day also be transformed into something wonderful?

Or, at least, bearable.

That was why magic flourished down the centuries, just as religion did – because they both brought hope.

Anna had lost
everything
the day Daniel disappeared. The meagre possibility of his return was all that kept her alive – and then only just. She had felt the joy of hope in her heart that first night at the church, and the desolation of losing it on her second visit. But here it was again, a resilient little shoot poking upwards from the black earth. Insistent, despite its vulnerability.

The last thing she needed was James stepping on it, pointing out that there would soon be a frost.

Anna picked Sandra’s photo off the window-sill. She looked at it with new eyes. The pride and happiness in Sandra’s face – the content expression of the apricot poodle. Mitzi had the look of a dog who was used to being tucked under an arm and doted upon.

Anna took her phone from her pocket, then hesitated. Was false hope better than none? Or far, far worse?

Then she thought of how Richard Latham’s refusal to even
try
to help had emptied her, hollowed her out and replaced her heart with a cold stone of misery.

Anna Buck wasn’t stupid; she knew that magic wasn’t real.

But sometimes it
felt
real.

And sometimes that was enough.

THE PHONE RANG
and rang and rang before Sandra finally picked up.

‘Hello? Sandra?’

‘Yes?’

‘Hi. This is Anna. I met you at the church a couple of weeks ago?’

There was a long confused hesitation.

‘I had the baby in the buggy?’

‘Oh yes!’

Anna was glad she had called. Sandra seemed like a nice person and she hoped she could help her. She took a deep breath and decided to cut straight to the chase before she lost her nerve. ‘Sandra, twice now when I’ve looked at that photo you gave me, I’ve had this weird sort of vision, and I wondered whether, if I described it to you, maybe it would make sense, and maybe it would help you to find your dog.’

There was a short silence and then whispering at the other end – Sandra turning away to tell somebody something. A friend? A husband?

Anna hurried on: ‘I mean, these pictures in my head don’t mean anything to me, but maybe they would to you. I mean, I’m not a psychic or anything like that, and I know it does sound pretty stupid, but I thought, if there’s even a small hope of it being any help to you, you know?’

Anna stopped talking, partly because the more she talked about a vision, the nuttier it sounded. And partly because she was getting nothing back from Sandra. There were no encouraging murmurs or excited interjections.

Just silence.

‘This is Detective Chief Inspector John Marvel. Who’s this?’

Anna blinked. ‘Anna,’ she said.

‘Anna who?’

She hung up.

Breathing shallowly, she stood very still, as if she were hiding. As if Detective Chief Inspector John Marvel might see her if she moved or made a sound. She didn’t know why; she hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d
never
done anything wrong! It was just so unexpected …

Why would a policeman be interested in her phoning Sandra about her lost dog? Why would he want to know who she was? Did he have her confused with somebody else? What was going on?

She flinched as the phone rang. She stared at it until it stopped, and then continued to stare at it until it beeped to let her know there was a message waiting for her.

She picked the phone up and listened warily, as if she might hang up – even on the message.

This is DCI Marvel of Lewisham police. We’re investigating a possible theft and if you call this number again, you may be charged with obstruction of justice.

Anna immediately deleted the message. She’d never been in trouble with the police – not even as a teenager – and it felt somehow shameful to be suspected of something, even when she’d done nothing wrong.

She sat down slowly and tried to think logically about what was happening. Logic was possible; it had to be – even when it came to visions. Maybe she’d hallucinated because she hadn’t eaten enough, and she’d got thirsty because she wasn’t drinking enough. That was all there was to it. She wasn’t psychic.

Was
anybody
?

If Richard Latham were psychic then surely he would have helped her find Daniel. Why wouldn’t he? How
couldn’t
he? If you really had such a gift and you could help someone in desperate need, surely you had to do it.

You
had
to help.

She
had to help!

She had to help. That was all there was to it. The feeling wasn’t rational but, like the thirst, it was not a want, it was a
need
.

It was raining outside and the baby was asleep, but Anna didn’t care about either. She picked him up, wrapped him up warmly, put him in his buggy and put up the hood, then pulled on the big blue anorak, took a deep breath and left the house.

This time she didn’t turn back – not even once.

THE RECEPTION AREA
of Lewisham police station was lined with wooden benches that had been polished to a high sheen over three decades by the arses of the guilty and the innocent alike.

WPC Emily Aguda liked to guess which was which, as they came through the glass front door on a conveyor belt of crime and punishment.

It was her privilege and her burden to man the front desk on an almost permanent basis. At a time when the Metropolitan police was making efforts to counter claims of racism and sexism, Emily Aguda ticked two boxes for the price of one and so was thrust under the noses of the local populace whenever possible, as a shining example of a black woman police officer.
Look!
The Met crowed over her like a toddler with a frog.
Look what we caught!

And then they kept it in a box until it died.

She had been on the front desk for nearly two years now and it was really pissing her off. She had graduated from Reading with a first in law. She could have done anything! At twenty-six she could have been a detective sergeant by now. But instead she’d been put behind a glass window like a ticket seller or a zoo exhibit, and the loudly unspoken understanding was that her job was to be nice to people and smile – what with her being black and a woman and a symbol and all.

Despite that, Emily took her job seriously. She was firm with drunks, cynical with liars, helpful to the vulnerable, efficient with casualties, accommodating to lawyers and sympathetic to victims.

But she wasn’t sure how to categorize the young woman who had just walked through the door.

White, skinny, drowning in a huge blue anorak that hid her face and reached almost to her knees, and pushing a baby in a cheap buggy.

The only description that came easily to Emily’s mind was
crazy
.

Even when she reached the window, the skinny woman didn’t meet her eyes: she looked beyond Emily to the rest of the small front office, where officers wandered about holding papers or paper cups.

Looking for someone else.

Someone better.

Although Emily was used to it, it never failed to sting. But she smiled because she was a symbol and being a symbol was her job. For now, at least.

‘How can I help, ma’am?’

The woman focused on her for the first time and said, ‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ said Emily, thawing a little at the greeting; the woman didn’t seem impolite, only distracted.

‘I’m looking for a Detective Marvel.’

‘Sure,’ said Emily. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No. I just need to see him.’

‘OK,’ said Emily. She had worked out that saying words like
sure
and
OK
reassured people that you were on their side, even if you were actually nowhere near their side. ‘Can I take your name, please?’

The woman hesitated and Emily thought for the first time that she might be trouble. She didn’t
look
like a trouble-maker, but Emily couldn’t help her instincts; they were generally great.

‘Why do you need my name?’

‘So I can let DCI Marvel know who wants to see him.’

The woman chewed on her lip.

Emily gave the woman time. She was good at switching off and thinking about other things. Like now, she thought about what she’d do after work. She’d go to the pool and do fifty laps. Then she’d stop for a pizza at the place on the high street. Goats’ cheese and jalapeno peppers. Then she’d go home to her flat and feed Piggy, her cat, and wait for Marion to come home from her job in the city. Maybe finish the bottle of red they’d opened on Saturday night. Cuddle up on the sofa and watch
The Big Bang Theory
.

‘Anna Buck,’ said Anna Buck.

There you go. Emily wrote her name down in the log. ‘And what’s it about, Mrs Buck?’

‘A dog.’

‘DCI Marvel’s a homicide detective, ma’am. He doesn’t deal with dogs.’

‘He’s dealing with this one.’

‘O-kay,’ said Emily slowly. ‘I’ll see if he’s available. Would you like to take a seat?’

The woman glanced over her shoulder at the benches that lined the foyer. There was a motley population already there. By Emily’s taxonomy, four victims, three liars, and a casualty holding a blood-spotted tissue to the side of his head. The casualty was also one of the liars, which made a total of seven people. Her system was a little confusing, but Emily understood it. Anna Buck would be the only crazy on the benches so far today.

‘OK,’ Anna said doubtfully.

Now that the woman had become compliant, Emily softened and leaned forward to peer down at the baby. She didn’t necessarily want one of her own, but she liked babies and this one was very sweet, with long pale-gold eyelashes and a tiny little bubble on his rosebud lips.

‘Gorgeous,’ said Emily.

The woman nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said, but she seemed too distracted to be flattered. She pushed the buggy to the far end of one of the benches and sat down.

Emily called G Team. DS Brady picked up, and flirted with her briefly. Emily flirted back. She kept her girlfriend a closely guarded secret at work. Not because she was ashamed, but because if the powers that be found out she was a lesbian as well as a black woman, she’d be the Holy Grail of Equal Opportunities and she’d
never
get off the bloody reception desk. So if flirting with Colin Brady helped her cause, she was happy to do it.

He put her through to DCI Marvel.

Not Emily’s favourite person. She’d never actually
heard
him say anything racist or sexist, but he always looked as if he might be
about
to. She told him that there was an Anna Buck in reception for him, and he told her he’d said all he needed to on the case in question.

‘So what would you like me to tell her, sir?’

‘Tell her that,’ said Marvel, and hung up.

Rude git.

Emily tapped on the glass to get the skinny woman’s attention. She came over to the window. ‘DCI Marvel is busy on a case at the moment, Mrs Buck.’

The woman stared at Emily for a moment with a frown splitting her brow. ‘So is he coming down?’

‘No.’

‘But I need to see him.’

‘He can’t come down at the moment,’ said Emily. She always had to suppress her natural inclination to preface any such statement with the words ‘I’m sorry but …’ Drunks, fools, and almost all men seemed to think it implied that
she
was somehow to blame. Life was much simpler when she was a bit ruder, even if it didn’t come naturally to her.

‘I have to see him,’ Anna Buck said firmly. ‘I might have important information for him.’

‘About a dog?’

‘Yes, but …’ She looked uncertain for a moment, then visibly stiffened her resolve. ‘Yes.’

‘He told me he’d said all he needed to on the case.’

Anna nodded slowly. Then said, ‘I’m not leaving till I see him.’

If Emily had had a penny for every time somebody told her that, she’d be sunning herself on a beach somewhere right this moment. People who said it usually stomped back to the benches and crossed their arms angrily, then waited for her to go off shift, or leave the window to fetch a form, before taking the opportunity to slink away without her seeing them go.

But Anna Buck didn’t go and sit down and cross her arms. Anna Buck pulled a photograph from the pocket of her big blue anorak and pressed it against the glass to show Emily.

‘Do you see this photo?’

Emily looked at the photo of a tubby blonde and a small poodle.