Zoë turned away to hide her smile.
‘Okay, so you’re upset,’ he said. ‘Let’s do something about it instead of moping. Take the day off today and start a fresh search.’
When did he grow up?
‘Love to, but you’ve got school and I’ve got Youth Court.’
‘It’s Friday – mostly sports and music – and you don’t do court today, you shop. Friday, Mum.’
‘I know.’ Zoë followed him back into the kitchen. ‘But Pritchard has appendicitis. I’m taking his cases today. What about tomorrow, Josh?’
His eyes clouded. ‘My weekend with Dad. We’re go-karting.’
Zoë sighed. Josh lived for his weekends with Frank. His father was apparently more fun than his mother.
‘Next weekend?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, let’s make a day of it. Check the Sally Army, do a fresh blog, Facebook, Twitter, AMBER Alert.’ He unplugged his phone charger and headed for the front door. ‘Make a list on WhatsApp – divide and conquer,’ he called from halfway down the hall.
The front door closed.
The phone rang, she picked up. ‘Zoë Johnson.’
‘Hi, Zoë – we still on for lunch?’
‘Hi, Trisha. Lunch – I wish! I’m standing in for Pritchard. What about tomorrow?’
‘Sure, cool. You all right? You sound sniffly.’
‘Megan’s birthday’s today – could’ve done with company.’
After a beat, ‘Okay. This evening? A few drinks and a natter.’
‘I’m not sure. Megan might call. She just might . . .’
‘Zoë, come on, daft girl. You’ve got call forwarding, Josh can stay home. I’ll pick you up at seven. No arguments. Be ready.’
Trisha hung up, blocking any chance of an excuse.
Zoë allowed herself a smile. It was something, to have friends who cared. Then the sinking feeling came back. She returned to her bedroom and prepared for work, feeling strangely out of kilter in her grey court suit on a Friday.
*
Zoë sat in a side office, studying Pritchard’s case files. The room smelled of bleach, polish and old paper. One strip light flickered and even the grubby corners of the sky-blue vinyl floor were polished to a high gloss, reminding her of Crete again. In her darkest hours, memories of those holidays dragged her back from recent bouts of depression.
She trawled through the files. First up: car theft, vandalism and possession of marijuana. After the break: more of the same. One of the defendants was a seventeen-year-old girl.
Zoë’s mind spooled towards Megan. The terrible thought she usually managed to block penetrated her sadness. What if she’s dead? What if somebody had hurt her? What if her last words were ‘Mum! Help me!’ and Zoë didn’t, couldn’t, wasn’t there? The first thing the police had asked her and Frank after Megan’s disappearance was if they were surprised she had run away. Why hadn’t she known Megan was unhappy? Why hadn’t she spent more time with her daughter instead of working to help others in need?
Zoë sighed, and tried to concentrate on the prosecution files.
Donald Wilkins from the Youth Justice Board stuck his head into the room. Despite Zoë’s melancholy, she smiled. Don, with his short red-brown hair and neat beard on his oval face, always reminded her of a coconut.
‘Quick, let’s run away together,’ he said in a stage whisper, his Welsh accent giving the words a lyrical edge. ‘Let me carry you off to my exotic isle and feed you ambrosia.’
‘It’s a close call, Don, but court duty just pips rice pudding on the Isle of Dogs.’
He grinned and came into the room, his voice becoming serious.
‘Thanks for standing in today. Poor Pritchard’s been in agony for days. We’ve got the usual cases – apart from case four, who’s refusing to speak. Pritchard set up a meeting between the defendant and the victim last week.’
‘How did it go?’
‘Ah, you know, same old, same old. The kid’s at loggerheads with the world. The old girl has a broken arm, still in plaster. The accused grabbed her handbag on pension day, outside the post office.’ He sat on the desk and folded his arms. ‘The pensioner tried to clobber the girl with her stick and lost her balance.’
Zoë glanced at the file. ‘Bon Bluebird. Not her real name, I presume?’
‘She says so.’ Don shrugged. ‘Been sleeping rough for six months. Needle tracks up her arm, but she says she’s not using now.’
*
The magistrates filed into court and dealt with the first three cases before breaktime. Bon Bluebird was next, and Zoë’s mind was all over the place. The young woman was the same age as Megan, had been on the streets for six months. Was it ridiculous to hope?
‘Madam!’
‘Sorry, miles away.’
The clerk had called for their return and Zoë’s coffee cup was still full, but almost cold, in her hand. She left the drink, and tried to control her breathing as they filed into court.
*
In the bar that evening, Zoë was still thinking about Bon Bluebird, wondering how she would cope with three months in the remand centre, when Trisha broke her thoughts.
‘It’s no good going over it, Zoë. So this Bon Bluebird wasn’t Megan . . . but you didn’t really think it would be, did you?’ Her voice was gentle, her eyes sympathetic. ‘I mean, come on, what’re the odds?’
‘I know. Stupid me, clutching at straws like that.’
The barman slid their drinks forward: for Trisha, a small glass of tequila set on a little plate with a salt cellar and a lemon wedge; for Zoë, half a Guinness, robust and comforting.
‘She might be on the other side of the world . . .’ Trisha said, before her eyes widened. ‘Sorry, thoughtless thing to say.’
Zoë pressed her fingertips on the bar top. ‘It’s just a gut feeling she’s somewhere close, Trisha.’ Angry at nothing and eager for the alcohol, she lifted her drink. ‘Anyway, happy seventeenth, Megan. Come home soon, darling.’
They chinked glasses.
After making an impression on the malty, liquorice-y stout, Zoë locked onto Trisha’s eyes, hunting for the truth when she asked, ‘How are things with you?’
‘Ah . . .’ Trisha frowned and glanced away. A tightly coiled sprig of hair escaped her fat ponytail, and she tucked it behind her ear, her perfect skin smooth and rich as polished chocolate. Five years younger than Zoë, Trisha had an unbelievable IQ and the kindest heart – yet when it came to love, she always fell for the bastards. ‘He’s buggered off back to his wife. End of story.’
She dashed salt onto the back of her thumb, licked it, knocked back the tequila and sucked the lemon wedge.
Zoë blew her cheeks out. ‘Miserable pair, aren’t we?’
‘How’s it with you?’ Trisha asked, her smile still in place but sadness hanging onto the corners.
Zoë hesitated. They’d gone through this a hundred times. ‘Was it my fault, Trisha? Can I do anything else to find Megan?’
‘Oh, sweetie . . . Come on, let’s have another drink.’
She nodded at the barman, her scarlet fingernail drawing a line above the two glasses.