‘No.’
‘How do you get on with your ex?’
‘No offence, but I keep getting asked the same questions over and over. Shouldn’t you be out searching for my daughter?’
‘Believe me, we’re doing all we can to find her. We’re conducting house-to-house enquiries and doing land and air searches. Going through CCTV coverage. We’ve also checked all local hospital admissions.’
A chain flushed in the downstairs loo, then Alison’s mum, Christine, bristled into the room and sat on the sofa. She was a short dumpy woman with a large hooked nose and a tight blonde perm.
Alison introduced her to DS Palmer.
Christine didn’t seem interested in formalities. ‘How can a child just vanish like that? It’s a ten-minute walk along a busy road. Someone must have seen something.’
Palmer nodded. ‘I agree. DI Prendergast’s making an appeal on the local news tonight. We’re also going to release pictures and a description to the local media.’
‘You hear about this sort of thing on the news,’ Christine said. ‘But it never seems real. It’s always some other poor sod. I feel as if someone’s ripped out my heart and thrown it to a pack of wolves.’
‘I know it offers little comfort to you at such a distressing time, but a lot of the locals are busy assisting in the search.’
Christine lit a cigarette. ‘They say the first twenty-four hours are vital. If you don’t find them by then…’ The missing words hung in the air like a pungent smell.
Palmer nodded. ‘But there have been plenty of cases where children have turned up weeks later, unharmed.’
Alison wanted to lock those words away in her heart forever. Keep them safe. An antidote to the dozens of tragic scenarios playing out in her mind.
‘Does Jodie’s father have regular access?’
‘No. He takes her out sometimes when he can be bothered. Sends a few quid at birthdays and Christmas, but he doesn’t have much else to do with her.’
‘Does he pay maintenance?’
‘When he feels like it. He’s self-employed. Does a lot of cash jobs. Claims he’s as poor as a church mouse. But he’s a liar. He was always doing cash jobs when he lived with me, and I’ve got no reason to believe he’s any different now.’
Christine shook her head. ‘He needs investigating. Driving around in a fancy car and leaving Alison to struggle to make ends meet all these years.’
‘How well would you say Jodie gets on with her father?’
Christine puffed on her cigarette. ‘She thinks he’s a bloody hero. Just because he sometimes puts credit on her phone or treats her to a McDonald’s. It’s easy to come wading in throwing the cash around for a few hours then vanish back to his tart without a care in the world.’
Palmer wrote in his notebook for a short while, then looked up. ‘What about Mr Stevens and Mr Pitman? Any bother between them?’
‘Colin always waits up the road when he picks Jodie up. They never cross paths.’
‘How would you describe your ex-husband?’
‘A total shit,’ Christine interrupted. ‘A total shit who belongs in a sewer.’
Palmer ignored the older woman and focussed his attention on Alison. ‘Does he have a temper?’
‘Not really.’
‘Has he ever been violent towards you or Jodie?’
‘No.’
‘Threatened you?’
‘No.’
‘Done anything you would consider inappropriate?’
‘Yeah,’ Christine said. ‘Left his wife and kid in the lurch.’
Palmer scraped the tip of his pencil across his bottom lip. ‘Other than that?’
‘Nothing I can think of,’ Alison said. ‘It’s a long time since I had anything to do with him.’
‘Do you think Colin’s got anything to do with this?’ Christine asked Palmer.
‘We have to consider all possibilities at this juncture.’
Alison shook her head. ‘I can’t see Colin doing anything like that.’
Christine perched on the edge of a dining chair. ‘That’s because you’re too trusting. You always see the good in people.’
‘I’m not going to say anything that’s not true just because I don’t like someone.’
Palmer wrote something else in his book, then sucked on the tip of the pencil. ‘What about Mr Stevens? Has he ever given you any cause for concern regarding Jodie?’
‘No.’
‘Does Jodie like him?’
‘I don’t think she’s too bothered about him one way or another.’
‘She’s never complained or shown any signs of being afraid of him?’
‘No.’
DS Palmer stood. He put his notebook away and ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. ‘Okay. That’s all for now. The liaison officer will be with you shortly. In the meantime, if you’ve got any questions regarding the case, don’t hesitate to contact me or one of my colleagues.’
‘Thanks,’ Alison said, feeling anything but grateful.
As he was walking back to his car, she asked him whether he thought Jodie was still alive.
‘I have no reason to believe she isn’t.’
His eyes told a very different story.
Chapter Eight
Jim was not having a good day. After falling out with his girlfriend, Shona, (casual shag when she was pissed enough or stoned enough to let him have his way with her) he now had the coppers at his door. To make matters worse, if they could be any worse, Shona had nicked his bag of weed to spite him. He had no idea why she’d got so uppity when he’d tried to shave her pubes with a Bic razor to play out a schoolgirl fantasy. Maybe it was the Irish blood in her. Or maybe it was because he’d cut the inside of her thigh while trying to negotiate the blade with two spliffs and three cans of strong cider impairing his vision.
Bentley peered through the peephole again. He didn’t need an official ID badge to know that the tall guy in the black suit was a copper; he could spot one at two hundred yards after being arrested four times for drug dealing. He’d also done three years dancing to Her Majesty’s tune for something that bordered on the greatest miscarriage of justice of all time.
Prising open the letterbox, he said, ‘Whaddaya want?’
The copper bent over. Flashed his ID. ‘I’m DS Palmer. I want to have a chat with you.’
Bentley’s heart quickened. ‘What about?’
‘It would be better if I could come in, Mr Bentley. Discuss it in private.’
‘I ain’t done nothing.’
‘No one’s saying you have. This is just an informal chat.’
Bentley straightened up. He took the door off the chain and allowed Palmer into the flat. Leading him into the kitchen, he offered him a seat at a battered teak table littered with dirty cups and an ashtray sporting a half-smoked spliff.
‘Heavy night, Jim?’
Bentley thought of the amply proportioned Shona leaping up off the bed and threatening to call the coppers on him after slicing her thigh. ‘Could say that.’
Palmer eyed the spliff as if it might be an informer ready to tell tales of debauchery. He took a notebook out of his pocket, opened it, and sat with a pencil poised above the paper. ‘Where were you on Thursday evening between the hours of six and eight?’