Private London (Private 4)

‘Thanks for what?’

‘For not wanting to arrest me.’

‘I’d watch your back if I were you. DSI Harrington is spitting feathers in there.’

‘Sorry to ruin his day.’

‘I mean it, Dan. He’s got a serious hard-on for you.’

‘All I care about is finding that little girl.’

Even though I had seen the recent pictures of Hannah and the footage of her dressed up like some kind of sick Bettie Page caricature, I still thought of her as the young girl who had discussed F. Scott Fitzgerald with me on that flight not so very long ago.

‘I know you do.’

I looked across at my ex-wife. For a moment there I thought I had detected a little tenderness in her voice.

Of course I had. Kirsty didn’t hate the world. She just hated me. She wanted Hannah Shapiro found every bit as much as I did. Policing wasn’t just a job to her. It was her vocation. Her life. I felt the familiar stab of guilt I always felt when she showed her softer side.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘If I could go back in time.’

‘It’s not your fault, Dan. You didn’t kidnap the girl, did you?’

‘I wasn’t talking about that …’

She held up a hand to stop me saying any more.

‘Yeah, yeah. I know what you were talking about but I don’t want to hear it. Not any more. Too much water. Too many bridges.’

I nodded, reminded of a line from an old situation-comedy theme tune. ‘What became of the people we used to be?’ I looked at Kirsty, remembered the hurt I had caused her, knew I could still cause her when she looked at me with those green eyes that a man could lose himself in, and felt as low as she usually made me feel.

A honk sounded from across the car park as a black BMW 4x4 pulled in and approached. Sam Riddel, my ride back. I realised I was a little disappointed that he had arrived so quickly. And that thought scared me more than anything that had already happened that weekend.

‘What I want to know is …’ said Kirsty, snapping me out of my reverie.

‘Go on?’ I prompted.

‘How in the name of the crucified and risen saviour did you get the Home Office to spring you?’

Chapter 47

PENELOPE HARRIS COULD never have been described as a cheerful woman

And that Saturday was no exception. She worked as a dental nurse in a small clinic in Old Amersham and was due to have the Saturday off. But due to staff shortages – caused by a stomach bug that had been doing the rounds though had mercifully passed her by – she had swapped her rota and agreed to come in.

Most lunchtimes she would have had a packed lunch in the staffroom. A cheese-and-pickle sandwich with a packet of crisps and a black-cherry yogurt. She never varied her routine. Routine was important to Penelope. Without routine you had chaos, as far as she was concerned, and Penelope Harris abhorred chaos as much as nature abhorred a vacuum. And one of the things Penelope did every Saturday afternoon was her weekly shop at the big Tesco.

So that Saturday lunchtime found her there – pushing her trolley round in a foul mood.

The place was busier than ever and Penelope had to manoeuvre her way around hordes of extremely overweight shoppers. But Tesco stocked a ready meal called Finest Spaghetti Bolognaise, perfect for one. It was her Saturday-night treat when she settled down to watch Casualty, her favourite soap, and she would be very put out if she missed out on it. Luckily they had some in stock. She had backup in the freezer, but it wasn’t the same thing as fresh. Not the same thing at all.

Still, she was a bit flustered, a bit hot and not in the best of tempers when she returned to the surgery.

She had left her mobile to charge and there were three missed text messages on it waiting for her return, and one voice-recorded message.

As Penelope listened to the message the fragments of any remaining hope of a better day vanished quickly. The phone fell from her hand to clatter on the hard floor of the dental surgery’s staffroom.

Her colleague Debra Brooking turned in surprise as she poured hot water from the kettle into a Pot Noodle.