Little Face by Sophie Hannah Read Free Book Online Page B

believed.

     

6

    October 3, 2003, 1.30 PM
    THERE WAS NO sign of Charlie in the CID room. Shit. Without her,
Simon could hardly find out from Proust what David Fancourt had
said. Colin Sellers and Chris Gibbs, two of the other Ds in Charlie's
team, were working their way through a tower of files with what
looked to Simon like slightly overdone urgency. For which there could
only be one explanation.
    Simon turned and saw Detective Inspector Proust in his office in the
corner of the room. It was more of a glass box than an office, a bit like
an exhibition case in an art gallery, one in which you might find the
cross-section of a dead animal, except that the bottom half was made
of cheap plasterboard which, for some reason, was carpeted-the
same drab, ribbed grey as the CID room floor. The inspector's top half
was visible through the glass as he orbited his desk, holding the phone
in one hand and his `World's Greatest Grandad' mug in the other.
    David Fancourt must have left, then. Unless Proust had handed him
over to Charlie. Perhaps that was where she was, in an interview
room with that bastard. Simon sat down beside Gibbs and Sellers,
drumming his fingers on the desk. The CID room closed in on him,
with its peeling green paint and smell of stale sweat, its constant computerised hum. A person could suffocate in here. Pinned to one wall
were photographs of victims, blood visible on some of their faces
and bodies. Simon couldn't bear to think of Alice in that condition. But
she wasn't, she couldn't be. His imagination wouldn't allow it.

    Something nagged at his subconscious, something to do with what
Charlie had told him about the Laura Cryer case. He wasn't wise
enough to stop fretting about it and allow it to come to him effortlessly
later. Instead, he sat in his chair, shoulders hunched, and made his brain
pound trying to dredge it up from the murky depths of his memory.
Pointless.
    Before he was aware he'd made a decision, Simon was on his feet
again. He couldn't sit and twiddle his thumbs when he had no idea if
Alice was okay. Where the fuck was Charlie? Free, for once, of her
restraining influence, he marched over to Proust's office and knocked
on the door, hard, beating out a rhythm of emergency. With Proust,
you normally waited until you were summoned, even if you were a sergeant, like Charlie. Simon heard Gibbs and Sellers speculating in
whispers about what his problem was.
    Proust didn't look as surprised as he might have done. `DC Waterhouse,' he said, emerging from his cubicle. `Just the man I need to see.'
His voice was stern, but that told Simon nothing. The inspector always
sounded severe. According to his wife Lizzie, whom Simon had met at
a couple of parties, Proust used the same tone when he spoke to his
family that he used in court and at press conferences.
    `Sir, I know David Fancourt's been in.' Simon got straight to the
point. `I know his wife and daughter are missing. Is he with Charlie?'
    Proust sighed, flaying Simon with his glare. He was a small, thin,
bald man in his mid-fifties, whose bad moods were able to travel
beyond his skin and contaminate whole rooms full of people. Thus he
ensured that everyone benefited from keeping him happy. The Snowman; Proust knew about the nickname and liked it.
    `Listen very carefully, Waterhouse. I'm going to ask you a question,
and I want you to tell me the truth, even if you know it means big trouble for you. If you lie to me . . . ' He paused to stare portentously at
Simon. `If you lie to me, Waterhouse, you can consider your career in
the police force to be at an end. You will rue this day. Do we understand each other?'

    `Yes, sir.' Pointless to say that neither of the alternatives sounded
particularly appealing.
    `And don't think I won't find out if you lie, because I will.'
    `Sir.' Frustration coursed through Simon's veins, but he tried to
look calm. There was no short-cut when talking to Proust. You had to
jump