stepped in and the door clanged shut behind him. ‘Hello, Stephen. DS Gayle.’
Lockwood was in his mid-thirties with long, straggly brown hair and skin that looked like it had needed a wash since soap was invented. He stared blankly up at Pete from the built-in bed at the back of the cell, where he slouched indolently.
‘What do you want?’
‘I gather you’re a pal of Neil Sanderson’s.’ Pete leaned against the wall, just inside the door and folded his arms.
‘Don’t know him.’
‘Yes, you do. I’m not involved in the drugs thing. His daughter’s a friend of a girl who’s gone missing. I want to know if he’d be involved in something like that. As far as you know.’
‘What? Kiddy-fiddling? I don’t know nothing about that.’
Pete sighed. ‘I didn’t say you did, did I? I want to know if Neil Sanderson might, that’s all.’
‘Then why don’t you ask him?’
‘Because I don’t like being lied to, Stevie. And if he was involved, that’s what he’d do, isn’t it? Lie to me.’
Lockwood laughed. ‘You’re in the wrong job, ain’t you? If you don’t like being lied to.’
‘I don’t like it. Doesn’t mean I can’t see it when it happens. Or that I won’t do something about it.’
‘Well, screw you, piggy. I ain’t telling you anything. And that’s no lie.’
‘So, you’d rather see a paedophile get away with it than talk to me?’
‘What of it?’
‘Makes you an accessory after the fact, that’s what, Stevie. And kiddy-fiddling, as you call it, gets you a whole lot more downtime than pushing a few pills. Whether or not I let it be known in Her Majesty’s hotel, up the road, that’s what you’re in for.’
Lockwood looked considerably paler all of a sudden. ‘You wouldn’t.’
Pete raised an eyebrow, his gaze locked on the other man’s, and waited.
Lockwood swallowed and wiped a hand over his face. ‘Look, I know he likes them young, but I don’t know nothing about nothing like that. Why don’t you ask his missus? His kid? They’d know, wouldn’t they?’
Pete watched him carefully for a long second. ‘All right. Thank you, Stephen. And how to you know Sanderson?’
‘Judo. I used to do a bit.’ He sat up straighter, staring at Pete.
Pete smiled and pushed himself off the wall. He tapped on the door. The key turned and it swung open. ‘Thanks, Bob.’
‘You get what you need?’ The uniformed man swung the door shut with a clang and locked it.
‘Mm. Not that it got me any further forward.’
By the time Pete turned into the street where he lived, barely a mile from the station, the smell of fish and chips that permeated the car had gone from appetising to nauseating as he worried about the problems this case could throw up. Its similarities to their own were bound to cause trouble at home. It would be a reminder, if nothing else. But there was nothing he could do about that. The girl needed him – and needed him to be on top of his game. To find her before the sick bastard who’d taken her – if that was what had happened – went one step further and killed her like the Jane Doe they had discussed earlier.
His mind conjured an image of a forlorn-looking body, naked and filthy, lying in the mud at the side of the river like so much discarded rubbish. A young life snuffed out as if it meant nothing. He shook his head. He could not afford to think like that. He had to be positive. He had to expect and plan to find Rosie Whitlock alive and soon. For her sake as well as his own.
He turned into his drive and got out of the car, warm paper package in hand. The front door opened before he reached it.
‘Daddy! Good day?’ Annie grinned up at him in jeans and T-shirt, a glittery pink elephant covering most of her slim chest.
Pride swelled like a physical lump in his throat and he wrapped his free arm around her, lifted her up and kissed the top of her head. Her long brown hair smelled mildly of shampoo. He took a long breath and set her down again. ‘Hello, Button. You smell nice. It didn’t go to plan, I can tell you that. I was hoping for a nice, easy slide back into things, but instead I went and picked up a big case. Here, take these into the kitchen, will you?’ He handed her the food and shut the door against the chill of the night.
‘OK.’ She took the package and skipped away.
‘Hi, Lou,’ he called, as he slipped off his shoes and jacket, but there was no response.
He went through. She was sitting in her usual place on the sofa, dressed in jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt, her dark, greasy hair tied back in a ponytail. The TV was playing some kind of game show, the sound barely audible.
‘How you doing?’
She didn’t take her eyes off the TV. ‘OK.’
‘What you been up to?’
‘Nothing.’ Her voice was dull, uninterested. She’d been like this, or worse, for months now, ever since the first flush of frantic panic faded a few days after Tommy’s disappearance. It was like she’d suffered an emotional overload that had used up everything inside her and she had been unable to replenish it.
He kept trying. Anything to get a response. ‘Heard from anyone?’
She shook her head.
‘Thought you might have gone out,’ he said. ‘Gone shopping or something.’
‘What for?’
‘To get out of these four walls. Get a bit of sunshine. See some people, other than me and Annie.’
‘See a bloody doctor, you mean,’ she said sourly.
‘I didn’t, but it couldn’t hurt, if you feel ready.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Tea’s ready,’ Annie called from the kitchen.
Pete let out a long breath. He was finding it harder and harder to cope with the expressionless monotony of her depression. But what could he do? If Louise didn’t want to see a doctor, a grief counsellor or a psychiatrist, he couldn’t force her to. He’d made the suggestion more than once and she’d steadfastly refused. ‘I don’t need a grief counsellor. Tommy’s not dead,’ was her standard answer. Or, ‘Our son’s missing, for God’s sake. What do you expect?’
‘Thanks, Button,’ he called. ‘Hold on, I’ll fetch it through.’
Annie had plated up the food and
