he said, glancing up at her outfit. She sat down.
She wanted to say something about the girl’s mother. She could feel her eyes starting to sting. She looked at him. There was a question in his expression but she couldn’t read it.
Tea’s in the pot, he said.
3: Deepak
The morning after the girl disappeared there were police going up and down the street, and journalists setting up in the market square. Deepak’s mum said there was no way he was doing his paper round that day.
It’s not safe, Dee Dee, she said. We don’t know what’s happening. You’re staying at home now. Anyone could be out there.
His mum still called him Dee Dee, sometimes. No one else dared.
His dad said there were that many police out there, the street was the safest place to be. He said people would be disappointed if they didn’t get their papers, and he opened the door for Deepak while the two of them were still arguing about it. Deepak headed out.
It was dark outside, and cold. He got his bike out of the shed. There was a misty drizzle that felt like it would soon turn to rain. He pushed his scarf up over his mouth and rode down to the shop to collect the papers. There were people everywhere. He usually had the street to himself, this early. He heard someone say there was a search being organized, up at the visitor center.
On the news, the police had said they wanted people to keep their eyes open. They wanted to know about anything unusual, any suspicious behavior, any changes in routine. Any detail could help, they said; no matter how small. It felt like they were talking to him personally. If there was anything to notice, he’d notice it. He was good at that. He knew about people’s routines. When he was doing his paper round he could always tell who was still in bed, who was having breakfast, who had gone out to work already; he noticed when anything was different. They should make him some kind of detective. Detective Chief Inspector. D.C.I. Deepak had a ring to it.
The Jackson house was the first on his round. Usually a couple of the Jacksons were out in the yard, moving sheep around in the stock shed or loading up the trailer. There was always a smell of bacon and cigarettes, and they never said hello. Place was quiet this morning, though. That was one change in routine to make a note of already.
Irene’s house was next, back up the main street. Her son had special needs and went to a different school. Her lights were always on when he got there, just like this morning, and there was always steam coming out of the tumble-dryer vent under the kitchen window, just like there was now. She was an early starter. Nothing to see here.
The butcher’s shop was empty. Mr. Fowler would usually be behind the counter, setting everything out, and would shout hello as Deepak pushed the paper through the letter box. He was friendlier than some. Deepak’s dad thought it was funny that he kept offering to stock halal meat for the family. He’d stop him in the street and go, Vijay, listen, it’s no trouble at all. And Deepak’s dad was always like, mate, we’re not even Muslim, we don’t really eat meat. And then Mr. Fowler would forget, and offer again the next time.
After the butcher’s he crossed the square to the pub, the Gladstone, which took four papers. The square was full of police vans and journalists and people just standing around. But there was nothing he could say was suspicious. He carried on up the back lane to Mrs. Osborne’s house. It was steep, and the gears on his bike kept slipping. When he got there Mrs. Osborne opened the door, as always. Usually she asked if he had any good news for her, like the news was his responsibility or something. But today she just smiled in that old-person sad way and took the paper.
He rolled back down the cobbles and across the square. D.C.I. Deepak had nothing of note to report. He headed up the main street towards the edge of the village, and as he turned into the lane past the allotments he hit a pothole and his chain came off.
Calling headquarters: request mechanical assistance. Would be cool if he could do that. He got off and started fixing the chain back on. He wondered what the police really meant by something unusual, or something suspicious. They said any detail could be vital, but how would you know? Would it be some piece of clothing, like a lost glove on a railing, or like a hair band in the gutter? Or would it be if you saw someone dodgy in a van? Or something really bad, like a tiny bloodstain, or a strand of hair?
It must be pretty hard being a detective.
It was pretty hard being a bike mechanic as well. The chain was wedged between the frame and the sprocket, and he couldn’t get it out. He took his gloves off to try to get a better grip. It was too cold for this kind of thing.
The front door of the house on the corner opened and a man came out. Deepak had seen him around, but he didn’t know him. The man asked if he needed a hand, and Deepak said no, thanks, he was fine. The man stood and watched. It was well awkward. The chain was totally jammed, and he couldn’t get it shifted. It was cutting into his hands when he pulled at it. The man was just watching. It was embarrassing. He was standing too close.
Deepak, lad, he said; I’d say that chain’s stuck. I’ll get some tools.
He went back into the house. Deepak wondered who he was. He pulled at the chain again. Time was getting on.
The man came back out with a toolbox, and budged Deepak out of the way. He said it wouldn’t take a minute. It was all about having the right tool for the job, he said, and gave Deepak a funny look as though he’d told a joke.
He asked if Deepak was surprised that he knew his name. When Deepak said yes, he said: Well, I’ve seen you around. You stand out a bit around here.
He did something with a screwdriver and got the chain sorted. It took less than a minute. Deepak said thanks, and went to get back on his bike.
The man said: Hang on there a minute, let’s just pop inside and get you cleaned up.
Calling headquarters again: Request guidance. Request backup.
The guidance was obvious. Going into a stranger’s house was one of the things you weren’t supposed to do. But this man wasn’t exactly a stranger; he knew Deepak’s name, and Deepak had seen him around. But even so. He could basically hear his mum shouting at him as he walked towards the front door: You don’t even know this man, Dee Dee! It’s not safe, Dee Dee!
She worried too much, though. His dad always said that.
A real detective would take certain measures in this situation. There would be a colleague waiting in a car farther down the road. A uniformed officer covering the back door. He would be wearing a wire. As it was, he took mental notes. Just in case. A description of the car parked outside, and the registration number. A description of the house. For example: there were piles of junk mail and free papers just inside the front door. The curtains in all the upstairs windows were closed. The man was wearing a waxed jacket, and trousers with lots of pockets. He was old. Sixty, at least.
Deepak knew he shouldn’t be going inside. But he didn’t want the man to think he was rude, or ungrateful. And anyway, what would he say? I don’t want to come inside in case you’re some kind of massive nonce? You couldn’t go around saying that.
He felt the man’s hand on his shoulder, steering him through the door.
Just head through to the back, he said. Kitchen’s straight ahead. Soap’s by the sink.
It was dark in the hallway, and he had to squeeze
