by Cara Hunter
Alicia Monroe @Monroe51098 15.09
Replying to @NotthatJaneEyre
I live on Thirlmere Road – just saw a couple of officers talking to people on doorsteps on Windermere Avenue #Oxford
Mariza Fernandes @Brazilia2012 15.11
Replying to @NotthatJaneEyre @Monroe51098
They have called here also – they are asking about a girl. I think she is missing #Oxford
Alicia Monroe @Monroe51098 15.19
Replying to @NotthatJaneEyre @Brazilia2012
Oh no – not again. Her poor parents #missing #Oxford
Jayne Ayre @NotthatJaneEyre 15.22
Replying to @Brazilia2012 @Monroe51098
I’ve just checked @OxfordNewsOnline and @BBCMidlandsBreaking. Nothing yet
Oxford’s News @OxfordNewsOnline 15.26
Replying to @NotthatJaneEyre @Brazilia2012 @Monroe51098
Do you know the girl’s name and age?
Mariza Fernandes @Brazilia2012 15.32
Replying to @OxfordNewsOnline @NotthatJaneEyre @Monroe51098
Sacha I think. I did not recognise her. In the picture she looks about 15
Oxford’s News @OxfordNewsOnline 15.39
Replying to @NotthatJaneEyre @Brazilia2012 @Monroe51098
BREAKING Reports coming in of a possible missing teenager in the Marston area of #Oxford – residents in the area believe it may be a 15yo girl. More on this as we get it
* * *
Adam Fawley
4 April 2018
15.45
I’m out at the car when my phone goes.
Harrison. Wanting an update.
‘I’ve just been speaking to Isabel Parker, sir. She thinks Sasha Blake may have been meeting a boyfriend last night. Though I’m afraid she doesn’t know anything about him – no name, address, nothing.’
I hear him sigh angrily. And I can’t blame him.
‘And the Blake girl’s father – what about him?’
‘We’ve been on to West Yorkshire Police. They’re on their way round. We’re still hoping that’s where she went.’
‘Pretty shitty father to do that and not let the mother know.’
‘I know, sir. But there’s evidently no love lost between them –’
‘That’s no excuse,’ he snaps.
If you believe the station rumour mill, Harrison’s own divorce was pretty messy. Perhaps that explains it.
‘Right now, we’re just guessing, sir. It’s possible Sasha told him she’d cleared it with her mother. She seems like a sensible girl, but we know she can be economical with the truth when it suits her.’
A snort of recognition at this. He has teenage kids; he knows the territory. ‘Well, either way, I hope to God that’s where she is. And not just for her sake, either.’
For mine, too. That’s what he means.
‘So what next, Adam?’
‘If we have no luck with Leeds I’ll arrange a TV appeal with Mrs Blake.’
‘Good. And make sure it’s in time for the evening news.’
* * *
Graeme Scott is queuing to get a coffee when the head shows a man and woman into the crowded staffroom.
‘Who the hell are they?’ asks the teacher in front of him in a low voice. She only started this term – her first job out of training. Domestic science, or whatever they’re supposed to call it now. He tried talking to her once, when she arrived, just to be friendly, but she gave him the brush-off. ‘It’s not Ofsted, is it?’
Scott shakes his head. ‘No – they’d have given us notice. And in any case, those two don’t look like school inspectors to me.’
But it’s something serious all the same. That much is obvious, even before the head claps her hands and asks for silence.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you all but I’m afraid I have some worrying news. Sasha Blake of Year Eleven didn’t turn up for school today and it’s now emerged that she hasn’t been seen since last night and isn’t answering her phone. This is Detective Sergeant Gislingham and Detective Constable Everett. They’ll want to speak to Sasha’s friends and teachers, so please can you do everything you can to help them, and to support Sasha’s year group at this difficult time. Needless to say, we want to avoid any sort of panic, so it’s important we all keep calm. Keep calm and carry on, as they say.’
Graeme Scott suppresses a grimace. How bloody clichéd can you get.
The head turns to the man standing next to her. ‘Would you like to say anything, Sergeant?’
He’s stocky, barely mid-height, thinning on top; a bit ‘jolly’, Scott suspects. He’s met that type before: classic short-man syndrome. As for the woman, she’s positively dowdy. Flat shoes, hair in a mess. There’s no excuse for that, he thinks, not in this day and age.
‘Just to echo what the head said,’ says the man, glancing round the room. ‘We don’t want to cause unnecessary alarm, but it’s important we gather as much information as we can. And if any of the female pupils would prefer to talk to a woman, then DC Everett is on hand. That’s it, really.’
The bell sounds now, clanging like an air-raid siren, and the staff start to gather their things. There’s the usual sense of too much to do and too little time to do it in. But there’s an unease now, a disquiet, which is not usual at all.
And I didn’t even get a bloody coffee, thinks Scott as he shoulders his bag. The two police officers are standing by the door, apparently casual. Scott makes sure not to catch their eye.
* * *
Telephone interview with Charlie Higgins, driver, Oxford Bus Company
4 April 2018, 4.15 p.m.
On the call, DC A. Baxter
AB: Thanks for calling back, Mr Higgins. You got the message, I assume?
CH: It’s about last night, right?
AB: Specifically the bus that left Summertown at approximately 9.45. I believe you don’t have CCTV in that vehicle?
CH: No, ’fraid not. What is it you’re after?
AB: I’m going to text you some photos. Can you tell me if you recognize any of the people in them?
[muffled sounds in the background, then Higgins returns to the phone]
CH: I do remember a big bunch of kids on that run. Some of ’em were foreign. And a lot of them were pissed, even though they didn’t look much more than fifteen, half of ’em. But kids these days –
AB: So it got rowdy – is that what you’re saying?
CH: Not exactly rowdy – it was mostly girls. But loud. Definitely loud.
AB: Are you sure you don’t recognize any of the girls in the photo?
CH: I definitely recognize the one with the pink stuff in her hair. Yeah, she was the one who asked me the time. It was when we was just getting into Headington.
AB: Do you remember the exact time?
CH: Five past ten? That’s right. It was deffo her.
AB: But you don’t recognize any of the others?
CH: Sorry, no. These kids, they all look the bloody same, don’t they?
AB: You’ve been very helpful, Mr Higgins. And if anything else comes back to you, please get in touch straight away.
CH: You didn’t say – why are you asking about all this?
AB: One of those girls has gone missing. And the last time anyone saw her was on your bus.
CH: Bloody hell. Makes you think, doesn’t it.
AB: Yes, Mr Higgins, it certainly does.
* * *
Adam Fawley
4 April 2018
16.25
As soon as I get into the incident room I can tell they have something. The way Somer and Baxter turn to look at me. The expressions on their faces.
‘Have we heard from Leeds?’
‘Not yet, sir,’ says Somer. ‘But I did find something at the Blake house.’
It’s on the table in front of her. In an evidence bag.
A packet of condoms.
A packet that’s already half used.
‘It was taped to the underside of Sasha’s bed,’ says Somer. ‘H
er friends were right – she was seeing someone. And no wonder she didn’t want her mother to know.’
‘OK, so now we know what she was doing – are we any closer to knowing who she was doing it with?’
Somer shakes her head. ‘If she kept any sort of diary I didn’t find it in the room. But there were lots of pens and pencils in a jam jar, so I suspect she probably did have something like that, only she’s got it with her.’
‘What about notebooks? Exercise books, something like that? I remember the girls at my school doodling love hearts with boys’ names in all the time. Don’t girls still do that?’
Somer smiles, almost despite herself. ‘Well, I did. But I couldn’t find anything like that, I’m afraid.’
‘There isn’t anything on social media,’ interjects Baxter. ‘I can tell you that for nothing.’
‘Did Mrs Blake give us permission to look at the laptop?’
Somer nods. ‘But she doesn’t have any idea what the password might be.’
Baxter sighs heavily and reaches for the machine. ‘OK, punk. Make my day.’
* * *
Sergeant Karen Bonnett straightens her uniform and reaches for the doorbell. This wasn’t exactly what she had planned for today, but it beats shoplifting. Or school liaison. Or Traffic. Everyone hates Traffic. She can hear PC Mansour behind her, scraping his shoes on the concrete as he shifts from one foot to the other. He’s only just out of training and she’s prepared to bet he hasn’t done anything like this before.
‘Don’t fidget,’ she hisses. ‘Makes us look like amateurs.’
The noises stop at once. But there’s much more noise, now, from the other side of the door. A baby crying. Full throttle.
The door opens slowly and a woman in track pants and a black T-shirt peers out at them. She has a red-faced baby wedged against her shoulder and she’s rubbing its back with that desperate automatic gesture all new mothers develop. Bonnett should know; she’s had four of her own. This girl is pretty in a wrung-out and sleepless sort of way, but she can’t be more than twenty-five. At least twenty years younger than Jonathan Blake, who is presumably the father of the baby. Yet another second-time-arounder, thinks Bonnett. Yet another middle-aged bloke who’s walked out on his past-her-sell-by-date wife for a twenty-something upgrade and a shiny new family to match.
‘What do you want?’
‘Ms Barrow? Rachel Barrow? Sergeant Karen Bonnett. Can we come in for a moment?’
The woman’s eyes widen. ‘What is it? Is it Jon – has he been in an accident?’
‘Nothing like that. No need for you to worry. We just need a quick word.’
The woman steps forward and glances up and down the road. A couple of passers-by have stopped on the other side of the street and are watching with undisguised interest.
‘OK,’ she says quickly. ‘But just for a minute. I need to do the four o’clock feed.’
The sitting room has that trying-to-maintain-some-sort-of-order-despite-the-baby devastation Bonnett’s seen so many times before. The biscuit-coloured sofas aren’t going to last the course, that’s for sure. And the cream satin cushions are already jostling with a bag of nappies, a packet of baby wipes and a discarded yellow and white Babygro. But give the girl credit; at least she’s trying.
Mansour takes a seat without being asked and Bonnett flashes him a look which he doesn’t see, largely because he’s too busy eyeing up the plasma TV. Bonnett sighs. But when she tries to get Rachel to join her in a complicit smile she doesn’t get a response.
‘Can you tell me what this is about?’
‘It’s about Sasha,’ says Bonnett. ‘Your partner’s daughter.’
Rachel frowns. ‘What about her?’
They call Bonnett ‘Cawood’ at the nick, after the Sarah Lancashire character in Happy Valley. And there’s no question there’s a resemblance. It’s not just the hair – though the blonde definitely helps – it’s all of it: the resilience, the shrewdness, the stand-your-ground-and-speak-your-mind.
‘Is she here, Ms Barrow?’
‘What do you mean “is she here”?’ says Rachel. ‘Of course she’s not here. I haven’t even met her.’
Bonnett looks round the room. ‘But Mr Blake has, hasn’t he? Recently, I mean.’
‘I don’t see how you –’
‘The pictures, Ms Barrow. That one over there, for a start – in the silver frame. That’s Sasha, isn’t it? Even from this distance I can tell that’s not a toddler.’
The woman hoists the baby a little higher. ‘Why shouldn’t he have a picture of her? It’s not some sort of secret. We talked about it. Jon wanted to see her. He said they’d been kept apart for too long.’
‘Why now, suddenly? After all these years?’
‘It was the baby. Jon thought we should try to be a proper family. That it wasn’t fair that Sasha didn’t even know she has a brother. Especially now she’s old enough to make her own choices.’
‘Where’s Mr Blake now, Ms Barrow?’
She flushes a little. ‘Down south. Berkshire. He’s the sales manager for a pharmaceutical company. And you still haven’t told me what this is about.’
‘Sasha Blake is missing. And given she’s been in recent contact with her father, Thames Valley Police asked us to check the premises to see if she’s here.’
The woman’s eyes widen and her grip on her baby tightens. The child starts to wail again.
‘So could we do that, Ms Barrow? Check the house? For tidiness’ sake?’
The woman hesitates a moment, then nods.
Bonnett gives Mansour a meaningful look and he gets hurriedly to his feet and goes back out into the hall. A moment later they hear his footsteps on the stairs.
‘He won’t find anything,’ says Rachel firmly. ‘I told you – she’s not here. She’s never even visited. Jon met her in Oxford.’
‘You just said Mr Blake is in Berkshire. That’s not so far from Oxford. Was he intending to contact Sasha? Perhaps try and see her?’
Rachel flushes again. ‘Actually, he did say something about that, but I don’t know if it came to anything. You’d have to ask him.’
‘We’ve been trying,’ says Bonnett drily. ‘But the number his office gave us appears to be off.’
Rachel reaches over and picks up a mobile from the coffee table. ‘I’ve had mine on mute,’ she says, staring at the screen. ‘I was trying to get the baby down.’ She looks up. ‘There’s nothing from Jon but there are four missed calls from his mum. You spoke to her as well?’
‘I’m afraid we had to – we needed Mr Blake’s address.’
Rachel sighs. ‘And now she’ll be on my case all afternoon.’
‘Have you had any sort of contact with Mr Blake today?’
Rachel shakes her head. ‘He said he had a meeting all morning and to leave him an email if I needed anything. I can call him again now, if you like.’
‘No, no,’ says Bonnett quickly. ‘I’d rather you didn’t do that. We’ll make contact ourselves. You don’t happen to know which company the meeting is with, do you?’
‘It’s Dexter Masterson. They’re a private hospital group based in Reading. I can find their number – it’s how Jon and I met – we worked together –’
I bet you did, thinks Bonnett. ‘That’s fine, Ms Barrow,’ she says with a thin smile. ‘Don’t you worry. We’ll take it from here.’
* * *
‘How are you doing?’
Gis is at the door of the Summertown High secretary’s office, where Everett has taken up temporary residence. A line of girls has been trooping in and out to see her all day, and it’s starting to feel rather like a confessional box. Not that anyone has anything to confess. The information Ev’s collected isn’t likely to help them much either. As far as her peers are concerned Sasha Blake is ‘really nice’ and ‘smart but cool, you know?’ She’s ‘really pretty’ and ‘everyone wants to look like her’ and she’s ‘really popular, specially with the boys’, but no one could name an ac
tual boyfriend, or at least not one at school. Which, given the fact that Isabel and Patsie don’t know his name either, is hardly a surprise. In short, everyone seems to like Sasha, but no one has any idea where she might be.
Everett looks up at Gis and sighs. ‘I’ve ticked a lot of boxes, but I haven’t got anything else to put in them. What about you?’
Gis shrugs. ‘Not much better. None of the teachers thought she had a boyfriend either, and I’ve spoken to all of them except one, who’s gone home with a migraine, but we can catch them tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, just got a call from Baxter. We’re going to Reading. To see Jonathan Blake.’
* * *
‘I’ve just had Jonathan’s bloody mother on the phone asking me what’s happened to Sasha – like it’s all my fault. Why the hell didn’t someone tell me you were going to call her?’
Somer bites her lip. ‘I’m really sorry, Fiona,’ she says, holding the phone a little closer. ‘It wasn’t actually us who spoke to your mother-in-law, it was West Yorkshire Police.’
But that’s no excuse; they should have realized that might happen. And right now, Fiona Blake needs to trust the police, not think they’re causing trouble for her behind her back. Baxter catches Somer’s eye and she makes a face: Looks like we dropped the ball.
‘I believe West Yorkshire had to speak to his mother to get his address – he doesn’t currently own a property in his own name –’
‘Presumably because he’s sponging off that bloody woman, whoever she is. I bet she’s younger than him – I’m right, aren’t I –’
‘I’m afraid I’m not able to –’
‘I’ll kill him – if he’s taken Sasha after all these years not even acknowledging she exists, I swear, I’ll bloody kill him –’
Somer takes a deep breath. She’s trying not to let on that Sasha’s already seen her father, because that’s the last thing Fiona Blake needs to hear right now. Or perhaps the second last.
‘She’s not there, Mrs Blake.’
‘What –?’
‘She’s not there. West Yorkshire searched the house. Mr Blake wasn’t there either.’
