Fallen Angel. Andrew Taylor

      ‘Not particularly. She’s a little smaller than average for her age.’

      Sergeant Carlow was sitting at the table and writing in his notebook. The cuffs of the trousers had risen halfway up his calves, exposing bands of pale and almost hairless skin above the drooping black socks.

      A soft hiss filled the silence: Maxham had a habit of sucking in breath every moment or so as if trying to clear obstructions lodged between his teeth; and as he did so he pulled back his lips in the mockery of a smile. ‘We’ve talked to the neighbours all along the street. We’ve talked to the people whose gardens back on to the alley. No one saw her. It was a filthy evening, yesterday. No one was out unless they had to be.’

      Sally shouted, ‘Are you saying that someone opened that gate from the outside?’

      Maxham shrugged his wiry little body. The plump face looked all wrong on such a scraggy neck. ‘I’m afraid we’re not in a position to draw any conclusions yet, Mrs Appleyard. We’re just investigating the possibilities, you understand. Gathering evidence. I’m sure you know what these things are like from your husband.’

      The condescension in his voice made Sally yearn to slap him. He sat there smiling at her. He was going bald at the crown and the grey hair needed cutting. He wore an elderly tweed suit, baggy at the knees and shiny at the elbows, which gave him the incongruous appearance of a none-too-successful farmer on market day. She did not like what she saw, but that did not mean he was bad at his job. Once more he hissed. Now that she had noticed the habit, it irritated and distracted her. She thought of protective geese and hostile serpents.

      ‘What about dogs?’ she asked, her voice astonishingly calm.

      ‘We tried that. No joy. Doesn’t prove anything one way or the other. All that rain didn’t help.’

      ‘And how can I help you?’

      Maxham’s head nodded, perhaps as a sign of approval. He took off his glasses and began to polish them with a handkerchief from the top pocket of his jacket. ‘There’s a number of things, Mrs Appleyard. Most of them obvious. We’ll need a good up-to-date photograph of Lucy. We’ll need to talk to you about what she’s like – not just her appearance, what she’s like inside. We’d like to find out exactly what she’s wearing. Everything.’ He inserted a delicate little pause in the conversation. ‘Also, any toys she may have had with her, that sort of thing. Ms Vaughan said she wanted them to go to Woolworth’s and buy a conjuring set. Can you confirm that?’

      ‘Yes. Lucy and I had an argument about it on the way to Carla’s yesterday morning. My daughter can be very persistent. If she wants something, she’s inclined to go on and on about it until she gets it. And if she doesn’t get it, which is what often happens, she sometimes throws a tantrum.’

      ‘So you’d agree that her going off all by herself in a huff like that wouldn’t be untypical?’

      ‘Of course it would be untypical. She’s never done anything like that before.’ Yes, she had, Sally thought: Lucy had tried to run off in shops several times: but surely this was different in kind as well as in degree? ‘But she’s very self-willed. Her trying to run off like that shocks me but it doesn’t altogether surprise me.’

      ‘Ah.’ Maxham breathed on his glasses one last time, gave them another polish and settled them on the bridge of his nose. ‘I have to say your husband sees Lucy a little differently. He insisted that she wouldn’t run off of her own accord, that she’s far too sensible.’

      ‘Lucy likes being with her father.’ Sally chose her words carefully, unwilling to point out that she saw about five times more of Lucy than Michael did, and that Michael spoiled her terribly. ‘Perhaps she tends to be better behaved with him than she is with me. But I don’t think that there’s any doubt about the determination she can show. You can ask Carla. Or Margaret Cutter.’ She rushed on, answering the question before Maxham had time to ask it. ‘She’s our vicar’s wife. She runs a crèche at St George’s.’

      ‘Would you have any objection if we had a look round?’

      ‘A look where?’

      ‘All over the flat, if you don’t mind. Lucy’s room, especially, of course. It can help us get a feeling of the missing child, you understand. And if you’d come with us, perhaps you’ll notice if there’s anything missing.’

      What did they expect to find, Sally wondered? Lucy’s body under her bed? ‘All right. But my husband’s asleep at present.’

      ‘Yes, your husband.’ Maxham drew out the words until he was speaking almost in a drawl. He sucked in air. ‘We wouldn’t want to disturb him.’

      ‘He needs to sleep.’

      ‘He was up all night.’ Maxham’s voice was neutral, uninflected. ‘I had to ask his friend Mr Rickford to come and collect him this morning. So he got home safely?’

      ‘Yes.’ Before she could stop herself, Sally added a plea on Michael’s behalf: ‘He was very upset, yesterday. Still is. He’s not himself.’

      ‘That’s understandable.’ The voice was still neutral, and the want of sympathy was in itself an accusation. ‘I gather he’s had a lot on his plate lately.’

      ‘Obviously.’ A doubt niggled in Sally’s mind: had Michael had something else to worry about, something that had happened before Lucy’s disappearance? But there was no time for that now. ‘What do you think might have happened?’ She was suddenly furious with Maxham. ‘Come on – you must have some ideas. What are the main possibilities?’

      ‘Three main scenarios,’ he said briskly. ‘One, she wandered off by herself, and hopefully found shelter. Two, a man or maybe some kids were passing by and thought they’d take her with them. It happens, Mrs Appleyard, I won’t conceal it from you; but it happens less often than you’d believe, so try not to think too much about it.’ His tone was still neutral, and she wondered whether kindness or insensitivity lay behind it. ‘Three: a woman took her. That counts as a separate option because usually the motives are different. You know, mothers who’ve lost their babies and need a replacement. Girls who want a young child to play with, a sort of doll. If that’s what’s happened, we’ll probably get her back safe and sound.’

      ‘Safe and sound?’ Sally whispered, so angry and so scared that her teeth wanted to chatter together.

      ‘These things are relative, Mrs Appleyard. You must understand that.’

      ‘Why do these women do it?’ Sally was reluctant to consider the other options; she knew they would haunt her later.

      ‘Sometimes it’s someone who thinks her relationship’s breaking up. It’s a way to keep a man with her. Usually that’s a baby, though. Or then you get a young girl with a history of parental neglect. Broken home – Dad’s in jail, Mum’s got a new man. You could say they need someone to love. Don’t we all, eh? And then you get the mentally ill. Usually no previous history of delinquency. Generally a one-off case, committed while the woman’s in an acute psychotic state.’ Maxham glanced at her, assessing the effect his words were having. ‘We’ll just have to see what –’

      Without warning, Michael shambled into the room and leant on the back of the sofa. He stared at them as if at a roomful of strangers. Sergeant Carlow stood up, snapping shut his notebook. Yvonne looked at Maxham, asking mutely for guidance. Maxham simply sat there, his hands clasped loosely on his lap.

      Sally had left the door open when she came into the room. Had Michael been standing in the hallway and listening for long? He was in his pyjamas, and he looked terrible: the jacket unbuttoned, his hair tousled, his face unshaven, his body dazed by the sleeping pill.

      ‘Find her, Maxham,’ Michael whispered. ‘Just find her. Stop talking and find her.’

      Sally did not like Maxham, but she had to admit that he handled the situation shrewdly. He asked Sally to show himself and Carlow round the flat. He left Yvonne sitting at the table