blue. Emma led McNab to a stile leading into a snowy field. He thought briefly of his city shoes before following. They crunched through the snow in companionable silence.
She led him to the bank of a river, where they spent ten minutes throwing stones at the frozen eddies on the far side. Emma wasn’t a bad shot for a nine-year-old girl. McNab told her so.
‘Nick taught me how to throw stones.’
He was momentarily nonplussed. The girl had to have a father, but since Claire had said she wasn’t married McNab had assumed there was no man in the picture.
‘Your dad? I bet he was worried when he heard about the crash.’
‘Nick isn’t my dad.’
McNab decided not to enter the minefield of single-parent relationships. He broached the subject of the skull instead.
‘It looks like there was only one body hidden beneath the brushwood, Emma.’ He did his best to sound certain.
She picked up another stone and threw it. It bounced on the thicker ice and plopped into the water.
McNab carried on. ‘We found a wind harp in a nearby tree. It makes a sort of music when the wind blows. I expect that’s what you heard that night.’
The child’s face was impassive.
‘I think you should try and forget what happened. Look forward to Christmas.’
She turned and gave him a searching look. ‘Then why can I still hear his voice?’
He was beginning to feel out of his depth. If the kid was hearing voices she should be talking to a psychologist, not a detective.
‘When something frightening happens, it can make you imagine things.’ It sounded like something his own mother would have said to him. Something he wouldn’t have believed.
‘I’ve asked him to tell me where he is, but he won’t.’
McNab examined her small, pinched face. Jesus, no wonder Claire was so concerned.
‘Mum doesn’t believe me. I thought you would.’ Emma looked sad. ‘I want to go home now.’
Claire must have been watching for them, because the door opened as they approached. She looked enquiringly at him.
‘We went to the river and threw some stones. Emma was very good at it.’
‘I’m going upstairs, Mum.’ Emma had already discarded her coat and boots.
‘OK, I’ll call you when lunch is ready.’
McNab waited until the child had disappeared before he spoke.
‘I told her about the wind harp, and that there’s only one body.’
‘She didn’t believe you, did she?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Shock does strange things to people. Give it a few more days. Let her keep writing to me, if it helps. I think Christmas will soon take over.’ He hoped he was right.
On the return journey, he pondered the relationship between Claire and her daughter. It reminded him of his own childhood. Brought up by his mother, he had never known his father. He’d been born illegitimate, back when it had mattered. He’d been ashamed. Hid the fact by telling tall tales of his soldier father, always away on duty. He’d cut a photograph of a soldier from a magazine, a young man with dark auburn hair like his own. He was handsome and smiling, the dad McNab wanted. For a while he’d believed him to be real, and the soldier’s imagined bravery had made him brave. Brave enough to face the bullies and their taunts.
The discovery of the skull had made Emma the centre of attention. Maybe she didn’t want that to end.
11
DI Lane of the Complaints and Discipline Department didn’t like the job he’d been given, and McNab didn’t blame him. A complaint against a senior officer was a serious matter, especially when it was scum like Henderson who had made it.
Lane laid out the photographs of Henderson’s injuries, taken by the duty officer that fateful morning when McNab and DI Wilson had confronted Henderson in the interview room.
Looking at a photo of the man’s bruised balls made McNab wish he’d kicked him even harder. If he’d had a knife in his hand when the bastard had talked filth about Bill’s daughter, McNab would have sliced
She led him to the bank of a river, where they spent ten minutes throwing stones at the frozen eddies on the far side. Emma wasn’t a bad shot for a nine-year-old girl. McNab told her so.
‘Nick taught me how to throw stones.’
He was momentarily nonplussed. The girl had to have a father, but since Claire had said she wasn’t married McNab had assumed there was no man in the picture.
‘Your dad? I bet he was worried when he heard about the crash.’
‘Nick isn’t my dad.’
McNab decided not to enter the minefield of single-parent relationships. He broached the subject of the skull instead.
‘It looks like there was only one body hidden beneath the brushwood, Emma.’ He did his best to sound certain.
She picked up another stone and threw it. It bounced on the thicker ice and plopped into the water.
McNab carried on. ‘We found a wind harp in a nearby tree. It makes a sort of music when the wind blows. I expect that’s what you heard that night.’
The child’s face was impassive.
‘I think you should try and forget what happened. Look forward to Christmas.’
She turned and gave him a searching look. ‘Then why can I still hear his voice?’
He was beginning to feel out of his depth. If the kid was hearing voices she should be talking to a psychologist, not a detective.
‘When something frightening happens, it can make you imagine things.’ It sounded like something his own mother would have said to him. Something he wouldn’t have believed.
‘I’ve asked him to tell me where he is, but he won’t.’
McNab examined her small, pinched face. Jesus, no wonder Claire was so concerned.
‘Mum doesn’t believe me. I thought you would.’ Emma looked sad. ‘I want to go home now.’
Claire must have been watching for them, because the door opened as they approached. She looked enquiringly at him.
‘We went to the river and threw some stones. Emma was very good at it.’
‘I’m going upstairs, Mum.’ Emma had already discarded her coat and boots.
‘OK, I’ll call you when lunch is ready.’
McNab waited until the child had disappeared before he spoke.
‘I told her about the wind harp, and that there’s only one body.’
‘She didn’t believe you, did she?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Shock does strange things to people. Give it a few more days. Let her keep writing to me, if it helps. I think Christmas will soon take over.’ He hoped he was right.
On the return journey, he pondered the relationship between Claire and her daughter. It reminded him of his own childhood. Brought up by his mother, he had never known his father. He’d been born illegitimate, back when it had mattered. He’d been ashamed. Hid the fact by telling tall tales of his soldier father, always away on duty. He’d cut a photograph of a soldier from a magazine, a young man with dark auburn hair like his own. He was handsome and smiling, the dad McNab wanted. For a while he’d believed him to be real, and the soldier’s imagined bravery had made him brave. Brave enough to face the bullies and their taunts.
The discovery of the skull had made Emma the centre of attention. Maybe she didn’t want that to end.
11
DI Lane of the Complaints and Discipline Department didn’t like the job he’d been given, and McNab didn’t blame him. A complaint against a senior officer was a serious matter, especially when it was scum like Henderson who had made it.
Lane laid out the photographs of Henderson’s injuries, taken by the duty officer that fateful morning when McNab and DI Wilson had confronted Henderson in the interview room.
Looking at a photo of the man’s bruised balls made McNab wish he’d kicked him even harder. If he’d had a knife in his hand when the bastard had talked filth about Bill’s daughter, McNab would have sliced
Similar Books
