But it’s not like that, and when we learn the truth it can be painful. Most of us just go home to play the Janis Ian records and sob into our cocoa. A few of us turn violent, and this looked like one of those.
The phone rang. “Priest,” I said into it.
“It’s the front desk, Charlie,” I was told. “I’ve a woman on the outside line, saying she’s worried about her daughter. She didn’t come home from work tonight.”
“Right,” I sighed, composing myself for something that no amount of training or experience can prepare you for. “Right. What is she called?”
“Mrs Jones.”
“OK. Put her through.” I covered the mouthpiece and whispered: “This could be it,” to the super. After a click and a silence I said: “Mrs Jones?”
“Yes,” a quavery voice replied.
“I’m Detective Inspector Priest, Mrs Jones. You told the sergeant that your daughter hasn’t come home from work.”
“That’s right.”
“Could you give me your address, please.” I wrote it down. “And what is your daughter called, Mrs Jones?”
“Colinette.”
“And what time were you expecting her?”
“About ten past seven. She rang me at half past six to say she was finishing at seven, but she never came home.”
“And how old is Colinette?”
“Twenty-two. It was her birthday on Sunday.”
“And where did she work?”
At a nearby corner shop. It wasn’t a proper job, just something to pass time until she went to college. No, she’d never done anything like this before. Her supper was ruinedand she didn’t have a boyfriend. I wrote the responses down, trying to ignore the knot that was tying itself in my groin. “She’s dead!” I wanted to scream. “Your lovely daughter, the best daughter anybody ever had, is dead.”
“Is there a Mr Jones?” I asked.
“No, Inspector. I lost my husband four years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He was killed in an industrial accident. That’s why…”
“Why what?”
“That’s why Colinette wouldn’t do anything like this unless…unless…”
“I’ll have to come round and take a statement from you, Mrs Jones,” I interrupted, cutting her off from speculation about her daughter’s fate. The truth would be far more horrifying . “I’ll be about…twenty minutes, half an hour. I’ll…take a statement.”
I replaced the phone and looked at Mr Wood. “Colinette Jones,” I told him. “Aged twenty-two. What time is it?”
“Twenty-five to eleven.”
“Maggie won’t be in bed yet. I’ll take her.”
“Tell her I’ll pick her up,” he said. “I’ll break the news to Mrs Jones, Charlie. Noblesse oblige , and all that balderdash. You get yourself home.”
I dialled Maggie’s number and didn’t argue with him.
Colinette had phoned her mother at about six thirty, and left the shop a couple of minutes after seven. The three-nines call for an ambulance was timed at seven fifty-two and the body was found five miles from the corner shop. Around midnight Mrs Jones confirmed that it was her daughter.
We sent the team out, bright and early, knocking on doors, talking to concern. Mr Naseen at the corner shop confirmed that Colinette left on time and expressed his concern for her mother. Later that morning we spoke to a couple of Colinette’s friends who were not too complimentary about her employer, so we brought him in.
“How long had Colinette worked for you, Mr Naseen?” I asked, as we sat in interview room number one. Dave was with me but the tape wasn’t running.
“She didn’t work for me.”
“So what was she doing at your shop?”
“She just helped out, sometimes.”
“That’s not what her mother says.”
“I don’t know what she has told her mother, Inspector.”
“Her mother says she has worked for you for over a year.”
“No, it is not true.”
“She just helps out?”
“Yes, Inspector, as I said.”
“You call eight hours a day and four on Saturdays just helping out?”
“It is nothing like that
The phone rang. “Priest,” I said into it.
“It’s the front desk, Charlie,” I was told. “I’ve a woman on the outside line, saying she’s worried about her daughter. She didn’t come home from work tonight.”
“Right,” I sighed, composing myself for something that no amount of training or experience can prepare you for. “Right. What is she called?”
“Mrs Jones.”
“OK. Put her through.” I covered the mouthpiece and whispered: “This could be it,” to the super. After a click and a silence I said: “Mrs Jones?”
“Yes,” a quavery voice replied.
“I’m Detective Inspector Priest, Mrs Jones. You told the sergeant that your daughter hasn’t come home from work.”
“That’s right.”
“Could you give me your address, please.” I wrote it down. “And what is your daughter called, Mrs Jones?”
“Colinette.”
“And what time were you expecting her?”
“About ten past seven. She rang me at half past six to say she was finishing at seven, but she never came home.”
“And how old is Colinette?”
“Twenty-two. It was her birthday on Sunday.”
“And where did she work?”
At a nearby corner shop. It wasn’t a proper job, just something to pass time until she went to college. No, she’d never done anything like this before. Her supper was ruinedand she didn’t have a boyfriend. I wrote the responses down, trying to ignore the knot that was tying itself in my groin. “She’s dead!” I wanted to scream. “Your lovely daughter, the best daughter anybody ever had, is dead.”
“Is there a Mr Jones?” I asked.
“No, Inspector. I lost my husband four years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He was killed in an industrial accident. That’s why…”
“Why what?”
“That’s why Colinette wouldn’t do anything like this unless…unless…”
“I’ll have to come round and take a statement from you, Mrs Jones,” I interrupted, cutting her off from speculation about her daughter’s fate. The truth would be far more horrifying . “I’ll be about…twenty minutes, half an hour. I’ll…take a statement.”
I replaced the phone and looked at Mr Wood. “Colinette Jones,” I told him. “Aged twenty-two. What time is it?”
“Twenty-five to eleven.”
“Maggie won’t be in bed yet. I’ll take her.”
“Tell her I’ll pick her up,” he said. “I’ll break the news to Mrs Jones, Charlie. Noblesse oblige , and all that balderdash. You get yourself home.”
I dialled Maggie’s number and didn’t argue with him.
Colinette had phoned her mother at about six thirty, and left the shop a couple of minutes after seven. The three-nines call for an ambulance was timed at seven fifty-two and the body was found five miles from the corner shop. Around midnight Mrs Jones confirmed that it was her daughter.
We sent the team out, bright and early, knocking on doors, talking to concern. Mr Naseen at the corner shop confirmed that Colinette left on time and expressed his concern for her mother. Later that morning we spoke to a couple of Colinette’s friends who were not too complimentary about her employer, so we brought him in.
“How long had Colinette worked for you, Mr Naseen?” I asked, as we sat in interview room number one. Dave was with me but the tape wasn’t running.
“She didn’t work for me.”
“So what was she doing at your shop?”
“She just helped out, sometimes.”
“That’s not what her mother says.”
“I don’t know what she has told her mother, Inspector.”
“Her mother says she has worked for you for over a year.”
“No, it is not true.”
“She just helps out?”
“Yes, Inspector, as I said.”
“You call eight hours a day and four on Saturdays just helping out?”
“It is nothing like that
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