The Edge by Clare Curzon Page A

photographs of the crime scene to the extended whiteboard. He was looking distinctly edgy.
    â€˜Hoad’s mother-in-law is on her way in,’ he thought fit to warn them, ‘and she wants to know what we’ve discovered about her grandson’s whereabouts.’
    â€˜Zilch,’ Beaumont breathed sadly. Not only an officer in the Women’s Services, but also a mother-in-law. She sounded more discouraging at every moment.
    When the full investigating team assembled he made sure of a windowsill seat at the rear with a sideways view of the main entrance, confident that Salmon would hold the floor throughout the briefing. Any ancillary duties that cropped up could be delegated to Z, stationed at his elbow.
    At precisely 9.12 a.m. Beaumont stiffened as below a taxi disgorged a well-built woman with a fuzz of hair like wire wool and wearing a tailored black trouser suit. Massive, Beaumont registered. The RAF could have used her to kick-start transport aircraft. Congratulating himself that forewarned was forearmed, he swivelled back and looked attentively towards where Salmon was in lecturing spate.
    Â 
    Yeadings had her wait in the reception area while he came down himself to escort her up.
    â€˜Superintendent,’ she greeted him, instinctively picking up on his authority and holding out her hand. She had a beautiful voice, a warm contralto. And lovely tawny eyes, he noted, as they came face to face. For all that she’d been urgently demanding news of her grandson, she was prepared to be patient now, graciously accepting the offer of coffee once she’d quizzed the paraphernalia along his windowsill.
    Busying himself with fixing the filter, Yeadings averted his eyes while he ploughed through his condolences. Though what bloody use were they in such an appalling situation? he asked himself.

    She remained silent and he glanced up. She was waiting for him to get on with it. ‘What’s done is done, however … regrettable,’ she told him grimly. ‘My concern is for the future.’
    â€˜Your grandson.’
    â€˜The survivor. If, indeed, he still is?’
    â€˜We are following a number of leads regarding his whereabouts.’
    â€˜Peeing in the sea,’ was her wry comment. ‘I know how it goes when someone is intent on not being found.’
    It shocked him. ‘You think that’s the case?’
    â€˜Nothing would surprise me with that young man. Well, perhaps almost nothing. He can be quite unpredictable. Not that I’ve had much personal contact with him over the past few years. Or indeed with my daughter. We inhabit different worlds.’
    â€˜It would help our investigation to know as much as possible about the Hoad family. Will you help us there?’
    â€˜No milk, thank you,’ she cautioned as his hand hovered with a carton of Long Life.
    She drew a deep breath. ‘Jennifer was an early mistake on my part. Single mothers had it harder in my day, although I had been prevailed upon to marry the man. Who quite soon decamped. Took early retirement. A hushed-up fiddle with Sergeants’ Mess funds.’ The part-sentences were brusquely elliptical, delivered in that same mellifluous voice.
    â€˜So Jennifer grew up as a semi-orphaned “married-quarters brat”. I was only a Leading Aircraftwoman then. The commission had yet to come. Humble background, you see: my father ran a south London gaming club. At seventeen I’d flown the nest, detesting smoke-filled atmospheres and being expected to scrub billiard tables. Joined the RAF for a more tolerable discipline.
    â€˜It wasn’t the most stable background for her to grow up in. Jennifer, I mean. But as I said, “What’s done is done”. But I do have regrets.’
    Small wonder if Daniel was ‘unpredictable’, Yeadings decided, with these genes to inherit. Every moment she seemed to produce contradictions.
    Anna Plumley leaned forward to take the