The Missing by Jane Casey Page A

slow-moving motorist on film for a second or two. Fame at last. No wonder the traffic was virtually at a standstill. I drove as close to the car in front as I dared, edging forwards without looking too closely at the temporary news village that had mushroomed on the verge.
    At the school gates, I noted an increase in the numbers of parents who were gathering there, talking earnestly to one another, but I ignored them, sweeping past without slowing down. Even a cursory glance in their direction told me that the only topic for discussion was the body, and I didn’t want to hear their speculation about what had happened and who it was and was it true … I could see from a mile off that the rumour mills were in overdrive.
    And so were the professional gossips. In the staff car park, I pulled into a space by the wall. As I switched off the engine, there was a sudden rat-tat-tat on my window that practically sent me into orbit. I whipped around, ready to snarl at whoever had crept up on me, assuming it would be a colleague. But the face peering in at me through the window didn’t belong to any of the other teachers. I frowned, trying to place the woman who was standing there. She was middle-aged, with a puffy face that was coated in a slick of tan foundation. Her pale pink lipstick made her teeth look yellow, and she wore a drab brown coat that did nothing for her figure or her colouring. Although she was smiling, her eyes were cold. They scanned the interior of the car, including me, missing nothing. With great reluctance, I rolled down the window.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    ‘Carol Shapley, chief reporter from the Elmview Examiner ,’ she said, and leaned into the car, practically touching me. ‘Are you a teacher here?’
    I looked pointedly at the sign on the wall that said ‘Teachers’ Car Park’ in letters about a foot high, roughly ten feet from where I was parked. ‘Were you looking for someone in particular?’
    ‘Not as such,’ she said, and smiled even wider. ‘I’m reporting on this murder that’s happened, one of your students, and I’ve got some information that I’d like you to confirm.’
    She spoke quickly, reeling off her little speech with great fluency, giving the impression that she knew everything there was to know about it already. My alarm bells were ringing so loudly, I was surprised she couldn’t hear them. I remembered seeing her before at various school performances, fundraisers and local events, barrelling around self-importantly. The Elmview Examiner was the most local of local papers; parochial was not the word. And calling herself the chief reporter was a bit rich. As far as I knew, she was the only reporter.
    ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help,’ I said sweetly, and started to roll up the window again, in spite of the fact that she was leaning on the edge of it. For a second, I could see her struggling with the urge to insist on speaking to me, but she backed off a foot or two. Not far enough.
    I gathered my things together and opened the car door to find that she had left me just enough room to get out.
    ‘I only have a couple of questions.’
    I straightened to my full height and discovered she had a couple of inches on me; not for the first time I regretted that I wasn’t tall enough to look down my nose at anyone. But I didn’t need a height advantage when I had the moral high ground.
    ‘Look, I’ve got to go in and speak to my students. I’m afraid I don’t have time to talk at the moment.’ I summoned up a smile from somewhere. ‘I know you’re just doing your job, but I have a job to do too.’
    ‘Oh, I do understand. Can I ask you your name?’ She waved an A4 sheet at me. ‘I’ve got a list, you see. It’s always nice to put a face to a name.’
    I couldn’t see a way to avoid telling her. ‘Sarah Finch.’
    ‘Finch …’ She ran her pen down the list and put a tick by my name. ‘Thanks, Sarah. Maybe we can have a chat some other time.’
    Or