Adrian couldn’t imagine that, just dropping everything and moving away, but then he had his son, Tom, to think about, so he was tethered. Even when things had got really rough with his ex – Tom’s mum, Andrea – Adrian wouldn’t have thought about leaving; it didn’t even occur to him.
A notification sounded on Gary’s personal laptop and he rushed back over to the seat next to Adrian with it under his arm. Within seconds, Gary had the image on the screen of the reconstructed face.
The man looked quite young. He had the slender, angular face of a man under thirty. His cheekbones were prominent and he had a fairly square jaw. He didn’t quite have superhero looks, but there was something so everyday and inoffensive about him. Even Adrian could see that he was a decent-looking guy, the right side of average, symmetrical in all the right places.
Adrian started at the beginning of the MisPers list again. It was easy to see which faces didn’t belong to the man in the clay reconstruction. As he looked through, he tried to commit each face to memory so that if he ever saw them in the street, he would be able to remove them from the list. He knew he wouldn’t remember, though. Each face was replaced immediately with a new one before he really had a chance to study it. They went through the faces over and over again, whittling them down further and further each time until they had just seventeen faces left.
Some of the photos supplied by the people who had filed the report had been less than clear, but Adrian found himself drawn to one particular image. The man was smiling in the photograph, standing on a jetty overlooking one of the major lakes in the Lake District. He had his arms outstretched and was wearing an orange beanie. Simon Glover.
Simon Glover was reported missing from Charmouth in Dorset just a week earlier by his sister, Fiona Merton. The more Adrian compared the image of Simon to the clay model, the more he was convinced they were the same person.
‘It’s this guy. Simon Glover. Can we get any better images of him?’
‘He’s probably got some form of social media profile; most people have. I’ll look him up,’ Gary said as he opened various tabs and typed into each one at a speed that seemed inhuman to Adrian.
‘Well?’
‘This is him, I think.’ Gary said, spinning the screen towards Adrian.
A Facebook profile, current job listed as working in Weymouth. It was him, though; a more serious picture of his face, but it was uncanny how much he looked like the clay sculpture. It’s not as if Adrian didn’t believe in the science of it, but this confirmed it in a way that couldn’t have been done any other way. He could see it with his own eyes. Simon Glover was John Doe.
‘Gary, I could kiss you.’
‘I’m sorry, mate, I’m taken.’
‘Talking of which, is he married? Is our Jane Doe his wife?’ Adrian said, remembering the wedding ring Jane Doe was wearing.
‘His relationship status on this is listed as single.’
‘So, whoever Jane Doe was, she wasn’t Simon Glover’s wife. What was her connection to him, then? How did they end up in the river together? Are there any pictures of Jane Doe on his profile?’
‘In all of his public photos he’s alone. We can put in a request to gain access to his account, but Facebook are notoriously slow for granting these requests, so I wouldn’t hold your breath.’
‘Do you have an address for his sister? I’m going to grab Imogen then we can head on over there.’
‘I’ll send all the details to your phone.’
Adrian rushed out of the room. Finally, a break in the case. It was horrible to think of unclaimed victims, that somewhere out there their unsuspecting family members were just carrying on with their lives. Simon Glover was the first real name they had. Even though Adrian wasn’t relishing telling his sister the news of her brother’s passing, it was worse when you couldn’t find the family to notify them. Now that they had somewhere to start, it was only a matter of time before they got the whole picture, a matter of time before they found the woman again and made sure she was safe.
Fiona Merton lived in a modest bungalow at the top end of a shallow hill in Bridport, Dorset. The low-level buildings allowed the vista of the patchwork hills behind them to be seen in all directions, broken only by the square orange roofs peppered in between. She opened the door as Imogen and Adrian walked up the driveway; they obviously looked like police.
‘Are you here about my brother?’ she said, arms folded as though cold, even though the summer heat was starting to build.
‘I’m DS Imogen Grey and this is my colleague, DS Adrian Miles.’
‘Is this about Simon?’
‘Can we come in?’ Imogen asked.
Fiona Merton walked back inside the house, leaving the door open for them to follow. Inside, it felt like a home that belonged to a much older woman. The curtains were mustard-and-terracotta stripes, very dated, and they looked like they had been there as long as the house. The sofas were large and almost cartoonlike, with a floral chintz in autumnal colours. Fiona Merton was no older than thirty and so Imogen assumed that she must have inherited the property.
‘Well? Where is he? Have you found him?’
‘I’m going to show you a photograph,’ Adrian said, pulling out his phone. ‘I want you to prepare yourself.’
‘Prepare myself for what?’ she said, clutching herself even tighter.
‘We recovered the body of a male who matches your brother’s description and we have reconstructed an image of his face to show you. Maybe you can identify him from it.’
‘Reconstructed? What was wrong with his face?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind taking a look at this. Are you ready?’ Adrian said, avoiding the question.
Fiona nodded and Adrian showed her the clay reconstruction. She looked confused at first, but then her face settled and the tears came.
‘Yes, that’s him, that’s Simon. He’s dead? What happened?’ Fiona said, crying but still somehow composed, cold even.
‘Was Simon in a relationship?’ Imogen said.
‘No. He works a lot; doesn’t have time for a relationship. His time’s divided mostly between the construction site and an evening class. Didn’t want to work on a building site for ever.’
‘What was he studying?’
‘He wanted to be a teacher. He’s been studying English literature so he can teach English in secondary school. He was a bit of a romantic.’ Fiona struggled to speak, her breath shortening as the impact of the situation hit her.
Imogen put her hand on her shoulder to try to impart some kind of empathy.
‘Do you recognise this woman at all?’ Adrian said, showing Fiona a picture of their Jane Doe.
She shook her head.
‘We’re sorry for your loss,’ Imogen said as Fiona looked up at her. What else was there to say?
‘How did it happen?’ Fiona said, wiping her cheeks, clearly unaccustomed