Peter leaned over and quietly asked the constable to stop the car.
“It’s dangerous here.”
“Please.”
He stopped. Peter leapt out and, changing places with Margery, quickly bundled Lisa’s jerking body in his arms and pressed her face to his chest.
Nobody spoke for a while, the car was filled with the sound of Lisa’s sobs and an occasional breathy, “There, there,” from Peter, who would have added, “Everything will be alright,” had he not known she would immediately see through the lie and weep even more. They were travelling fast, without dramatics. The constant buzz of the engine and the ever-changing hum of the tires, were the only sounds for many miles, as each occupant unsuccessfully tried to come up with something to diffuse a further explosion of grief. Then the constable decided to offer some hope to Lisa, judging it was time to end the silence. “Mrs. McKenzie?” he called, in the rear view mirror.
She responded with a sniffled, “Yes.”
“You don’t know anything bad has happened. She might have just gone away with this bloke on holiday and didn’t tell you ’cos she knew you’d say no.”
“Trudy wouldn’t do that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!” she snapped, but wouldn’t have bet her life on it.
“Were you close?” he continued kindly, hoping to ease the tension.
“Yes, Well …” she wavered—he caught the waver. “Not as close as we used to be. I work evenings, and she’s at school all day, so we don’t see too much of each other.”
The memories of how life had been were too much: tears started again, quietly this time, tiny droplets dribbling down her cheeks. Tears of guilt, regret, and remorse shed by every imperfect parent; tears for the missed opportunities; tears for things said and unsaid. But Lisa’s tears were magnified a thousand fold by the fact that, unlike other parents, she might never have the opportunity to say: “Sorry daughter. I did my best.”
Wiping the tears, Lisa leaned forward and touched the constable’s shoulder, insisting he should pay attention. “She wouldn’t leave her cat, she adores it,” she sniffled.
“What if she was only planning on going for a few days?”
“She wouldn’t.”
He uttered, “Ah … hah,” which could have meant anything, but Lisa chose it to mean he didn’t believe her.
Why wouldn’t they believe her? The first policeman who came to the house had been the same. He’d started off compassionately enough, taking Trudy’s description, names and addresses of her friends and relatives, things she took with her—nothing really, just her handbag, places she liked to visit,; hobbies, even the things she liked to eat. Then he started. “Are you sure you didn’t have any trouble with her?”
“No.”
“‘No,’ you didn’t have any trouble or ’no’ you’re not sure?”
“No trouble.”
“You didn’t have a fight?”
“No, we never fought.”
“Never?”
“Hardly ever. Well not physically anyway.”
“But you did have rows?”
“Yes,” she was forced to admit. “We did have disagreements. Doesn’t everybody?” She sought confirmation in his face but saw a different look; could see what he was thinking—How do I know you haven’t killed her and dumped the body somewhere?
Twenty times at least she felt like saying, “Get out if you’re not going to do anything.” But she didn’t say it, knowing he would claim that proved her guilt. Then he brought up the drugs, “Was she?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
“Does she smoke?”
“Yes. They all do, well most of them anyway.”
His look said, “Hash,” but she carried on before he had a chance to say it. “So what does that prove. I like a drop of Martini, does that make me an alcoholic?”
“No,” he admitted. Then, after a pause, asked, “And what about sex?” Giving her a questioning look, too embarrassed or too sensitive to come clean and ask if Trudy were a virgin.
“I don’t know,” replied Lisa, looking away.
“Has she ever …”
God, she thought angrily, this man’s a copper and he’s frightened to ask me if my daughter’s ever been bonked. “No … Yes … Possibly. I don’t know. She never told me.”
“Could she be on the game?”
“How dare you?”
“We have to ask.”
“No you don’t.”
“Look, I’m sorry but we’ve got to have some idea where to start looking. I’m not saying she’s on the game …”
“She’s not,” Lisa shouted straight into his face, her eyes not more than three inches from his.
He remained calm. “Like I said, I’m not suggesting she is …”
“Good!” she yelled.
“All I’m saying is that I need to know … If there were the slightest possi—”
“There’s not,” she shot back before he could finish.
“I’m just asking, then we’d know where to start looking, Kings Cross railway station for instance.”
She stared at him coldly. “I’m not going to tell you again. She’s not a whore. O.K.”
“O.K.,” he replied, unconvinced.
“Anyway, I don’t suppose you’d bother to look if I said she was,” complained Lisa. He glanced sideways at her, doubt written all over his face—she could have throttled him. “I told you, she is not. Got it.”
He got it.
“The Historic Borough of Leyton,” proclaimed the sign proudly as they neared Margery’s home. “Asshole of the World,” had been added, unofficially, in fluorescent red, and the artist would have been gratified to know his work reflected well in the headlights of the car. Directed by Margery, the constable pulled up outside the darkened house and looked at the dashboard clock. “Ten-oh-five,” he said, pleased with himself for making good time.
“This is Roger,” Margery said, triumphantly flourishing the folded sheet from the centre of a biology book a few moments later. Lisa grabbed it and the others stared over her shoulder. Peter quickly shook his head, and Lisa said, “No,” but continued staring, surprised by the lack of malevolence in the man’s eyes, thinking that she herself might have difficulty resisting his obvious charms.
“You are quite sure this is Roger?” the policeman asked in an official tone, holding the photocopy up for Margery to see. She nodded seriously. And, mindful of the fact the picture could one day become an exhibit in a murder trial, he carefully placed it in a plastic evidence bag and wrote on the label “Roger??? Last known address—Watford.”
Fifteen minutes later he was on his way to the Daily Express office with a creased photocopy, and verbal description of someone who might well have come from a different species, or planet, than Roger LeClarc.
Roger would have recognised the man in the picture, although his swollen eyelids