Lockwood looked considerably paler all of a sudden. ‘You wouldn’t.’
Pete raised an eyebrow, his gaze locked on the other man’s, and waited.
Lockwood swallowed and wiped a hand over his face. ‘Look, I know he likes them young, but I don’t know nothing about nothing like that. Why don’t you ask his missus? His kid? They’d know, wouldn’t they?’
Pete watched him carefully for a long second. ‘All right. Thank you, Stephen. And how to you know Sanderson?’
‘Judo. I used to do a bit.’ He sat up straighter, staring at Pete.
Pete smiled and pushed himself off the wall. He tapped on the door. The key turned and it swung open. ‘Thanks, Bob.’
‘You get what you need?’ The uniformed man swung the door shut with a clang and locked it.
‘Mm. Not that it got me any further forward.’
By the time Pete turned into the street where he lived, barely a mile from the station, the smell of fish and chips that permeated the car had gone from appetising to nauseating as he worried about the problems this case could throw up. Its similarities to their own were bound to cause trouble at home. It would be a reminder, if nothing else. But there was nothing he could do about that. The girl needed him – and needed him to be on top of his game. To find her before the sick bastard who’d taken her – if that was what had happened – went one step further and killed her like the Jane Doe they had discussed earlier.
His mind conjured an image of a forlorn-looking body, naked and filthy, lying in the mud at the side of the river like so much discarded rubbish. A young life snuffed out as if it meant nothing. He shook his head. He could not afford to think like that. He had to be positive. He had to expect and plan to find Rosie Whitlock alive and soon. For her sake as well as his own.
He turned into his drive and got out of the car, warm paper package in hand. The front door opened before he reached it.
‘Daddy! Good day?’ Annie grinned up at him in jeans and T-shirt, a glittery pink elephant covering most of her slim chest.
Pride swelled like a physical lump in his throat and he wrapped his free arm around her, lifted her up and kissed the top of her head. Her long brown hair smelled mildly of shampoo. He took a long breath and set her down again. ‘Hello, Button. You smell nice. It didn’t go to plan, I can tell you that. I was hoping for a nice, easy slide back into things, but instead I went and picked up a big case. Here, take these into the kitchen, will you?’ He handed her the food and shut the door against the chill of the night.
‘OK.’ She took the package and skipped away.
‘Hi, Lou,’ he called, as he slipped off his shoes and jacket, but there was no response.
He went through. She was sitting in her usual place on the sofa, dressed in jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt, her dark, greasy hair tied back in a ponytail. The TV was playing some kind of game show, the sound barely audible.
‘How you doing?’
She didn’t take her eyes off the TV. ‘OK.’
‘What you been up to?’
‘Nothing.’ Her voice was dull, uninterested. She’d been like this, or worse, for months now, ever since the first flush of frantic panic faded a few days after Tommy’s disappearance. It was like she’d suffered an emotional overload that had used up everything inside her and she had been unable to replenish it.
He kept trying. Anything to get a response. ‘Heard from anyone?’
She shook her head.
‘Thought you might have gone out,’ he said. ‘Gone shopping or something.’
‘What for?’
‘To get out of these four walls. Get a bit of sunshine. See some people, other than me and Annie.’
‘See a bloody doctor, you mean,’ she said sourly.
‘I didn’t, but it couldn’t hurt, if you feel ready.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Tea’s ready,’ Annie called from the kitchen.
Pete let out a long breath. He was finding it harder and harder to cope with the expressionless monotony of her depression. But what could he do? If Louise didn’t want to see a doctor, a grief counsellor or a psychiatrist, he couldn’t force her to. He’d made the suggestion more than once and she’d steadfastly refused. ‘I don’t need a grief counsellor. Tommy’s not dead,’ was her standard answer. Or, ‘Our son’s missing, for God’s sake. What do you expect?’
‘Thanks, Button,’ he called. ‘Hold on, I’ll fetch it through.’
Annie had plated up the food and poured three glasses – two of shandy and one lemonade. Pete reached out and drew her into a hug. ‘You’re a wonderful daughter, you know that?’
‘I know.’ She gave him an impish smile.
Pete laughed and ruffled her hair.
‘Dad,’ she complained, swiping her fingers through it to settle it.
‘Come on, let’s eat.’ He picked up two of the plates and carried them through to the dining table in the conservatory while Annie carried her own, then he came back for the drinks. ‘Lou,’ he said as brought them through.
She got up, turned off the TV and came through to sit with them. Which was an improvement on a couple of weeks ago, he thought. Then, she would have eaten on the sofa, staring at the TV and barely noticing what was on her plate.
‘You done your homework?’
‘Yep. Didn’t have much. Just a bit of maths and some geography.’
Her two favourite subjects. ‘Good girl. I’m going to have to go back in for a couple of hours, so you’ll need to get yourself to bed, all right?’
‘Why?’
‘What do you have go back for?’ Louise asked.
‘I need to get things organised for the morning. We need a search team and canvassers out first thing and I’ve got people to call to arrange interviews.’
Louise grunted and shoved another chip in her mouth, chewing silently.
Pete glanced at Annie, picking apart her fish, and suddenly pictured the photos of Rosie Whitlock that he’d seen in the sitting room of her home. How would she be coping right now, wherever she was? How would Annie cope in the same situation? Would she panic? Would she lose it and get completely stressed out? Or would she deal with it as capably as she seemed to be dealing with Louise’s condition and the disappearance of her brother?
She had been as distraught as Pete and Louise when it happened, of course, crying night and day, demanding answers, but she had grown up a lot in the following weeks. As Louise spiralled downwards, withdrawing into herself, Annie had stepped up. Taken on the role of mother in the household.
He didn’t know what he would have done without her, if he was honest. But the thought of her going through what Rosie Whitlock must be enduring right now clogged his throat with horror.
‘Dad?’
He blinked. Cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, Button. What was that?’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeah, of course. Don’t worry about me.’ He forked up a piece of fish, unsure how long he had been lost in his awful thoughts. ‘What was it you said?’
‘Nothing.