‘Who was the witness?’ yells a reporter.
‘A casual employee at the bar.’
‘Is it true that Daniela was drugged?’ asks another.
‘I cannot confirm that.’
A third voice asks, ‘Is there a link between Daniela’s disappearance and the murder of Maya Kirk and her father?’
‘Perhaps if you’d let me finish,’ says Hoyle, but his refusal to answer triggers more questions.
‘Could Anders Foley have taken Daniela Linares?’
‘We don’t believe so.’
‘Did he have an accomplice?’
‘That is one line of inquiry.’
‘Did Daniela and Maya know each other?’
Hoyle would make a lousy poker player. ‘I’m not going to conduct a running commentary on the investigation.’ He raises his hands. ‘Please. We have Daniela’s mother here today, who is going to make a statement.’
I hadn’t noticed Mrs Linares sitting beside the stage, flanked by Edgar and Monroe. Some people grow smaller in the spotlight, overawed by the attention, but she seems stronger and more determined when she steps to the podium, raising her chin as the camera shutters click in rapid-fire. She speaks without notes, but I know she’s rehearsed what she’s going to say.
‘My daughter’s disappearance is my worst nightmare and there are no words to describe my anguish. I know in my heart that Daniela is alive and desperately wants to come home. If you’re the person who took her or if you know who’s responsible, please call the police.’ She pauses and looks directly down the lens of the nearest TV camera. ‘And this is a message for my daughter, my dearest, my only child. On my last birthday, you asked me if the happiest day of my life was the day you were born. I said it was the happiest day ever. And the second happiest day will be the day that you come home.’
Her voice breaks, but she manages to get the last words out. Hoyle puts his arm around her and escorts her from the stage. The emotion of the moment seems to infect the entire room and the reporters have fallen silent. They have their story. Hoyle takes a few more questions before the news crews begin packing up gear, toting cameras and recording equipment.
As he steps off the stage, Hoyle is approached by a uniformed officer, who hands him an envelope. He tears it open and reads. The blood drains from his face. He looks up, searching the room. His eyes come to rest on Lenny, full of disgust and undisguised loathing.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ I whisper.
‘Hoyle is off the case.’
‘Why?’
‘The Chief Constable believes the death of Paulie Brennan could have been avoided and has ordered an internal investigation.’
‘Who made the complaint?’ I ask.
‘I expressed my reservations.’
There is no sense of triumph or valediction in the admission.
Upstairs, detectives have gathered in the incident room, talking in whispers, as the news begins to filter through. Lenny summons them to gather around her. Soon they’re two and three abreast, standing room only.
‘DCI Hoyle is meeting with the Chief Constable,’ she says. ‘I’ll be taking over the investigation. The focus is changing.’
Lenny pins a photograph of Daniela Linares alongside that of Maya Kirk on the whiteboard.
‘Eight years ago, these women were nurses working in a neonatal intensive care unit at St Jude’s Medical Centre. Two babies were given the wrong medication. Jolene and Patrice Rennie lost baby Oliver after three days. Mark and Orla Thompson had a daughter, Daisy, who suffered brain damage and severe medical complications. She died in March of this year.
‘A third nurse, Lilah Hooper, was also working in the neonatal ICU. She was charged with manslaughter, but the case against her collapsed. I want her interviewed and put somewhere safe.’
‘She’s with Evie,’ I say.
‘Bring her in.’ She turns to DS Edgar. ‘We need to find the pharmacy technician who put the wrong medication in the ICU cabinet. The hospital has given us a name.’
Edgar nods.
Lenny looks at Dave Curran. ‘What do we know about the families?’
‘Mark and Orla Thompson separated in July, four months after their daughter died. Thompson has been staying with friends or living in Airbnbs and serviced apartments. He’s an estate agent, who works out of an office in Hucknall. He handles the property management department, which means he has access to vacant houses and businesses.’
‘I want a list,’ says Lenny. ‘Look for historic buildings, or places that are off the grid.’
Prime Time takes over.
‘Patrice and Jolene Rennie sold their house in Nottingham last January and flew to America in March for some sort of medical treatment. Rennie is a former soldier, who did two tours in Afghanistan, working as a medical support officer. He resigned his commission and retrained as a chef, before setting up a catering business that went under during the pandemic. The company still has a website, which hasn’t been updated in almost a year.’
Lenny nods. ‘Find out where they are now. The rest of you, focus on Mark Thompson. Talk to his friends, family, colleagues – anyone who might know his whereabouts. I also want searches of his social media accounts, credit card receipts and phone records.’
‘Waiting for the warrant,’ says Edgar.
I have stepped away to call Evie’s number. She doesn’t answer. I leave a message:
‘The police want to see Lilah. Stay with her and call me.’
63
Evie
The cardboard boxes and bin bags have multiplied and are partially blocking the front hallway and the landing. I hear furniture being moved above our heads.
I shout up the stairs, ‘Hey! What are you doing?’
Nobody answers.
I climb, leaving Lilah to put the dogs in the garden. The attic door is open.
‘You’re not supposed to go up there,’ I say.
A head appears. Elias. Grinning. He has cobwebs in his hair.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I thought I might make this my bedroom.’
My throat begins to close. ‘No! You can’t! It’s mine!’
‘You already have a bedroom.’
‘Put everything back. No! Don’t touch anything. Get out!’
I push past him into the attic. The furniture has been moved – the wooden chests and boxes and old rugs and moth-eaten curtains. My cardboard walls have gone. My hiding place. He has forced the window open and swept at the dust, which is floating in the air as though suspended in water.
‘A coat of paint and a bed and it’s going to be nice,’ says Elias, who has no idea what he’s done. ‘I even get a view,’ he says. ‘Across the park. I was watching you and Lilah walking the dogs.’
I look at the window sill, searching for the collection of coloured glass, marbles, polished pebbles, and the button from my mother’s coat.
‘Where are they?’ I ask, my voice shaking.
‘What?’
‘There was a button and pieces of coloured glass.’
‘I thought they were rubbish.’
‘Where are they?’
‘I threw them away.’
‘Which bag?’
‘I don’t know. One of them.’ He laughs nervously.