Chapter 3

Jon Graham rubbed his brow. He'd left London around two in the morning, fueled with plenty of coffee made strong enough to kill any notion of sleep. He didn't want anything now but a shower. He could smell his own perspiration, instantaneous and copious immediately after the accident, but now cold and sticky beneath his jacket.

At the top of a distant hill, he saw the remains of a mine engine. He'd done his research. The husk of darkened brick marked a tin mine, now a crumbly reminder of the past. The mines were closed. Economic hard times had hit the region hard, but the Cornish had pluck, and thankfully, a tourist industry. The land had taken a strange upward turn in value after the flood of '04 and people clamored for it.

At the southern tip of England, Cornwall was a rugged triangle of man-tunneled rock, like a hardened wedge of Swiss cheese. In bygone days, pirates and smugglers found myriad hiding places in coves and abandoned mines. Lawlessness permeated Cornwall's history like brandy in a Christmas pudding.

As Jon crested another ridge, he slowed the car. Perrin's Point was perched below a steep hill on three sides and had a harbor that lead to the Celtic Sea.

Perhaps it was for the best the other car had disappeared, Jon thought. His presence would remain unremarkable. He lowered his window and breathed deeply of the briny air. Lovely. He could hear a commotion down towards the beach, people yelling. Early Sunday sunrise service on the beach? There must be a celebration, or something like.

The car descended on roads that twisted into the lane's tight curves. The village lay cradled behind arms of rocky shoreline. The bay stretched with the tides into the village. The tide being out at the time, boats of all sizes and colors lay lopsided all over the sand, moored by long ropes anchored at the shoreline.

He slowed to look for High Street and then looked down at his map for the address of the local police sergeant who had agreed to house him on the q.t. Jon was supposed to be a cousin from London on surfing holiday. I wish. It sounded plausible, as the sergeant had indicated he owned a surfboard or two that he could lend.

He made a right turn onto a picturesque lane with quaint, painted cottages fronted by slate porches. It was unbelievable that three slabs of stone, two of which stood upright either side and a third as a "roof," could withstand time and storms without toppling. The lane narrowed even more. Now he had a view of the rear of buildings, but had to dodge dust bins. The backs of homes or shops pressed against both sides of the road.

He slowed the car to a crawl and one-handedly poured a cup of hot coffee from his thermos. Good thing his cup had been empty during his accident earlier. The road curved and dipped. A wall sprang at him. Both feet slammed on brakes. The car ground to a burring halt.

He mopped at spilled coffee before he reversed and maneuvered the car back round the way he had just come. It was then he saw the signs that warned drivers to take another route. Ta, very much.

He studied the map again and turned it around. Ah, here was his mistake. He was to turn left at the top of the hill, then drive to the cliff lane and turn right. His cheap, internet-purchased satnav had done him even worse in past escapades, so he hadn't even taken the blasted thing out of the console.

He poured a bit more coffee and took a sip. The taste reminded him of his office, which would be brimming with activity just now. He'd been in the police for ten years and worked out of the Regional Crime Squad's London base at present. A specially selected detective sergeant from the Bristol RCS completed Jon's team. Detective Sergeant Thomas Browne was a good man. It was too bad about the food poisoning-he was still in hospital.

According to the bank official, Detective Chief Inspector Peter Trewe's deposit account had jumped from £2,000 to £982,000. A special trace on the money dead-ended at a corporation with one member of record: Peter Trewe. Something didn't add up.

Their mandate was to find the source of the money and make sure nothing embarrassing oozed from the bottom of any mess to make its way into the public forum. To keep things quiet wasn't easy, with increased public scrutiny and information handed round like bowls of spaghetti.

Jon's sergeant had been careful to keep the surveillance secret. This was not an easy thing to do in a small village. Once, an old lady with a stick, chasing a cat from her rear garden, surprised DS Browne as he installed a camera. The point of the surveillance was to see if Trewe had a secret means to replenish his monies, such as with stolen or smuggled goods. DS Browne told the old lady he was bird-watching and produced a birder's manual. She took her stick to him and chased him down the street anyway.

Despite recent setbacks on the job, Jon was determined to find answers here. He had to recover his reputation, especially with fellow Detective Inspector Bennet. Their two desks shared proximity at the London office. He could picture Bennet's sneer. "Couldn't find the source of the money could you? Worthless prat. Screw around on the job. Screw around on women. You never could stick with anything. Pun intended!"

Jon had chatted up the wrong girl, as it turned out-Bennet's cousin.

Nobody's perfect.

Another gulp of coffee, and he turned at the signpost. The narrow lane turned tricky with sudden twists, and what was left of his coffee sloshed across his shirtfront. He set the coffee in a holder.

A wooden stake in front of a gray cottage read "Frog's Turn." This was it. Yellow flowers edged the front of Sergeant Perstow's home. Sergeant Perstow and Constable Stark manned the tiny Perrin's Point Police station. DS Thomas Browne made arrangements through intermediaries, drove a caravan down from Bristol and parked it in Perstow's rear garden. The tiny home on wheels contained everything required for survival plus a bank of flat-screen monitors required for the project. With his sergeant in hospital with food poisoning, Jon would stay here. He hated confined spaces, so this would be no picnic. He'd have to think positive thoughts to be able to sleep in such a stuffy, cramped, closed-up space.

Positive thoughts, Jon thought. Boy Scouts, camping, adventure. Right!

He swung the Mini round the house to the rear and his tires crunched on the gravel drive. At the bottom of the garden next to a dilapidated garage sat the caravan, white and dented in places like a discarded tissue box, a tiny, enclosed box of a place. So much for positive thoughts.

***

TREBORWICK, POLICE STATION AND CID OFFICE

Sunday, midmorning

DCI Trewe possessed the scariest eyes Ruth had ever seen. They were ice-blue and predatory, a wolf's eyes. The detective chief inspector's skin stretched thin across his prominent cheekbones and angular chin. From a distance, Ruth had imagined his face rakishly handsome, not the cadaverous aspect in front of her.

Ruth refused another offer of tea from Sergeant Perstow. She was shaky enough. She could not absorb the fact that her daughter was missing. Missing meant disappeared. Gone. Things like this didn't happen to people like her.

"This is bad." The sturdy Sergeant Perstow sat very still next to Ruth. He seemed as wary of Detective Chief Inspector Trewe as she was.

"Perstow, you're upsetting Mrs. Butler." Trewe angled his chair around to rifle some sheets of paper on a nearby file cabinet.

"Sorry, lass." A deep shade of red flushed up from Perstow's neck.

"Please." Ruth shook her head. Nothing could upset her worse than she was already.

Trewe nodded. "I'm so very sorry. Do you feel up to a few questions?"

"Of course. I want her back. Safe."

"A little girl called Dot was with your daughter this morning?"

Ruth stared at the red pen Trewe twisted between the fingers of one hand. "They often take walks."

"Does she often disappear?"

"No! This has never happened before. She wouldn't worry me like this on purpose."

"Does she carry a mobile?"

"She isn't responding. I've called dozens of times; it goes to voice mail. I've texted her. Nothing. Now I've resorted to texting her friends and their moms. They've put out a bulletin with their social media. They're out looking for her." Ruth heard her hysteria rising with each word. I want to snap out of thinking that he found us. Dear Lord, what am I doing here? Should I tell the police? No, don't panic. Dear God, bring Annie back. Make this go away.

"There has been an attempt to locate your daughter's mobile signal, Mrs. Butler. But they believe the mobile's been turned off. You're on the telephone at your house?"

"Yes. I have a land line."

"We'll post a constable to listen in the event she rings your house. You have your neighbor-"

"Sally. Her name is Sally. Look, I'm sorry. I don't want to sound like a panicked ... a panicked ... you know ... I want to help. I do. I want to help. I ..." Ruth suddenly realized she could not stop repeating herself.

Trewe swung around. His chair hit the wall.

Ruth jumped into the immediate present.

He asked for details of every activity Annie had been involved with in the past three weeks. He had Perstow take notes and write a more detailed description of Annie than Ruth had given Constable Stark earlier. Ruth concentrated on every detail that she could think of. He wanted a list of Annie's friends. She had brought a recent photo.

Trewe looked at the photo. "What kind of friends does she have?"

"Good friends. I like them. I like their parents. They're great."

"Does she have a boyfriend?"

"What?" Ruth tried to understand exactly what he meant. "A boyfriend? She's only ten. Yes, yes, I know she knows about things."

"Things?" Trewe's eyes betrayed nothing. They held ice.

"The facts of life, but she isn't interested in the opposite sex, from what I can tell. She wants to play soccer-I mean, football. You call it football, sorry, I should know that by now. Boys are the farthest thing from her mind, except as friends. She has a lot of friends."

"Does she have any close friends who are boys?"

Ruth shook her head. Why does he go on like this?

Trewe kept on. "Is there any reason to believe she may have been experimenting with anything?"

"What do you mean by anything?"

"Drugs."

"Of course not! She is ten, not seventeen!"

Trewe's expression didn't change.

Ruth took a deep breath and started over. "I know kids are at an iffy age at ten, but Annie is different. She's ... How to describe it? ... She's transparent. I can tell when she's lying."

"So she lies occasionally, does she?" Trewe tapped his pen on the desk.

"Don't all kids?"

"I'm sure. But you think you could tell if she were doing something she shouldn't?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

Ruth stared at Trewe's hands. What were the police saying? Do they think she ran away? That she was involved with drugs and boys? Were they crazy?

A glance passed between Perstow and Trewe. He nodded and looked at Ruth. "Mrs. Butler, we'll do everything in our power to get your daughter back to you. You must allow us to do our job."

"She did not run away, she does not do drugs, she has no boyfriend and no enemies. Does that answer all your questions?"

"Sergeant Perstow will take you home, Mrs. Butler."

"No."

"No?"

"I want to know how you plan to find my daughter." She heard the breathless panic in her own voice.

"Mrs. Butler ..." Trewe hesitated as he studied her. At last, he turned to Perstow. "The area's been secured?"

"Yes, sar."

"Scenes of Crime Office came immediately?"

"The whole area'd been trampled by the time they arrived but SOCO worked as fast as the tide would allow." Perstow bobbed his head as he spoke. His accent was thick. His "sir" sounded like "sar" and while his "s" sounded like a "z", he pronounced his "th" like a "d."

A huge weight crushed Ruth inside. Her breath came in gasps. She coughed to clear her throat. Don't fall apart now, missy. "You suspect foul play. You suspect someone's taken her."

"We take every precaution in situations such as this, Mrs. Butler," Trewe said. "When a young girl goes missing, it is important we do what we do, quickly. I can reassure you, usually there's a logical explanation. I don't want you to worry overmuch. We are doing everything possible."

Ruth swallowed. Get a hold of yourself. He won't listen if you fall apart. The two police officers stared at her. Did her presence constrain them?

As if he had read her mind, the ice-eyed man said, "It'd be best if you were home."

Ruth took a moment to stand, and even then, she was not sure her legs would support her. She wanted to sink to the floor right there, but she jerked herself upright, chin up. "Fine. I'll be at home."

***

Trewe looked at the clock on the wall. Several hours had passed since the child's disappearance. So many things can happen in a moment. He didn't like to think of it.

Perstow came back into the office and picked up another stack of files. "I'll have these sorted soon enough, sar."

"Perstow, what do you think happened to the girl?"

"Heaven forbid someone took her, sar."

"I'm going to tell you something that no one else is to hear for gossip's sake. But for the record, I was at that beach this morning."

Perstow's broad face registered shock. "You were there?"

"But I saw nothing, as God is my witness, of this girl, Annie. I recall thinking that it was strange that the little girl, Dot, was there alone. I often stop for a moment at the top of the wall before I come to work. Today was not much different than any other day. That is, until I received the call about the missing girl."

"I see, sar."

"If it comes up, I won't hide the fact. I simply don't see any relevance." Trewe laid a chart across the district map on his desk. He studied it for a moment, then looked up at Perstow. "It was hard getting the mother to listen, wasn't it?"

"Annie is a good girl, sar."

"You know her?"

"She would speak if we passed."

Trewe shook his head. "Tell me what you know of the mother."

"Well, she lived here for some years before anyone knew her a-tall."

"What do you mean?"

"Kept herself to herself. Save for sending the girl for school, no one ever saw Mrs. Butler until a few years ago, when she volunteered at the church."

"So you haven't spoken to her before today?"

"I wouldn't go that far, sar. She sort of came out of her shell, you might say, here about a year ago. I don't know that I'd noticed her before then. We would speak after church services. A few months ago, she helped run one of the booths at the fete. And I saw her at the hall later. She was dancing."

"Who with?"

"Well, if ye must know, me, for one. She was only being friendly, not picking anyone in particular."

"Flirting?"

"No, definitely not. I asked her to dance."

Trewe pursed his lips, thinking, then said, "She's American. There's something she's holding back, Perstow. Knowing the villagers as you do, do you have any idea what she might be hiding?"

"I have no idea, sar."

"I intend to find out. Perstow, prepare a team. Alert the coast guard. Put out an Amber Alert. Let's jack this thing up!"