All the Rage (DI Adam Fawley #4) - Cara Hunter Page 0,53
proceeded to call 999?
A. That’s right. I hung around with her till the police arrived. She was crying and that.
Q. And this is the young woman who has been identified to the court as Ms. Sheldon?
A. Yeah, that’s her.
MR. BARNES: I have no further questions, thank you.
* * *
Gis pulls the sheet off the printer and pins it up on the whiteboard. Behind him, the room is silent. It’s a picture of Sasha Blake. Pale clear skin, blue eyes, a swing of dark ponytail.
She looks just like Faith.
* * *
Adam Fawley
4 April 2018
13.45
Windermere Avenue can’t be more than half a mile from the Appleford house, and when Somer and I draw up outside the resemblance is even more pronounced. Even the net curtains are the same.
The door opens long before we get to the gate. A tall black woman with her hair in elaborate braids.
‘I’m Yasmin,’ she says, coming towards me, her hand extended. ‘Fiona’s neighbour. She’s inside.’
There are two more women in the small sitting room, one either side of Fiona Blake. She’s rocking slightly. Her face is tight with anxiety.
‘Mrs Blake? I’m Detective Inspector Adam Fawley. This is DC Erica Somer.’
The two other women get to their feet. They have that look we see so often in this job – half genuine concern and half immense relief that this particular nightmare hasn’t descended on them. They can’t get out of the place quick enough. ‘We’ll give you some space, Fiona,’ one of them says, backing towards the door. ‘We’ll pop back later. You know, just in case there’s anything we can do.’
When they’re gone, we take our seats; me on the sofa, Somer on the only chair. Judging from how she looks – how she smells – I don’t think Fiona Blake has even bothered to shower this morning. One of the uniforms must have asked her for a recent photo of her daughter because there’s a slew of snaps on the coffee table in front of us. Sasha as a toddler, her hair in jaunty bunches; in school uniform grinning from ear to ear; wearing a leotard, as skinny as a rake, holding up some sort of medal; and older, more contemporary shots on beaches, in the back garden, her arm round her mum. Smiling, relaxed. Happy.
‘Can you take us through what happened?’ says Somer softly. ‘When did you last see Sasha?’
The woman takes a breath that buckles into a sob. ‘Yesterday afternoon. When she got back from school. I made her a cup of tea and then I went to work.’
‘But you were expecting her to stay at home last night?’
She wipes her eyes and shakes her head. ‘No. She was going out with three of her friends. Just for an hour or so – it was a school night. But she’s very sensible. She wouldn’t stay out late.’
Somer takes out her notebook. ‘Can you tell me her friends’ names?’
‘Patsie Webb, Isabel Parker and Leah Waddell. Patsie’s here – in the kitchen – I asked her to come, after I called you. I knew you’d want to talk to her.’
‘When did you get home last night?’
‘Just after twelve. I work at a restaurant in town. We were really busy. There was a group in. Americans. One of those coach tour things.’
Somer makes a note. ‘And did you check Sasha’s room when you got back?’
Fiona puts her hand to her mouth; she has a tissue gripped in her fist but it’s starting to come apart and fragments of damp paper are shredding on to her clothes. ‘Yes, I did. But she said she might sleep over at Patsie’s so I didn’t worry. She’s done that for years. But she always comes home first thing. You know, to change and that before she goes to school.’
‘So it wasn’t till this morning you realized there was something wrong?’
She nods. ‘That’s when I tried to call her but her phone was off. And then I rang Patsie and Isabel but they said they hadn’t seen her since the night before.’
She starts to rock again. ‘I should have called Sash last night to make sure – I shouldn’t just have assumed –’
Somer reaches over and takes her gently by the hand. ‘It was gone midnight. Her phone would probably have been off even if you had called. You mustn’t blame yourself.’
I get to my feet and walk through to the back. In the kitchen, Yasmin has her arms round a teenage girl, holding her tight against her body. The girl’s narrow