Little Face Read Free Page A

person's fault and truly believe it.
    `What? What is it?' he asked Charlie, skipping the pleasantries. He
felt hollow, as if someone had taken a large scoop out of him.
    `Have a fag.' She opened her packet of Marlboro Lights and thrust
it at his face.
    `Just tell me.'
    `I will, if you'll keep calm.'
    `For fuck's sake! What's happened?' Simon knew he couldn't hide
his panic from Charlie, which made him even angrier.
    `Would you care to amend your tone, detective?' She pulled rank whenever it suited her. One minute she was Simon's friend and confidante, the next she was reminding him of her superior status. Warmth
and coldness were modes she could switch on or off at a second's
notice. Simon felt like a creature squirming on a small glass slide. He
was the matter upon which Charlie was conducting a long-term experiment, trying radically different approaches in quick succession: caring, flirty, distant. Result of experiment: subject permanently confused
and uncomfortable.

    It would be easier to work for a man. For two years, Simon had
armed himself, privately, with the idea that he could request a transfer to another sergeant's team. He had never got as far as doing it,
needing the thought that he could make the change at any time more
than he needed the change itself. Charlie was an efficient skipper. She
looked after his interests. Simon knew why, and was determined not
to feel guilty; her reasons were her business and should be no concern
of his. Was it superstitious to believe that the minute he no longer had
her protection, he would urgently need it?
    `I'm sorry,' he said. `Sorry. Please, just tell me.'
    `David Fancourt is in interview room 2 with Proust.'
    `What? Why?' Simon's imagination wrestled with the jarring image
of Inspector Giles Proust face to face with a civilian. An actual person,
one who hadn't been reduced to a name in a sergeant's report, tidied
into a typeface. In Simon's experience, unusual meant bad. It could
mean very bad. Every nerve ending in his body was on full alert.
    `You weren't here, I wasn't here-Proust was the only person in the
CID room at the time, so Proust got him.'
    `Why's he come in?'
    Charlie took a deep breath. `I wish you'd have a fag,' she said.
    Simon took one to shut her up. `Just tell me-am I in trouble?'
    `Well, now. . . 'Her eyes narrowed. `Isn't that an interesting question? Why would you be in trouble?'
    `Charlie, stop jerking me around. Why's Fancourt here?'
    `He came in to report his wife and daughter missing.'

    `What?' The words stunned Simon, like a brick wall in the face.
Then the sense of what Charlie was telling him sunk in. Alice and the
baby were missing. No. They couldn't be.
    `That's all I know. We'll have to wait for Proust to tell us the rest.
Fancourt's been here nearly an hour. Jack Zlosnik's on the desk. Fancourt told him that his wife and baby daughter disappeared last night.
There was no note, and he's heard nothing since. He's phoned everyone he can think of-nothing.'
    Simon couldn't see straight. Everything had become a blur. He
tried to push past Charlie, but she grabbed his arm. `Hey, slow down.
Where are you going?'
    `To find Fancourt, find out what the fuck's going on.' Rage bubbled
inside him. What had that bastard done to Alice? He had to know,
now. He would demand to know.
    `So you're just going to storm in to Proust's interview, are you?'
    `If I fucking have to!'
    Charlie tightened her grip on him. `One day your temper's going to
lose you your job. I'm fed up of supervising your every move to make
sure you don't fuck up.' She'd care more than I did if they kicked me
out, Simon thought. It was one of his safety barriers. When Charlie
wanted something it happened. Usually.
    Three bobbies kept their eyes down on their way into the station.
They couldn't get through the double doors fast enough. Simon shook
his arm free, mumbling an apology. He disliked the idea that he was
causing a scene. Charlie was right. It was