it. I know …’ She rolled her eyes at Thorne and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
Thorne lay on the bed, nudged the volume on the TV back up. The reporter was talking to the studio again.
‘It’s hard to describe the atmosphere here tonight,’ she said. ‘There’s certainly a lot of anger.’
Thorne could hear Helen talking in the bathroom, but could not make out what she was saying.
The reporter was winding up, the crowd behind her larger now than it had been minutes before, the wind whipping at the ends of her scarf. Her voice was measured, nicely dramatic. ‘With two girls still missing and one of their own being questioned in connection with their abduction, the tension round here is palpable.’ She threw a look over her shoulder. ‘This is a community in shock.’
Thorne watched as the woman attempted to sign off, struggling to make herself heard above raised voices from nearby. Something about ‘our girls’ and ‘justice being done’. Something about stringing the bastard up.
He reached behind him, punched up the pillow.
It was not the holiday he’d had in mind.
TWO
They drove towards the M40, north through Oxfordshire on small roads crowded with mud-caked Chelsea Tractors, negotiating Saturday morning shoppers as they skirted Banbury. The bad weather had not let up since they’d set off. It was certainly looking like they would be on the road for rather more than the hour and a half it might have taken the night before.
‘A week in the sun’s sounding better than ever,’ Thorne said. He turned from the curtain of rain draping itself across the bonnet of the BMW and glanced across at Helen in the passenger seat. ‘What about Portugal? Or Tenerife, maybe?’ Another look. ‘Dave Holland’s always banging on about Tenerife.’
Helen just nodded, her gaze fixed on the shops and houses, the rain-lashed walls and hedges that drifted past. Since checking out of the hotel, after a disappointing breakfast and a tetchy exchange with the hotel manager, she had said very little. She had spent half an hour on the phone before breakfast making arrangements, but since then had seemed preoccupied. As determined as ever to make the trip, but clearly apprehensive about what awaited them when they reached their destination.
On the radio, the news led with the latest from Polesford.
Police were still refusing to confirm the identity of the man they had taken into custody but were, they said, continuing to question him. A senior officer made a short statement. He said that further information would be released, but only when the time was right. Echoing the reporter from the previous night’s television news, the correspondent talked at some length about the atmosphere in the town.
Anger, fear, profound shock.
Above all, she said, there was an overwhelming sense from the residents that theirs was not the sort of town where things like this happened.
Back in the studio, they began to talk about the latest unemployment figures and Thorne turned the sound down. ‘So, come on then, which is it?’ he asked. ‘A small town or a large village? You always talk like it’s a tiny place.’
After a few seconds, Helen turned to look at him as though she had failed to hear the question. Thorne shook his head to let her know it wasn’t important. He switched from the radio to the iPod connection and cued up some Lucinda Williams. He nudged the wiper speed up, spoke as much to himself as to Helen.
Said, ‘Yeah, bit of sun sounds good.’
Ten minutes later, making slow progress on the crowded motorway, Helen turned and said, ‘It’s actually a small market town. We lived in one of the villages just outside. There’s a couple of them a mile or two in each direction.’
‘Sounds nice,’ Thorne said.
‘It’s not like where we were yesterday.’
‘No antiques shops to mooch around in?’
She barked out a laugh. ‘Hardly. It’s like the Cotswolds, only without men in garish
Thorne lay on the bed, nudged the volume on the TV back up. The reporter was talking to the studio again.
‘It’s hard to describe the atmosphere here tonight,’ she said. ‘There’s certainly a lot of anger.’
Thorne could hear Helen talking in the bathroom, but could not make out what she was saying.
The reporter was winding up, the crowd behind her larger now than it had been minutes before, the wind whipping at the ends of her scarf. Her voice was measured, nicely dramatic. ‘With two girls still missing and one of their own being questioned in connection with their abduction, the tension round here is palpable.’ She threw a look over her shoulder. ‘This is a community in shock.’
Thorne watched as the woman attempted to sign off, struggling to make herself heard above raised voices from nearby. Something about ‘our girls’ and ‘justice being done’. Something about stringing the bastard up.
He reached behind him, punched up the pillow.
It was not the holiday he’d had in mind.
TWO
They drove towards the M40, north through Oxfordshire on small roads crowded with mud-caked Chelsea Tractors, negotiating Saturday morning shoppers as they skirted Banbury. The bad weather had not let up since they’d set off. It was certainly looking like they would be on the road for rather more than the hour and a half it might have taken the night before.
‘A week in the sun’s sounding better than ever,’ Thorne said. He turned from the curtain of rain draping itself across the bonnet of the BMW and glanced across at Helen in the passenger seat. ‘What about Portugal? Or Tenerife, maybe?’ Another look. ‘Dave Holland’s always banging on about Tenerife.’
Helen just nodded, her gaze fixed on the shops and houses, the rain-lashed walls and hedges that drifted past. Since checking out of the hotel, after a disappointing breakfast and a tetchy exchange with the hotel manager, she had said very little. She had spent half an hour on the phone before breakfast making arrangements, but since then had seemed preoccupied. As determined as ever to make the trip, but clearly apprehensive about what awaited them when they reached their destination.
On the radio, the news led with the latest from Polesford.
Police were still refusing to confirm the identity of the man they had taken into custody but were, they said, continuing to question him. A senior officer made a short statement. He said that further information would be released, but only when the time was right. Echoing the reporter from the previous night’s television news, the correspondent talked at some length about the atmosphere in the town.
Anger, fear, profound shock.
Above all, she said, there was an overwhelming sense from the residents that theirs was not the sort of town where things like this happened.
Back in the studio, they began to talk about the latest unemployment figures and Thorne turned the sound down. ‘So, come on then, which is it?’ he asked. ‘A small town or a large village? You always talk like it’s a tiny place.’
After a few seconds, Helen turned to look at him as though she had failed to hear the question. Thorne shook his head to let her know it wasn’t important. He switched from the radio to the iPod connection and cued up some Lucinda Williams. He nudged the wiper speed up, spoke as much to himself as to Helen.
Said, ‘Yeah, bit of sun sounds good.’
Ten minutes later, making slow progress on the crowded motorway, Helen turned and said, ‘It’s actually a small market town. We lived in one of the villages just outside. There’s a couple of them a mile or two in each direction.’
‘Sounds nice,’ Thorne said.
‘It’s not like where we were yesterday.’
‘No antiques shops to mooch around in?’
She barked out a laugh. ‘Hardly. It’s like the Cotswolds, only without men in garish