“Tell me about the last time you saw your daughter, Mr. Forman.”
“I told you—it was in a beaten-up old car being driven north on the M1 between junctions 19 and 21.”
“We both know that’s not possible, Mr. Forman.”
“Do we?”
“You called your house at 6:13 p.m. You claim to have seen your daughter about ten minutes before this and yet we know that your wife and daughter were already dead by this point.”
“No.” He had shaken his head. The effort made it throb. A constant headache that had been festering for days. Pressure. All the pressure building up. Why wouldn’t they listen to him? They had got it wrong. All wrong.
“Mr. Forman. We appreciate how difficult this is.”
“No, you don’t. You keep telling me my wife and daughter are dead, but I saw her. My little girl is out there. There’s been a mistake.”
“There is no mistake, Mr. Forman. Now, can you tell us your whereabouts between 4 p.m. and 6 p.m. on April 11?”
Silence.
“You didn’t go into work that day. So, where were you? We can track your mobile, so you might as well tell us. Where were you when your wife and daughter were murdered?”
* * *
—
DI MADDOCK REGARDED him now with her pale, appraising gaze. Not an unattractive woman, but something about the insipid color of her eyes, platinum hair and pale skin give her a chill appearance. Like a stone angel, he thought. No soft edges or warmth. He could throw out the cliché about it being her job, but he suspected that her coolness had more to do with her personality than with her profession. He bet she even greeted her mother with a curt handshake.
“So,” she said. “I was hoping you might have taken that camper van of yours, hopped onto a ferry and gone somewhere hot and sunny.”
“Given up, you mean?”
“Moved on.”
“I do move on, every day.”
She looked him up and down. “And how’s that working out for you, Gabriel?”
He shifted. “I would have thought a knifing was a bit small-time for you. Or have they downgraded you from Homicide?”
“Nope. But some people I like to keep tabs on. When your name cropped up on PNC, it was brought to my attention and I thought I’d make a personal visit.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She took out a notebook. “So what exactly happened?”
He reached for the glass of water beside the bed and took a sip. His throat felt suddenly dry.
“I was attacked.”
“In your camper van?”
“Yes.”
“And your assailant ran off with your bag, containing your laptop, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you describe your assailant?”
“Mid-twenties. Short, stocky. Wearing a police uniform.”
“You’re saying a police officer stabbed you?”
“No. I’m saying he was wearing a police uniform.”
“Doesn’t sound like your typical opportunist thief.”
“I’m not sure he was.”
“How d’you mean?”
“I saw him in the café, before the attack.”
More note-taking. “Okay, I can ask some of the staff. They might remember him.”
“What about CCTV?”
“We’re looking into that, but if this was planned, your assailant probably knows how to avoid being caught on camera.” A keener look. “You think he targeted you? Why?”
Gabe stared back at her. Because of what he had found. Because he had got too close to the truth. To Izzy. And he was pretty sure if he said that, then DI Maddock would snap her notebook shut and walk out of here. On the other hand, what did he have to lose?
“I found something. Evidence that Izzy is alive.”
The notebook remained open. For now. But he sensed the effort it was taking for her not to roll her eyes.
“What evidence?”
“The car.”
“You found the car? Where?”
“It had been dumped, in a lake.”
“So why didn’t you call the police?”
“You never believed me before.”
“Not true. We believed there was a car. We even had witnesses who saw a vehicle matching the description you gave driving erratically on the M1 that evening.”
“So why didn’t the driver come forward?”
“Maybe they were drunk. Maybe they didn’t have tax, insurance. Could be any number of reasons. But the point is, it can’t have been Izzy you saw in it. Just another little girl who looked like her.”
“Why dump it, then?”
“Who knows? Maybe it was stolen.”
He felt the frustration rise, just like before. A feeling of helplessness, like a child trying to tell an adult that fairies really did exist.
“There were things in the car. A hair bobble just like Izzy’s. A Bible with these strange passages underlined. And a notebook. It had something written in it. ‘The Other People.’ ”
Her gaze became keener. “The Other People?”
“You’ve heard the name?”
She continued to stare at him, evaluating. “These items,” she said slowly. “I take it they were in the bag that was stolen?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t. That’s why I was attacked. They wanted to destroy the evidence.”
A deep sigh, conveying a faint whiff of mints and a stronger whiff of skepticism.
“What?” Gabe challenged. “You think I’m making all of this up? That I attacked myself?”
She didn’t reply and, suddenly, he was sure that that was exactly what she was thinking.
He sank back into the pillows. “For fuck’s sake.”
“Okay,” she said. “Tell me where the car is and I can at least get someone to tow it out of the lake.”
He hesitated. If he told her where the car was, they would find the body and then they would ask why he hadn’t mentioned the small matter of the decomposing corpse before.