Missing, Presumed Read Online Free PDF

mouths in white clouds. You can tell they’re the locals because of the suits and the polished shoes – national press are scruffy. Chinos with round-neck jumpers in jaunty colours if they’re broadsheet; rumpled suits that fall at the shoulder and concertina into creases at the base of the jacket if they’re tabloid. Local reporters, on the other hand, have to live among their subjects: attend their council meetings, Christmas fairs and sports days. A pressed suit’s the least they can do.
    Davy sees DS Bradshaw’s preposterous car pull up just beyond the men, on the opposite kerb. A Seventies Citroën – long nose, sagging leather seats, spindly steering wheel with gear stick to the side. She’s convinced it makes her look like Audrey Hepburn, but behind her back, the DCs at the station make reference to Inspector Clouseau, putting on exaggerated French accents and saying, ‘In the neme of the leur’ while watching from the window as she parks. Davy doesn’t care about impressions. He hates travelling in her car because it’s always cold, often doesn’t start and smells vaguely of wet dog. Thank God it’s usually him driving, her on the phone, in a warm and anonymous unmarked police vehicle.
    ‘C’mon, tell us something,’ says one of the reporters at the gate, but Davy pushes past him.
    ‘How long’s she been missing?’ asks another. ‘Any signs of a struggle? Has she been kidnapped?’
    ‘I’m sure there’ll be a briefing soon,’ says Davy, careful not to meet their eye.
    He ducks into Manon’s car and looks at her, but she’s counting up the men at the gate through the smears on the windscreen.
    Yes, she’s grumpy, but a skinny latte soon takes the edge off her, most days, anyhow – like throwing a steak into the lion enclosure. He wishes he had one to offer her now but instead he has to watch, unarmed, as she squints into the shards of broken sun. He rubs his hands together and blows into them.
    Perhaps it’s her age that’s making her bad-tempered and he can understand that. She must be at least thirty-nine, the loneliness rising off her like a mist. He’d be the same if he didn’t have Chloe. He’s seen Manon, more than once, red-eyed coming out of the second floor toilets and his heart goes out to her on those occasions, watching her hurriedly wipe the snot away and try to act normal. Well, pissed off, which is normal. Him and Manon, though – somehow it works, he doesn’t know how, and this seems to rankle Chloe. Even now, pulling down on his seatbelt, Davy’s face falls as he remembers the time he described Manon as ‘good in a crisis’.
    ‘Good how?’ Chloe asked, trying to seem casual about it but he knew all about ‘casual’ and its parameters. Chloe’s questioning could put CID to shame. ‘You share a joke, do you? Manon make you laugh much, does she? D’you think she blow-dries her hair, then, before coming in?’ Whenever Davy makes a positive comment about her – and Davy works hard at being positive about pretty much everything – Chloe’s face can darken as fast as the April sky.
    ‘She sometimes sees things that others don’t,’ he’d said on this particular occasion, shovel in hand, cheerfully digging himself deeper into the pit. ‘Makes connections. Bit left-field sometimes.’
    ‘Well, I don’t see how that’s any more than most women have got – intuition. I mean, I can make connections between things if I want to,’ Chloe said, then barely talked to him the rest of the day.
    Manon puts the car in gear, her eyes still on the men, saying, ‘Four. Just the locals.’
    ‘Course it’s the locals. Still early doors.’
    ‘Won’t be long before they ring the tabs. This time of year, missing girl. Nothing like a festive stiff to warm the cockles of your front page.’
    ‘She’s probably just got a new boyfriend – done a runner,’ says Davy.
    ‘Leaving her phone and keys and the door wide open? I don’t even go to the toilet without my