Free Foxglove Summer by Ben Aaronovitch Page B

that was all he’d like to get back to the search now, thank you very much. Then, either not noticing or ignoring his wife’s angry look, he got up and left.
    I’d have liked a chance to talk with Cole about Joanne’s hesitation, but Cole obviously didn’t want to leave her alone. I wondered if I should press Joanne on the subject myself, but I figured it would be a mistake to pre-empt a senior officer. It was probably nothing . . . but that sounded a little bit too much like famous last words.
    ‘He’s not dealing with it,’ said Joanne when her husband was safely gone. ‘He’s just keeping himself busy.’
    ‘I’m not sure there is actually a way to “deal” with it, Jo,’ said Cole.
    ‘Peter,’ Joanne said suddenly, and turned to me. ‘Truthfully – what are the chances?’
    Now Cole was staring at me, too – no pressure there.
    ‘I think the chances are good,’ I said.
    ‘Why?’ Joanne’s eyes were wide, desperate.
    ‘Because they went out together,’ I said. ‘If someone had harmed them locally we’d have a lead by now. And if it was someone from outside we’d have sightings of them coming in.’
    Joanne subsided. It was all bollocks, of course. Not even very plausible bollocks at that. But I didn’t think Joanne wanted facts – just an excuse to hold it together.
    It left a bad taste in my mouth, though.
    A phone rang, the fake old-fashioned telephone ringtone that comes as standard on most phones. It rang three times before I remembered that I’d switched it over from my usual tone – the Empire Strikes Back theme, because you didn’t want that going off in front of a distressed family member – and I had to scramble to answer the call before the voicemail cut in.
    When I answered, a cheerful woman asked me to confirm that I was Peter Grant. When I did, she informed me that she was DCI Windrow’s Personal Assistant and could I come in, because the chief inspector would like to have a word.
    ‘When?’ I asked.
    ‘Just as soon as you can get here,’ she said.

 
    4
    The Falcon Assessment
    The first thing I noticed was that somebody, contrary to Health and Safety regulations, had jimmied the windows in Leominster nick so that they opened all the way out. Given the inquiry offices were all on the first floor, they got a surprising amount of breeze – I figured that, and a truly stupendous amount of caffeinated beverages, was all that was holding the MIU together. I seriously doubted the vibrating chairs were making much of a contribution.
    Edmondson and Windrow were waiting for me in the Learning Zone again. They asked me to sit down and offered me some cold water – which I took gratefully. I resisted the urge to rub the bottle against my forehead.
    ‘How are you finding it?’ asked Windrow.
    ‘Sir?’ I asked.
    ‘The operation,’ he said. ‘How do you think it’s going?’
    Nothing unnerves a junior officer quite as much as having a much senior officer stare over a desk and ask your opinion on something. It’s always tempting to fall back on that strangled mixture of cop-speak and management-ese that has proved the modern police officer’s friend when he wants to talk a great deal and say nothing. Still, from the look in Windrow’s eyes, blurting out that I thought that West Mercia Police were taking an aggressively proactive approach in line with best practice as laid down in national guidelines was not the way to go.
    ‘As well as can be expected,’ I said, which was almost as bad.
    Windrow nodded benignly – a gesture I’ve seen interviewing officers use on suspects dozens of times.
    ‘What’s your impression of the Marstowes?’ he asked.
    ‘They’re hanging in there,’ I said.
    ‘There’s no possibility that they might have orchestrated the disappearance?’ asked Windrow.
    God, I thought. But as a theory it certainly had its attractions.
    ‘Is there some evidence that they might have?’ I asked.
    Windrow shook his head.
    ‘Oh, congratulations by