Missing, Presumed: A Novel by Susie Steiner

Author:Susie Steiner [Steiner, Susie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Literary, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, British Detectives, Thrillers & Suspense, Crime, Literary Fiction, British & Irish, Psychological, Crime Fiction, Traditional Detectives
ISBN: 0812998324
Amazon: B0165I3V06
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2016-06-28T05:00:00+00:00

MIRIAM

“IAAAAN!” SHE SHOUTS UP THE stairs as she makes for the front door, rubbing her hands and thinking she must put the heating on. Their thermostat timer has not been adjusted to all these bodies being home during the daytime.

Miriam opens the front door and there is DS Bradshaw, a rumpled mass of black clothing, a capacious bag dropping off one shoulder. Her curls are pushed back from her forehead. She half-smiles a hello.

“Do come in,” says Miriam, stepping back. “Gosh, it’s freezing. Come on in, yes, that’s it, follow the corridor straight down to the kitchen.”

DS Bradshaw walks ahead of her, Miriam following and saying, “Tea?”

“Lovely, yes, thanks,” says the officer, allowing her bag to slip to the floor beside the kitchen table. “Glad to see the photographers have gone.”

“Yes, we are no longer of interest, thank God,” says Miriam, filling the kettle at the tap. “For the time being, at least. The last of them sloped off on New Year’s Eve but it was only the stragglers, to be honest.”

DS Bradshaw takes off her coat, laying it gently over the back of the padded banquette and revealing only more black formless clothing. Perhaps they have to be constantly prepared for death—harbingers at the ready!

Ian walks in. “DS Bradshaw,” he says, offering his hand. His voice these days has no uplift, no spring of humor behind it, which Miriam had always so loved in his greetings.

“Call me Manon, please.”

“Yes, Manon, of course.”

“Tea, darling?” says Miriam.

“Why not?”

“Can you call Rollo down?”

“Yes, of course,” says Ian. “He’s frantically tweeting and Facebook-ing,” he says by way of explanation, and he disappears again to look for their son.

Miriam places a tea in front of Manon, who looks up at her, and her face is lit by the window opposite—an angry left eye, swollen, pink-sheened, and half shut.

“You’d better treat that, sooner rather than later, by the looks of it. Conjunctivitis,” Miriam says, adopting her GP no-arguing voice. “Very simple—buy some chloramphenicol eyedrops over the counter. It’ll clear up in a day. But make sure you finish the course. There, sermon over.”

“I thought it might clear up by itself.”

“Unlikely.”

“How are you bearing up, Lady Hind?”

“My name’s Miriam, my dear,” she says. “And I’m not bearing up at all. Do you have any news for us?”

“Not about Edith’s whereabouts. We have some leads….”

“Leads?” says Ian, settling, with Rollo, in the chairs opposite Miriam and Manon.

Manon stretches out her hand. “Nice to see you again, Rollo. I hear you’re running a formidable social-media campaign.”

“Much good it’s doing. There’s a lot of online emoting,” says Rollo, “often by strangers, which I know I should find comforting but is really quite creepy.”

They smile and sip. In the sad silence of the kitchen, a fly fizzes against the glass of the window. Tap, fizz, tap.

“So…leads, you said,” says Ian.

“Well, not exactly leads,” says the sergeant. “Possible links that need exploring. We found a body.” Then she swiftly adds, “No, not Edith. A boy—a seventeen-year-old called Taylor Dent.”

“Oh, his poor mother,” says Miriam, her palm across her mouth.

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