The office of DI Robert Lewis and DS James Hathaway was unusually quiet. The two men were studying the screens of their respective computers, pointedly ignoring each other. The air was heavy with the stony silence.
At last, Hathaway spoke.
"All I'm saying is either you forget to water them completely and they die or you water them far too often and they run over. And then there's water on the shelf and on the floor and everywhere else, leaves falling off into everything, dirt on the procedures manuals—can't we just get fake plants that don't cause all these problems?"
Lewis glared at him, extremely cross. "I like my plants, and besides, some of them were gifts. Just because you can't keep anything alive for two minutes . . ."
"No, Sir, it's the mess and bother. There's no sunlight in here, in case you hadn't noticed. Real plants don't stand a chance. You're constantly chucking out the dead ones and bringing in new ones." Hathaway suddenly shot him a fiendish grin. "I think it shows you're afraid of commitment."
Lewis sat up straighter, seriously indignant. But before he could speak, the telephone rang.
"Yeah, Lewis." He continued to glare at Hathaway. But as he listened, his mien softened, saddened, and finally fell into an emotionless mask. "Okay."
Hathaway's demeanor changed, too, recognizing that once again human tragedy was to dominate their lives for a while, and their verbal sparring would be put aside.
Lewis put down the phone. "Missing child. From what the neighbors told her, the mother thinks the child got in a car and was taken away. We have a partial registration but probably not enough to pinpoint. Or else, some of the numbers are wrong."
Hathaway frowned at this assignment. Nonetheless, they were soon on their way to the flat where the mother was staying.
Jenny Taylor was the divorced, mid-forties mother of eight-year-old Christie Taylor, the missing girl. She told them a neighbor reported seeing Christie get into a late-model, white sedan with a registration that ended in "GBX." The neighbor had not thought anything of it until Jenny came around two hours later, asking if anyone had seen Christie. Not only was that not much to go on, but according to DVLA, there were no late-model, white sedans with registrations ending in "GBX." Hathaway noticed that Lewis dominated the interaction with Jenny, sending his sergeant to interview neighbors and organize the house-to-house.
Jenny brought a photograph of Christie down from a shelf. The girl had her mother's wavy blonde hair. Jenny calmly described her daughter and what had happened that day, starting with breakfast and ending at the point she realized Christie had been gone far too long. But Lewis could tell she was merely doing a good job of keeping the fear out of her voice, and when her words caught in her throat, he put his hand on her arm.
"It's okay to cry if you're afraid, Jenny." His words released a flood of tears, and she buried her face in his chest. He put an arm around her until she was able to regain control, and she stood back, embarrassed.
"I'm so sorry, Inspector, really. I just . . . just . . ."
He handed her his handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes and nose. "She wouldn't have gone with a stranger, Inspector. And there's no one in Oxford she knows." She fought back more tears. "There's no one in Oxford I know, either. God, I feel so alone!"
He looked her directly in the eyes. "Jenny. Call us if you need anything, okay?" He gave her his card.
She thought a moment. "Your accent—you're not from here, either, are you?"
Lewis smiled warmly. "I've lived in Oxford a long time but I s'pose I still can't say I'm from here. Aye, you're right. Newcastle, born and bred."
"Oh, the North. I thought as much. Thank you, Inspector, you're really very kind."
When they reconnoitered back at the office, Hathaway could not help noticing that, whenever he was not focused on something concrete, Lewis bore a bit of a secret smile.
"Nice woman, that Jenny Taylor," Hathaway proposed when Lewis was absently gazing off into space.
"Oh, aye." Lewis remained unfocused.
Hathaway smiled. Might have hit the mark on that one. Over the years, he had learned the most effective technique for weaseling information out of Lewis when he was less than forthcoming. Quit while you're ahead. He tried a new tack.
"So why is she in Oxford? Didn't she say they were from Shrewsbury?"
"You could read her statement, Sergeant. She just got a job in London and she's staying at her sister's flat, using it as a place to stay while she works at finding a flat in the City. The sister's off in Europe and they both benefit from her staying there in the meantime." He tried to assess where Hathaway was going with this.
"I've read the statement, Sir, I was wondering what you thought of it."
"Y'mean, you think she's lying?"
"Maybe just being economical with the truth, Sir. One of the neighbors said she has a frequent gentleman caller. And those bruises on her arms, I'm sure you noticed those. If she's divorced, she can't have a brutish husband around to give her those."
"Yeah, I saw those."
"And you didn't ask about them?"
"She wouldn't have told us the truth about them, women never do." He stood up. "Right. I've got to put out the appeal. Make yourself useful while I'm gone, alright?"