costume, the sort a professional performer might wear rather than some improvised outfit like Della’s. He looked at Gerry and felt a sudden pang of sympathy. No amount of reassurance, no repetition of the fact that most people who go missing turn up again within a short time, can calm the fears of a parent. He was one himself. He knew.
The two men had lunch in the office, a sandwich brought to the desk by one of the DCs drafted in from Neston to help out. They worked on, allocating jobs, receiving reports and examining any statements the junior officers thought worth bringing to their attention. A huge whiteboard took up one wall of the office. On it were pictures of the dead woman and the dinghy which had served as her floating hearse. Gerry had scrawled lists of things to action: missing persons reports; house-to-house inquiries; interviews with local and visiting yachtsmen and anybody else who used the river. Someone must have seen something.
One of the detective constables had been given the task of contacting the theatrical costumiers who’d made the victim’s gown but it was Sunday so there had been no answer. Wesley told her to try again tomorrow.
Gerry didn’t fancy walking up the steep hill which led to St Leonard’s Church Hall so they drove there in one of the pool cars. Gerry said nothing during the short journey. Rosie hadn’t even been gone for twenty-four hours; officially, it was far too early to start worrying. But since there was a killer about, a killer who had already strangled a young woman and set her dead body adrift on the river, Wesley understood his concern. In spite of outward appearances, he knew Gerry was as vulnerable as the next man. Perhaps more so at times like this because, since his late wife Kathy’s death, he already knew what it was to lose someone he loved.
They arrived at the church hall just before the rehearsal was due to start. It was quiet up there at the top of the town, away from the throngs of people and the boats jostling on the crowded water. When they emerged from the car all they could hear was birdsong and faint traffic noise from the main road nearby.
The double doors of the church hall were unlocked and Gerry went ahead and pushed them open impatiently. Wesley knew he was hoping Rosie would be there, perhaps a little annoyed that her father was making a fuss. But when they stepped inside there was no sign of her, only a pile of instrument cases lying on a long table and three people – two men and a small young woman with unruly dark curls – sitting at the far corner of the room by an open refreshment hatch. They looked as though they were waiting for something. Or someone.
The doors swung closed behind the two policemen and the people in the corner looked round.
‘Can I help you?’ The man who spoke was in his forties, older than the others, tall and athletic with thick steel-grey hair; he wore a striped shirt and chinos and an air of effortless authority. His dark eyebrows were raised inquiringly. It was obvious he thought these intruders would apologise and leave, but they were about to disappoint him.
Wesley walked into the room, holding out his warrant card. ‘We’re looking for an Ursula Brunning.’
The dark-haired girl stepped forward, giving the older man a nervous glance. ‘That’s me. Have you come about Kassia?’
Before Wesley could answer the question, Gerry posed one of his own. ‘Has anyone heard from Rosie Heffernan?’
Wesley could see his professional shell was cracking. He was looking at the group anxiously, willing them to come up with the answer he wanted.
‘Not since last night.’ The older man looked at his watch. ‘She should have been here by now.’
Gerry hesitated. Then he drew himself up to his full height. ‘I’m her dad. She was supposed to be staying at mine last night but she never turned up.’
The man’s lips curved upwards slightly. ‘She probably had a better offer. She is a grown woman.’
Wesley
The two men had lunch in the office, a sandwich brought to the desk by one of the DCs drafted in from Neston to help out. They worked on, allocating jobs, receiving reports and examining any statements the junior officers thought worth bringing to their attention. A huge whiteboard took up one wall of the office. On it were pictures of the dead woman and the dinghy which had served as her floating hearse. Gerry had scrawled lists of things to action: missing persons reports; house-to-house inquiries; interviews with local and visiting yachtsmen and anybody else who used the river. Someone must have seen something.
One of the detective constables had been given the task of contacting the theatrical costumiers who’d made the victim’s gown but it was Sunday so there had been no answer. Wesley told her to try again tomorrow.
Gerry didn’t fancy walking up the steep hill which led to St Leonard’s Church Hall so they drove there in one of the pool cars. Gerry said nothing during the short journey. Rosie hadn’t even been gone for twenty-four hours; officially, it was far too early to start worrying. But since there was a killer about, a killer who had already strangled a young woman and set her dead body adrift on the river, Wesley understood his concern. In spite of outward appearances, he knew Gerry was as vulnerable as the next man. Perhaps more so at times like this because, since his late wife Kathy’s death, he already knew what it was to lose someone he loved.
They arrived at the church hall just before the rehearsal was due to start. It was quiet up there at the top of the town, away from the throngs of people and the boats jostling on the crowded water. When they emerged from the car all they could hear was birdsong and faint traffic noise from the main road nearby.
The double doors of the church hall were unlocked and Gerry went ahead and pushed them open impatiently. Wesley knew he was hoping Rosie would be there, perhaps a little annoyed that her father was making a fuss. But when they stepped inside there was no sign of her, only a pile of instrument cases lying on a long table and three people – two men and a small young woman with unruly dark curls – sitting at the far corner of the room by an open refreshment hatch. They looked as though they were waiting for something. Or someone.
The doors swung closed behind the two policemen and the people in the corner looked round.
‘Can I help you?’ The man who spoke was in his forties, older than the others, tall and athletic with thick steel-grey hair; he wore a striped shirt and chinos and an air of effortless authority. His dark eyebrows were raised inquiringly. It was obvious he thought these intruders would apologise and leave, but they were about to disappoint him.
Wesley walked into the room, holding out his warrant card. ‘We’re looking for an Ursula Brunning.’
The dark-haired girl stepped forward, giving the older man a nervous glance. ‘That’s me. Have you come about Kassia?’
Before Wesley could answer the question, Gerry posed one of his own. ‘Has anyone heard from Rosie Heffernan?’
Wesley could see his professional shell was cracking. He was looking at the group anxiously, willing them to come up with the answer he wanted.
‘Not since last night.’ The older man looked at his watch. ‘She should have been here by now.’
Gerry hesitated. Then he drew himself up to his full height. ‘I’m her dad. She was supposed to be staying at mine last night but she never turned up.’
The man’s lips curved upwards slightly. ‘She probably had a better offer. She is a grown woman.’
Wesley
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