The Reservoir Tapes. Jon McGregor
heard someone talk about expanding the search zone, which she guessed meant they had very little idea where the girl might be. It was going to be a long night. There were flashing blue lights outside, and helicopters overhead.
At one point Vicky saw the girl’s parents again, being escorted into the map room by a police officer. They weren’t in there for long, and were soon escorted out again and into a waiting car. A ripple of silence followed them through the building, as though people were afraid to say the wrong thing in their presence. She’d seen something like this before. The way people kept their distance, as if grief were contagious.
She wanted to go out to the car and tell them they weren’t alone. But they were, of course.
She realized that grief was probably the wrong word to use about what was happening just yet. But it had been hours already and the weather was only getting worse.
Irene arrived later in the evening, carrying bags of shopping into the tiny kitchen at the back of the visitor center. Right then, she said, unpacking the bags. It’s Vicky, isn’t it? I’ve got enough here for six dozen bacon cobs. I’ll slice, you spread.
She looked over at Graham, standing behind Irene. He shrugged, making a face to say that there was no point arguing. They’d got the hang of doing this, communicating with glances and nods, over the heads of colleagues and members of the public. They’d reached a kind of understanding. He passed her the butter, and reached up for the frying pans.
*
By morning there were police vans parked all along the verges down the lane. The road had been closed, and there were torchlights flashing through the beech wood across the way. There were dogs barking.
Graham and Vicky were outside, taking a break, sheltering from the rain under the entryway roof. The blue lights and the police radios were making her think of the night of the accident again. Graham asked if she was okay. She looked at him. She wanted a cigarette. She wanted a drink.
I’m fine, she said. Tired.
That would seem reasonable under the circumstances, he said.
They watched more cars pulling into the car park. A helicopter passed by overhead.
I’ve arranged for the Cardwell team to come and take over, he said. I think we’ve done our share. Could I perhaps interest you in some breakfast?
She smiled. She was very cold. Yes, Graham, she said. You can interest me in some breakfast.
*
When they got to the house, Vicky took a shower while Graham started cooking. She was trembling and she felt a little sick and she knew she needed to eat. These were her vulnerable moments. They’d talked about these at the group. She felt bad for worrying about herself, with everything that was going on, but she also knew she had no choice. At the group they talked about putting on your own oxygen mask first.
While she was drying herself she felt dizzy and she had to sit down. Graham had lent her an old fleece and a pair of walking trousers to wear. They smelled musty and they were too big but they were at least clean. She felt comfortable in them.
In the kitchen Graham was just putting the breakfast out on the table. The radio was on and they were talking about the missing girl.
Suits you, he said, glancing up at her outfit. She sat down.
She wanted to say something about the girl’s mother. She could feel her eyes starting to sting. She looked at him. There was a question in his expression but she couldn’t read it.
Tea’s in the pot, he said.
3: Deepak
The morning after the girl disappeared there were police going up and down the street, and journalists setting up in the market square. Deepak’s mum said there was no way he was doing his paper round that day.
It’s not safe, Dee Dee, she said. We don’t know what’s happening. You’re staying at home now. Anyone could be out there.
His mum still called him Dee Dee, sometimes. No one else dared.
His dad said there were that many police out there, the street was the safest place to be. He said people would be disappointed if they didn’t get their papers, and he opened the door for Deepak while the two of them were still arguing about it. Deepak headed out.
It was dark outside, and cold. He got his bike out of the shed. There was a misty drizzle that felt like it would soon turn to rain. He pushed his scarf up over his mouth and rode down to the shop to collect the papers. There were people everywhere. He usually had the street to himself, this early. He heard someone say there was a search being organized, up at the visitor center.
On the news, the police had said they wanted people to keep their eyes open. They wanted to know about anything unusual, any suspicious behavior, any changes in routine. Any detail could help, they said; no matter how small. It felt like they were talking to him personally. If there was anything to notice, he’d notice it. He was good at that. He knew about people’s routines. When he was doing his paper round he could always tell who was still in bed, who was having breakfast, who had gone out to work already; he noticed when anything was different. They should make him some kind of detective. Detective Chief Inspector. D.C.I. Deepak had a ring to it.
The Jackson house was the first on his round. Usually a couple of the Jacksons were out in the yard, moving sheep around in the stock shed or loading up the trailer. There was always a smell of bacon and cigarettes, and they never said hello. Place was quiet this morning, though. That was one change in routine to make a note of already.
Irene’s house was next, back up the main street. Her son had special needs and went to a different school. Her lights were always on when he got there, just like this morning, and there was always steam coming out of the tumble-dryer vent under the kitchen window, just like there was now. She was an early starter. Nothing to see here.
The butcher’s shop was empty. Mr. Fowler would usually be behind the counter, setting everything out, and would shout hello as Deepak pushed the paper through the letter box. He was friendlier than some. Deepak’s dad thought it was funny that he kept offering to stock halal meat for the family. He’d stop him in the street and go, Vijay, listen, it’s no trouble at all. And Deepak’s dad was always like, mate, we’re not even Muslim, we don’t really eat meat. And then Mr. Fowler would forget, and offer again the next time.
After the butcher’s he crossed the square to the pub, the Gladstone, which took four papers. The square was full of police vans and journalists and people just standing around. But there was nothing he could say was suspicious. He carried on up the back lane to Mrs. Osborne’s house. It was steep, and the gears on his bike kept slipping. When he got there Mrs. Osborne opened the door, as always. Usually she asked if he had any good news for her, like the news was his responsibility or something. But today she just smiled in that old-person sad way and took the paper.
He rolled back down the cobbles and across the square. D.C.I. Deepak had nothing of note to report. He headed up the main street towards the edge of the village, and as he turned into the lane past the allotments he hit a pothole and his chain came off.
Calling headquarters: request mechanical assistance. Would be cool if he could do that. He got off and started fixing the chain back on. He wondered what the police really meant by something unusual, or something suspicious. They said any detail could be vital, but how would you know? Would it be some piece of clothing, like a lost glove on a railing, or like a hair band in the gutter? Or would it be if you saw someone dodgy in a van? Or something really bad, like a tiny bloodstain, or a strand of hair?
It must be pretty hard being a detective.
It was pretty hard being a bike mechanic as well. The chain was wedged between the frame and the sprocket, and he couldn’t get it out. He took his gloves off to try to get a better grip. It was too cold for this kind of thing.
The front door of the house on the corner opened and a man came out. Deepak had seen him around, but he didn’t know him. The man