Discarded by M. Hunter (fantasy books to read .txt) 📗

He remains standing beside me until a black woman in her early forties is buzzed through the security door. She is wearing impossibly high heels, but doesn’t wobble once as she approaches. The suit jacket tied at the middle looks ready to burst and the tight skirt looks mercilessly uncomfortable, and yet there is something that tells me she welcomes the discomfort the outfit causes, as if it reminds her there are others suffering more than her. Her hair has been chemically straightened and catches the overhead light as she approaches and extends her hand. I shake it, and there is a suitably efficient motion before her fingers begin dancing over the tablet screen resting on her left forearm.

‘Emma Hunter?’ she asks, eyes only rising from the screen for a moment to register my acknowledgement.

‘Yes,’ I say, still on edge.

‘I’m DS Meyers, but you can call me Robyn. I don’t know how much Rick has told you, but a nine-year-old girl has gone missing from the area and we’ve launched an immediate emergency response. She was last seen yesterday afternoon by her younger step-sister, and we believe that was around three. We are canvassing the area, looking for witnesses who may have seen where she went, whether she met up with anybody, and whether we can pinpoint a more exact time. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that our number-one priority is getting Jo-Jo home.’

Succinct, efficient, and pragmatic, DS Robyn Meyers, I can see, would be a vital cog in any investigative operation.

‘Jo-Jo isn’t the sort to run away, according to her parents, and they are well known in the local community. The SIO is treating the investigation as an abduction until we know more, which means Jo-Jo’s face has been circulated amongst all neighbouring forces, a social media campaign has been launched, and there will be a press conference before the end of the day. Jo-Jo had use of a mobile phone, but that was found at the family home. There is family living nearby, and we are working with them to pinpoint anywhere Jo-Jo might have gone had she chosen to run away.’

‘I’m happy to do whatever I can to help,’ I say, cringing at how lame it sounds; what can I do anyway?

‘Jo-Jo’s parents – Mr and Mrs Neville – are here at the station now and are bereft with worry. They specifically asked you to come in. Can I ask how you know the Neville family?’

My brow furrows at the mention of the name. ‘I don’t know them – at least, I don’t think I do.’

Robyn’s eyes narrow. ‘As soon as they arrived here today, they specifically requested you be brought in. Can you think of any reason why?’

My instinctive response is no, I have no clue as to why anyone would reach out to me in their hour of need, but then I think about the photograph of Faye McKenna that was sent to Maddie’s office and my heart sinks.

‘I’m a writer and investigative journalist,’ I concede, feeling the heat beginning to fire in my cheeks. ‘I’ve been able to help a couple of families to locate missing family members, and’—I pause, unable to believe I’m about to make such an arrogant-sounding statement—‘and I believe people now have this impression that I’m able to find missing children. I’ve been incredibly lucky with how events have played out in the last couple of years, and I wouldn’t presume to think that I can do anything more than the police.’

The words are getting twisted in my mouth when all I want to tell Robyn and Rick is that they are the experts and I’m merely an amateur armchair detective. Judging by Robyn’s blank expression, I’m guessing I’ve missed the mark.

‘You shouldn’t be so modest,’ Rick chimes in, but a cheerleader is the last thing I need to convince the FLO.

Robyn’s eyes are back on her tablet. ‘Regardless, the family have asked to meet with you, and it’s my job to work with them to garner as much information as possible. If you’d like to follow me…’ She turns effortlessly on those heels, clicks her fingers at the white-haired man behind the desk, and he buzzes the security door open again.

Following her through the door, with PCSO Rick close behind, it’s clear the makeover the entrance and reception area received didn’t extend further into the station. The corridors bear the same dreary grey paint I remember from childhood, and the carpet is, impossibly, even more threadbare than I remember.

I’m playing the name Neville over in my mind but I’m definitely sure I don’t know any family by that name so I can’t think of any other reason they would summon me here. I suppose desperate people do desperate things, and they’re willing to do anything to get their daughter back. Wouldn’t I do the same if I thought there was some quicker route to finding her?

We reach the end of the narrow corridor and Robyn punches a code into the panel on the wall before pushing open the door. The room is larger than I’m anticipating, roughly the size of my kitchen, with a round table in the centre, cupboards on the wall, and a kettle standing atop a small fridge unit in one of the corners.

A man and woman are slumped at the table, and when the woman raises her head, her eyes are red raw from crying. The skin hangs from her cheeks and her coloured hair is tied in a messy bun, but there are no roots showing. Her husband draws my eye next; he’s dressed in a navy gilet and Manchester United football shirt, and I can picture him knocking back pint after pint in the pub with his mates – the life and soul of the party – but the droop of his mouth and the tear-filled eyes tell me all I need to know.

‘Mr and Mrs Neville,’ Robyn