Silent Voices

disappearance?’
    ‘I won’t know,’ Vera said, ‘until I ask him.’
    They walked through a swing door into the office reception. Two glossy women were sitting behind the desk and talking about the floods, loving the vicarious drama of it. ‘Did you see the local news on the television? That car being washed away? Some places the electric’s down.’ There were plants in big tubs on either side of the desk and they were glossy too.
    ‘Can I help you?’ The accent was Ashington with a posh veneer.
    ‘I hope you can, pet. I need to speak to Christopher Eliot.’
    The response was immediate and automatic. ‘Mr Eliot’s tied up all day, I’m afraid. Perhaps his secretary can help.’
    Vera put her warrant card on the desk. ‘Like I said, I need to speak to Mr Eliot. Just point us in the direction of his office. No need to let him know we’re on our way.’ Swinging through the door into the corridor, she stopped and turned back, enjoyed seeing the look of outrage on the woman’s face. ‘Some of our colleagues will be working in the car park very soon. Teas and coffees all round, please. Much appreciated.’ Hearing Joe chuckle at her side, Vera felt on top of the world.
    Eliot’s office was on the first floor with a view of woodland and the hills in the distance. She thought he seemed more at home here than he did in the White House. He could have been a soldier, she thought. An officer, of course. One of those ordered men who can pack up all their worldly goods into a backpack and function equally well in Afghanistan or South Georgia. His passport would have stamps from all over the world. But this was his HQ for the moment. There was a map on the wall, red pins stuck throughout the continent of Africa. On the desk a photograph of two small boys.
    ‘Is this Patrick?’ Vera pointed to the smaller. He was slight and fair, took after his father more than his mother.
    Eliot still sat at his desk. He’d risen briefly when Vera had come in. ‘Inspector Stanhope?’ A greeting, as well as a chilly enquiry about the intrusion. Now he looked at the photograph. It was impossible to tell from his face what he was thinking. ‘Yes, that’s Patrick. It was taken on his second birthday. He died a week later.’
    ‘No photographs of him at home.’ Not a question.
    He frowned. ‘We all grieve in our own way, Inspector.’
    ‘You never considered having another child?’
    Vera thought he was going to tell her to mind her own business, which is what she’d have done in the circumstances, but perhaps he was grateful for the opportunity to discuss it, even with a stranger like her.
    ‘I’d have liked another baby, but Veronica wouldn’t hear of it. She said she couldn’t take the risk. What if something were to happen, to go wrong? She couldn’t bear another lost child. It would kill her.’
    ‘Did that seem like an extreme reaction to you?’ Vera kept her voice low and gentle.
    He shrugged. ‘As I said, Inspector, we all grieve in our own way.’
    ‘Of course.’ And yours is to keep moving: hours spent in airports, drives in trucks on dusty roads, new faces, new places. No attachment. ‘Where did you meet Veronica?’
    This time he did question her reason for asking.
    ‘Humour me,’ she said.
    And he did, perhaps as used to taking orders as to giving them.
    ‘It was at the Willows Hotel. An engagement party. Through friends of friends. I think I’d known her as a child. You know how it is when you grow up in the same region. Her parents were rather grander than mine, but they had no money. There was a very sad story about a fire and the house being uninsured. But the party at the Willows was the first time we really spoke. She’d been away, I think. Some au-pair job up in the Borders for friends of her parents. She was lovely. Still is, of course, but then she was stunningly beautiful.’
    Loyalty. Another of a soldier’s virtues.
    He took a small photograph from his wallet. There was Veronica in her early twenties. Very slender and pale. Long dark hair, pushed back from her face. Serious. No hint of laughter.
    ‘Was Simon Veronica’s first child?’ Vera asked.
    ‘Of course!’ He gave a little laugh. ‘It was a very uncomplicated pregnancy. There’d been no problems, no history of miscarriage. Nothing like that. He was a bit early and I missed the actual birth, arrived in from the Middle East when all the messy bits were over. But it was quite straightforward. That was why I thought we