“I only ask for information.”
CHARLES DICKENS
David Copperfield
HAVING NEITHER LIVED nor worked south of the river, Gemma had never before had occasion to visit Guy’s Hospital. She knew that the two great hospitals, St. Thomas’s and Guy’s, had once faced each other across St. Thomas Street, until St. Thomas’s had been moved to its present location in Lambeth to make room for an extension to London Bridge Station.
Winnie had told her to be sure to have a look at the chapel, so when she’d parked the car on St. Thomas Street, she entered the hospital’s main quadrangle. It was an imposing vista, although the symmetry of the eighteenth-century buildings was marred, in her opinion, by the addition of a sixties tower block. After taking a moment to examine the statue of Sir Thomas Guy in the quadrangle’s center, she saw a small sign designating the chapel on the right-hand side of the quad.
Gemma passed through the chapel’s unassuming entrance with little expectation, then caught her breath in delight. She felt she might have stepped inside a Fabergé Easter egg. The cream walls were touched with gilt and aqua, the arched stained-glass windows glowed like living gems, the rich wood of the simple pews shone with years of polish. The air smelled faintly of lilies.
The chapel was empty, the quiet so intense it felt like a physical force. Gemma stood, letting the silence seep into her. How many had come to this place over the years, seeking solace from their worry or grief? Had they found comfort here… or did the air hold a weight of accumulated sorrow?
Her thoughts strayed to the parents of the child she’d failed to find. There would be no consolation for their loss, here or anywhere else. Gemma turned and went out into the gray austerity of the quadrangle.
“Mr. Yarwood, did you have some reason to think your daughter might have been in the building?” Kincaid asked, remembering the tension he’d seen in Yarwood’s body before the tape began.
They had encouraged Yarwood to sit, and Cullen had fetched him a cup of water. Now, while Cullen and Bell stood back, Kincaid took the chair across the table from him. He could see Yarwood beginning to pull himself together, and he wanted answers while the man was still vulnerable from shock.
“No, no, of course not.” Yarwood set down the plastic cup and scrubbed a hand across his face. “It’s just that I hadn’t spoken to her for a few days, and I was a bit worried.”
The room, small and poorly ventilated, had become stuffier as the afternoon warmed. Kincaid thought he detected, beneath the musty odor of the building itself, the acrid smell of fear. “Your daughter doesn’t live with you, then?”
“No. Chloe shares a flat with a friend, near Westbourne Grove. She’s twenty-one, and you know how kids are. She’s very independent.”
“But you speak to her every day on the phone?”
“No,” Yarwood said again. “It’s just that I’d been trying to ring her since the fire. I didn’t want her to read it in the papers or see it on the telly. I thought she might worry.”
“Have you spoken to her flatmate?”
“No. No one’s answered the phone or the door. Look, that tape… the time said ten o’clock, and the fire didn’t start until after midnight, so there’s no reason to think…” Yarwood gave Kincaid a look of appeal.
“Mr. Yarwood,” Kincaid said gently, “unless we find some proof that your daughter left the building again, or we can get in touch with her, I’m afraid we do have to consider her as a possible victim. She fits the parameters given by the pathologist.”
Michael Yarwood pressed both hands flat against his face, but not before Kincaid had seen his lips twist in a spasm of distress. “Let me see the body,” he said, his voice muffled.
“There’s nothing you could recognize. I’m sorry.”
Yarwood was silent for a moment. Then he dropped his hands and stared hard at Kincaid. “DNA, then. Can’t you do a DNA test?”
“I’m sure we can get a DNA sample from your daughter’s flat. We could also take a sample of your blood, if necessary, and we can check your daughter’s dental records if they’re easily available. But it seems to me we’re jumping the gun a bit here. First, have you any idea why your daughter was at the warehouse?”
“No. I can’t imagine.”
“Do you have any idea how your daughter got into the warehouse?” put in Bell. “Did she have a key?”
“No, of course not. Why would I have given her a key?”
“Did she have access to your key, then?” Kincaid asked.
“N-” Yarwood hesitated. “Well, I- I suppose it’s possible. I left the key at the flat – I had no reason to carry it around with me.”
“And Chloe has access to your flat?”
“Of course she does. It’s her home.”
“So she could have copied the key,” stated Bell, making a note.
“Again, I suppose it’s possible, but I can’t imagine why she’d do such a thing. Why are you assuming she did?”
Kincaid leaned forward, so that only the width of the tabletop separated his face from Yarwood’s. “The way I see it, there are three possibilities. One, your foreman lied about locking the door and he left the building open. But in that case, how would Chloe have known she could get into the building?
“Two, whoever entered the building picked the lock. It’s obvious from the CCTV footage that your daughter and her companion entered almost immediately, which makes that option highly unlikely.
“Three, your daughter had a key, more than likely a copy she had made from yours. And that implies premeditation on her part. Do you get on well with your daughter, Mr. Yarwood?”
“What sort of question is that?” Yarwood rose out of his seat until he was halfway across the table. “What the hell are you getting at?”
Kincaid didn’t back away. “I’m wondering if your daughter had any reason to set fire to your warehouse.”
After a moment, Yarwood sank back into his chair. “No. Chloe wouldn’t do something like that,” he said slowly, but Kincaid thought he heard the slightest hesitation.
“What about the man with her?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. Look, I’ve told you all I know. You’ve got to find out if that’s my daughter. I can’t bear-”
“We’ll do everything we can,” Kincaid assured him. “But first we’re going to need some information from you.”
“And you’ll keep this from the press?”
“Until we have a definite identification-”
“Sir,” interrupted Bell, “could I have a word?” She gestured towards the door, and after a moment’s hesitation, Kincaid excused himself and followed her into the corridor.
“What-”
“Sir, shouldn’t we be asking him about the gambling connection?”
Kincaid made an effort to control his own impatience. It showed restraint on Bell’s part that she’d bothered to consult him at all, rather than charging ahead with the questioning on her own. “Look, Maura, we’re dealing with a man who thinks he may have lost his only daughter. We can’t in good conscience accuse him of something based on completely unsubstantiated rumor. We’ll talk to him about it if and when we have something to back it up-”
“I doubt you’d be so delicate if you didn’t have instructions to treat the man with kid gloves,” she retorted, her dark eyes snapping with disapproval.
Kincaid’s forbearance vanished. “I’m not treating Michael Yarwood differently than I’d treat anyone else in such circumstances. And you, Inspector, are out of line.”
The interview room door swung open and Cullen came out. “Keep your voices down, for God’s sake. Do you want to broadcast to the entire station?” He glared at them both, then added, with his usual peacemaker’s instinct, “Look, I’ve got Chloe Yarwood’s address. I say we find out if the girl’s really missing before we go any further with this. Maybe she just doesn’t want to talk to Daddy.”
Kincaid turned to Cullen. “Right. Okay, Doug, you and I will pay a visit to Chloe Yarwood. Inspector Bell, I’d like you to stay here and look into a couple of things.” He told them about his encounter with Tony Novak. “Run a welfare check on the wife. Then see if you can get an address for him, and send somebody round to have a word.”
“Sounds like a nutter, guv,” put in Cullen. “His wife’s probably done a runner with the kid to get away from him, just like he said.”
“Probably. But we can’t afford to leave any stone unturned at this point, and I don’t like the connection with the shelter. It’s just too close for comfortable coincidence.”
Bell scribbled down the names and Laura Novak’s address in grim silence, then said, “You’ll tell Mr. Yarwood he can go, then? I’m sure he’ll appreciate your diplomatic skills.”
She directed a tight smile at them both and walked away.
“Bit hard on Inspector Bell, weren’t you, guv?” Cullen said as they crossed the river yet again and snaked through the City, heading towards Notting Hill in Kincaid’s car. “You always encourage me to say what I think.”
“I don’t encourage you to be insubordinate,” Kincaid snapped. “Inspector Bell has yet to learn the difference between offering an opinion and questioning a senior officer’s judgment.”
“So you sent her to the salt mines because she disagreed with you? Anyone could have checked up on Tony Novak.”
Kincaid took his eyes from the road long enough to give Cullen a quelling glance. “I’m beginning to think the inspector’s a bad influence on you, Dougie. You’d better watch yourself.”
Greeting this admonition with the silence it deserved, Cullen stared pointedly out the window.
Great, Kincaid thought. Now he had two sullen detectives on his hands, and he still had to account for authorizing Gemma to conduct interviews on someone else’s patch. His day seemed to be rapidly deteriorating.
And yet, aggravated as he was, he began to wonder if Cullen was biased simply because he fancied Maura Bell, or if Bell’s criticism had been justified. Would he have been harder on Yarwood if he hadn’t been worried about the fallout from higher up? It was an unpleasant thought, and to top it off, he suddenly realized he’d completely forgotten about passing Rose Kearny’s notes on to Bill Farrell.
Having navigated her way through the warren of buildings that made up Guy’s Hospital, Gemma eventually found her way to the administrative section. A young woman sat at the front desk in medical records, her long nails clicking on her computer keyboard as she typed. She looked up as Gemma entered, a slight frown creasing her brow.
“Can I help you?” she asked. “Do you have clearance to be up here?”
Gemma produced her warrant card, which she’d needed to get through the main security checkpoint, although on Winnie’s earlier visit her dog collar seemed to have worked just as well. “Hi, I’m Inspector James, Metropolitan Police. I just wanted to ask a few questions about a member of your staff, Elaine Holland.”
The young woman dropped her hands from the keyboard and appraised Gemma with frank interest. “Someone came yesterday, too, a priest. Nice lady. I’m Tasha, by the way.” Her smile revealed deep dimples in her cheeks. She was dark-skinned, with a round, friendly face emphasized by her elaborately plaited hair. Her long nails, Gemma noticed when Tasha reached across the desk to shake her hand, were lime green, each one decorated with its own unique design. “Everyone else is out at the moment – we’ve a skeleton staff on the weekends – but I work with Elaine. Isn’t it unusual to call in the police just because someone misses a day of work?”
Pulling up a chair, Gemma explained, “She’s been missing from home since yesterday morning. After twenty-four hours we begin to get concerned. I understand she didn’t call in sick yesterday?”
“No. And that’s unheard of for Miss Conscientious. You’d expect Elaine to give two weeks’ notice if she were going to take a long lunch.” There was enough satisfaction in Tasha’s voice to make Gemma suspect that Elaine hadn’t minded criticizing those who didn’t meet her standards – and that Tasha had not cared much for her officemate. Nor could she imagine, from what she knew of Elaine, that Elaine would have found this bright, outspoken girl her cup of tea.
“Did she give you any indication before yesterday that she might be planning to go somewhere, or that there was anything unusual going on in her life?”
“No. But then Elaine’s not one to sit down for a good girly gossip.”
“Has she any particular friends in the department?”
Tasha thought for a moment, idly rubbing the tip of one of her long thumbnails. “No, not really. I suppose if she were going to talk to anyone, it would be me, just because I’m the most available body. But when she does get in the mood to talk, it’s not because she’s interested in what anyone else has to say. It’s more like every so often she has an urge that needs satisfying – a sort of vocal masturbation,” Tasha added, giving Gemma a cheeky grin.
Gemma smiled back, refusing to be shocked. “What sort of things does she talk about when one of these… um… urges strikes her?”
“Oh, it’s usually some sort of rag about the disgraceful state of the government, or her glorious childhood in the Gloucestershire countryside with Mummy and Daddy. Sometimes you’d swear she’s a relic from the Great War, instead of a woman in her thirties.”
“I take it she’s not a fan of the Labour government, then?” asked Gemma, making a mental note that Elaine wasn’t likely to have volunteered for Michael Yarwood’s election campaign.
“No. And I can tell you something else,” Tasha added, “she didn’t come from Gloucestershire.”
“How do you know?” Gemma asked, interested.
“Because I was born and bred right here in Southwark, and I know a Southwark accent when I hear one. I belong to a local drama group,” Tasha confided, “and accents are my forte. I’d guess Elaine Holland’s never spent more than a month outside the Borough.”
“Where am I from, then?” Gemma asked, fairly confident that her years in the job disguised any dead giveaways from her old neighborhood.
“Is this a test?” Tasha asked, grinning. “Okay, let me think.” She closed her eyes, making a great show of concentrating. “London, obviously. Um, north of the river, but not within the sound of Bow Bells. Not posh, though… and I think North East rather than North West. I’d say Wanstead, or thereabout.”
Gemma laughed aloud. “Got it within a mile. It’s Leyton. I grew up in Leyton High Road.”
“So you’ll take my word about Elaine?”
“I will. And I’ll come see you at the Old Vic one of these days. Your talents are definitely wasted here.”
“It pays the bills. And it’s all right, really.” Tasha looked a little ashamed. “I suppose I shouldn’t have been catty about Elaine. I mean, I hope nothing’s happened to her. I just assumed she’d finally got a wild hair. Or gone off with that guy she’s been hinting about.”
Gemma nearly bolted out of her chair. “What guy?”
“I don’t know,” said Tasha, sounding less sure of herself. “She’s never really said anything. It’s just the last few months, there’s been something different… a sort of smugness whenever anyone else is blathering on about their boyfriends. She listens with this little cat-who’s-got-the-canary smile. And then… one of the other girls is getting married, and she made some comment about spinsters. I don’t think she really meant it as a dig at Elaine, not directly, but Elaine just went off. I’d never seen her like that. ‘I’ll bloody well show you,’ she shouted, and slammed out of the office.”
“When was this?”
“A couple of weeks ago. A half hour later, Elaine came back in, as calm as you please, and never said another word about it.”
Gemma struggled to fit this in with the secret wardrobe and her suspicions about Elaine’s relationship with Fanny. “Tasha, did it ever occur to you that Elaine might be gay?”
“Gay?” Tasha frowned. “Well, you never know these days, do you? But even with the severe suits, no, I never really considered it.”
“And did Elaine ever talk about her home life?”
“She said she had a nice flat, near the river. But as she never invited anybody round, she could have been taking the piss, I suppose.”
“She never mentioned her flatmate?”
“No.” Tasha looked surprised. “She has a flatmate?”
“She’s shared a house with another woman for a couple of years. It was her flatmate who reported her missing.”
“Oh. The lady priest said it was a friend.”
Trust Winnie to be discreet, Gemma thought. Seeing the light of speculation in Tasha’s eyes, and conscious of time passing and the boys waiting, she decided to wind up the interview. Gesturing at the laminated ID tag clipped to Tasha’s blouse, she said, “We’ve not been able to find a picture of Elaine, but she must have an ID photo.”
“Personnel will have it on file, I’m sure. I could show you-”
“I’m sure I can find it.” Smiling, Gemma stood. “Thanks, Tasha. You’ve been a great help.” She turned back as she reached the door. “One more question. Did Elaine often work late?”
“Elaine? She’s as regimented about that as she is about everything else. She clocks in and out on the dot.”
“Okay.” Kincaid broke the silence a few minutes later as they passed Paddington Station and swung into Bishop’s Bridge Road. “Maybe I was a bit hasty with Bell. And snarky with you. Sorry.”
“Tact doesn’t seem to be Bell’s strong point,” Cullen answered equably.
“While it is yours.”
“Well, I try.” Cullen smiled.
“Don’t get too cocky. I’m not saying she was right. I don’t like shooting in the dark, and we simply don’t know enough yet. Nor am I going to badger a man who’s afraid he’s lost his child, regardless of his position.”
“Do you think he was telling the truth about why he was trying to ring her?”
“No. But I haven’t figured out why he would lie.” Bishop’s Bridge had morphed into Westbourne Grove, and Kincaid pulled up at a stoplight. “What was that address?”
Cullen consulted his notes. “It’s Denbigh Road. Do you need me to check the map?”
“No. I know the street.” Denbigh Road ran parallel to Portobello, but the mere block’s separation made the difference between a quiet backwater and a teeming hive of activity.
Having passed the natural foods market on Westbourne Grove where Gemma liked to shop, Kincaid turned left into Denbigh Road. Although Notting Hill was becoming increasingly expensive and gentrified, there were still unreconstructed pockets, and Kincaid wondered which sort of flat Chloe Yarwood inhabited.
The address, which he found easily, turned out to be a prewar mansion block, in solid and unpretentious red brick. The first-floor flat was listed under Tia Foster’s name. They rang the bell, and after Cullen explained briefly who they were, Tia Foster buzzed them in.
Chloe Yarwood’s flatmate answered the door wearing tight jeans and a loose white cotton sweater, rubbing at her dripping hair with a towel. “Sorry,” she told them. “I’ve just got back from a few days’ holiday in Spain. Had to wash off the travel grunge.” She was an elegant-looking woman in her midtwenties, her lightly tanned face free of makeup, her shower-damp hair a dark blond. More attractive than pretty, she had the good bone structure that promised her looks would last into middle age. “You said you were wanting Chloe?” she asked when they’d introduced themselves.
“Have you seen your flatmate recently, Miss Foster?” Kincaid asked.
“Not since I left for Spain on Wednesday. Look, can I get you some coffee or something? I was just making a pot.”
“Yeah, that’d be great,” Cullen answered before Kincaid could decline. “Can I give you a hand?” Cullen added, following her into the kitchen with the alacrity of an eager puppy. Kincaid wondered if his partner’s enthusiasm had something to do with the fact that the girl didn’t appear to be wearing a bra beneath her thin cotton sweater.
Taking the opportunity to examine the flat rather than its occupant, Kincaid looked round the room. The place had definitely been upgraded. Pale wood floors gleamed throughout, the creamy paint was new, the ceiling fitted with high-tech light fixtures. And because the mansion block had been purpose built, the rooms, unlike those in many flats in converted Victorian villas, were spacious and well laid out. How could two young women afford a place like this? Was Michael Yarwood contributing to his daughter’s upkeep?
There were signs, however, that money was not unlimited. An expensive leather sofa anchored the room, but the rest of the furnishings were sparse and looked like they might have come from Ikea. The abstract prints on the walls were obviously inexpensive reproductions.
As Cullen came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with cups and a cafetière, Tia reappeared minus the towel, running a brush through her hair. She was still barefoot, however, and glancing at her slender, tanned feet, Kincaid was reminded of the Victorians’ fascination with a briefly bared ankle. Sometimes a slice was more alluring than the whole cake.
“So what’s my little roomie been up to that the police want a word with her?” asked Tia as she settled herself on the sofa, one foot tucked up beneath her. Abandoning the brush, she lifted the cafetière and filled the cups with an easy grace, but the glance she gave Kincaid was sharper than he’d expected.
“Her father’s worried about her,” Kincaid answered, accepting the cup she handed him. “He’s been trying to get in touch with her for a couple of days with no luck.”
“So he called the police? That seems a little excessive, even for Mr. Yarwood. And a senior officer.” She gave Kincaid an assessing look.
“Did he call here asking for her?”
“There were a couple of messages on the answerphone, yeah.”
“But you weren’t concerned about Chloe?”
“I’m not Chloe’s keeper. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s gone off for a day or two. She does her own thing.”
“Would you mind looking to see if any of her things are missing?”
“But I’m sure – well, okay, I suppose I can do that.” Tia Foster stood up with a look that said she thought he was wasting her time, and disappeared into the rear of the flat.
Leaning closer to Kincaid, Cullen said quietly, “Don’t you think we should-”
Kincaid raised his hand, mouthed, “Just give it a minute.”
Tia came back, shaking her head. “I can’t tell that she’s taken anything, but that doesn’t mean-” She must have seen something in their faces because she paused, looking alarmed for the first time. “What?” she asked. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“We have CCTV footage of Chloe Yarwood entering her dad’s warehouse about ten o’clock on the night before last,” Kincaid said, placing his coffee cup carefully on the table. “Two hours later a fire was reported in the building. The firefighters found the body of a woman who has yet to be identified.”
“Oh, my God.” Tia sank onto the sofa, graceless as a marionette whose strings had been cut. Beneath her even tan, Kincaid could see the color leach from her face. “And you – you think it’s Chloe? But… that’s just not… I know she’s a bit of an idiot sometimes – you know, reckless – but she couldn’t be dead.”
Kincaid had never known recklessness to be proof against death; in fact, it was much more likely to be the opposite. “How do you mean, reckless?”
“She’s just a kid. She likes to party, stay out late, that kind of thing. Look, I know Michael Yarwood doesn’t like me, that he thinks I’m some sort of bad influence on his daughter, but I never meant… I didn’t realize she’d be so eaten up with it…”
“Eaten up with what?” asked Cullen, apparently picking the last part of her statement to unravel first.
“I know people. I grew up in Chelsea. My family has money. I can’t help that any more than Michael Yarwood can help having been born into a family of bricklayers, or whatever they were. But Chloe, Chloe was so impressed with it all… the right people, the right parties, the right clubs… it really went to her head.
“At first I thought it was kind of cute, you know – made me feel a bit like the fairy godmother. I thought she’d get over it, that she’d see it for the crap it is, but she didn’t, and she was… out of control.
“I- I’d asked her to move out. If she was in that warehouse – if something happened to her because…”
“Why would Chloe have been there because you asked her to move out?” Kincaid asked, not sure he was seeing the connection. “You didn’t put her out on the street, I take it?”
“No, no. I told her I needed someone in the flat who could pay half the mortgage, that I was worried about my job and about continuing to meet my commitment. My parents made me a gift of the deposit on this place so that I could get onto the property ladder, but that was it. Chloe was supposed to be paying me rent, but she was always behind, and lately she hadn’t been paying me at all. At first, I didn’t mind so much, but…”
“I’d say you were bloody generous to put up with it as long as you did,” Cullen remarked stoutly. “But I still don’t see what that had to do with the warehouse.”
“It was the flats,” Tia explained. “Chloe got the idea she could talk her dad into letting her have one of the flats when they were finished. I don’t know why she thought that – he’d kicked her out of his own place because she wouldn’t stay in school or keep a job – he certainly wasn’t going to pay to set her up on her own. But she kept asking me to let her stay until the flats were ready. I thought she was just stalling for time. That’s why, when I got back and heard those messages from her dad, and she wasn’t here, I was a little… relieved.” Tia dropped her head into her hands and rocked back and forth. Her hair, drying now, fell across her face like wisps of barley. “I’ll never forgive myself if something’s happened to her,” she whispered.
“So Chloe wouldn’t have gone there needing a place to sleep,” Kincaid mused. “And why take the guy with her when she still had a room here, and plenty of privacy with you out of town?”
“What guy?” Tia’s eyes grew wide with trepidation.
Kincaid drew out the CCTV photo and handed it to her. “Do you recognize him?”
“Oh, God.” She shook her head, not as a negative but in apparent dismay. “It’s Nigel. Nigel Trevelyan.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. I’d recognize that wanker anywhere.”
“Would he have hurt Chloe?”
“No way. He’s a poseur. Goes round in motorcycle leathers and chains, with his earring and his bandana, when the closest he’s ever been to a Harley is a push-bike. And all the working-class thing is pure bollocks – his family lives in Ealing, overlooking the golf course. Nigel wouldn’t say boo to a fly.”
“Do you know how we can get in touch with him?”
“Not a clue. I mean, Chloe hangs out with him, but I wouldn’t be caught de – Oh, God, sorry, I didn’t mean that.” Tia’s eyes filled with tears and she gave a little hiccupping sob.
Cullen moved over to the sofa, as if his physical presence might comfort her. “Don’t worry about it,” he told her gently. “Everyone says things like that. It’s just a figure of speech.”
“We don’t know for certain that it is Chloe in the warehouse,” Kincaid reminded them. “We’ll need some samples for the lab. Hair would be best. If you could tell me-”
“Chloe’s things are on the right-hand side of the lav in the bathroom. I hadn’t even unpacked my stuff yet, just used what I needed for my shower straight out of my travel kit. That’s how I knew she hadn’t taken her things – her hairbrush is still there.”
Leaving Tia to Cullen’s ministrations, Kincaid excused himself and found the bathroom. The sink had been set into an oak dresser, leaving a generous amount of space on either side. The left-hand side was clear, the right covered with opened bottles, spilled cosmetics, and a purple plastic hairbrush, its bristles matted with brown hair. There was also a tooth glass, its rim smudged with traces of lipstick and saliva.
Kincaid bagged both items, then stood, gazing at the snapshot that had been stuck into the edge of the gilt-framed mirror. It was a casual shot of the two girls, arms round each other’s shoulders, laughing into the camera. Chloe was easily recognizable from the CCTV image, but the color and sharpness of the photo seemed to give her substance. And here her youth was obvious, as it had not been in the brief glimpse captured by the hidden camera.
Although Kincaid had empathized with Michael Yarwood’s shock and worry, his sympathy had been abstract. Now, for the first time, he made an emotional connection between the laughing, pretty girl in the snapshot and the burned thing in the warehouse. Chloe Yarwood had become real.
He stood for a moment with his eyes closed, resting his hands on the basin’s edge. Dear God, he hoped the body they’d found did not belong to this girl, not just for her father’s sake, but for her own.