‘Invitation,’ he corrects. ‘I don’t really—’
‘She’s a British citizen.’
‘I’m afraid,’ he says, ‘you’re rather overestimating what my job entails.’
‘Mr Herbert, I’m desperate here,’ she says.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ he says, superciliously.
Her jaw clicks shut. ‘She’s just a kid.’
‘Bit of a grey area, that, I’m afraid. As I’m sure you know.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Presumably you’ve spoken to the police? At home?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And what did they say?’ His tone is ostentatiously patient.
She wells up. Gulps back the tears and stares at him, hope ebbing.
He nods, satisfied. ‘Because, as it happens, I made a few calls after the Chief of Police told me you were hanging around.’
Hanging around? Really? That’s what she’s doing?
‘And what I gather,’ he continues, ‘is that your daughter isn’t strictly speaking “missing” as such at all, is she?’
‘She’s only seventeen, and her father and I have no idea where she is.’
‘Yuh, I’m afraid as far as the police are concerned they can’t actually force a seventeen-year-old to go back to a home they don’t want to be in. Can’t be done. It never takes. She’s clearly alive and she clearly doesn’t have mental health issues and she’s clearly not been kidnapped, Mrs Hanson. She’s left home at an age one wouldn’t think … ideal … but she’s not missing. She just doesn’t want you to know where she is. I gather she’s been in touch with friends all along.’
‘But I told you that! And they don’t know where she is, not really, any more than we do. Just because she’s been on her stupid … webchat thing … ’
Another sigh. ‘That’s how they all communicate these days. One needs to accept the times one lives in. Look. If there were, you know, suspicions that she was being held against her will … if Interpol had been on to us … The duke is rigorous in co-operating with the international authorities when it’s necessary. But they haven’t, have they?’
‘I … ’
‘Have they?’
‘The police are useless,’ she says, resentfully. ‘Look at all those little girls in Rotherham. They literally did nothing.’
He signals to a waiter. Does the universal air-writing signal. His voice, when he speaks, drips patronage. ‘Oh, Mrs Hanson. This is hardly comparable to a mass grooming scandal, is it?’ He drains his glass and eyes her, more in sorrow than in anger.
The tears are so close to the surface she can barely speak. Rage tears. No sorrow here. ‘So you’re not going to help me?’
There’s a prissy little man-bag on the floor by his feet. He picks it up. ‘Mrs Hanson, do you really believe it’s the government’s responsibility to resolve family arguments? I’m sorry you fell out with … ’ he glances down at his damp notebook ‘ … Gemma, but that’s not something I can involve myself in, and nor can the xandarms. Citizens’ private rights also, I’m afraid, involve private responsibilities. Now, I’m afraid I have another appointment, so I must take my leave.’
‘So what should I do?’
‘Well, you’re welcome to stay around and see if she turns up,’ he says, and gets to his feet. Waves at a group who’ve just come in and are heading for the Seafood Grill. ‘It’s a free country. As long as you stay within the rules, of course. But just a word in your ear. Don’t be bothering the extremely busy police, and don’t be pestering private citizens. There’s word already getting round that you’re throwing around some sorts of … implications, and people aren’t taking it too kindly.’
He tucks the man-bag under his arm and saunters towards the double doors that lead to the street. Robin watches him go, her head a storm of rage and weeping.
A waiter comes over, clears away the glass, wipes down the tabletop.
‘Can I get you anything, sinjora?’ he asks. ‘A cocktail?’