Little Face by Sophie Hannah

October 3, 2003, 2 PM
    TEN MINUTES AFTER the conclusion of his interview with Proust and
Simon was back in the canteen. The one-armed bandit machine was
mercifully, unusually silent, as if out of respect for the gravity of his
mood. The inspector had treated his hypothesis with contempt, called
him paranoid and ordered him to go and get his head together. `I don't
want you working in this state. You'll only make an irritation of
yourself and ruin everything,' he'd said-Proust's equivalent of compassionate leave.
    What was wrong with everybody today? Why couldn't they see
what seemed to Simon to be glaringly obvious? Was it because Proust
and Charlie had both been involved in putting Darryl Beer away? Was
that why they were so keen to cast Simon as the unstable eccentric who
let his personal agenda get in the way of the facts? Meanwhile, the possible personal agenda of David Fancourt was ignored by all. First wife
dead, second wife missing. Fact.
    Simon got himself a cup of tea and fantasised about beating the
truth out of Fancourt. Some things were worth doing time for. What
had the bastard done to Alice? What had he told Proust about Simon?
It had to be him who'd said something, not Charlie. These questions
were a torment that brought Simon no closer to any sort of answer. He
heard a cough behind him and turned.
    `Proust said I'd find you here. I've just spoken to him. Correction: I've just listened to him. At length. He's not happy with you, not happy
at all.'

    `Charlie!' Seeing her made him feel that perhaps there was hope, perhaps doom could be warded off for a while longer. `Did you manage
to calm him down? You're the only one who can.'
    `Don't put me in a foul mood again straight away,' she said grimly,
sitting down opposite him. It was impossible for Simon to give Charlie a compliment without her getting cross. There was only one sort of
compliment she wanted, one that Simon couldn't give her. She seemed
determined to dismiss all lesser endorsements from him as pity or charity. Sometimes he wondered how she could even look at him. How
could she see him as anything but pathetic after Sellers' fortieth birthday party last year? Simon pushed the horrific memory away, as he did
whenever it rose to the surface.
    `What did The Snowman say?' he asked.
    `That you were babbling like a fool. He thinks you've got a thing
about Alice Fancourt. Her husband thinks so too. Anyone with eyes
and a brain can spot it a mile off. You get that slobbering idiot look on
your face when you talk about her.'
    Her words stung. Simon didn't bother to argue.
    `He also says you denied that any inappropriate behaviour had
taken place.'
    `Does he believe me?'
    `I very much doubt it. So you'd better make damn sure he never
finds out, if you're lying. Anyway, my instructions are to treat mother
and baby's disappearance as a misper if they don't turn up within
twenty-four hours.'
    Simon's eyes widened. `You? Does that mean ...
    'Proust's assigned it to me, yes. To our team. Because of our extensive experience of the Fancourt family,' she added sarcastically.
    `I thought there was no way he'd let me near this one. Thank you!'
Simon cast his eyes towards the ceiling's buzzing strip-lights. He
believed strongly in something unspecific. His mother had always hoped he would become a priest. Maybe she still did. Simon had
inherited her need to cling to something, but not her conviction that
God was that thing. He hated the idea that he had anything in common with his mother.

    'Proust's full of surprises, I'll give him that,' said Charlie. `He told
me he thinks you might get a result simply because you care so much.
He reckons you want to find Alice Fancourt a fuck of a lot more than
anyone else round here does.' Her tone suggested she was part of the
anyone else.
    Simon put his head in his hands. `If I get the chance to start looking.'
He groaned. `Charlie, this business could really fuck me up. I've met
Alice twice,