“And yet you said numerous witnesses say she had her hair tied back with a long ribbon.” I put the phone on loudspeaker and wait for Ian to respond. I can hear them all moving paper around and whispering at him. The word ‘long’ is mentioned numerous times. “Long? Did they all say long?”

“Yep. Every statement mentions it, even if they don’t remember anything else.” I imagine Ian staring out the window, back turned, either cupping the phone or with statements in hand, ready.

“Why long?”

He’s back at the desk, cursing as he knocks something. I generally insist on a war room set up, with me at the helm, something I know Ian despises. It surprises me he’s kept the model, seeing I’m working from home at present.

“This is… uh… Amanda Ryan’s statement: I thought the ribbon looked out of place with her outfit, as she was wearing a black crop top with fluorescent writing on it. Her hair was shoulder-length and styled in a wavy bob, with a section of bright colour in it. So the ribbon being pale yellow like that, like that soft baby lemon, running down the length of her back – unevenly tied – looked more like children playing dress up. This girl was at least thirteen; it was out of place.”

“Do we know why this witness paid so much attention?”

“Nah, but I did ask if she had a daughter.”

“And did she?”

“She said she was a daughter. Whatever that means.”

“Right.”

“She seemed like those people you meet, who still behave young even though they’re in their 40s.”

“Hmm.” I was a daughter. We were all daughters once. I wonder if the witness had had children at all. I wonder if she’s got boys, if she’s lost children, if she’s chosen not to have them… I wonder if she’s widowed. I try to ignore the last intrusive thought and look down the road from the patio, while I watch a neighbour coaxing his dog into the house. The phone is jammed between my ear and the cloth nappy I have slung over my shoulder. It’s warm from the conversations already. I see the one person I’ve met here, Elaine, pick a bike off her lawn and move it to her garage. She watches the dog still resisting, legs fused to the cement, laughs and then goes back inside. It always gets me how some dogs go anywhere willingly, and others fight it to the very end.

“Are you coming into the office today?”

I have no answer and cringe at his hopefulness. I know he doesn’t trust me yet, our relationship tenuous and stunted by job regulation. I’m the new transfer. His senior. But I know enough from his file to know he’s on his way up. A newly widowed boss possibly hinders his plans. He’s silent as I change Shona. He ignores my chatting as Shona chews on a teething ring. I whisper quietly: “That is the sound of a young detective breathing.”

The breathing stops temporarily.

I finally find something to say to him, “Maybe later. I need to rest. It’s been days since I last slept.”

“I’ll ring if anything else comes up.”

I point at a picture I’ve pulled from the boxes and say, “Look Shona, it’s you.” She twists on the spot. I don’t bother replying to Ian and finally find the energy to hang up the phone. Enough. He’ll ring again if they find a body. I slide the phone in between the couch cushions and lean back on an ottoman – everything is now harder. I miss when things were soft. My right eyelid spasms, as fatigue finally catches up with me. I think of my mother, gone now too. I miss being a daughter. We were all daughters. The treadmill and John’s weights are leaning against the wall, near the record player that was once always turning. This house is quiet and yet to be unpacked. It harbours the silent wailing that chokes out of women at night, trying hard not to wake anyone small. The phone is rumbling through the morning, distant and hidden.