The Sleepover

by Samantha King

  “Ten minutes and it will all be over. No questions from the floor. A simple appeal for witnesses or information. Exactly as we rehearsed. Just speak to the camera as though you’re talking to Nick, OK?” She rests a gentle hand against my back. “Looks like DCI Maxwell is about to get things started. Shall we go?”

  I nod mutely and follow her to the table, my legs trembling as I step onto the platform and take my seat. Avoiding what feels like a thousand eyes boring into me, I take out my notes and stare down at them, skimming them repeatedly, trying to fix them in my mind. It feels like the most important job interview of my life, and my mouth is dry, my hands clammy. I rub them on my jeans, looking up as DCI Maxwell starts to address the room. Moments later, the production assistant gives me a thumbs-up.

  Taking a deep breath, I focus on the camera in front of me, exactly as DS Clarke advised, and lean into the microphone. “If you’re listening, Nick, I’m not cross. I’m just worried. I miss you. Every second of every day. Whatever has happened, whatever is worrying you, there is nothing we can’t sort out. Nothing at all. I promise you. Please, just come home, darling. I love you. So, so much.”

  I keep my eyes fixed on my notes. I haven’t stuck to them; I can’t even see them clearly enough to read. Every time I look up, the studio lights blind me and camera shutters whirr, their flashes making colored circles swim in front of my eyes. Forcing myself to stare once more down the dark tunnel of the TV camera, I wish I could reach through it, grab hold of Nick, and haul him back to me.

  It’s only as DS Clarke touches my arm that I remember I need to appeal for any witnesses. Thankfully, she takes over, and I sit with my head down, barely hearing her recite the phone number of the information line, before DCI Maxwell steps forward to fend off a smattering of questions, wrapping up the whole surreal event with a closing statement.

  Then it’s over. Camera flashes once again flare across the room like an electric storm; more nightmare images flash across my mind . . . Nick crying as he watches me on TV, calling out to me for help, rough hands silencing his screams.

  Hold on, darling. Don’t give up. I’ll find you. I promise.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “How did the press conference go?”

  “Like I was in a dream. Make that a nightmare.” I take a gulp of much-needed coffee, smiling my thanks as Beth sets a French press down on her kitchen table in front of me.

  It was actually DCI Maxwell’s idea that I go to see a friend, to decompress after the stress and intensity of the last hour. They’d be busy following up any leads that arose as a result of the televised appeal, he said, and DS Clarke would keep me posted on anything more she managed to find out about the mysterious Cass—or Cassidy—Parker.

  “Have you eaten?” Beth pauses as she clears lunch plates, even though it’s almost three o’clock. “Sorry about the mess. I should tidy while Molly naps. I’m just so tired.” She yawns as she sits down opposite me. “Adrian’s worse than useless. He says he’ll help, then I turn around and he’s vanished. Oh God. Sorry.” Her face turns pink. “Me and my big mouth.”

  “I’m not hungry. But thanks.” I don’t take offense; I’m used to her scatterbrained manner now, and I have far bigger things to worry about. I check my phone, desperate to know if the agony of being thrust into the media spotlight will be worth it.

  “More coffee, then.” She tops me up.

  “Thanks, Beth. I mean it. It’s good to see a friendly face. I feel like I’m falling apart.”

  It’s strange, because yesterday I didn’t think I’d ever be able to bring myself to talk to Beth again. She lost my son. Only now she feels like my strongest point of connection to him. She was the last person to say goodnight to Nick—to touch him, show him kindness, see him smile. Being here with her, in the house where he spent the final hours before he vanished, somehow conjures up his presence, bonding me to Beth. She was his substitute mum for that one night, and I can even feel sorry for her that this nightmare began under her roof.

  “You’re not falling apart.” She gives me a hug. “I can’t believe how strong you are.”

  “It’s just so hard finding out things about Nick that I never knew. I know he’s gone physically. But I feel like I lost him in here”—I press both hands to my chest—“even before he disappeared. How did I not know what was going on in his head? Sorry. I didn’t come here for a pity fest. How’s Adrian?”

  “Adrian’s Adrian.” She rolls her eyes. “Never sits still for a minute.”

  I smile. “Is he at football? No, it’s Sunday. Rugby today, is it? He’ll be back soon, wanting his tea, I imagine. I should go.” I can’t believe how much it hurts to picture Beth’s son dropping his boots in the hall, asking what there is to eat.

  All at once it feels like torture being surrounded by the mess Beth keeps apologizing for, but which I yearn to have back: Nick’s dirty laundry on the bathroom floor, cereal bowl left on the kitchen table for me to clear away. I’d give anything to be able to nag him about it all again. I have to get out of here. I stand up, reaching for my coat.

  “Yes. Football on Saturdays. Rugby on Sundays. Anything to burn off his energy. He’s a good boy, though.” She smiles then looks awkward. “I’m sorry if the thing about the girlfriend was his mistake. He’s desperate to help. So am I. I feel so guilty that . . .”

  “It’s not your fault, Beth. Truly. This could have happened anywhere, at any time.”

  “Thank you for saying that.” She stands up, too, and gives me a quick hug. “I just wish I could turn back time. Press reboot on my life, like Ade does on his bloody computer. So many things I’d change.” She blows her nose, then laughs as Molly starts crying, waking from her nap. “That girl has no sense of timing.”

  “She needs her mummy.” I can see Beth battling her emotions, but the press conference has drained every ounce of mine. I feel strangely numb. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Pulling on my coat, I drift into the hall, forcing myself not to look up the stairs—to imagine Nick scampering up them. It’s been almost forty-eight hours now. I’ve never gone a day without seeing him; not an hour without knowing where he is. I look away as Beth follows, not wanting my distress to cause her more guilt, but she looks straight past me, green eyes wide and fixed on the coat stand.

  “Did the police find any evidence on Nick’s coat?” she asks. “Fibers, DNA. Whatever it is they look for? You see this stuff on TV. You never think it’s going to happen to . . .”

  “I know. I keep thinking Nick’s going to bound through the door at any moment. Oh, before I forget, DS Clarke mentioned something else Adrian said. Something about Nick having stuff on his mind. Has he said anything more about that?”

  Beth’s brow creases. “It was to do with his dad, I think. Not his stepdad. His—”

  “Alex?” I had no idea Nick ever thought about him.

  “Was that your first husband’s name? Gosh, you don’t think . . . ?” Beth’s eyes widen even further. “I know how messy breakups can get. Kids can get caught in the middle.” Her cheeks flush pinker. “You don’t think Alex was feeling bitter about the divorce, and—”

  “We didn’t get divorced. Alex and I never married.” I close my eyes and picture the apple tree, the little treehouse that was supposed to be a secret den for father and son. “His dad left us before Nick was even born.”

  * * *

  Although I arrived at Beth’s house thinking about Craig, wondering if I’ve offended him even more by excluding him from the press conference, it’s Alex that preoccupies me as I climb back into my car. I think of the book Sean told me Nick was reading: about a little boy who lost his dad. When he first mentioned it, I automatically thought of Craig. Now I wonder if Nick was in fact thinking about Alex. . . . He frequently asks to drive past our old home; it’s why my first impulse was to check there. I thought it was pure nostalgia, but maybe Nick has been so unhappy that he’s started fantasizing about the father he never met.

  Deciding
to check in with DS Clarke, I pick up my phone, staring at it in surprise as a text from Katie flashes up. It’s a short message, just two words: I’m sorry. Thankful for the apology, and curious about what prompted Katie to offer it, I decide to drive over and speak to her in person. Her house is only a couple of minutes away, and before I can change my mind, I find myself striding toward the white Georgian town house that I’m surprised to see looks a lot shabbier than I remember. In my agitation yesterday, I didn’t notice.

  Like I had done the night before, I press the doorbell repeatedly, with no answer. Realizing Katie might have been out when she texted, I call her cell, bending down to the letterbox as I hear her familiar ringtone. Spotting her iPhone on the hall table, I disconnect the call and bang on the door before stepping across to the living room window to peer inside. The house is filled with shadows and an air of neglect: a vase of dead flowers on the table; a coat thrown on the sofa, as though discarded in a hurry.

  I’m about to turn and leave, when a muted scream draws me quickly back to the front door. Heart pounding, I press my face against the stained glass. This time I make out figures jostling, then the muffled sound of footsteps disappearing up the stairs. I bend down again, calling Katie’s name through the letterbox. Still no answer comes, and I mentally replay the tangle of arms and legs I saw. I can’t be completely sure it was her: the colored glass distorted everything beyond an impression of movement, a sense of coercion . . . violence?

  I bang on the door. “Katie! Are you in there? Are you OK? Katie?”

  Turning to scan the street, I wonder whether it would be quicker to call the police or run to a neighbor, before remembering the olive tree where Katie always used to keep her spare key: tucked inside a glazed pot, concealed within a fake stone. Squatting down, I let my hand glide over the pebbles until I find the right one. I gasp in shock as it springs open. There is no key, but something else is concealed inside the artificial stone: Nick’s phone.

  “What the . . . ?” No wonder he hasn’t been answering my calls. But he definitely had his phone at the sleepover: I spoke to him before he supposedly went to bed . . .

  I lurch to my feet and hammer on the front door again; still there is no answer, no sound at all other than the engine of a BMW slowing down on the street behind me: Katie’s neighbor. He gives me a frosty stare, and it dawns on me how odd my behavior must look. Making a split-second decision, I grab Nick’s phone and hurry back to my own car, sliding down in the driver’s seat and waiting for the stern-eyed man to go into his house.

  I can’t stop shaking as I take out my phone and dial DS Clarke’s number, groaning in frustration when it clicks into voice mail. About to try her boss instead, I turn on Nick’s phone, desperate to know what secrets it holds. DS Clarke reassured me they didn’t find anything suspicious in his texts, but, like the photos, I want to see everything for myself. There might be messages that meant nothing to the police but which I might be able to decipher. Bullying dressed up as banter, perhaps. Or coded plans for Friday night.

  I hold down the power button; nothing happens. The battery is dead. “Dammit.” I reach for my phone again, pressing DCI Maxwell’s number.

  “Maxwell.” His voice is unusually curt as he picks up on the first ring.

  “Hi. It’s Izzy Brookes. Can we talk?”

  “Izzy.” His intake of breath crackles down the line. “DS Clarke was just calling you. We came to your house to see you in person, but there was no answer. Sarah’s headed over to Mrs. Atkins’s house. She thought you might still be there. We need to—”

  “I was phoning her.” I tut in exasperation. “But why has she gone to Beth’s? What’s happened?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “I’ve found Nick’s phone. At Katie’s house. I had a text from her, but there’s no answer. I’ve knocked and knocked. I heard someone scream. And I found Nick’s phone outside,” I repeat, rubbing the small silver Nokia like a talisman.

  “You found Nick’s phone?”

  “Yes,” I say impatiently. “What does it mean? Why is it here? Something is going on inside that house. No one will answer the door. I think Katie might be in trouble. In danger. I can’t leave. Not till I know Nick’s not in there, too. You need to send someone over here. Now. Please.” I can feel myself growing hysterical. DCI Maxwell has to say my name three times before it registers that he’s trying to tell me something.

  “Izzy, please, take a breath and listen to me. The person you saw in Mrs. Baxter’s house is most likely Matt Haynes, one of our family liaison officers. He went to see her because . . . Look, I’m still here outside your house. You need to come home. There’s something I have to tell you. I’d rather not say it over the phone. If you could—”

  “No, please, what is it? Is it about Nick? Have you found him?”

  “No.” The detective hesitates. “It’s about Jason.”

  “He’s done something, hasn’t he? And hidden Nick’s phone to cover it up. He—”

  “Izzy.” The detective cuts across my spiraling panic. “I’m sorry to put this bluntly. I know DS Clarke told you that police divers were searching the river. I’m afraid they’ve recovered a body. Down by Eel Pie Island. I’m very sorry to say that it’s Jason’s.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  DCI Maxwell cups a hand under my elbow, steering me into my living room where I half sit, half drop down onto the sofa. “I just can’t believe it. Poor Jason. Poor Katie.” I’m numb with shock, yet all I can think about is how devastated my former friend must be.

  No, not former: we may not have been in touch over the last year, but I’ve never stopped caring about her. I’m in bits at the thought of what she will be going through. I think back to the figures I saw in her hallway. In my heightened state of fear after finding Nick’s phone, I imagined violence. But it was Katie’s cry of distress I must have heard; it was the family liaison officer trying to comfort her, not someone attacking her.

  “It’s a tragedy.” DCI Maxwell perches on the coffee table opposite me. “And the worst part of any police officer’s job. Delivering news like that.” He leans over, resting a hand on my arm as if to acknowledge that I may yet receive similar news about my own son.

  “And Katie was alone when she found out?” I’m finding it hard to fight back tears.

  “Matt will have broken the news as carefully as possible. But yes. We’re still trying to contact her husband.”

  I draw in a sharp breath. “You mean Nathan doesn’t know . . .”

  “About his son drowning. No. Not yet.”

  Drowning. The word is so shocking, I hardly dare ask: “How did it happen?”

  “That’s precisely what we need to find out.” He pauses. “I’m afraid there was a sense among the officers attending the scene that Jason might have taken his own life.”

  “He what?” I sink back into the cushions, recoiling from the horror of what the detective is telling me, however gently. “How do you . . . ? Did he leave a note?”

  He shakes his head. “No. As far as Mrs. Baxter was concerned, Jason had gone off to his Sunday job at the boatyard as usual. A dog walker found his house keys on a bench. Along with his coat. His phone, too, which suggests it wasn’t a mugging. There was no evidence of a struggle. No marks on his body. The postmortem will tell us more, of course. But at this stage, very sadly, we have to at least consider the possibility that it was suicide.”

  “Suicide,” I echo faintly.

  “I know it’s hard to hear. I wouldn’t normally reveal so much to someone who isn’t family. I’m telling you not because you’re Mrs. Baxter’s friend. I just want to prepare you. We’ve managed the press pretty well so far. We won’t be able to keep this out of the papers.”

  My eyes are drawn to a pile next to him on the coffee table, reminding me of the hostile comments thrown by reporters outside my door. I wonder whether it will be Nick’s photo or Jason’s they plaster under salacious headlines tomorrow morning. Or both.

  “You mean—”
<
br />   “Jason and Nick were at the same sleepover. There’s bound to be speculation about how his death relates to Nick’s disappearance.”

  “Yes. Of course. I can see that.” Pressure builds behind my eyes; my skin hurts. I feel like someone is sticking a thousand pins into me.

  “Can I get you anything?” DCI Maxwell asks, watching me.

  “My son. That’s all I want.”

  “You and me both.” He rubs a hand back and forth across his jaw. “We’ll coordinate the two inquiries, of course: the inquest into Jason’s death alongside the search for Nick.”

  “Jason’s body was found very fast. If Nick—”

  “The police divers didn’t find anything else, Izzy. We’ve also followed up on a couple of sightings reported after the media appeal. Nothing doing there as yet. Oh, and DS Clarke has managed to get hold of Cassidy Parker, the boy in Year Twelve.”

  “And?” I hold my breath in hope.

  “Never heard of Nick, I’m afraid. Only joined the school a week ago. It was a long shot,” he adds when I groan. “Sarah will look at other schools. If that yields nothing, we’ll have to discount it as a meaningful lead. There is one positive development, though. None of the feelers we put out online has found anything connected to Nick. We’ve got undercover officers infiltrating known pedophile rings,” he explains. “Nothing to report there.”

  “Thank God.” I realize I’ve never prayed so much as I have over the last two days. “Everything comes back to the sleepover, doesn’t it? Whatever has happened to Nick is down to something that went on in Beth’s house. Between those four walls. Those four boys.”

  The detective frowns. “I wish we could be certain of that. All we can do is keep piecing together the evidence.” He holds out his hand. “Can I see Nick’s phone?”

  “His . . . Oh, yes, sorry.” I dig into my pocket and hold out the small Nokia, trying not to feel as though I’m handing over the last remaining part of my son.