When he returned to the kitchen, Amy was watching with satisfaction as the boy wolfed down the pancakes, which she had filled with jam and cream.
‘My God! What’s happened?’ she gasped.
‘I . . . have to go out,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how long it’ll take . . .’
‘You look ghastly — sit down and get your colour back.’
Fraser shook his head. He stared at the boy for a second or two, then reached out to touch him, but Paul flinched away, staring with furious concentration at his plate until Fraser turned and staggered from the room.
* * *
It was raining up on the moors. Reflections of grey-white light from the car park security lamps shivered on pools of water and sump oil puddling the scabrous asphalt. Fraser waited.
He had followed Hunter’s instructions, driving almost sick with terror to the cold, sodden crest of the Pennines, and waited, sitting hunched in the car beside the slumped single-storey café. Its window frames were pulpy from the incessant seepage of condensation within and the persistent drift of moorland mist without. The window glass hung with greasy lace, so that he could see little of the interior. He had watched the customers come and go, as the gloom gathered and deepened.
Strip lights inside the café, filtered through the accumulated layers of nicotine and grease, cast a jaundiced circle of smudged light a few yards’ distance from the windows, and Fraser watched as each customer stepped out, zipping up jackets, fastening coats, glancing left and right before moving to their cars. Once or twice, men leaving the dingy comfort of the café chanced to look in his direction, and he tensed, bracing himself for contact, but none of them approached him.
Within half an hour the car’s windscreen was fogged and Fraser had opened a window to clear it. In the trees to the edge of the car park starlings had gathered, their constant bubbling warble like a prolonged murmur of discontent. The insistent drone of traffic on the A road only yards away overlaid the sound. The air smelled of chip fat and fried bacon, and the sweeter, lonely smell of damp moorland. Was Hunter there, hidden in the gathering darkness? Watching him?
Hunter had called the night before Jenny brought Paul home. When Paul had appeared on the landing, he had thought — for a moment had been certain — and he’d felt the clash of opposite emotions: hope and dread.
* * *
The back door is ajar. Has he returned? Is it possible? I don’t know why I am here, except perhaps to try and find some clue to his whereabouts. I can’t find him. I must find him.
A faint sound, like a low sob. Dear God — she can’t have survived? Her blood is on my clothing. Could it be the boy? No — of course they wouldn’t bring him back here. But the police would have secured the place. If they had been here. If they had seen her . . .
She is there, still. I can smell her, but I can’t look at her again. I won’t.
Chapter 8
‘Shona.’ The therapist’s voice was warm, compassionate, but Shona heard the note of disappointment. ‘Haven’t you anything to tell us?’
Shona glanced quickly at the others. They stared back at her, all four of them, their faces unreadable. It was only when she looked away that she felt their hostility. It fell on her like rain pattering on an overcoat — large gobs, like spittle, falling on her. They demanded her full allegiance, the lowering of barriers. Commitment and integration could not be achieved without honesty, without pain.
She had tried, for weeks she had tried to let go of her anger. At first, she had said she couldn’t let go of something she didn’t feel. Now she admitted that she had suppressed her rage, and although she tried, she couldn’t get in touch with it.
Pam told her she was making progress, that she was progressing towards release. And then nothing. The others had gradually recalled terrible events — not all at once, more like a story building in a TV series, sometimes going back to the triggering event. Mostly, they started with vague feelings of unhappiness, but with Pam’s help those feelings took shape and became real, and they began to experience the awful things they had hidden from themselves for so long. Pam gave them permission to express their rage, their hurt, the devastating sense of loss, and she was ready to take the group forward. But Shona held them back. Shona had let them down. She hadn’t remembered anything, and she began to feel again the desperation that had driven her two years earlier to try to take her own life.
‘Perhaps,’ Pam suggested in her gentle, forgiving voice, ‘you feel you can’t identify with the rest of the group.’
Pit, pat, pat — Shona felt the spatter of hateful looks.
‘It’s not like that,’ she said. ‘I’ve tried, honest I have, but—’
‘Perhaps it would be best if you and I continued on an individual basis.’
‘But I want to . . .’ What did she want? To stay, certainly. To be accepted, trusted. She wanted to be wanted.
‘You could join another group when you feel more able to share.’
A murmur of agreement went around the group and Shona began to cry. ‘Please, give me one more chance!’ She could not bear to be banished.
‘We don’t want to hurt you, Shona, but you can’t be healed until you have confronted what is making you unhappy.’
‘I know, I know,’ Shona sobbed. They were so kind, and she was cutting herself off from them, inhibiting the others with her aloofness, her reserve. She didn’t deserve to belong. In her mind she saw herself in a vast black featureless landscape: alone, unwanted.
Pam put her hand on Shona’s head. Shona felt the kind of gratitude, the soaring sense of love she had experienced when the priest had blessed her at her confirmation. The same authority rested in Pam’s hands: she had the power of forgiveness and of healing.
Pam left her hand there as she spoke. ‘I believe that Shona has suffered something so terrible that she has buried it deep. We have to help her unearth it. But it’s up to the group . . .’
Shona felt a burning heat radiate outwards, from her scalp to the skin of her face. She knew what would happen next. Knew that they would reject her — push her away as her mother had done so many times, disgusted by her displays of affection. Then, something magical happened, a small miracle, and Shona encountered her first truly spiritual experience. No one spoke, but all four gathered around her and Pam, and collectively they joined arms, holding her close, sharing her tears.
* * *
Vi Harvey stood in the middle of the sitting room, a cigarette in one hand and the cordless phone in the other. ‘Where is he?’ she demanded. ‘I should call the police. They know he’s missing.’
There was a silence. She heard his breathing at the other end of the line.
‘You really shouldn’t have told them,’ he said.
Vi shivered and took a nervy puff of her cigarette. ‘What was I supposed to—’
‘Be quiet,’ he said sharply. ‘Be quiet and listen. I’m going to tell you what to do. If you’re reasonable, we’ll both get what we want out of this.’
The doorbell rang moments later. It was the two detectives who had called on Friday.
‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘I was about to phone you. Come in. There’s been a terrible mistake.’
Weston and Calcot exchanged a suspicious look. This was not the angry, offensive Mrs Harvey who had told them to stop pissing about and find her son. Weston shrugged and they followed her through to the sitting room. She stubbed out her cigarette, immediately taking a fresh one from a pack on the mantelpiece. She picked up the lighter and flicked the trigger in agitated embarrassment.
Calcot fastened her gaze on the lighter, interested to note that it was the cheap, throwaway kind and not another chunky, gold-plated ornament.
‘You said there’d been a mistake,’ she said.
Vi looked up at them, her head bent over the flame, then drew deeply, inhaling gratefully. ‘Some stupid bloody shit didn’t pass on a message and of course, after what happened last week, it was hardly surprising I jumped to the conclusi
on.’
‘Let’s start with the mistake, shall we?’ Weston said.
‘I’m trying to, if you’d just . . .’ Vi seemed to notice that her mask of effusive repentance had slipped and gave it an almost visible hitch, beginning again, with a smile that could crack ice. ‘Do sit down. I’m afraid my nerves are a little on edge with all this . . .’ She waved an arm encompassing all of her present difficulties in its majestic sweep, then plumped herself into a chair, armed with cigarettes and ashtray.
She took a deep breath and started again. ‘Connor is quite safe.’
‘Oh?’ Calcot said.
‘I was supposed to get a message,’ she went on. ‘But the incompetent menial who was given the task of contacting me forgot to telephone. I mean completely forgot.’
‘The content of the message?’ Calcot asked.
Vi gave a rueful smile. Neither Calcot nor Weston responded.
Connor’s mother took a fresh cigarette from the packet on the arm of the chair and lit it using the one she had only half finished. ‘He’s with his father. The bloody idiot secretary was supposed to ring me and tell me. They’ve gone fishing in the Lakes.’
Mrs Harvey coloured beneath her tan. ‘I’m sorry! All right? I know I’ve wasted your time. I really can’t apologize enough.’
‘You’ve got that right,’ Calcot muttered.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘When did you find out he was safe?’
‘Oh, just this minute — just before you arrived. Really!’
Calcot paused, thinking. ‘Your son’s playing in his room. Next minute, he’s vanished, and you want us to believe his dad took him?’
Vi looked bewildered. ‘It’s true . . .’
‘And he didn’t think to put his head round the door and let you know?’
‘I told you! He thought I did know.’
Weston took up the story. ‘So he just picks Connor up from the driveway and zooms off.’
‘That was the arrangement. “Have Connor waiting outside at twelve thirty.” It was pure chance that Connor was actually there at that time, and of course Bill — Mr Harvey — assumed I’d got him ready.’
‘He didn’t think it strange you didn’t come to wave them goodbye?’
She stiffened slightly. ‘I was otherwise occupied. I can’t keep track of the child twenty-four hours a day.’
Calcot sucked her teeth. ‘What about a suitcase?’
‘What?’
‘Wouldn’t Mr Harvey expect to have some clothes packed?’
Vi seemed momentarily confused. She tapped her cigarette ash into the ashtray, frowning, then came up with that dazzling smile again. ‘Part of the message. “Don’t bother to pack, we’ll get you some new gear when we arrive.”’
‘You expect us to believe that?’ Weston said.
‘Why not?’ she snapped. ‘He can afford it.’ She shrugged, stubbing out her cigarette and trying to regain her composure. ‘Connor has grown so much over these past months. It’s almost as if the lengthening days have made him shoot up like a sapling.’
She sounded like someone trying to imitate a proud mother, and Calcot was reminded of Miss Halliwell’s contemptuous remark: Oh, he’s trotted out for half an hour at parties to impress her friends with the doting mother routine.
Vi became increasingly nervous under their continued scrutiny. ‘Do you have children, Constable Calcot?’ she asked, her voice unsteady.
‘I don’t believe that’s what happened, Mrs Harvey,’ Calcot said, ignoring the question. ‘I think you were angry with your husband because he suggested you should cancel your lunch appointment. You told him you wouldn’t mess up your arrangements to suit him. You had a row. Maybe he threatened to leave you. He stormed off, taking Connor with him.’
Vi Harvey paled visibly. Evidently Calcot had hit the mark with at least some of the story.
‘So,’ Calcot went on, ‘you called us and make up some cock-and-bull story about your son being abducted, hoping to get the media involved and maximize your husband’s embarrassment.’ She paused and watched as Vi fiddled with a fresh cigarette. ‘How am I doing so far?’
‘You’re entering the realms of pure fantasy, if you must know.’
Vi took a moment to light her cigarette. She flicked the trigger of her lighter several times to no effect, then flung it away in frustration, strode to a bookcase and rummaged in one of its drawers, retrieving a new one.
‘None of this would have happened if that stupid girl had passed on his message.’
Pert to petulant, and all because of a faulty lighter, Calcot thought. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it, that a businessman would switch off his mobile phone on a busy working day?’
‘His work had been trying to contact him all afternoon,’ Weston explained.
Her frown deepened. ‘That damned mobile. He’s so sickeningly correct about these things. Switches it off in restaurants — and he wouldn’t dream of having it switched on if he’s driving on the motorway.’
‘But he’s in the Lakes, isn’t he? No one to disturb for miles.’
Vi laughed. The sound made Calcot think of broken glass. ‘Bill wouldn’t despoil a beauty spot with the trill of a phone. The fact that I’m half out of my mind with worry is neither here nor there.’
‘Save the histrionics for the magistrate’s court,’ Weston said, unable to stand any more.
‘Magistrates . . .’ she whispered, bringing a hand to her collar bone.
‘Wasting police time, Mrs Harvey,’ Calcot said, ‘is a very serious matter.’
They left while she was still trying to splutter a reply.
* * *
I should be happy, Lee-Anne thought. Lobo and Kyle up a ladder, wallpapering the living room, and his mates Beefy and Mazzer working on the bedroom. She shut out an image of blood dripping down the walls and told herself that they would be finished by Wednesday, and by Thursday the new carpets would be laid.
It did no good, the restless nervous energy caused by excitement and lack of sleep was uncontrollable. She threw down the Daily Post, which she had been scanning for news of the woman, and got up to make a brew.
As she passed the radio, the newsreader’s voice took on a sombre tone.
‘A woman’s body was found today.’
Lee-Anne shrieked and turned up the volume.
Lobo and Kyle shouted ‘’Ey!’ and ‘Bloody hell!’ simultaneously.
Lee-Anne bent her head to the speaker, despite the deafening volume.
‘Police are asking for anyone who may have been in the Dock Road area between two and four o’clock this morning to come forward, as they may have vital information . . .’
Lee-Anne looked up, shame-faced, as Lobo descended the ladder and turned the radio volume down. Kyle watched them both as he continued smoothing the piece of paper he was hanging.
‘What’s up with her?’ he asked.
Lobo kept his back to his brother. ‘What is she like, ’eh?’ he asked. His voice sounded relaxed, but his eyes bulged, and his face was red with rage. ‘No one’s gonna hurt you,’ he soothed. ‘Not while I’m around.’ He bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Not unless it’s me,’ he hissed in her ear. Then, returning to normal conversational level, ‘Come on, I’ll help you make us some coffee and sarnies.’ He took her by the elbow and led her to the kitchen, closing the door after him.
‘What the fuck d’you think you’re playing at?’ he whispered.
Lee-Anne backed away from him. ‘I can’t help it, Lobo. I keep getting them dreams. I keep getting them, and every time I close my eyes, I can see her face.’
‘It’s a dream, right?’ He poked her hard in the chest. ‘A fucking dream.’
‘Why hasn’t it been in the news? They must’ve found her by now. I keep thinking they know, and they’re just gonna come and knock on the door one day, and—’
Lobo covered her mouth with his hand. ‘You keep talking like that, you’ll bring the bizzies down on us, and if you do . . .’ When he took h
is hand away there were four pale lines on her cheeks, which quickly filled with blood, becoming raised, red weals.
‘Sorry, Lobo.’ Lee-Anne knew when to play humble, but it was no good Lobo threatening. She still couldn’t get that girl’s face out of her mind. What good was it, having all this stuff, getting the flat nice and everything, if she kept seeing that girl’s horrified face staring up at her, like some ghost at a feast?
Chapter 9
‘The claims made by false memory syndrome sufferers are preposterous.’ Not bad for an opening line, Max thought, and it certainly got their attention. ‘I will attempt, in my presentation, to underline the significance of the therapist’s role in planting ideas of abuse.’
There was a rustle of movement, a metaphorical ruffling of feathers among the abuse therapy proponents. Max nodded. His eyes swept the auditorium, assessing the composition of his audience. The venue — the arts lecture theatre — was a short walk from the psychology building, and he had expected a large proportion of students, despite the fact that this was a mid-week slot and, being an evening lecture, meant their sacrificing valuable drinking time. There was a number, clustered mainly at the back, within easy reach of the doors and hence unobtrusive escape, but there was also a large contingent of older people. The preponderance of women was not a promising sign: Max’s position on recovered memory was well known, and several of his lectures had been disrupted by recovered memory therapists, the majority of whom were women. He resigned himself to the fact that he had a hostile audience this evening.
‘For many genuine abuse victims, the memory of abuse — and they do remember it, make no mistake — the memory is unpleasant, uncomfortable, distasteful, often deeply upsetting. But it is nothing like as traumatic as the experiences some of these so-called recovered memory victims have been put through by the very people who claim to be trying to help them.’
For a few minutes there was uproar. Max could not make himself heard. He was not sure if he would be able to continue, but just as he was about to give up, those who were there genuinely to hear his viewpoint imposed their will on the gathering and there was a restless quiet.
THE LOST BOY an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists Page 7
