Now, in the small hours of the morning, the silence and solitude were somehow more substantial, more tangible than ever they were in the daytime. Her vigil over a small boy whose secrets were locked within him, unknown and unknowable, made her see just how alone this little scrap of humanity was. In the broader picture, his isolation reflected her own, for since his arrival, Jenny had come to see how little she knew of anyone — even Fraser. What little she did know was what he chose to tell her, and how much of that could she — should she — believe?
A thought came to her that made her catch her breath. She had insisted to the police that only she drove the car, that Fraser didn’t drive — hated even the idea. But did she know that for certain? All through their marriage, he had resisted the idea of learning to drive. The one time she had coaxed him to sit behind the wheel and try the controls in the broad expanse of an empty supermarket car park, he had panicked as soon as the car started to creep forward.
That was ten years ago. How could she be sure that Fraser didn’t drive? That he hadn’t learned? She believed it because Fraser her told her. But did that make it true? The car hadn’t been broken into — there was no damage to the lock or the steering column — and she kept a set of spare keys in her dressing table drawer.
She tutted, impatient with herself. ‘For God’s sake, Jenny,’ she whispered. ‘This is paranoid.’ Paranoid, unreasonable, morbid and disloyal. Fraser had been a rock. A steady, constant, dependable landmark during an almost impossible transitional period in which she had had to reassess her concept of womanhood, marriage and family. He had never given up on her, had never once doubted her.
She looked at the boy once more. He was in a deep sleep. She tiptoed from the room and returned to bed. Fraser was reading. She slipped in beside him and nuzzled his neck.
‘What’s this for?’ he asked.
‘For being you.’
She felt him tense and withdraw slightly. ‘How’s the wee lad?’
‘He’s asleep,’ she said, puzzled, but prepared to try again. She slid her arm under his and stroked his abdomen.
‘So should you be,’ he said, briskly, tapping her hand and flicking out the side light. She heard his novel thump to the floor beside the bed. ‘Case conference in the morning.’ He turned away from her, moving so that a cool strip of cotton sheeting separated them, and their bodies did not touch, except for her arm draped over him.
His dismissal of her felt like a body-blow. She was reminded of her dream, the dream in which Fraser rejected her. ‘Fraser,’ she said, ‘is something wrong? Are you okay?’
‘Fine.’ He patted her hand again. ‘Get some sleep, will you?’
He said he was fine, and she knew that it was a lie. He wasn’t fine. Neither of them was, for reasons she could not begin to fathom. Nothing was fine. And she wouldn’t get a wink of sleep.
* * *
Max pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He felt a migraine coming on. Was he doing the right thing, not telling Jenny why he wanted her to be careful? As well as the second break-in at his house, the hospital switchboard had received several more phone calls, asking for information about the boy. Some of the callers claimed to be his mother but refused to give a name or a contact number, others simply wanted to know where he was being housed. These, he felt, were the most menacing.
The police are monitoring the situation, he told himself. It would be unfair to Jenny to add to her worries by telling her to watch out for lunatics lurking in the undergrowth every time she brought Paul for a counselling session or took him for a walk in the park. It was probably nothing to worry about, simply people who wanted to give a sense of importance to their lives by pretending a relationship to a mystery child.
A voice, small but persistent screamed for him to listen to his instincts that Jenny and Paul were in danger. But when he examined the facts, the hidden menace was insubstantial, no more than a shadow at his back, and he convinced himself that his own situation had made him unduly apprehensive.
* * *
When the group therapy session started, Pam asked if anyone had anything they wanted to share with the group. Shona started to put up her hand, like a schoolgirl, then put it down, embarrassed, and stood instead.
‘I’ve got something to say — well, to show, really.’ She saw distrust in one or two of their faces, but she went on, describing what had happened.
‘Will you show us your hands?’ Pam asked.
They gasped at the swelling, the black and purple discoloration.
‘Does it hurt?’ That was Angela.
‘A bit,’ Shona replied, suddenly shy. ‘Not as much as before.’
‘Before.’
‘At home. In my flat.’ She couldn’t say that she had returned to Greenberg’s house. How could she tell them that she had found the door open and had turned and fled?
‘You said “before”,’ Pam repeated. ‘Think, Shona. When did this happen before?’
Shona shrugged helplessly. She had tried to remember, but it was gone.
‘This is a body memory,’ Pam explained. ‘Sometimes the body remembers abuse which the mind can’t bear to recall. Now, you said, “before, at home”. Think of home. A place in your home that frightened you. A sound or a smell. Something that speaks to your pain.’
Shona began to shake her head, but Pam asked them all to close their eyes and help Shona to travel back, back, back until she could see what had hurt her.
Shona listened to Pam’s voice. It went on and on, a gentle, persistent undertone, now whispering, now loud with urgency. ‘Who hurt you, Shona? Can you remember who gave you this pain?’
Someone groaned. Shona was drifting. She had the strangest sensation of floating, then—
She cried out and looked down at her hands. A ridge of new swelling ran from the half-moons of her nails to just below the first knuckle of her index fingers. An attic room. A rumbling sound. Ball bearings. A runner. She knew.
Chapter 13
Mike Delaney checked his watch. Eight thirty. They’d had a huge response to the television appeal for information about the lad, and perhaps a score or more of the respondents had pointed out the similarity between this boy and a lad who had disappeared from outside his home in Cheshire. It took a phone call to Granada TV and half a dozen transfers before he got hold of someone from Cheshire Constabulary who could tell him more. One further switchboard transfer put him in contact with DC Weston, one of the investigating officers. He arranged to meet in Widnes and was shown by a WPC to the canteen, where a few people were eating breakfast.
‘That’s Weston over there,’ the WPC said, indicating a slightly paunchy man, tucking in to a full English, with toast to follow. He made his way to the table, but Weston didn’t look up from tearing through his meal until Mike stood over him.
‘Mike Delaney,’ he said, offering his hand.
Weston licked his fingers and wiped them on a paper napkin before taking it. ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘but I can’t go without my grub, and we’ve got a briefing at nine.’
‘It was good of you to see me,’ Mike said.
A woman approached the table with a tray holding several rounds of toast and two mugs. She had broad shoulders and a solid, tough look, but she moved gracefully. ‘Hope you don’t mind coffee,’ she said, passing Mike one of the mugs.
‘Coffee’s great,’ he said. Weston mumbled an introduction through half-chewed fried bread and egg.
‘I’ll do the honours, shall I?’ she said to Weston. ‘While you fill your face.’ Since Weston’s face was filled to bursting at the time, he couldn’t reply, only managing a grimace. ‘I’m DC Lisa Calcot.’
They shook hands and sat at the table.
‘Connor’s mum phoned us on Friday,’ Calcot said. ‘Said he’d gone missing from outside the house. She told us someone had tried to snatch him from outside his school in Chester earlier in the week — a parent waiting to pick up his own son saw a man trying to drag Connor into a car. He
intervened and the bloke drove off.’
‘Nobody recognized him?’
‘No.’
‘Got a picture?’
Weston wiped his hands again and reached inside his briefcase next to his chair. ‘That’s him,’ he said.
Mike took out his photograph of Paul and placed it next to Connor’s.
‘Similar,’ he said, ‘but it’s not the same lad.’
‘No, but they could be twins,’ Calcot breathed, dragging the two images to her for closer inspection.
‘Maybe you could show this to Connor’s mother,’ Mike suggested, handing the photograph of Paul to Weston. ‘If they’re related, maybe there’s a link.’
‘Sure,’ Weston said, sliding both photographs back into the folder. ‘You know our lad’s turned up?’
‘That’s putting it a bit strongly,’ Calcot said. ‘His mum says he’s with his dad, but we haven’t spoken to him or the boy yet.’
‘But there was a previous abduction attempt,’ Mike said. ‘That was genuine.’
‘Yeah,’ Calcot said. ‘D’you think the kidnapper got the wrong boy, is that it?’ She had stopped munching on her toast and was giving him her full attention.
‘I suppose it’s possible, if you didn’t know the boys well . . .’
‘You might go for Connor, first try, outside the school, realize your mistake and then try and snatch Paul from his home. He botched his first attempt, there was no reason why he’d do any better on the second,’ Weston suggested.
‘Hard to say, until we know the order of events,’ Mike said. ‘We don’t know what happened to Paul — we’re not even sure when. Maybe the bloke who tried to snatch Connor actually took Paul first, and the kid got away somehow. Or maybe he didn’t. Perhaps the abductor had got what he wanted from the lad — information? Something else? And just let him go.’ Mike sighed. There were too many could-bes, what-ifs and maybes.
‘Are you any nearer identifying your little boy?’ Calcot asked.
‘I’m seeing someone this morning.’ Mike tilted his head. ‘Hopefully . . .’ He frowned. ‘What did you make of Connor’s mum?’
‘A hard-faced bitch.’ Calcot said it without missing a beat.
Weston laughed. ‘Lisa didn’t hit it off with Mrs Harvey.’
‘So what’s your opinion of her?’ Mike asked.
Weston sucked food from between his teeth. ‘She’s a strong-willed woman,’ he said, smiling as Calcot rolled her eyes.
‘Strong-willed enough to try and bargain with kidnappers?’ Mike asked.
Chapter 14
‘Do you know this boy?’ the presenter asked. Paul’s photograph stared out from the television screen. ‘He was found wandering the streets of the Garston area of Liverpool in his nightclothes early last Saturday morning. He was clearly distressed and refusing to speak. Despite daily therapy, the boy has not been able to tell the police what happened to him and they are still no nearer tracing his parents. If you have any information which might help reunite this boy with his family, Merseyside Police have set up a confidential telephone hotline. The number is—’
Mike Delaney pushed the stop button on the remote control and switched off the TV.
‘We had hundreds of calls after that appeal,’ he said. ‘It’s been a painstaking process, following every one of them up, but we didn’t want the lad upset by gawkers and publicity seekers, so we had to be sure callers were genuine. Which is why it’s taken till today.’
‘You’ve found his parents?’ Jenny said, leaning forward eagerly.
The room reserved for the case conference was crammed full. Aside from the independent chairperson and the secretary taking the minutes of the meeting, there were representatives of all interested official bodies in Paul’s case: the doctor who had examined Paul when he was first brought to hospital, the local authority solicitor, education department and health authority representatives, Paul’s social worker, Mike Delaney, representing the police force, Max, Fraser and Jenny, and Gina Vance, the senior social worker with responsibility for Paul. Roz, who was Jenny and Fraser’s link worker, had turned up at the last minute.
The tables had been arranged in a U-shape, with the TV and video recorder placed at the open end of it. The room was a uniform grey: the tables and chairs selected for the tonal neutrality that was the trend in institutions in the late seventies, in tune with the depression of the times, and the walls — originally icicle blue — had gradually faded and with accumulated grime had taken on the new shade of dove grey, in conformity with the rest of the decor.
The plastic seat covers were sticky in the heat of another swelteringly hot and humid morning, and the security latches on the windows allowed only a couple of centimetres’ gap for air circulation. The blinds were stuck in the open position.
Mike felt a trickle of sweat slide between his shoulder blades and work its way down to the waistband of his trousers. To hell with this, he thought. He loosened his tie and popped the top button of his shirt. ‘Any reason why I shouldn’t open the door?’ he asked.
‘Dozens,’ Max said, with characteristic dryness. ‘But in the overriding interests of sanity, I think you must.’ He had taken off his jacket and was wearing a short-sleeved shirt which seemed curiously at odds with the formality of his yellow bow tie. His fun badge, a push-button affair that played ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head’ when triggered, had been transferred from his jacket lapel to his shirt pocket. While they waited for Mike Delaney to arrive, he had demonstrated to the rest of the assembly.
The distraction of the exchange between Mike and Max seemed to relax the group. Gina Vance grinned and reached for the iced water. ‘Glad someone had the common sense to suggest it,’ she said.
They had to prop the door open, but the cooling effect of the resulting draught was pure bliss.
‘Okay, have we found his parents?’ Mike said, rephrasing Jenny’s question. ‘To be honest, not yet. But we think we know his name.’
There was a collective movement, an almost visible poising of pens.
‘Alain Fournier,’ Mike said, carefully spelling both names for all concerned.
‘Hmm,’ Max said. ‘Like the writer.’
‘That’s what his headmaster said. Can’t say I’ve heard of him myself.’
‘Died young,’ Max said.
‘Headmaster?’ Fraser interrupted, irritably. He had been out of sorts ever since he had got up. ‘He’s been identified by his headmaster?’ he demanded.
‘He attends Harcourt Prep School in Mossley Hill. A private school. Not cheap.’
* * *
Mike had visited the headmaster, Mr Radleigh, and his wife immediately after his chat with Cheshire CID. The school was in a quiet drive which curved elegantly from an only slightly busier road, arching back to the main roadway a quarter of a mile further west of its ingress. He supposed it must be Victorian in origin: all red brick and false crenellations, splendid in its way, and certainly unexpected in this corner of suburbia. It was hidden behind a high sandstone wall and an immaculately clipped beech hedge. The driveway, in black tarmac speckled with pink stones, swept with courtly splendour, looping back on itself at a spectacular roundabout planted with begonias and a box hedge in the school’s crest. There was room for two-way traffic, and speed ramps had been built in, presumably to discourage parents who were late delivering their darlings to school from speeding to the front door.
He had parked in front of a sandstone portico with slate roof, which sheltered a wide doorway complete with studded double oak doors hung from huge trefoil-shaped iron hinges. He scanned the layout while he locked his car. The main building seemed to be one street-long rectangle. Set back from it, and a little to its right, was a squat, solid-looking house. A little further down the driveway, at an angle to the school building, was another, modern-looking construction with a reflecting glass front, which Mike assumed was some kind of sports hall or perhaps a swimming pool. It reflected the powder-blue and cotton-wool sky and the best
features of the main building to impressive effect. He could hear the buzz of a mower somewhere nearby and wondered if there were fields behind the main frontage.
He walked up a shallow set of steps to the imposing doorway and rang at the doorbell marked ‘Headmaster’s Secretary’. He was shown by a tall, mousy-haired woman across the tarmac and down a pretty, lavender-lined path to the house. The latticed windows gleamed in the early morning sun and the scent of lavender wafted up to him as his trousers brushed the tips of the flowers. This, he thought, was very different from the dilapidated 1960s flat-roofed, leaky secondary modern he had attended.
The headmaster answered the door. He was younger than Mike had expected, and tall. Dressed casually but immaculately in chinos and a polo shirt, he looked ready for a morning on the golf course.
‘So good of you to come,’ he said, as though Mike were a visiting friend. ‘We’re in the drawing room.’ He showed Mike through a panelled hallway to a large and gleaming room which Mike’s mother would have called a ‘parlour’. Except that it was on a much grander scale than any best room they had ever had. It must have been twenty-five feet long, and the sheen of freshly waxed wood seemed to compete with the warm glow of the copper and brass plate ranged on rails around the room.
Mrs Radleigh sat on a pale silk-covered settee. She smiled over at Mike as her husband introduced him, then busied herself pouring tea.
THE LOST BOY an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists Page 11
