THE LOST BOY an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

by MARGARET MURPHY

  Rain blatted the windscreen. Precipitation, he thought, trying to steady his nerves to pass and pull in without incident. He was breathing fast. Precipitate: a hasty action. ‘Wouldn’t be wanting one of those, now, would we?’ he said, grinning to himself out of sheer terror. He inched forward, hoping to pull into inside lane, out of the way of the Mercedes.

  He checked his mirror. Christ! It was Vi!

  * * *

  Vi pounded on the horn. ‘Bastard! You bloody bastard! He’ll think I put you up to it. He’ll tear up the bloody contracts!’

  She had not known what her intention was as she waited for him in the lay-by. When he had driven past her, she felt a sullen hot rage wash over her, and she wanted him to know she was furious. So, she had followed him onto the motorway, becoming more and more enraged by his cautious driving, thinking that it was no mistake the words prudent and prude were so similar. Then he had pulled into the outside lane, diffidently, and she roared out from three cars behind to show him how it was done. To show him he couldn’t do this to her. To show him . . .

  She flashed her headlamps and stabbed at the horn.

  Fraser’s car twitched, then swerved and he scraped the central reservation. Splinters of sharp red light burst in a hot shower from the side of his car and she heard the tortured scream of metal on metal. Vi braked hard as he swerved the other way. All around, she saw cars braking and swerving, trying to avoid collision. Fraser’s car careered off to the left, spinning as it did so, turning a full 180 degrees until it faced the oncoming traffic, skidding across two — three — lanes.

  * * *

  ‘The husband’s name is Ligat,’ Sallis said. ‘Carl Ligat.’

  Mike looked up from his paperwork. ‘Somerset House or the PNC search?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘So, he has got form.’ Mike had been convinced that Mrs Fournier had been lying, and he was disappointed that he had misjudged the situation.

  Sallis’s eyes gleamed. ‘Not him — her.’

  ‘What?’

  Sallis handed him a print-out. ‘There was nothing on Ligat, so I ran Mrs Fournier’s name through the computer, just to be sure. Drunk driving, common assault. This one’ — he pointed to an assault charge, dated 25 December 1996 — ‘was particularly nasty. She attacked Ligat with a knife. Cuts to his arms and hands.’

  Mike remembered the defence cuts on Jeanne-Louise’s arms. ‘The CPS didn’t follow through?’

  ‘The neighbours called the police when they heard the row. Middle of Christmas dinner. But he refused to press charges, said it had been an accident. He reached across her while she was chopping veg.’

  ‘Too much sherry,’ Mike said. ‘It can do that to you. Have we got an address on him?’

  ‘He sold up six months ago, but he gave his mother’s address for mail and such.’

  Sallis had transferred from Admiral Street Station, just after the new year. At first, Mike had been suspicious of him — he dressed too sharply and he had too many smart answers — but over the past few months he had come to respect Ron Sallis: he was painstaking, he didn’t seem to mind the boring legwork that constituted ninety percent of detection and he had an eye for detail.

  ‘You’ll go far,’ he said. Then, calling over his shoulder as he made his way to DI Crank’s office, ‘You haven’t got anything planned for this evening have you, Ron?’

  ‘Let me guess — a drive down to Surrey?’

  ‘I’ll have to clear it with the boss, of course. Why not take Douglas with you? Keep you company.’

  Chapter 32

  Max considered how he would approach the meeting: if what Yvonne said was true — and he had no reason to disbelieve her — Shona was in desperate need of help. The problem was, she probably would not recognize the fact, and even worse, might see his intervention as sinister.

  He planned to talk to her, to convince her that he understood her fear, her confusion. Jenny had confirmed that Shona was seeing a therapist, a proponent of recovered memory. He had to get her away from those people. He would suggest that, if she was not comfortable seeing him for therapy, he could arrange for her to speak to a colleague. A friend had already agreed to take her on as a patient. It happened from time to time that changes of personality were needed.

  He surveyed his sitting room. His pictures had been sent for reframing, and a specialist firm had managed to clean most of the drops of blood off the furniture and floors. He had boxed up the books that were repairable and shipped them off to an expert in Chester. The rest he had burned, late the night before, not wanting to subject them to the ignominy of a refuse collector’s crusher. It was a sombre ceremony, and the effort of burning the tattered remains of his books had left him exhausted but unable to sleep. Now, his favourite room had a bland, empty feel. He sighed — at least there was nothing here to alarm her.

  * * *

  Grandmère and Grandpère had sat so stiff and still, like they did when they were posing for a picture. He had wanted to go to Grandmère, when she put her arms out to him, but he was so ashamed. What would he say to her? They always said Tante Lou was their precious girl, and she had been so kind to him, but they didn’t have their belle Louise anymore, and how would he explain to them? How could he make them understand? Their pain screamed to him, demanding to know why. He could not tell them because he did not understand it himself. He was too young to comprehend the terrors of childhood, the power of adults over children, the magical power of words. All he knew was that he had done a bad thing, and he deserved to be punished, but he was afraid to accept their punishment because he had already been punished more than he could bear.

  And Maman. She had spoken to him in English. He closed his eyes and saw her hold out her hand and say, ‘Come to Mummy.’ She would not speak in French, their language of preference. Her eyes were blank, empty, her foot tap-tapping, as it sometimes did when she was angry with him. He was afraid to go to her.

  Alain lifted his hands and let them drop. Of course they’re angry with me. It’s all my fault. If it wasn’t for me, Jeanne-Louise wouldn’t be—

  Lightning flashed, sharp as a knife, bringing red rain. Red rain. A drop fell on his skin — hot, burning.

  A shout escaped him, and he jumped to his feet, struggling to banish the image. He had placed the owl and, next to it, a black-and-white squashy Pound Puppy, to keep watch at the window. He resolved to go to the window himself, when he felt a little braver, and look down into the garden.

  A noise on the landing. He turned to the door. A semicircle of animals, watchful, unblinking, guard it. He listened, ready to attack, poised on the balls of his feet. The toilet flushed, a pause, and then a knock — soft, almost timid.

  He held his breath and waited, dizzy with the sound of blood rushing in his ears, then he heard her sigh and walk slowly down the stairs. He went to the wardrobe. If I screw my eyes tightly till they’re nearly shut, I won’t have to look at the—

  ‘Dirty little pig! Cochon! D’you like rolling in shit? Living like a stinking animal in a sty? Let’s make it more lifelike, shall we? Make you feel right at home! You disgusting little . . .’

  Alain clamped both hands over his ears. ‘Help me,’ he whispered. He began muttering a prayer. ‘Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grace.’

  ‘PIG!’

  ‘Le Seigneur est avec vous. Vous êtes bénie, entre toutes les femmes . . .’

  The voice faded, as if someone had turned down the volume, and he reached into the cupboard, intoning the prayer to the Virgin as if it had the power of exorcism. He turned away — mustn’t look! — and probed the darkness with his tingling fingertips, recoiling, hissing at the softly yielding contact of pink, piggy flesh. ‘Priez pour nous, pauvres pécheurs . . .’ A second foray rapped his knuckles against something reassuringly hard. He drew out a baseball bat and tested its weight, holding it in his two small hands, trying a couple of tentative swings. It was easier than the cricket bat, and heavier. He raised it over his head and brought it down
with a thud across the width of his pillowcase.

  * * *

  Jenny paused, frowning up at the ceiling, then glanced at her watch. She was due at work at a quarter past eight, it was already after six, and Fraser still wasn’t home. How could she expect him to be? She had given an ultimatum, and Fraser knew she didn’t make such statements lightly. But she wanted him there. She wanted him desperately. She needed an explanation, and she needed to vent some of the hurt he had caused her on him, to tell him how much pain she felt, perhaps even to make him feel some of it.

  Fraser was having an affair. He had admitted to it, even though he claimed it was over, done with. If it was over, she reasoned, why the urgency? Why was he so willing to rush off to his mistress (ex-mistress?), a woman he said he had broken up with eight years ago?

  Eight years ago, they had taken their first foster child, having made the decision that adoption was not for them. At least that’s what she had thought. Except now it seemed that Fraser had wanted to adopt. Why hadn’t she? It was difficult to remember the muddle of emotions, the emotional turmoil she had gone through after the miscarriage. She hadn’t wanted to take another woman’s child as her own — was that it? But hadn’t she given each of their foster children as much love and energy and commitment as she would her own child? They had discussed it over and over during their assessment. They could help so many children by fostering. With her paediatric training and his teaching skills they were used to dealing with children, they understood their needs, their development.

  Because of their work patterns, Roz had advised them to foster school-aged children. It had worked remarkably well. Sometimes it had been hard to give up a child, and sometimes it had been a huge relief, but they were happy that they had helped a child in crisis, had made a difference.

  Then Luke came along. He was younger than their usual placements, but he already had a full-time place at a local authority nursery, which made his care manageable, and as usual the social workers were desperate for a placement. Decisions about Luke’s future had dragged on and on, once the courts became involved, and they had grown more and more attached to him.

  She stared out of the window. If she had allowed herself to think about it at the time, she would have realized that adoption was the right — the best — way forward for Luke. How could they have let him go like that? In truth, she knew why: she had avoided thinking about adoption for so long because it meant admitting to her childlessness, and she didn’t know how to broach the subject, even in her own mind. Fraser should have helped her — talked to her. From the very first, when she had mentioned fostering, he should have made his feelings known. She would have resisted, but they could have compromised, and eventually, he would have won her over. Instead, Fraser had had an affair with this woman.

  If she had borne him a child, it would be about Alain’s age now. Jenny felt the hairs on her arms rise, and a sudden chill ran down her spine. The way Fraser had looked at Alain all those times, the boy’s strange reaction to Fraser, even the fact that Mrs Fournier had refused to name Alain’s father, could it be that Alain was Fraser’s son? Alain was so like him. She had found the photograph from their bedroom. Fraser had hidden it in the wardrobe, in an empty suitcase, and the similarity between the two of them was striking. But Mrs Fournier was claiming that Alain’s injuries — the damage to his hands — had been caused by his father. She knew Fraser could not have done that, and not only because he had never so much as raised a finger to any of the children they had fostered. Alain could not have been left in the care of his father for a week while Mrs Fournier was away, but she and Fraser had never been apart for more than a few days at a time. Mrs Fournier was lying, which meant it could have been she who had hurt Alain — after all, he had seemed afraid of her at the hospital. But Fraser had also lied.

  Conflicting emotions, conflicting loyalties, fought for control of her, and she knew that if he walked through the door right now, she would want him to take her in his arms and tell her that they would work things out — that everything would be all right. She would fight him if he tried it, but she would still want him to try.

  After a few more minutes of worry, looking at her watch every thirty seconds or so, she telephoned Max.

  ‘Right,’ Max said. ‘Best phone and tell them you won’t be in this weekend. Doctor’s orders. Alain should be with someone he trusts just now.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jenny said. She rang off, then tapped in the hospital number and waited. It was answered on the third ring.

  ‘Hi, it’s Jenny . . .’

  * * *

  ‘Jenny! How’s the little lad? I heard about the meeting,’ Shona went on without waiting for an answer.

  ‘Nothing gets by you, does it, Shona?’ Jenny was not in the mood to humour her.

  ‘You know what I think’s up with him?’

  ‘Shona—’

  ‘Well,’ she laughed, ‘never mind what I think. Don’t let me tell you your job.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Jenny said, heavily.

  ‘It’s just — I feel like we’ve got a bond. Me and Alain . . .’

  ‘I need to speak to the ward manager on C4,’ Jenny said, more insistently.

  ‘You want to have him admitted? Is it his hands?’ Her voice took on a breathless, expectant quality.

  His hands? For a moment, Jenny was alarmed by the question. But she was tired, and she had worries enough of her own, without taking on Shona’s as an extra burden. ‘I need to arrange cover,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to leave him tonight.’

  ‘Oh! If you need a babysitter, I’ll sit with him.’

  Mistake, Jenny. You shouldn’t engage . . . ‘Thanks for the offer,’ she said, firmly. ‘But that’s not possible.’

  ‘Only, I’m due to knock off soon — it’d be no bother.’

  ‘Thanks, Shona, but there are rules . . .’

  There was a silence which Jenny longed to break. Although Shona was interfering and insensitive, she meant well, and she would be hurt by the refusal, but if Jenny spoke first, she felt sure that Shona would not let go until she had access to Alain. That, Jenny knew both instinctively and rationally, would be disastrous for the boy.

  ‘I’ll try to connect you,’ Shona said, and Jenny winced, hearing the tears in the operator’s voice — but she bit back an apology.

  Shona put her through to the ward and she spoke to the ward manager. It was Jarmon Willis. Jenny relaxed a little, knowing she had a sympathetic ear. She explained the situation. ‘We’ll manage,’ Jarmon said. ‘Just you take care of the boy.’

  ‘Thanks, Jarmon. I’m really worried about him. It’s a relief getting through to you. I thought Officious O’Flynn was on duty tonight.’

  Jarmon laughed, and she felt the balm of his good nature wash over her like a wave of summer warmth.

  ‘She got the ’flu,’ he said. ‘She was really put out the nasty little bugs hadn’t filled in a permission slip for the privilege of infecting the sacred temple of her upper respiratory tract.’

  ‘I wondered why you were on C4,’ Jenny chuckled. ‘Will Officious ever get over the shame of actually taking a day off?’

  Jarmon laughed again. In the background, Jenny heard someone speak to him. ‘Be right there,’ he said. ‘Listen, Jen, I’d love to sit and catch up on gossip, but I gotta go.’

  ‘Sorry, Jarmon.’

  ‘I said, don’t worry.’

  ‘Sure.’ She hung up.

  Was Alain at the window now, keeping vigil? Against what? He had not spoken to his mother or to his grandparents. Jenny felt her palms begin to sweat, remembering Angeline Fournier’s stilted greeting and the stricken look on Alain’s face.

  Mrs Fournier had spoken in careful English to her son, instructed by the police and the hospital authorities that only English must be spoken. She seemed formal, stiff. And her parents seated next to each other, backs straight, lips pale and eyeing their grandson. Were they anxious for Alain? It was hard to say.

  Why wouldn’t
he look at them? Was he afraid of his mother? She could see why he might be. But when he ran from the hospital, he’d seemed upset but not frightened. What had he meant when he asked if it was okay if you didn’t mean to do something bad? She remembered the crack he’d given Fraser across his head and the way he’d stood over her with his fists bunched, screaming ‘TELL ME!’ Alain’s sudden outbursts were violent and frightening. Violence begets violence, she knew. And Alain had been violently assaulted at some time in his young life. She thought of Jeanne-Louise, slashed and stabbed with such terrible violence and felt a terrible chill. Surely, she thought. Surely to God, not the boy?

  * * *

  Shona looked down at her hands — at the carefully applied rings of plaster, at the padding and bandaging on her wrist.

  There had been a bond between her and the boy since he was first admitted. She felt she knew him, knew what he was afraid of. Her fingers throbbed with pain just thinking about him.

  Why was Jenny being so mean? She was only trying to help. She could’ve looked after the kiddie — would’ve kept him safe. But in the next instant her seesawing emotions told her that it was for the best. Pam would say that in offering to babysit she was trying to escape the frightening prospect of meeting him, talking to him, confronting her demons. She would feel better when the job was done. And it was true that the whispering of his voice had receded since she had made the call to Max, arranging to meet. She felt more in control.

  Shona heard the rumble of a metal drawer sliding home on its castors, felt the slam and shrieked in pain. She knew what had happened to little Alain — he didn’t need to tell her — she knew. She began to cry silent tears — for the boy and for herself. For the misery Max had caused her. For in the hours since her telephone call arranging to meet Max Greenberg, she had muddled the times and sequence of events, and was certain that she had taken an overdose after she had been referred to Max. Now she knew that it was Max who had driven her to the point at which life became unbearable.