by David Carter
‘You don’t know anything about him,’ he warned. ‘You’re too much of a soft touch. He could be anyone. Anyone! Murderer, anything.’
‘I know his mother was killed today,’ she whispered.
‘You only have his word for that! There was nothing on the news to confirm such a thing. Let’s face it, Liz, he doesn’t act as if his mother was murdered today, now does he?’
‘Delayed reaction,’ she said. ‘How is anyone supposed to react at your own mother’s death? It was just the same when my father died. At the time I just said, Oh dear, how dreadful, and moved on. It was only later, a few days afterwards; that the full impact really hit me. The kid’ll probably be devastated in the morning.’
‘If he’s still here,’ said Martin, sceptically, ‘and all your precious possessions too.’
‘Don’t be so daft,’ she said massaging his back. ‘He’ll be here all right.’
‘I’ll look into it tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll run some checks on him and try and find out about any so-called incident at Brockenhurst. I’ll see what I can dig up.’
‘And while you are at it,’ she said, ‘check out this Tinbergen Papers thing as well. Someone at the Beeb might know something.’
He sniffed loudly. ‘OK darling, if you want.’
‘I do want,’ she said, ‘really I do.’
‘Are you working in London tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Nope,’ she said, ‘homework day.’
‘Perhaps, just as well. You can keep an eye on me laddo here, if he’s still about.’
‘He will be, Marty, I am sure of it, now get some sleep,’ and she kissed him on the forehead.
He lifted her hair and kissed her ear. Her neck. Her shoulder.
‘No,’ she said, ‘not again, not now, get some sleep.’
‘Spoilsport.’
‘Pig.’
‘Harlot.’
Four
This is BBC1....
‘Jemmie, it’s starting, bring the kids in!’
Jemima appeared at the door, shepherding her three almost identical children before her, as a collie might, the youngest a boy, the other two, girls, eleven, fourteen and seventeen. They stood nonplussed in the doorway like a set of porcelain ducks off the wall, from long ago.
In a moment we shall be going live to Sandringham....
‘Why do we have to watch this rubbish?’ moaned Joss, the eldest.
‘We always watch the special broadcasts,’ said their father, ‘you know that. We always have, just like my father and his father before him, right back to the last King. It’s family tradition, you’ll sit down and watch.’
Joss glanced at her dad. It was his attempt at putting his foot down; perhaps for once she might listen, though the kids wanted to be elsewhere, as kids always do. Reluctantly, they sat in silence, hoping it wouldn’t last too long, their chins propped on their palms, as they stared at the plasma.
Big Ben struck three times. The picture cut away to a desk in Norfolk, where a pastel green vase was crammed with impossibly beautiful flowers. Set to one side of the vase was the head and shoulders of the King. They watched him peer into the camera, and force a smile. Before he could say a word, Jemima said, ‘He doesn’t look well at all!’
‘Oh mum, you always say that!’ laughed Eve.
‘But he doesn’t, does he? Look at the bags under his eyes.’
‘It must be a very stressful job,’ muttered Joss.
‘Stressful!’ shrieked the boy, Donald; ‘I wouldn’t mind being King, easiest job in the world, ordering people about all day, eating fab food, going to great gigs.’
His parents and Joss peered at the eleven-year old boy as they often did, and clicked their tongues and nodded at the ceiling. Eve closed her eyes, and began humming the latest number one song.
‘Shush,’ said mother, ‘I can’t hear.’
You are all aware this year has been one of the most difficult in recent times, but the positive action and leadership shown by my government has put us well back on the road to recovery. As you all know the EW programme, which has been a great success everywhere, will be extended to three years, from next year, and all young people who are eighteen next year will take part. Only the protected professions, medicine, police, and armed forces, will be exempt. Those going to university will do so once their EW service has been completed....
Everyone peered at Joss.
She shivered, and continued to stare at the King’s face, and began biting her nails.
Similarly VCS has been a great success, the streets are cleaner now, more secure for everyone, and emergency vehicles and essential traffic enjoy unhindered access....
‘What’s VCS?’ asked Donald, yawning and unwrapping an old sweet he’d found down the back of the sofa.
‘Voluntary Clean Streets,’ said Eve, as if she were on automatic pilot.
‘Curfew, in any other name,’ said father irritably. ‘We have to stay in between 10.00pm and 6.30am.’
‘Oh,’ said Donald, dismissively. It didn’t affect him, it didn’t really matter.
There have been other great successes too. No one will ever forget the amazing triumph of the surgeons at Halton Heath Hospital, who pioneered new brain surgery techniques. I was privileged to meet Brian Horsfield and Mary Fitzallan, who underwent this radical treatment, treatment that would have been unthinkable a mere twelve months ago. Today, we lead the world in brain surgery....
The film cut away to video of the patients recovering in hospital from several months before. Brian was smiling, his head bandaged, thumbs up for the camera. Mary, recently reunited with her confused toddler, tears in her eyes, displays of exotic hard to find fruit piled up beside her bed.
‘That was amazing,’ said Jemima. ‘You have to say.’
The others didn’t seem so convinced. The picture returned to the King. He had bucked up a tad. The smile was more natural and the confidence had returned. His handsome face was staring through those pale blue eyes into twenty million living rooms, into people’s hearts and minds, somehow reassuring. Some things never changed. Not really. God save the King!
All that remains is for me to thank you for your fortitude and support, and to wish you and your families every success.... God bless you all.
‘Ah,’ cooed Jemima, as the two youngest children leapt up and hurried from the room, as Joss said, ‘So what will happen to me?’
‘You know the procedure, darling,’ said her father. ‘You’ll receive your e-summons advising of the date and place where you must report, and we’ll take you there in the car. Don’t worry, kid, we’ll check out everything thoroughly when we arrive. We won’t be leaving you anywhere until we are entirely satisfied.’
Joss seemed unconvinced.
‘Three bloody years,’ she muttered, ‘it’s like a prison sentence.’
‘Don’t swear,’ said Jemima. ‘You’ll get regular leave,’ trying hard to sound comforting.
‘I’m not so sure about that! Helen Wilmot went away a year ago and she hasn’t been seen or heard of since.’
‘It will do you good,’ said father.
‘I’m frightened,’ she said, chewing her nails, ‘and what will I be doing, anyway?’
‘Essential work,’ said her father quickly, ‘that’s what the EW programme is. Essential Work. Helping the country get back on its feet.’
‘Yeah, but what exactly?’
‘Could be anything, helping the farmers, cleaning the beaches, painting bridges, could be anything.’
‘Oh, that’s just great!’
‘It has to be done, Joss,’ said Jemima. ‘You know yourself everything was getting out of hand, it couldn’t continue as it was. We couldn’t venture out for fear of attack, drunkenness, vomit-ridden streets, drugs, gun crime, burglaries; we were hit ourselves four times, four times! The police didn’t know whether they were coming or going, not to mention the number of times they were getting beaten up, fire fighters routinely attacked on call-out, ridiculous! S
omething simply had to be done.’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t do any of those things.’
‘I know that, sweetheart,’ said her father, ‘but the government couldn’t make exceptions. The only way to deal with the situation was to tackle everyone head on. They have my full support. I voted for it.’
‘And me,’ said Jemima.
‘I bloody didn’t,’ muttered Joss.
‘You should have signed up for nursing,’ said her father.
‘I don’t want to be a damned nurse!’ Joss retorted, though secretly she now accepted it would have been a much-preferred option.
‘I’m having lunch with Martin Reamse on Tuesday; he still works for the BBC. I’ll see if he has any idea where you might be assigned. How’s that?’
Joss nodded, grateful for any scrap of comfort.
‘Thanks, Colin,’ she mumbled, using her newfound freedom to call her father by his Christian name, though it still sounded odd to her, and awkward too, but not as awkward as her mother found it. Things change forever when children start addressing parents with Christian names, and not always for the better, in Jemima’s mind.
Colin didn’t notice, or if he did, he hid it well.
‘Anyone for tea?’ suggested Jemima.
Joss nodded again, her face a picture of unhappiness.
‘Please,’ said father, for wasn’t tea still the ultimate cure-all?
Five
Inspector Smeggan and Sergeant Hewitt had waved the ambulance away from the cottage, and had gone back inside. They found no sign of the youth, but his confidential records that instantly appeared on Smeggan’s new tablet, yielded a great deal of additional information.
For a start, there was a decent photograph of the kid taken the previous March, and that was only six months before, and the youth could not have changed that much in the intervening time. There were also details of his closest friends, people who might provide a temporary bed. They could all be checked out, and if he were there, they would find him.
On the mantelpiece sat a photograph of Adam. It was the same picture in his school records. Smeggan grabbed the wooden frame and slapped it against the brickwork. The glass smashed and tumbled to the hearth. He shook the woodwork free, and slipped the colour snapshot into his jacket pocket.
‘We’ll find the little bugger,’ he muttered. ‘We’ll find him.’
‘Sure we will,’ agreed Hewitt.
‘Come on, I have a job for you.’
They went outside and locked the front door, Smeggan slipping the key into his trouser pocket. For now, the cottage would be his. It would be a useful safe house for interrogations, or assignations, not that he was particularly lucky in the area of intimate assignations, though he hadn’t given up hope in that area. He knew a young mother of one of the troublemakers who would do anything to keep her teenage wastrel out of jail, or so he imagined, and in the coming weeks he would test that theory to destruction.
Lilac cottage might come in useful in more ways than one. It would be ages before the property was settled on any relative of the terminated terrorist, if indeed, it ever was. Smeggan would do his best to oppose that. He would recommend the house be seized, as homes of terrorists often were.
‘A job for me?’ said Hewitt.
‘Aye,’ said Smeggan softly. ‘Where would the kid have gone, to get away from here?’
‘The railway station, sir?’
‘Correct, Hewitt! Pound to a penny. And what is activated on every damned railway station these days?’
‘Comprehensive CCTV,’ said Hewitt triumphantly.
‘Precisely. I’ll drop you at the station. You go through everything with a fine toothcomb. Send anything of interest up the wire to me at Lyndhurst House,’ and as he spoke, Smeggan glided the new Ford saloon onto Brockenhurst railway station forecourt.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘take the photograph.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Hewitt, grabbing the picture.
‘Leave the weapon on the back seat.’
‘Do I have to, sir? Leave it, I mean? I feel naked without it.’
‘Orders, sergeant, my orders.’
‘Yes, sir. How am I going to get back to headquarters when I’m done?’
‘The usual way, Trev. Use your initiative.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Hewitt, sulking, stepping from the car, almost blowing a kiss to the Heckler & Koch that lay outstretched on the back seat like a sleeping Doberman.
Smeggan drove smartly away. He intended to pay a call on the nervous Mrs Kenning, and who knows, perhaps her pathetic son had been misbehaving again. Smeggan almost wished that to be the case. Mrs Kenning was curvaceous and not the ugliest fish in the sea, and she might be grateful for his help, if she knew what was good for her.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Smeggan found Hewitt at his desk early. There was a jubilant air about him, as if overnight he had single-handedly unearthed the whereabouts of the Tinbergen Papers. As it turned out, he hadn’t done that, but he had nonetheless unearthed some interesting material that he proceeded to demonstrate to his boss.
‘This I believe to be the youth, sir, Adam Goodchild.’ Hewitt pointed to the kid on the screen with his ballpoint pen. The pictures were of excellent quality, taken from one of the recently installed improved units on Brockenhurst station, secreted within the wall of the waiting room, undetectable to anyone waiting there. ‘Keep an eye on the woman,’ continued Hewitt.
‘By Christ she is something to look at, isn’t she,’ said Smeggan, closing his head on the screen for a better look.
‘She is that, sir. And here they are again, sitting on the train next to one another, chatting, but when they get off at Bournemouth Central you will note they are no longer together.’
‘That’s pretty odd. Gone their separate ways, you think? Just a casual hopeful chat-up routine by the kid?’
‘You might think that, sir.... but you would be wrong.’
Hewitt was revelling in his position of knowing more than his boss.
‘OK, Trevor, get to the point!’
‘Look at these pictures, sir, not quite so clear, but good enough.’
‘What are they doing?’
‘She has dropped her ticket, look there, he, as you can see here, has grabbed it through the railings, and is now going to use it to evade paying a fare. Naughty boy. Naughty girl. Naughty-naughty!’
‘The little bugger! So he had no money, and no ticket?’
‘Seems that way, sir. Here they are again, crossing Holdenhurst Road, heading for the city centre.’
‘Do we know who she is?’
‘Not yet, sir, never seen her before, but we surely will.’
‘Look at the smile on the whippersnapper’s face!’
‘I’d be smiling if I were out walking out with her,’ said Hewitt, checking again the slim suited figure of the long haired young woman.
‘Do you think they know each other?’ asked Smeggan.
‘Difficult to say for certain from the body language, but my guess is they do.’
‘Is she involved in all this?’
‘Hard to see how she couldn’t be.’
‘Agreed. We must find her, Hewitt. We must find them both.’
‘We will, sir.’
‘Where did they go after that?’
‘Crossed the city, heading for the coast.’
‘No more pictures?’
‘Sorry sir, no, gone out of range, but they should be on stream down there within a year or so. Budgetary cuts, apparently.’
‘Oh for goodness sake! I’ve been campaigning for more CCTV for years, there simply isn’t enough of it, and now when we really need it, financial constraints let us down.’
Hewitt looked sheepish, as if he were personally responsible, and wisely remained silent.
‘Look at the way she’s dressed,’ continued Smeggan. ‘And that bag she’s carrying, designer leather, very expensive. If I had to guess, she will live in one of those swish new apartments overlooking the sea.�
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‘I agree with that too, sir, but there are thousands of properties down there now. Every time I visit the area four or five new blocks have sprung up like mushrooms, and they are always getting taller too. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
‘Or a pretty girl in a government brothel, eh?’ leered Smeggan.
‘Whatever you say, sir.’
‘Well, get on with it man, you know how important this is.’
Hewitt nodded and lowered his head, as he sifted through hundreds of still pictures that had just arrived by courier.
‘Just a minute, just a bloody minute....’ said Smeggan.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘Can you zoom in on that ticket?’
‘Certainly can, brilliant it is.’
‘Show me!’
Hewitt brought the still picture of the ticket back on screen. It was lying on the ground at the moment before the youth picked it up. Hewitt fiddled with his keyboard until the ticket almost filled the screen.
‘Pity it’s not the other way up,’ said the sergeant. ‘That way we could see her bloody name and address.’
‘You are missing the point, Hewitt.’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘What colour is the ticket?’
‘Purple and peach, sir.’
‘And what does sodding purple and peach mean?’
‘A season ticket, sir,’ his face brightening, as the penny dropped.
‘And what does that mean?’
‘The holder travels every day.’
‘As good as, Hewitt, and thus when this pretty damn fine lady travels home tonight, we shall be there to scoop her up. Bingo!’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Hewitt grinning, ‘we bloody well will.’
Six
Colin’s journey to work was rough and rancid, as it usually was. The carriage was crammed and reeked of bad onions. Colin was lucky; he’d boarded early and found a seat. He’d long since given up looking to see if there were deserving cases to stand for, to give away his precious possession, his seat, there was no chance of that. No one did that any more. He glanced at his fellow passengers in turn. They were roughly split into four groups.
