And to see something else, too. Or rather not to see it. Conor’s metal detector, which his eyes had instinctively sought out before fixing on the trunk.
Conor’s detector not there. Yet Mike had said this was where the treasure-hunting thing was stored.
So, only one answer. Conor took it. Conor, going into hiding, had taken with him his metal detector. And that must mean he had been heading for where he would have a chance to use it. And that could only be to Norfolk and that friend he had made at that detectorist camp last summer …
But how to get hold of the fellow?
Jesus, can’t even remember his name.
Think. Think.
Wait, yes. Surely Conor rang him several times after he got back. Long chats. Expensive chats I wasn’t too pleased about. And so, surely, he would have put the fellow’s number and name down on the message pad. Yes.
But the pad here, was it the same one we were using last summer? It might be. When I looked at it that terrible night it seemed to be nearly full. So it might well be the one Conor had brought from home. From what had been home.
So, look. Look.
He ran from the shed, skidding on the icy path. Into the house. Sitting room. Table. The pad.
Flip, flip, flip back through the carefully preserved pages. Would Vicky have chosen to rip out that one of all the pages in the pad? Look for Conor’s writing. Generally so neat.
Wait. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Charlie Barnes. That was the name. And that could be a Norfolk phone number.
It was ridiculously, miraculously easy. He dialled like fury at the old dull black instrument, waited while at the far end it rang and rang. Then …
‘Hello?’
The cautious voice unmistakable.
‘Conor. Conor, it’s Dad.’
Silence.
‘Conor?’
‘Dad. Yeah, it’s me. Look—’
Another silence. Not quite as long.
‘Dad, listen, I saw all about - all about it in the paper. I - I’ve been trying to make up my mind to phone. Say I was sorry, and all that. I mean, about-Well, about Belinda. I know I shouldn’t have kept it from Mr Verney about her. But - but I wasn’t sure. I really wasn’t absolutely sure. And - Dad, I loved her. I did. And I sort of still do. So …’
‘That’s OK, son. I know what you mean. How you feel. Listen, I was in love with your mother until… And, me, too, I still am in a way. So you needn’t feel bad about what you did. Other way about, much as anything.’
‘Dad. Well, thanks, Dad. And - and, well, congratulations on breaking the case. Great. Really great. And, Dad, is it OK if I come home now?’
‘Of course it is. Of course it is.’
But once more there was that piercing word. Home. Who’s home would he be coming back to?
And, Dad, listen. Look, I know it’s sort of hurt you, me always saying home about Mike’s cottage and all that. But, Dad, you really know, don’t you, that my home’s where it’s always been. The old house. I mean, I suppose it is better me living with Mum, and I ought to go back there. But the old place is really what I always mean is home. It really is.’
Seeing things through the other person’s eyes. Well, however I’ve brought Conor up, at least that’s there in him. Implanted. That at least.
And now he’s coming back. Coming home. No longer that great missing chunk in my life. No longer, as I feared and feared, Conor homeless in London. Sleeping in a cardboard box, shivering, or, worse, a rent boy. That appalling, demoralized life.
But, no. Conor home. Conor, going back to Harrison Academy, getting down to work. It’ll take him no time at all to catch up. He’ll be as prepared as anybody by next year, when it comes to A levels. He’ll do so well Cambridge’ll be glad to have him.
Conor Benholme, first-class honours. No, damn it, a double first. Dr Conor Benholme, archaeologist. Dr Conor Benholme, Nobel Prize for Literature, a brilliant book. Father a retired police officer, former Detective Chief Inspector. Never made it any higher, but…
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
Copyright © H. R. F. Keating 1997
First published 1997 by Macmillan
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this
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ISBN: 9781448203253
eISBN : 9781448202928
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The Soft Detective Page 21
