Found

by Erin Kinsley

  Copyright © 2019 Erin Kinsley

  The right of Erin Kinsley to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published in 2019 by

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  First published as an Ebook in 2019 by

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  All characters in this publication – apart from the obvious historical figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 6076 5

  Cover design by Heike Schüssler

  Cover images © Stephen Mulcahey/Arcangel Images (boy and landscape) and lansa/Shutterstock (steps)

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Your Worst Nightmare

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  The Answer to All Your Prayers

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  Somebody Else’s Child

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  Sunlight on Water

  July

  September

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Erin Kinsley is a full-time writer. She grew up in Yorkshire and currently lives in East Anglia.

  About the Book

  ONE CHILD IS SAFE . . . BUT HOW LONG UNTIL ANOTHER IS TAKEN?

  When 11 year old Evan vanishes without trace, his parents are plunged into their worst nightmare – especially as the police, under massive pressure, have no answers.

  But months later Evan is unexpectedly found, frightened and refusing to speak. His loving family realise life will never be the same again.

  DI Naylor knows that unless those who took Evan are caught, other children are in danger. And with Evan silent, she must race against time to find those responsible . . .

  For all those not found, and those who miss them

  Your Worst Nightmare

  ONE

  11 October

  Berkshire

  There are so many ifs, and so many if onlys. If only rugby practice hadn’t over-run. If only Evan hadn’t gone and lost a boot. If only he’d decided to bypass the newsagent’s and had caught the earlier bus, the one he missed by just twenty seconds.

  If only we could all sleep soundly at night, knowing we were safe from wicked people.

  The Under-Twelves First Fifteen haven’t played well, and there’s a match against All Saints on Saturday. Mr Griffiths likes the school teams to succeed, so he makes the boys stay an extra five minutes, practising their passing in the rain. In the changing rooms, the boys pull off their muddy boots and socks, dropping their filthy shorts and shirts on the tiled floor as they run into the showers. The water, for once, is hotter than lukewarm, and Evan and Stewie linger under the jets, bringing feeling back to their cold-reddened hands and white-numb toes. By the time they’re out and dressed, the other boys are gone. Mr Griffiths is in the staffroom, drinking the day’s last mug of tea before he drives home.

  Evan has lost a boot. Stewie doesn’t help him look for it but leans impatiently against a stand of coat-pegs urging Evan to get a move on, while Evan lies down on the floor to search under the boot-racks, dirtying his trousers and his blazer. He finds the boot under someone’s forgotten shorts, hangs the shorts up on a peg and stuffs the boot into his kitbag.

  It’s a little after five. As they head for the front doors, Stewie and Evan’s voices echo in deserted corridors lined with cabinets of shields and silver trophies. In the photographs on the walls, the faces of past generations stare mutely through the glass, the bright youths of recent decades in lifelike colour, their predecessors in monochrome and sepia.

  By the main entrance, Mr Prentice the caretaker is waiting to lock up, clinking an impatient rhythm on his thigh with a hoop of keys. He tells the boys to hurry up, and they do. The staff car park is all but empty, though Mr Griffiths’ old Subaru is still there, as is the headmaster’s Passat. The boys head down the drive towards the open gates, chattering about homework, about Xbox games and Saturday’s coming match.

  There’s a van parked on the forecourt of the newsagent’s on Belmont Avenue, and Mr Jadoon is watching a young Asian man carry cases of wine to the storeroom round the back. The boys search their pockets for coins, and Mr Jadoon leads them inside before going to stand sentinel by the CCTV monitor. Evan and Stewie dither over their choices, until Evan settles on a can of Fanta and Stewie chooses salt and vinegar crisps. By the time they reach the counter, there’s another customer ahead of them; when he reaches out to pay for his milk, Stewie notices his tattoo, a red-and-black snake twisting on the back of his hand. Catching him admiring his artwork, the man gives Stewie a wink as he picks up his change.

  As the boys go outside, the tattooed man is walking away from them, down Ruskin Road. The boys’ route is along Belmont Avenue. Evan pops the tab of his Fanta and Stewie offers him a couple of his crisps. Their schoolbags – one for sports kit, one for books – are heavy, and, since he’s small for his age, Evan’s slow him down. There’s a bus approaching, but Evan doesn’t run to catch it because he hasn’t finished his drink, and the driver won’t let him on unless he dumps it. No one is waiting at the stop, and the bus sails by.

  When they reach the bus shelter, the boys part company casually, expecting to be talking online in a while. Stewie walks on alone towards Church Road, and home. Evan lays his bags down on the pavement.

  Seven minutes later, the next bus arrives, but Evan is no longer waiting at the stop. He and his bags are gone, but his can of pop is lying on its side, seeping sticky liquid into the gutter.

  Evan’s mum Claire has tea re
ady at six o’clock, but Evan isn’t home. At quarter past, more annoyed than worried, she calls Stewie, who tells her what he can – which isn’t much – and Claire thanks him. As she ends the call, the first tendrils of worry tighten in her stomach. When the door slams at six-thirty, her eyes close in relief, but it isn’t Evan who comes into the kitchen, but Matt. He tells her not to worry, and she starts making more calls. By seven, they’re both beginning to panic, though Matt’s hiding his fear with confident bluster. At eight, they ring the police. By the time they’re taken seriously, it’s gone eleven.

  And by that time, Evan’s in a very bad place indeed.

  TWO

  Stewie’s mother Vicky switches on the bedside light and checks the time: 1.42 a.m. Someone’s hammering at the front door, firing up a long-held dread of uniforms and bad news, but Paul’s there in bed beside her, and Stewie and George are in their rooms. For a moment, Vicky doubts these certainties, and reaches out to touch Paul’s back. His breathing changes, becoming quicker and shallower than the slow rhythms of deep sleep, and she knows he’s at least half awake.

  ‘There’s someone at the door.’

  She feels him tensing as he listens, but there’s nothing to hear.

  ‘You’re dreaming,’ he says. ‘For God’s sake, turn that light off.’

  The hammering comes again. Now Paul’s wide awake.

  ‘Who the hell is that?’ He squints towards the clock, but without his glasses, he can’t read the face. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly two.’ Vicky gets out of bed and puts on the pink dressing gown hanging behind the bedroom door. The room is cold; the heating won’t come on for hours. As she opens the door, Paul moves to follow her. No one brings good news at this time of night, and he’s thinking of his mother and father. Or maybe his brother, but wouldn’t they just phone?

  Vicky turns on the landing light. As she goes downstairs, the creaking of the treads seems loud. She switches on the hall light and the outside light over the front door, and through the frosted glass she sees two people. She decides to wait for Paul. The strangers at the door don’t knock again, but stand and wait in silence.

  Paul pulls on a pair of jeans and yesterday’s T-shirt and finds his glasses. The anxiety for his mum and dad has solidified, and he comes downstairs at a run, not caring if he wakes the boys. He sees the figures at the door and glances at Vicky, who’s standing back so he can be in charge. He picks up the keys from the hall table, then hesitates.

  These people might be anyone.

  He calls through the door.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Police.’

  Vicky’s hand goes to her mouth, and Paul’s head feels suddenly light. He fits the key to the lock and opens the door. The night air is dank, and the sodium-orange of the streetlights is hazy through fog. There’s a car parked across the driveway, a dark-coloured Peugeot. A man and a woman are standing on the step, both wearing suits as if it were the middle of the day. The man holds up a wallet with a badge.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Wareham?’ His manner is polite, but he’s not smiling. He closes the wallet in a practised movement, and slips it into his trouser pocket. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Hagen, this is DI Naylor. Can we come in?’

  There’s a moment’s silence. Paul fears the worst; for the first time in his life, he knows what people mean by going weak at the knees. Vicky is more composed. Her mother’s in a home, with severe dementia. Her passing would never warrant a visit from the police.

  ‘What’s this about?’ asks Paul.

  ‘If we could talk inside,’ says Hagen.

  Vicky leads the way to the living room, wishing she’d tidied round before she went to bed. Last night’s wine glasses are on the coffee table, and the basket of ironing she never got to is on a chair. She picks up the basket and carries it out to the hall.

  When she comes back, Naylor invites Paul and Vicky to take seats on the sofa, as if this is her house now. Naylor takes the armchair. She’s the kind of woman Paul might find attractive under other circumstances, the suit jacket hiding the kind of curves he likes, dark hair pinned up in a messy French twist. Hagen helps himself to a dining chair, placing it at the centre of the room. He sits down, his legs spread, leaning forward on to his thighs, taking up space. He looks long and hard at Paul, and then at Vicky, while Paul is wishing he would just deliver the blow.

  ‘I expect you’re wondering why we’re here,’ says Hagen. He speaks with a Geordie burr which evokes the mean streets of Newcastle, but Hagen never denies his suburban origins. ‘We apologise for disturbing you at this hour, but I’m sure you appreciate that sometimes we deal with events where time is of the essence and we have to act quickly. Unfortunately, we’re involved in such an incident tonight. A young boy has gone missing.’

  Paul feels a huge sense of relief, and lets go the breath he didn’t realise he was holding. Not his disaster, then, but someone else’s. Immediately, he feels ashamed of his selfishness.

  ‘Who?’ asks Vicky.

  ‘Evan Ferrers.’

  ‘Evan? Really? Oh my God.’ Vicky is baffled. ‘But when can he possibly . . . What’s going on?’

  ‘Evan didn’t come home from school yesterday,’ says Naylor. Her tone is careful, and Paul suspects the script’s rehearsed. ‘Mrs Ferrers thinks he was with your son yesterday afternoon. Stewie, is it?’

  ‘Stewie, yes. He and Evan were at rugby practice. I assume they left together. They usually do.’

  ‘Did Mrs Ferrers phone here at all?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ says Vicky. ‘She said she didn’t know where Evan was and asked to speak to Stewie. I don’t think he was much help, but she didn’t ring again, so I just assumed Evan had come home. I never thought for one moment he’d still be missing. Oh God, I should have called her, shouldn’t I? Poor Claire! How is she?’

  ‘What time did Mrs Ferrers call?’

  Mentally running through the evening’s banal structure, Vicky shakes her head.

  ‘I don’t know. About six, six-thirty, I suppose.’

  ‘I wonder if we could speak to Stewie, Mrs Wareham?’

  The request feels polite, but from Hagen’s face, Vicky knows the politeness is all veneer.

  ‘But it’s the middle of the night,’ she objects. ‘He’s got school tomorrow.’

  Paul, Hagen and Naylor all look at her, and Vicky blushes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’ll go and wake him.’

  Stewie’s dreams have taken a nightmarish turn. A stealthy sniper lies in wait for him in a network of dark rooms. As she pushes open his bedroom door, Vicky is pointlessly quiet, conditioned by years of parenting. The light from the landing forms a triangle on the carpet, acute at first, and as she opens the door wider, obtuse. It’s geometry of the kind Stewie struggles with, but these days the more Paul tries to help him, the more Stewie becomes stubborn and shuts down.

  His room smells unmistakably of him, a smell that’s changed in recent months from the bubble-bath sweetness of little boyhood to supermarket deodorant and a base note of musk which permeates his sheets and all his clothes. The hoody and joggers he wore after school are heaped on the floor, and yesterday’s uniform trousers hang from a belt-loop on a chair. There are posters on the walls – The Walking Dead, a Bugatti Veyron, the psychedelic masks of CamelPhat, whose music Vicky actually likes – and everywhere there’s the clutter of Stewie’s pastimes, DVDs and game CDs in and out of boxes, his skateboard, gloves and knee pads, the bike helmet he refuses to wear.

  And in the midst of the chaos, there’s Stewie, safe in this room where he should be, and Vicky believes she can imagine how Claire feels, how it would be to be standing in this doorway with Stewie missing, gone. Even the thought of it stirs her stomach, and her heart contracts as if a malicious hand has squeezed it, and her mind flashes up an image of herself, demented with grief.

  She sh
uts the image down. Not me. Her.

  The gratitude she feels is shameful, but even though she knows how base it is, the gratitude’s still there.

  Stewie’s moving restlessly in his sleep, tormented by his Xbox hangover. In a loud whisper, she says his name, not wanting to startle him by waking him suddenly, forgetting that often these days it’s difficult to wake him at all. But something in Stewie’s subconscious is anxious to escape the sniper, and in the triangle of light from the landing, she sees his eyes blinking and bright.

  ‘Are you awake, Stewie?’

  His mother’s presence in his room, in the dark, signals something’s going on, and Stewie sits up.

  ‘What’s the matter? Is everyone OK?’

  ‘You need to come downstairs.’ Vicky’s still whispering, thinking of George. ‘The police are here.’ Stewie’s face, half in shadow, shows he’s startled, and she realises she’s scared him, despite her best intentions. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong. They want to talk to you about Evan.’

  ‘What about Evan?’

  She hasn’t thought what words to use, but actually, it doesn’t matter.

  ‘He didn’t come home from school.’

  ‘Yes, he did.’ Stewie frowns. ‘I saw him get on the bus.’

  ‘Did you, Stewie?’

  He considers.

  ‘Not actually get on it.’ He’s climbing from the bed, wearing the look of puzzlement which was habitual to him when he was small. On his developing features, it’s still endearing.

  She reaches behind the door for the dressing gown he rarely wears, a present from his grandmother.

  ‘Better put this on. The heating went off hours ago.’

  For once, he puts on the dressing gown without argument.

  In the kitchen, Paul’s making tea, looking out as the kettle heats at the backs of the neighbours’ houses. All are in darkness but one, where the downstairs lights are blazing. For a mad moment, Paul wonders if it’s Evan’s house, but they live two miles away. He finds the rarely used sugar bowl in the cupboard, and puts it on the tray with the best mugs, realising how much of his mother’s training has rubbed off now he’s confronted with authority. The kettle boils, and he makes four teas, adding milk. Finding four matching teaspoons in the cutlery drawer, he picks up the tray. So much for me the rebel, he thinks as he carries it through to the living room. So much for the years of student protests and sit-ins, for the baiting of the pigs. Now they’re here, and he’s bringing out matching teaspoons. Times change.