Found

by Erin Kinsley

  In the living room, he finds the seating arrangements have changed too. Stewie and Vicky are on the sofa, and Naylor and Hagen both have dining chairs. The scene looks cramped, unnatural, like a Christmas visit from distant relatives, except that Stewie and Vicky look self-consciously vulnerable in their night-clothes. Stewie is swamped by that dressing gown he never wears; it makes him look small, and Paul feels suddenly protective towards them both. Vicky’s hair is a pillow-ruffled mess, and he knows when she looks in a mirror she’ll be mortified, especially since the policewoman’s casual up-do is designed to look smart come hell or high water, a style which could never be out of place.

  He puts the tray down on the coffee table, and channelling his mother again, wonders if he ought to have brought biscuits. Stewie might have appreciated them. Then he glances at his son and realises the boy is scared. The last thing he’ll be thinking of is biscuits.

  ‘Help yourselves,’ says Paul, and bypasses the armchair to sit next to Stewie on the sofa. Stewie seems to want him close, and immediately moves over to make room.

  Hagen is smiling at Stewie, but his smile looks contrived as a warm-up technique, a ploy to facilitate a quick pick of Stewie’s brain. Naylor takes a mug, spoons in sugar and stirs. She seems very interested in her tea and uninterested in Stewie, but Paul knows that’s an act to take the pressure off his son.

  Naylor lays the teaspoon back on the tray and sips her drink.

  ‘So we just need you to tell us exactly what happened when you left school,’ Hagen is saying. ‘Do you know what time it was when you left?’

  No chance, thinks Paul.

  ‘Not really,’ says Stewie.

  ‘About what time do you think it was, Stewie?’ puts in Naylor. ‘What would you guess?’

  ‘After rugby practice.’

  ‘They usually finish about five,’ says Vicky.

  ‘So is that what time it was?’ asks Naylor. ‘You finished rugby practice at the usual sort of time?’

  Stewie shrugs.

  ‘Who takes rugby practice?’ asks Hagen. ‘Which teacher?’

  ‘Mr Griffiths.’

  Hagen produces a notebook and pen. He writes something down and leaves his notebook open on his knee, positioned so he’s the only one who can read it.

  ‘What did you do when you finished practice?’ asks Naylor.

  Painstakingly, she prises the minutiae of twenty-five minutes from Stewie: the lost boot, the newsagent’s and what they bought, the goodbye at the bus stop.

  ‘Did you see anyone you know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did anyone speak to you?’

  ‘The shopkeeper.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He told us how much to pay.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  Stewie nods.

  ‘Was there anyone else in the shop?’

  ‘There was a man with tattoos. He was bald.’

  ‘What kind of tattoos were they? Can you describe them?’

  ‘He had a snake on the back of his hand.’

  ‘And on the way to the bus stop, did you see any cars you recognised? Any friends or neighbours going by?’

  Stewie thinks, and shakes his head.

  ‘Thanks, Stewie,’ says Naylor. ‘You’ve been a real help. Just one last question, for now. Did Evan seem OK to you? Was anything bothering him, any trouble at school, anything like that?’

  The living room door opens, and there, blinking away sleep in his dinosaur onesie, is George. He looks around in bewilderment, then frowns at his mother.

  ‘Mum, what’s going on?’

  Vicky jumps up and grabs his hand.

  ‘Back to bed, Georgie,’ she says. ‘This is a grown-up thing.’

  ‘But Stewie’s here.’

  ‘He’s older than you. Excuse us.’

  She leads him from the room. As they go up the stairs, George is still protesting his exclusion.

  Naylor smiles at Stewie.

  ‘So, you were telling us about Evan. Does he have any worries? Any trouble with bullies, anyone who’s been picking on him, maybe?’

  Paul is pleased she’s using the present tense.

  Stewie pulls a face and shrugs.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he says.

  There seems no more to be said. From upstairs, they hear Vicky and George begin to argue.

  Naylor reaches forward, picks up her mug of almost-cold tea and drinks down what’s left.

  Hagen puts away his notebook.

  ‘I think that’s it for now, Mr Wareham,’ he says.

  Naylor finds a business card, and hands it to Paul.

  ‘We’ll need Stewie to come into the station and make a statement,’ she says, ‘especially a description of the tattoos. We have specially trained staff to interview minors, and you can stay with him. It’s all low-key, nothing to worry about, but as soon as possible, if you don’t mind.’

  As the police officers stand to leave, Stewie puts the question Paul didn’t dare ask.

  ‘Where’s Evan? What’s happened to him?’

  Naylor smiles.

  ‘I don’t think he’s far away,’ she says. ‘We’ve got lots of people looking for him. Try not to worry.’

  Paul closes the door behind them. As he follows Stewie upstairs, the Peugeot’s engine starts, and the car drives away. With the streets deserted, they hear it for a surprisingly long time.

  Paul watches his son discard the despised dressing gown and climb back into bed. He kisses Stewie’s forehead and strokes his hair, feeling, for some reason, close to tears.

  ‘Night night, son.’

  As he’s about to close the bedroom door, Stewie says, ‘Dad.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I think I should have waited with Evan to make sure he got on the bus.’

  Paul hesitates.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘Don’t go thinking anything’s your fault. Probably someone gave him a lift.’

  He wants to unsay the words the moment they’re out. As Paul shuts Stewie into the darkness of his bedroom, both father and son are considering the same uncomfortable thought. Maybe someone did offer Evan a lift, but what if it was an offer Evan wasn’t allowed to refuse?

  Hagen’s observing the speed limits, even though they’re alone on the suburban streets. Naylor watches the needle on the speedometer, and never sees it rise above 33 mph.

  She isn’t keen to return to Evan’s family home. The mother’s distress is harrowing.

  Hagen flicks on the indicator to turn right. Rules are rules, and it doesn’t matter to him that it’s not necessary, that there’s no one to see it. The radio on the dashboard crackles and falls silent.

  ‘So what do you think?’ asks Hagen. ‘If you were the betting kind, where would you be putting your money?’

  Naylor glances across at him.

  ‘Do you mean, based on my years of experience?’

  ‘Based on past outcomes.’

  ‘Decent family, no history of running away, no known problems at school. Put two and two together, I’d say we have reason to worry.’

  They’re turning into the Ferrerses’ cul-de-sac, all post-war semis, the front gardens mostly sacrificed for block-paved parking. Outside Evan’s house, the vehicles are all police-owned, but that will soon change, when the media arrive.

  Hagen pulls in behind a patrol car. There’s a uniformed policewoman standing under the Ferrerses’ porch-light.

  ‘Goes without saying, that stays between you and me,’ says Naylor, getting out of the car.

  THREE

  12 October

  Yorkshire

  Jack Ferrers has been an early riser from being a boy, and even with most of the livestock sold and the workload not a third of what it was, old habits die har
d. Jack likes to be up by five, even though this time of year there’s still a good while before sunrise and there’s nothing to see from the windows but the dark on the fells. In the long weeks of autumn and winter, all Jack does in the pre-dawn hours is make tea and read yesterday’s paper.

  The farmhouse at Ainsclough Top is three hundred years old, and cold seeps through every wall. In a while, Jack will bring in coal and light the range, so the place is warming through before Dora wakes, because Dora feels the cold these days, in a way she never used to.

  Outside, Millie the border collie is restless, dragging her chain backwards and forwards across the stone-flagged yard. Probably she’s scented a fox sniffing round the coop, and Jack thinks he’ll let her loose a while to see it off.

  But then the phone rings. It doesn’t ring often, and in the quiet, it’s jarring.

  He folds the paper, goes out into the hall and picks up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dad? Is that you?’

  Jack recognises Matt’s voice, though it’s different to normal, without its usual cheeriness.

  ‘Don’t you know what time it is?’ asks Jack. ‘You’ll wake your mother.’

  ‘Dad.’ Matt sounds broken, tearful, and Jack knows there’s going to be something bad. He closes his eyes. ‘Dad, something’s happened to Evan.’

  Jack feels the need to sit, but there’s no chair. On the side table, alongside the phone, are photographs in frames. There’s one of Jack and Evan down by the beck, Evan a smiling four-year-old with sticklebacks in a jar, his grandpa’s hand resting on his head. In the photo, the sun is shining. Outside, Millie begins to bark.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘I’m here, son.’ Overhead, he hears the creak of floorboards, Dora out of bed and coming to see who’s on the phone. Jack keeps his voice low. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

  Matt’s voice is unsteady as he tells the news. Jack senses Dora at the head of the stairs, listening, and turns his back so his face will give nothing away. He lets Matt talk, until his son has no more to say.

  ‘What do you want us to do?’ asks Jack. ‘We’ll come down. I’ll get Bob Sturgess to keep an eye on this place.’

  He listens to Matt give the reasons why his father should stay where he is: the house is full of police and they’ve been warned to expect the press.

  ‘Whatever you think is best,’ says Jack. ‘Do you want to talk to your mother?’

  There’s silence on the line which Jack knows is Matt shaking his head. The stairs creak under Dora’s feet.

  ‘You tell her,’ says Matt. ‘But play it down, Dad.’

  Jack has no idea how he would play such a thing down.

  ‘We’ll ring you in a couple of hours, then,’ he says. ‘But you let us know, the second there’s any news. The very second, you hear me?’

  After he hangs up, he takes a moment to compose himself.

  Dora asks, ‘Who on earth was that, this time of the morning?’

  Jack’s heart feels strange. He wonders where he’s put his pills.

  ‘Jack? Are you all right?’

  ‘I was making tea,’ he says.

  She follows him through to the kitchen, tightening the belt on her dressing gown, her worn sheepskin slippers slapping on the cold tiles.

  He sits down at the table, motioning her to do the same.

  ‘That was Matt,’ he says.

  ‘Matt? What did he want? Is something wrong? You don’t look well, Jack. I’ll go and get your tablets.’

  She moves to get up, but he places his hand over hers to stop her. She has such small hands, not much bigger than a child’s.

  ‘Dora,’ he says. ‘It’s not Matt, it’s Evan. They think someone might have taken him.’

  Her face takes on an expression he’s never seen before, not in all their forty years together. If pressed to give it a name, he would say stricken. He tightens his hand on hers, hoping it will help her cope, hoping it will give him strength.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asks. ‘Taken him where?’

  Jack shakes his head, and realises the hot pressure in his eyes is the smarting of tears. He doesn’t want to cry, because it will start Dora off, and he hates it when she cries. Mostly it makes him feel awkward, but on this occasion it would speed the breaking of his heart, and it’s too early yet for heartbreak. The police believe there’s an excellent possibility of a good outcome, Matt said. They expect Evan to be back home soon, safe and well.

  Reminding himself of this, he decides it’s what he’ll tell Dora.

  ‘They don’t know where he is, that’s the truth of it. He didn’t come home from school yesterday. He may have gotten on the wrong bus and be lost somewhere, or had an accident. They’re checking the hospitals, as you’d expect.’

  ‘Yesterday? You mean he’s been gone all night?’

  Jack nods. He’s controlling the pressure in his eyes, but now he finds his chin is trembling.

  ‘The police are there, at the house. Matt says it’s going to be on the news.’

  ‘What news?’ Jack gives no answer. ‘You mean the national news, don’t you?’

  She doesn’t wait for his response but buries her face in her hands and begins to rock.

  ‘Our boy!’ she moans. ‘Our poor, precious boy!’

  Jack puts an arm around her back and, now she isn’t looking at him, lets the tears fall. Several leave dark spots on his trousers.

  ‘It might be nothing, love,’ he says, pulling her close. He kisses the top of her head, the grey curls which used to be mahogany brown, and breathes in the smell of lemon shampoo. ‘He might easily turn up yet, right as rain. There might have been a falling out, and he’s packed his bags to give his mum and dad a fright.’

  Dora’s clinging to him in a way she hasn’t done for years. There’s a handkerchief embroidered with violets in the pocket of her robe. She pulls it out and blows her nose.

  ‘What shall we do, Jack?’

  Jack kisses her hair again.

  ‘Matt says the police think if he’s run away, there’s a chance he might aim for here, so we’re best to sit tight. He doesn’t want us to go down there right away. He says they’ve got all on coping with the police and the reporters. Sounds like they’ve a house full. If he wants us, he’ll let us know.’

  ‘We should put the telly on,’ says Dora. ‘The news’ll be on at six.’

  ‘Matt thinks it’ll upset you.’

  ‘That boy.’ Dora wipes her eyes. ‘I’m tougher than he thinks.’

  Jack stands.

  ‘I’ll make a fresh pot and get the fires lit,’ he says. ‘If Evan does turn up here, he’ll doubtless be chilled to the bone. And you’d better get yourself dressed, love, and put your baking apron on. You know if he comes, the boy’ll be wanting your cake.’

  FOUR

  ‘It’s just routine,’ says the policewoman.

  She’s balancing on the edge of the sofa as if she’s afraid someone might catch her sitting down, an attractive girl but young and slight, not someone Matt thinks would be of any use in the face of town centre drunks or civil disobedience. But she’s a good choice for keeping him and Claire confined to the lounge, if only because he thinks she’ll crumble if he shouts at her.

  Matt has seen overnight changes in Claire, but none so big as in himself. The calm, reasonable man he believed himself to be has been shoved aside, making way for Matt the volatile bully, who rants and yells and can pretend no respect for those trying to help him and his family. But this new persona exhausts him, his mouthy outbursts a bigger drain of energy than the worry and no sleep, and he’s glad to lapse for a time into meek compliance.

  What good is shouting anyway? If they have boxes to tick, let them get on with it. Overhead, men are moving about, opening wardrobes, shifting furniture. A few moments ago, he heard the catch on the
loft-hatch snap back and the rattle of the ladder descending. Now there’s a heavy foot on the lowest rung.

  ‘You’d be surprised how many missing kids are found at home. Under beds, in garages and sheds. It’s always the first place we look.’

  The policewoman looks slightly embarrassed at the banality of what she’s just said.

  Claire’s eyes drift to the window and the improbable scene outside, a jam of police cars and vans with satellite dishes and broadcaster logos on their sides. She’s holding an empty mug, and her hand is shaking. As she places the mug on a side table, she hears the click of Evan’s bedroom door opening, and sweet relief floods through her.

  She starts to get to her feet, but the policewoman shakes her head sadly, and instead of Evan’s soft tread, there’s the sound of a hefty male in the room above.

  Claire sinks back on to the sofa and feels the prick of fresh tears. As she fumbles for a tissue, a trio of polished TV presenters are laughing on the drive, and as she watches, one of them breaks away from the group, walks brazenly to the window and puts his face to the glass.

  Noticing Claire’s startled expression, the policewoman crosses the room.

  ‘Let’s close this, shall we?’ she says, and lowers the blind.

  The lounge is suddenly in twilight. The policewoman turns on a lamp.

  In the attic, someone’s making their way cautiously across the ceiling beams.

  As if I wouldn’t know if my own son were up there, thinks Matt.

  ‘Soon be done,’ says the policewoman. ‘Can I get you another cup of tea?’

  At Ashridge police station, Hagen has asked DS Dallabrida to sit in. Dallabrida has a dangerous demeanour bred in a streetwise background, enhanced by his massive gym-junkie build from protein-packing and lifting weights. It’s a look which tends to encourage suspects to co-operate sooner rather than later. He closes the door behind them, still smiling at some uniform lads’ banter.