Found

by Erin Kinsley

  The press were like an army laying siege, so the curtains and blinds remained permanently closed and time went by in a perpetual evening. Claire feels they became like cave dwellers, allergic to the lost daylight, and the first few times she left the house, even in the foggy gloom of autumn, she was bewildered by the abundance of colour, accustomed as she was to the chromatic distortions of fluorescent and energy-saving lightbulbs.

  Everyone is gone now. The fickle media circus left first, lured away by other dramas and disasters, rushing away to homes more recently blighted, to fresher tragedies and heartbreaks. When the press struck camp, there was no need for the uniforms to remain, which Claire regretted, a little. Of all the people who were here, she had borne their company most easily, those world-weary men and women who handled pressure with laughter, uncovering rubies of dark humour in the rubble of once-ordinary lives.

  Now the house is theirs again, the landing light stays on because neither of them sleep well, and they’re often up in the night, easily disturbed by late-returning neighbours, or foxes raiding the bins, even rain on the windows, which always brings Claire back to worrying whether Evan is warm and dry.

  Matt’s trying not to wake her, but Claire isn’t asleep. Matt’s been in Evan’s room, where he goes often by night, shutting himself in. Sometimes Claire can hear him sobbing through the wall, and feels the tightness in her throat and the closeness of her own tears, as much for poor Matt’s pain as Evan’s absence.

  Thinking he hasn’t disturbed her, Matt creeps into the bed, slipping under his cool side of the duvet. As quietly as he can, he sniffs away the snotty residue of his crying.

  Matt suffers from cold feet. Turning over, she moves close to him, puts her warm feet over his and lays her head on his chest. He folds his arm around her shoulder, and there they lie, wide awake, welded together in their heartbreak, neither of them entirely sure they want to see another day.

  Stewie has come to hate Wednesdays, Groundhog Day for the day Evan disappeared. Every lesson and every break is part of the countdown to the moment they said goodbye.

  On the seventh Wednesday, George is ready early for school, and Vicky allows him ten minutes of SpongeBob. George turns up the volume on the TV, and the cartoon voices of Squidward and Plankton are loud through the house.

  As Stewie comes down the stairs, George is laughing. Stewie goes straight to the living room, snatches up the remote and mutes the volume.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he shouts. ‘That does my head in!’

  George is quickly on his feet, following Stewie and the remote into the kitchen.

  ‘Mum, Mum! Stewie swore!’

  Vicky is putting cherry tomatoes into George’s lunch box. She looks at Stewie, surprised.

  ‘Did you, Stewie?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop hassling me! Here, snitch.’ He skims the remote across the worktop in George’s direction, but George isn’t quick enough to catch it, and the remote drops to the floor, breaking off its back so the batteries roll loose.

  ‘Pick that up, Stewie,’ says Vicky.

  ‘He dropped it.’

  ‘You threw it. What’s got into you? Pick that up and get yourself some breakfast. You’ll be late.’

  Keen to get back to SpongeBob, George is reassembling the remote.

  ‘I’m not going in today,’ says Stewie. ‘I don’t feel well.’

  Vicky studies him. Stewie’s pale, but he’s walking and talking, and that makes him fit enough for school.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve got a headache. I’m going back to bed.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Do you want me to do you some toast?’

  ‘I’m not being ridiculous!’ Suddenly, Stewie’s yelling. ‘I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous – expecting me to carry on like nothing’s happened! Like I should just let it go that my best mate’s disappeared, and you’re like, that’s a shame, off you go, Stewie, back to that place, day after day after day! And when I get home, nearly every day who’s here but bloody Claire, wanting to talk about him, picking my brain like some weird vulture. I don’t want to talk to her, OK? Why do you even let her in here? Why can’t you just tell her to fuck off and leave me alone?’

  ‘Claire needs our support, Stewie.’

  ‘No, I need your support, and I need you to keep her away from me! I’m not her fucking son substitute or whatever she thinks I am and I am not going back to that school! Ever!’

  There’s a long silence between them, broken when SpongeBob’s voice cuts in from the living room.

  Vicky sighs.

  ‘OK, sweetheart,’ she says. ‘Take the day off. We’ll talk about it when Dad comes home tonight.’

  EIGHT

  4 January

  Evan’s room is a dilemma. Despite the time that he’s been gone, it’s barely been disturbed. In the beginning, a policeman took away his laptop to trawl its depths for undesirables, for virtual contacts who had no business being Evan’s ‘friends’ or visits to chatrooms which exist only for dark purposes. It hasn’t been returned, and its place on his cluttered desk remains a hollow. Then they bagged up his comb, the Liaison Officer explaining as Matt stared at him, pale and dismayed, that hair samples were needed to match any remains.

  Apart from that, Evan’s room is exactly as he left it that morning to come downstairs and eat his breakfast: two slices of toast and honey and a slug of milk from the container, for which – God forgive her – Claire told him off.

  His book-bag and his rugby kit were by the door, and he picked them up before submitting to a quick kiss.

  ‘See you later, Mum,’ he said, and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving her life.

  And she walked indifferent to the kitchen and finished her own breakfast, the last but one meal she ate that isn’t ashes in her mouth.

  See you later, Mum.

  The dilemma lies in the freeze-frame of the room’s abandonment: in the balled grey school sock lying by the laundry basket, in the dented pillow and the rumpled bed-sheet, in the smiling Lego fireman on the bookshelf and the Xbox controller waiting to be picked up for the next game.

  How long can the room be left before she cleans it? How long before the clothes must be laundered and disposed of, the bed stripped, the Xbox and the Lego packed away?

  It has to be done sometime.

  Just not today.

  Three months after Evan disappeared, hope is dwindling. Costs, however, continue to mount up.

  When Naylor and Hagen are summoned upstairs at the end of morning briefing, they have an inkling of what’s coming. They’ve nothing to report but depressing dead ends and trails gone cold.

  Chief Inspector Martin Campbell has one of the best offices in the building, with a window and a view of the bus station, but the furniture’s no better than anyone else’s. Campbell sits behind his cheap desk, leaning back in his faux-leather chair. He’s tried to make the place feel like home with photographs of his kids, his son grinning up at the camera from a canoe, his daughter on horseback, jumping a fence of striped poles. Hagen knows Campbell doesn’t see his kids much any more, and he suspects the horse-riding and canoeing are paid for by the ex-wife’s new man. That’s hard to compete with, even on a chief inspector’s salary.

  ‘So what’s new?’ Campbell asks.

  The question is rhetorical. Campbell keeps himself up to speed in case of update requests from the Chief Constable, and he already knows that Lee Bryant’s trip to Poland checked out with Border Control, and that the potentially interesting Crimewatch leads – from Strathclyde to Dorset and the Costa Brava – all came to nothing. He knows there’s a prosecution pending for Noah Jadoon and the Manchester cartel who sold him fake alcohol, and that nothing was found on Evan’s computer to suggest an intention of running away. He’s authorised searches of drains to recover Evan’s phone, all of
which came back with nothing, and undercover intelligence operatives working to discover the boy’s whereabouts have drawn only blanks.

  ‘Not much, Sir,’ says Naylor.

  ‘These armed robberies, then,’ says Campbell. ‘Forensics think the three of them are linked. I want you to see what you can do with them.’

  ‘What about the Ferrers case?’ asks Hagen.

  ‘I’m going to have the incident room wound down. It can’t be funded indefinitely. Resources are tight, and I don’t see we’re making any progress. You’ve just told me you don’t have any new angles to pursue.’

  Hagen and Naylor are silent.

  ‘So. I know you’ve done your best, but there comes a time to face the facts. We all know the likelihood is that Evan’s already dead, and probably died within hours of his abduction.’

  ‘Who’ll tell the parents, Sir?’ asks Hagen.

  ‘You will,’ says Campbell, looking at Naylor. ‘Of course, let them know our commitment to the case is unchanged. You know what to say.’

  ‘Shall I tell them resources are tight?’ asks Naylor.

  The Chief Inspector seems not to have heard. He looks at Hagen.

  ‘Let me know how you get on with intelligence on these robberies, Bradley,’ he says.

  Naylor’s visit is short, just long enough to deliver the news that Evan’s case is being de-prioritised. She uses the word reviewed, but Claire and Matt are not fooled.

  As Claire sees her out, Naylor says, ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  ‘When?’ asks Claire.

  Naylor wants to apologise, but that would be an acknowledgement of the truth.

  ‘Take care of yourselves,’ she says.

  When she reaches her car she turns back to wave, but Claire has already gone back inside.

  Matt’s standing in the kitchen, looking out at nothing in the garden where the drooping heads of snowdrops are poking through wet grass.

  Slowly, Claire goes upstairs. The door to Evan’s bedroom is closed, and when she opens it she makes believe the remnants of the scent of him are hanging in the air.

  The Lego fireman is still smiling on the bookshelf; the balled-up school sock is still lying on the floor.

  She picks up his pillow and buries her face in it. There’s nothing of him there.

  With shaking hands, she begins to strip the bed.

  NINE

  19 March

  It’s the last home rugby match of the season, and the Under-Twelves are playing well. Claire knows she shouldn’t be there, that she’s like Banquo at this feast, but she can’t help herself. She’s hoping for a momentary illusion, that her mind might conjure a glimpse of him, out there on the field amongst the many bodies so similar to his. She stands under the branches of a sycamore tree in spring-green bud, out of the wind and away from the action, avoiding the other parents for their sakes. The boys have grown over the winter, and she wonders if her boy has grown, too. She closes her eyes and, in amongst the shouts and the blasts on the whistle, tries in vain to hear Evan’s voice.

  There’s a new games master, a much younger man than Mr Griffiths, running up and down the sidelines, energetic and keen. Griffiths is gone, taken early retirement. Stewie’s changed schools, had a fresh start. Other people are moving on, getting on with their lives.

  If only she could do the same.

  The Answer to All Your Prayers

  TEN

  16 June

  Ferrybridge, West Yorkshire

  Roy Addesley’s old van gets thirsty when it’s fully laden and the fuel gauge is showing a red light, so Roy pulls into a BP filling station on the Pontefract road. He and Trevor are talking cricket, specifically Yorkshire’s less-than-stellar performance against Nottinghamshire yesterday.

  Trevor screws up the paper bag his sandwich came in and drops it into the footwell, amongst the other wrappings from this week’s lunches.

  ‘There’s not a decent batsman amongst them,’ he says. ‘No wonder Nottinghamshire hammered them. They got beaten because they played absolute shite.’

  Roy lines the van up alongside a pump and turns off the engine. There’s the usual run-on before it dies. The van needs work.

  ‘If they’d only got a half-decent captain, it’d help,’ Trevor persists.

  ‘You’re full of it.’ Roy climbs down from the cab. ‘You want anything from the shop?’

  ‘If you’re buying, I’ll have a Coke.’

  ‘I’m not buying, so fetch it yourself.’

  Trevor laughs, but his laughter’s cut short in Roy’s ears when he slams the van door. For once, it’s cricketing weather – a hot June day, hottest of the year so far. Roy unscrews the filler cap, fits the nozzle into the tank, and as he’s squeezing the trigger and letting the diesel run, he thinks of good things to take his mind off how much this is going to cost him. He thinks of opening the fridge at home and the first taste of a cold lager; he thinks of standing under the running shower, of washing off the plaster-dust and sweat; of sitting for a while in the garden while his missus finishes cooking his tea.

  The car that pulls up behind him is an 09-plate Ford Focus in dark metallic red. Roy glances at it, and sees it’s carrying two unremarkable men, the driver in late middle-age and balding, the passenger a redhead of an age to be the driver’s son. The younger man appears to be angry, turning round to shout at somebody in the back. But there’s no one in the back, as far as Roy can see.

  He turns away to watch the pump dials. The Ford’s driver takes a few litres of fuel and goes inside to pay. Finally, the nozzle clicks to say the van’s tank is full. Roy hangs it up, and the pump motor switches off.

  In the relative quiet, he hears noises from the car behind, prolonged pounding coming from the boot. He can hear it clearly, so what’s curious to Roy is that the red-haired man in the passenger seat, the one who was angry before, seems not to hear it at all. He’s just sitting there, looking at Roy. Inside the shop, the Ford’s driver is handing over cash.

  Roy moves a couple of steps towards the car. The petrol station isn’t busy, and the other motorists filling up are out of earshot. The red-haired man is watching him, and Roy’s unsure what to do. He’s thinking there might be someone in the boot, but is it really his business? Maybe these two blokes are playing some kind of prank, and that’s up to them. But the sun is scorching, and he wouldn’t want to be sweltering under hot metal.

  The car’s driver comes out of the shop, and Roy decides he’ll have a quick word, and waits for him to get close. But when the driver notices him, he falters and stands still. Behind him, Roy hears the Ford’s passenger door open and slam shut, and the beep as the locks are activated from the key-fob. Then, to Roy’s surprise, the driver walks away from him and out of the filling station, followed by his red-headed passenger, who’s running to catch up.

  Roy shouts after them.

  ‘Oi! ’Scuse me, pal!’ But neither man looks back. Instead, they increase their pace, and reach the road. ‘Oi! Hold on a minute!’

  Roy’s shouting draws the attention of the other customers. From inside the shop, the staff peer at him through the window, hoping they’re not going to be dealing with some nutter.

  Now the two men have taken off, Roy knows something’s not right. He hurries round the back of the Focus and shouts across to the cashiers.

  ‘There’s someone locked in this car! They’ve got someone locked in the boot! Trevor! Trevor, get out here!’

  He raps his knuckles on the boot-lid.

  ‘Hello! Are you OK?’ The pounding from inside the Ford becomes frantic. ‘Don’t worry, pal, we’ll get you out!’

  Trevor moves quickly for Trevor, and comes to stand beside Roy. A young man leaves a blue Clio, and runs to join them.

  ‘They’ve legged it,’ he says. ‘I saw which way they went. Shall I go after them?’

  Roy hesitat
es.

  ‘Someone should,’ he says. The young man is about the same age as his son, and keen for excitement. ‘But don’t you go taking them on. Just see if you can work out where they’re headed.’

  The young man runs back to his car and drives away. A cashier appears in the shop doorway, and when Roy shouts to her to call the police, she hurries back inside and picks up a phone, talking animatedly to her colleagues.

  The pounding from inside the car is becoming intermittent, as if whoever’s in there is getting tired. The staff all come outside, and join Roy, Trevor and the other customers by the car’s back end.

  ‘We should jemmy it,’ someone says to Trevor. ‘Haven’t you got a crowbar in your van?’

  ‘Fetch the crowbar, Trevor,’ says Roy. But when Trevor brings the tool, Roy’s reluctant.

  ‘It might just be some prank,’ he says. ‘We should wait for the police.’

  ‘It might be a long wait,’ says one of the cashiers. ‘Last time we rang them, it was the best part of two hours.’

  Roy calls out to whoever’s in the boot.

  ‘All right, pal. We’re just going to wait for the coppers, then we’ll have you out.’

  The young man in the blue Clio returns, and reports that he’s lost the two men, who headed down a one-way street where he couldn’t follow. When a police car pulls on to the forecourt – no great speed, no blue lights – there’s a round of low-key, ironic applause from the shop staff.

  The police driver is bent-nosed and built like a boxer; his partner’s a woman old enough to have seen it all before, several times over. The policeman accepts Roy’s offer of the crowbar, while the policewoman stands, arms folded and silent, to one side.

  ‘We didn’t dare do it,’ explains Roy. ‘Criminal damage and all that. His mates ran off with the keys. Right pair of pricks, on a day like this. Must be like a furnace in there, mustn’t it?’