Found

by Erin Kinsley

  ‘Hardly surprising. Give him time.’

  ‘We need him to talk.’ Naylor looks at her watch. ‘I have to go. It’s been good to see you, Ron.’ She reaches for her purse, but Perdue stops her.

  ‘My treat,’ he says. ‘But get your map out, Rachel, and use some logic. West Yorkshire’s a red herring. I’d stake my reputation on it. Promise me you’ll look into it.’

  ‘We’ll look into it,’ says Naylor. ‘Give June my regards.’

  It’s after six when Naylor leaves the office that evening. Dallabrida catches up with her as she gets into the lift, slapping a hand on the edge to force the half-closed doors to slide back. He steps in beside her, bringing his smell of Gucci aftershave and spearmint gum.

  He stands legs astride like a Bob Hoskins gangster, hands folded over his crotch in a bouncer’s pose, so close to her they’d be shoulder to shoulder, if Dallabrida’s shoulder weren’t so much higher than her own.

  ‘I hate these things,’ he says. ‘Phobic, I am.’ His accent’s pure Essex, or maybe East End; Naylor can’t tell the difference. ‘I like to have someone to hold my hand.’

  He has big hands, and long fingers which would make huge fists. Naylor imagines how it would feel if one of Dallabrida’s hands landed on your shoulder, if it were feeling your collar.

  ‘You could take the stairs,’ she says.

  The lift doors close.

  ‘Too late,’ says Dallabrida. ‘I’ll have to master my fears, and plunge with you all the way to the ground floor.’

  Naylor almost smiles.

  ‘How’s it going, anyway?’ he asks, as the lift begins to move. ‘Thought we’d be bringing ’em in by now, with us having the car and everythin’. How’s the boy doing?’

  ‘Not great.’ Naylor thinks she feels her phone buzz in her pocket and pulls it out, but it’s wishful thinking. The screen is blank.

  The lift clunks to a halt on the first floor. The doors slide open, but no one gets in.

  Dallabrida leans across her and presses the Door Close button.

  ‘These things get on my tits. You’re right, I should take the stairs.’ The doors close again. As the lift starts to move, he says, ‘I was going to go for a drink, just a quick one at the Bell. You fancy a drink, Rachel?’

  She slips the phone back into her pocket.

  ‘Not tonight,’ she says.

  ‘Hot date, eh?’ asks Dallabrida. ‘Who’s the lucky fella?’

  ‘No one you know.’

  The doors open on to the lobby. Dallabrida makes a show of letting Naylor step out in front of him.

  ‘Another time then, eh?’

  She looks him in the face. He’s got a bullish head, his hair’s shaved very close, and his nose has been broken at least once. He’s not good-looking in any conventional sense, but he’s got nice eyes. All the girls talk about Dallabrida’s big brown eyes.

  ‘You’re not my type, Leon,’ she says.

  Dallabrida smiles.

  ‘’Course I am,’ he says. ‘I’m every woman’s type, I am. Loaded with charm, like a pizza with every kind of topping. How’re you fixed for tomorrow?’

  ‘Goodnight, Leon,’ says Naylor. As she walks away, she finds herself smiling. Then she checks her silent phone again, and the smile slips away.

  In Waitrose, the produce shelves are depleted, and there are no avocados for the salad she was going to make. She picks up a bag of spinach and a pack of cherry tomatoes. They’ve lowered the chiller temperatures to compensate for the heat, and wandering between the fridges, she shivers. She puts chicken breasts and prosciutto in her basket, and picks up a bottle of Chianti from a special offer display. Then she adds a bottle of Merlot, just in case.

  As she reaches her car, her phone rings. When she sees who’s calling, she smiles.

  ‘Hello you,’ she says. ‘How are you doing?’ There’s a moment of silence, long enough to tell her there’s a problem. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the leisure centre. I’ve just dropped Harry off for cricket.’

  ‘What time are you coming over?’

  She can’t help herself asking the question, even though instinct and experience have already told her the answer.

  ‘It’s going to be difficult tonight,’ he says. ‘Bridget’s not very well. She’s gone to bed, so I’m saddled with taxi duty.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ The bag in her hand feels suddenly heavy. Naylor presses the unlock button on her key, and the car beeps. She pops open the boot and stows the carrier bag inside. ‘You promised.’

  ‘What could I say?’ he asks. ‘Come on, Rachel. Don’t be like that.’

  ‘Come on yourself,’ says Naylor, and ends the call.

  THIRTEEN

  21 June

  Jack’s given Bob Sturgess a list of what needs doing, even though Bob’s been farming more years than even Jack and could run Ainsclough Top with his eyes shut.

  Sensing his leaving, Millie the collie presses herself against Jack’s legs. He bends down and strokes her head.

  ‘You’ll ring me if there’s any problems?’ he says, and Bob nods his assent. ‘We’ll be back by Saturday at the latest.’

  Dora’s already waiting in the car, wearing a summer frock decorated with yellow tulips. Jack climbs in beside her and starts the engine.

  ‘You look nice, love,’ he says. ‘I haven’t seen that dress for a while.’

  ‘I haven’t been able to get into it for a long time,’ says Dora. ‘I suppose I must have lost a bit of weight. Has Bob got a key to the house?’

  ‘House key, sheds and everywhere else. And I’ve told him to ring Matt’s if he’s any problems. He knows what he’s doing. Have you got everything you need?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And is that cake put somewhere safe?’

  ‘I put it under your jacket to keep it out of the sun. I think it’ll be all right.’

  Jack takes it steady down the pitted lane, slowing down even more to make a last eyeball check on the ewes and lambs on the home field. At the bottom of the hill, two weeks without rain have reduced the stream to a trickle, though the banks are still lush with grass, and pretty with corncockles and kingcups. High clouds are beginning to encroach over Blackmire Ridge, but as they reach the road the sky ahead is clear, and Jack puts on the Yankees cap Matt brought him from America to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare.

  At first, it promises to be a good day for a drive, but it’s high summer and a lot of kids are out of school. The roads are busy, and there’s a long delay at Ripon and again just before Wetherby. By the time they get through the jam, Jack decides they’ll pull into the services for a break.

  He parks the old Freelander in a quiet spot and finds the cool-bag Dora has packed with lunch. Sitting with the car doors open to let in a breeze, they drink tea from a flask and eat their sandwiches seasoned with the smell of petrol fumes and the noise of fast traffic in the background: corned beef and pickle for Jack, cheese and lettuce for Dora, though she re-wraps half of hers back in the foil.

  ‘You haven’t eaten much,’ says Jack. ‘Do you want one of these?’

  ‘I’m not very hungry,’ says Dora. ‘It’s so hot.’ For a long moment, she watches the motorway, the trucks and cars hurtling by. ‘What if he doesn’t want to see us?’

  About to take another bite of his sandwich, Jack looks at her.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Evan. I mean Evan. With what Matt’s said about him being so quiet, I wonder if we’re doing the right thing, going down there.’

  She turns to face him, and he sees that behind her glasses, her eyes are filled with tears.

  ‘We didn’t do anything to help him, did we? All the time he was with – whoever he was with, why didn’t we try to find him? Why didn’t we lock up the farm and get in this car and spend all our time looking
for him? What if he asks us that, Jack? What are we going to say? And now he’s come home, and we’re turning up expecting him to still be our Evan, all smiles as if he’d been away to scout camp or somewhere. If he isn’t pleased to see us, I shan’t be a bit surprised. And if he isn’t pleased to see us, it’ll break my heart.’

  Jack puts his sandwich on the dashboard and takes her hand.

  ‘I won’t lie, it’s crossed my mind too. And to be honest, we can’t expect him to be the same boy we knew. He’s bound to have changed, and I’m sorry to say, not for the better. But don’t you think it’ll help him to know his old grandma and grandad still love him just the same? What do you think, that we shouldn’t go in case he’s not nice to us? After what he’s been through, I should think you and I can cope with him not being very nice. We’re made of tough stuff, aren’t we, Mrs Ferrers, eh?’

  She nods, and blows her nose on a handkerchief embroidered with primroses.

  ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘Of course you’re right. Not going would be far worse than going, so we’d better pack up and get on.’

  All the way south, Dora is quiet, and Jack lets her be so. At Peterborough, they stop for tea and buttered scones, and by the time they reach the M25, it’s close to rush hour. Traffic crawls. Even in his shirt-sleeves, Jack’s too hot. It’s time to take one of his tablets, but they’re in a suitcase in the back. When they reach the turn-off to Matt’s, Dora’s dozing, her eyebrows pulled together, frowning as she sleeps.

  It’s been a while since they’ve been down here, not since the Christmas before Evan was taken. Last Christmas he and Dora spent alone, with a roast chicken for lunch and a bottle of wine, no tree, no decorations, no presents. There have been changes in the town – a street he used to go down is now one-way – and for a few minutes he thinks they’re lost, until he sees a Tesco he remembers.

  He gives Dora a gentle nudge.

  ‘Wake up, love,’ he says. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  Dora rouses herself, looks in the sun-visor mirror, pats at her hair and freshens her lipstick. She puts her hand over Jack’s on the gearstick and gives it a squeeze.

  They’re turning into Matt’s road. The house is straight ahead.

  ‘Ready, Mrs Ferrers?’ asks Jack, and Dora nods.

  ‘The garden’s looking nice,’ says Jack, even though it isn’t, beyond the grass being carelessly cut.

  Matt’s come striding out to greet them as they pull up in the drive, and he hugs his father in a way Jack can’t remember him ever doing before. It’s a hug filled with relief, a survivor’s hug, with a loud subtext of Thank Christ.

  Dora thinks Claire looks unwell, though she’s smiling as she kisses Dora on the cheek.

  Claire leads the way into the house.

  ‘I’ll bet you’re ready for a cup of tea,’ she says.

  ‘Or a cold beer,’ says Matt. ‘That’s what I’m going to have. Dad, can I get you one?’

  ‘By and by,’ says Jack. ‘There’s business to attend to, first.’

  The kitchen smells of frying garlic and tomatoes. There’s a bottle of red wine open on the counter from which one glass is already gone.

  ‘I’m doing spaghetti and meatballs,’ says Claire. She switches on the kettle and takes mugs down from a cupboard. ‘I thought we’d all like that.’

  Dora has brought in nothing from the car but her handbag and the cake tin.

  ‘I made his favourite,’ she says, and looks into the lounge. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Let’s have our tea, shall we?’ says Claire. ‘He’ll be down when he’s ready. Shall I take that?’ She lifts the cake tin lid. ‘Ah, chocolate! I’m sure he’ll love it.’

  Overhead, a floorboard creaks. They settle in the lounge.

  ‘So, any more news?’ asks Jack, and Matt shakes his head and signals upwards with his eyes to denote a taboo subject.

  Jack changes tack. ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ says Matt. ‘Busy.’

  ‘You’re lucky he’s here,’ says Claire. ‘I don’t see very much of him, these days.’

  ‘I’m doing a lot of travelling at the moment,’ says Matt. ‘We’re trying to establish an office in Oxford.’

  ‘And Colchester,’ puts in Claire.

  ‘Well,’ says Matt. ‘That’s a different thing.’

  The floorboards creak again. Jack catches Dora’s eye.

  ‘As long as you’re busy,’ says Dora. ‘I worry you’ll get laid off.’

  ‘I shan’t get laid off, Mum,’ says Matt, with a touch of irritation. ‘I’ve been made a director. How was your drive down?’

  ‘Oh, we did all right,’ says Jack. ‘Traffic was heavy around . . .’

  He stops. Through the open lounge door, he can see the stairs, and on the stairs he can see a sock-clad foot. His eyes prick with tears, but he blinks them back, and signals Dora to stay in her chair. A second foot appears, and now he can see thin fingers on the banister.

  Jack’s heart is beating too fast; he really should find his tablets. Standing up from his chair, he crosses to the doorway and looks up.

  He sees a skinny, dishevelled Evan, pale and sad-eyed, and Jack thinks his heart will break. But he puts on a smile, and moves to the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, my boy,’ he says. ‘Come and give your old grandpa a hug.’

  And Evan does.

  FOURTEEN

  24 June

  Naylor rings the doorbell at the Ferrerses’ house. The routine is familiar from all those weeks they were backwards and forwards here when Evan went missing, and now the case is back in the forefront, they’ll be backwards and forwards all over again. Some things haven’t changed, though the season is different. Matt’s Audi isn’t there, but Claire’s Renault is on the drive, looking less well-cared-for than it did. When Evan disappeared, the car was brand-new. The front garden smells of British summer, wet roses and dank greenery, and in the borders, virulent dandelions have taken hold, spoiling displays of pink dianthus and poking through spikes of salvias. The small front lawn has been recently mown and is strewn with clumps of Flymo-chewed grass. As the doorbell dies away, Naylor hears the usual sounds of the suburbs: a plane high overhead, the buzz of a strimmer, traffic on the high street, and far away, a siren.

  When Claire opens the door she looks different, as if she might have reached the low point of her descent and be climbing back up. There are traces of colour in her cheeks, though her hair is still careless, swept back in a corner-chemist clip. She invites Naylor in. On the hall floor, there’s a black bin bag, stuffed to capacity.

  ‘Evan’s old clothes,’ says Claire. ‘I kept them all, and now they’re too small. Time to throw them out.’

  Overhead, a floorboard creaks. A door closes, and a bolt rattles home.

  Claire looks at Naylor, shrugs and leads the way to the kitchen, where the air’s thick with oven chips and vinegar and warm sausage-fat from a pan on the stove. She offers Naylor a seat at the table, which is covered in clutter – a laptop, unopened mail, keys, a couple of DVDs – but the place overall seems tidier, cleaner. In recovery.

  ‘I bought him a few bits to be going on with, but it’s difficult,’ says Claire. ‘He’s lost touch with everything, what’s in and what’s out, doesn’t know what his friends are wearing.’ She’s filling the kettle at the tap. ‘Listen to me, talking about his friends. I don’t think he’ll have many of those. I expect we’ll move now, have a fresh start. No bad thing, I suppose. Matt wanted to move anyway. We’re notorious around here, and he hates that, being whispered about, but I always resisted.’

  She switches on the kettle and takes two white mugs from the cupboard. Naylor has white mugs at home, but hers were ordered from a cheap catalogue, a job lot of crockery, four place settings, when she moved into the new flat. Claire’s look like porcelain, an el
egant design pleasing to the eye; they’ve got Habitat or John Lewis written all over them.

  ‘Earl Grey or English Breakfast?’

  ‘Builder’s,’ says Naylor. ‘Milk and one, please.’

  A black cat is walking down the back garden path. The view from the kitchen window is of other people’s gardens, and of other houses. Claire opens the fridge to find the milk, and the fridge looks full, of vegetables and yogurt and cartons of juice.

  ‘I had this thing,’ Claire goes on, pouring milk, spooning sugar, ‘that he might come home. That he might turn up here one day, and wouldn’t find us. Wouldn’t that have been too awful? Now I wish we had moved, so he didn’t have to come back here, to being a curiosity. I don’t blame him for not wanting to go out.’

  ‘Doesn’t he want to go out?’

  Claire shakes her head and places Naylor’s tea in front of her, still whirling from being stirred.

  ‘I think he feels like an alien, and he can’t seem to reconnect. I got him those DVDs to try and get him caught up, but I don’t think he’s interested.’

  She finds a packet of chocolate biscuits, tips several on to a plate and puts them at the centre of the table, helping herself to one before she sits down. She dips the biscuit in her tea, and bites off the damp edge.

  ‘I survived on chocolate biscuits while he was gone. No nutritional value but lots of calories. I’m trying to eat better now, and trying to get him to eat well too. He used to be such a fussy eater, a bit of a nightmare, really. Now he doesn’t seem to care at all. The doctors say he needs to put on weight, but I can’t find anything he really wants. He seems so listless, so . . .’ She glances up at the ceiling. ‘I don’t want him to hear. The first day or two, he clung to me, like he did when he was a toddler, my little shadow. Now he just wants to be up there by himself, and I don’t try too hard to persuade him down, because he feels like . . .’ Her eyes fill with tears. ‘He feels like someone I don’t know.’

  ‘It takes time, Claire,’ says Naylor. She sips her tea, working hard to resist the chocolate biscuits. In her pocket, her phone is buzzing, but she ignores it.