by Erin Kinsley
‘He doesn’t feel safe, not even with us,’ says Claire. ‘He asked Matt to put a bolt on his door, and he puts a chair under the door handle when he goes in the shower. I try not to mind. If that’s what he needs . . .’
‘We’ll get him the right help,’ says Naylor. ‘And when you think he might be ready, we’d like to talk to him. Not at the station or anything, somewhere he’ll feel supported. We have people who are specially trained. They’ll take good care of him.’
‘I want to be with him when you do that.’
Naylor sighs.
‘You know, Claire,’ she says, ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not? I think he’ll want me to be there.’ Claire stops, realising Evan won’t want her anywhere near. ‘But if you don’t think I should, I won’t. I suppose you know best.’
‘Can I say hello to him?’
‘You can try. Upstairs, first on the left. The one with the closed door.’
Naylor knows which room it is; she spent time here, in the early days, looking for anything which would help, finding nothing. The stickers on his door are as they were: Call of Duty, Man U, a New York Giants pennant held on with drawing pins. She listens at the door, but there’s nothing to hear.
She taps gently.
‘Evan? Evan, it’s Rachel Naylor, from the police. I just came to say hello.’
There’s the sound of bedsprings as he moves. She waits a minute or two, but there’s nothing more.
‘I have to go now, but I’ll be back in the next day or so. I’ll see you then, OK?’
Back downstairs, Claire’s waiting to show her out.
‘What’s he doing in there?’ asks Naylor.
‘Sleeping, I think,’ says Claire. ‘They’ve given him something in place of the other stuff, but he’s still very tired. Apart from that, I don’t know. He’s not saying much.’
‘Just give it time,’ says Naylor, squeezing Claire’s arm. ‘He’s been through a lot.’
Outside, as she gets into the car, Naylor looks across at the Ferrerses’ house. All seems normal, but for one thing: it’s broad daylight, but the curtains at Evan’s windows are drawn.
FIFTEEN
27 June
‘Evan?’
Rose Yazici is in the interview room as an appropriate adult. Naylor likes Rose very much – she’s motherly but not mumsy, with an ability to connect with almost anyone, even Campbell. She’s pretty too, dark and petite in jewel-coloured clothes and bold jewellery which reflect her Turkish heritage. Her prettiness has to be a plus with a boy Evan’s age, surely? Naylor thought if anyone could get Evan to open up, it would be Rose. Turns out she was wrong.
Evan’s been in here with them almost an hour now, a book of photofits and photos of known offenders open on the table, with Rose slowly turning the pages and encouraging him to take his time, see if he spots anyone he recognises. Some of the faces are the stuff of parental nightmares – ugly, dirty old bastards with a lifetime’s offending behind them, obvious criminals you wouldn’t let anywhere near your child. And then there are the others: respectable, even attractive-looking men, some only in their twenties, far more dangerous in Naylor’s eyes than the old-timers. These younger men look friendly, trustworthy, like your next-door neighbour or your sister’s boyfriend. These are men you’d talk to, be pleased to find leading a scout group or after-school club, who you’d let join you and your kids in a Happy Meal without a second thought, but you’d shudder at the appetites they were stoking while they were watching your six-year-old eat her chicken nuggets.
Naylor would never say as much to Claire Ferrers, but Evan looks terrible. He’s pale and seems exhausted, as if he hasn’t slept for months (though Claire says he does nothing but sleep), and he looks uncomfortable in new clothes which don’t suit him, not because they’re not his size but because they’re not his age. He seems to be frozen in time as if he’s suffering from arrested development, so if Naylor didn’t know better she’d have him down as a tall-for-his-age ten-year-old. The on-trend clothes Claire has bought him – trainers and chinos and T-shirts with the right logos – look like they’re from an older brother’s wardrobe, and Evan looks fearful as a whipped dog, like he’s expecting to take a thrashing at any moment.
‘How about this one?’ asks Rose. From her upside-down vantage point, Naylor recognises Danny Stokes, who’s been inside some time, so she’s not surprised when Evan doesn’t respond. Rose turns the page again, to two faces Naylor doesn’t recognise. She’s watching Evan closely and sees him blink, a slight flutter in his eyelids she hasn’t seen before. Hagen’s noticed Evan’s reaction too, and writes something in his notebook.
‘Evan?’ asks Naylor. ‘Do you know either of these men? If you think there’s even a chance you’ve seen either of them, please tell us.’
But Evan stays silent.
‘If you can help Sergeant Naylor at all,’ Rose puts in, ‘it could go a long way towards finding whoever took you. I know it’s hard, but your evidence is very important. Very important indeed.’
Naylor looks down at the photographs: two white men, one clean-shaven and in his thirties, the other older, with lank hair and an unkempt beard. Which one prompted Evan’s reaction?
‘If you identify any of these men, I guarantee we’ll keep you safe from them,’ says Rose. ‘They can’t hurt you any more, sweetheart. We’re all here to protect you.’
Evan looks at her, and there’s a cynicism in his eyes it disturbs Naylor to see. He doesn’t believe Rose, and why should he? If they were capable of protecting every child in their jurisdiction, he would never have been taken from that bus stop and subjected to the horrors he has yet to reveal.
Words are cheap, thinks Naylor. And who can blame poor Evan for being afraid to point the finger, when all it will do is bring the monsters back into his world?
SIXTEEN
29 June
‘So, says Campbell, rubbing his hands together as if he means business, but actually looking as if he’s feeling the cold. ‘What have we got?’
‘Just the car still,’ says Hagen, ‘and there’s nothing from that. Not yet, anyway.’
‘That beggars belief,’ says Campbell. ‘The boy was in the back of it, two abductors in the front, and there’s nothing to go on?’
‘I’m not saying there’s nothing at all,’ says Hagen. ‘Of course there are prints and DNA. Just nothing that ties in to anyone we know.’
‘The ANPR data hasn’t been much help either,’ says Naylor. ‘We’re thinking they must have switched cars shortly before we got them on the A61. But finding the car they abandoned – if there was one – is an impossibility. It could be anywhere, in a garage somewhere or under a tarpaulin. For all we know it’s crushed and gone by now.’
‘No soil samples, nothing like that?’
‘Nothing. All that tells us is they’ve been sticking to city driving.’
‘And what about the men themselves? How did they just vanish?’
Naylor shrugs.
‘It isn’t hard to do, Sir, if they split up and both found themselves a pub, sat for half an hour with a pint and called themselves a taxi. We’ve checked the CCTV at the rail and bus stations, nothing there. Appeals for information haven’t given us anything. Most likely someone came and picked them up.’
Campbell wanders over to where the coffee machine has just brewed a fresh pot. There’s an open biscuit tin which once held Scottish shortbread, recently filled by Rose with Oreos, and Campbell helps himself.
‘So what’s next? Rachel, how did your interview with Evan go?’
‘We did our best,’ says Naylor, ‘but he never said a word. The closest we came to any response were a couple of photos where I thought there was something. Maybe, maybe not.’
‘Worth a look though, surely, if we’ve nothing else? When are you bringing him back in?’
‘I appreciate the boy’s fragile,’ says Campbell. ‘And in an ideal world, we’d give him all the time and space he needs, but under the very pressing circumstances I think we have to push him. Bring him back in and try again. What else have you got?’
‘The car’s the obvious one,’ says Hagen. ‘We need to make sure we’ve exhausted everything there. And I agree we could take a look at the photos which caused a reaction, if a reaction it was. The thing is, it’s impossible to say whether our photos might just have reminded him of someone. They might both be complete dead ends.’
‘We only need one break though, don’t we, people?’ says Campbell cheerfully. He helps himself to another biscuit. ‘One for the road, if no one minds. My meeting with the Chief Constable over-ran and I never got any lunch. Anyway, keep me up to date.’
The incident room door closes behind Campbell’s back.
‘A little pep-talk like that always makes me feel better,’ says Hagen with heavy sarcasm.
‘Makes it all worthwhile,’ says Naylor. ‘Which do you fancy, the mugshots or the car? If you’ve no preference, I’ll take the car. I got halfway through the forensics last night before I was interrupted by a large glass of wine and an urgent need to sleep. But I’ve started, so I think I ought to finish.’
‘Happy reading, then. I suppose that leaves me with the known offenders. Any idea who they are?’
‘Not local, that’s all I know. Looks like you might be clocking up some expenses.’
‘Every little helps.’
‘Has it struck you how none of this seems to be local, Brad?’
‘In what way?’
‘Everything seems to be geographically randomised, like there’s a deliberate effort to keep elements apart.’
They both glance at the map of the British Isles on one of the incident room whiteboards, where the number of coloured pins denoting significant events seems to be growing.
‘If I were abducting children, I’d be doing my best to make it look randomised too,’ says Hagen. ‘But if we keep sticking pins in the map, maybe a pattern will emerge. Remember what Uncle Ron used to say. Nothing in these cases is ever unconnected. Find enough pointers, and we’ll be able to join the dots.’
SEVENTEEN
30 June
Hagen finds the address he’s looking for in the suburbs of Wolverhampton, a few hundred metres off the A449. The district he’s in is called Merridale, a name which seems particularly inapt given the size of the cemetery featuring on the satnav as he makes his way through the streets of solid brick houses.
The place he’s looking for is a well-kept bungalow, lace curtains at the windows and a sunroom at the front, cast-iron gates with the finials of its struts painted gold. At the edges of the block-paved drive the snapdragons and lobelia in the flowerbeds seem to be receiving reasonable care. A wooden fence separates the garden from a public footpath, where tatters of old litter have gathered at the foot of a No Cycling sign.
This street doesn’t look like cycling territory to Hagen. The kerbsides are close-parked with vehicles, mostly cheap family motors and runabouts with the odd drug dealer’s favourite amongst them, pimped Beamers and a slammed Golf.
As he parks across the bungalow’s driveway, there’s a view of the city centre in the distance, marked by a scatter of tower blocks and a grime-blackened church tower. The gate squeals as he pushes it open, and a hand lifts a corner of the net curtains. Naylor’s taught Hagen to ignore doorbells, so he raps on the glass door, which is opened promptly by a woman he puts in her forties. She’s made an attempt at urban glamour – her hair’s home-dyed a shade of burgundy and her glasses are sixties-style and cherry red – but grey roots are showing through the hair dye, and there’s no on-trend logo on her hoody or sweatpants. Hagen picks up the stink of cigarettes, so potent she must have just put one out.
‘Yes?’
She looks quite amenable, until Hagen flips open his wallet and shows his warrant card.
‘What, again?’ she protests. ‘Why can’t you leave us alone? It’s like living in an episode of The Bill.’
Her accent to his ears is pure Brummie, though he knows that’s the same ignorance as people not knowing the difference between Geordie and Mackem or Smoggy.
‘I’m looking for Robert Gillard. Is he in?’
‘He’s not in, no, but he’s entitled to be out. Seven till seven, that’s his curfew hours.’
‘And you are . . .?’
‘I’m Madge, his sister. Marjorie to you. What are you doing back here? We had a probation visit only last week. He’s keeping to his terms and conditions. Ask the neighbours if you don’t believe me.’
‘Do you know where I might find him, Marjorie?’
‘Do I have to tell you?’
‘I can come in and wait if you’d rather.’
She gives a pantomime sigh.
‘He’s at the library, studying for his qualification. Why won’t you people even give him a chance? He had a rotten start in life which you would know if you could be bothered to find out. We both had rotten starts, and you ought to give him breathing space to do something with his life instead of coming round here drawing attention all the time. We’ve Mum to think of, haven’t we? It’s no bloody picnic being uprooted at her age. It’ll all be down to you if we have to move again.’
‘I hope it won’t come to that,’ says Hagen. ‘But with the kind of offences your brother committed, by law people have a right to know – if they choose to find out – that he might pose a danger. How do I get to the library?’
‘It’s a good walk, and he has to walk, doesn’t he? We’ve no car, how could we afford a car? He hasn’t a snowball in hell’s chance of getting a job with his record. There’s only my wage and his benefits and Mum’s pension. It’s no bloody picnic, I’ll tell you. Straight down there to the shopping centre, it’s in there. And when you find him, ask him to pick me up a packet of fags on his way home.’
The library is a light, modern building, its noticeboard splashed with posters advertising toddler story-times, knit-and-natter afternoons and a weekly board-game group, free tea and coffee, come and meet new friends.
Behind the desk a librarian in an electric wheelchair glances at Hagen before going back to her carping account of how she’s been stiffed on holiday pay. On the receiving end, her colleague appears bored. In the kindergarten section, a small child sits on its mother’s knee, sucking its thumb as she reads a story, both mother and child unperturbed by another child shouting for attention as he plunders the contents of a toy box.
The computer section is at the back of the room, through a gap in the stacks between Biography and Local History. A man is sitting at a terminal, engrossed in whatever is displaying on the screen. As Hagen walks towards him, the man senses movement, and without looking up, hits a single key on the keyboard. By the time Hagen’s standing behind him, the monitor’s showing the front page of Betfred.
‘Robert Gillard?’
‘Who’s asking?’ Gillard folds his skinny arms across his chest. His accent’s the same as his sister’s but he’s younger than her, dressed anonymously as she was in jeans and chain-store trainers and a grey T-shirt printed in red with the words Why Wait? A beige windcheater not quite old enough to be vintage – a dead man’s jacket from a charity shop – is draped on the back of his chair.
Hagen flashes his warrant card, and in disgust, Gillard shakes his head. He looks up at Hagen with feral animosity in his rat-like face.
‘She tell you I was here, did she? Stupid cow. She hasn’t the brains to keep it shut.’
‘Are you allowed to be here, Bobby? How many conditio
ns are you breaking? Unsupervised access to a computer and close proximity to children? It doesn’t look good, does it?’
‘I don’t think I know you, do I? You new or something?’
‘I’m from out of area,’ says Hagen. ‘Your name’s come up in regard to an investigation. Have you been out of town recently?’
‘Do me a favour!’ Gillard spits the words. ‘How could I, when you’ve as good as got me chained here? I was better off inside. At least in there I didn’t have them two nagging me night and day. My life’s not worth living and that’s the truth.’
‘Having a flutter on the horses, are you?’
‘Just a couple of quid. It passes the time. There’s nothing against that in my conditions.’
‘I don’t suppose there is,’ says Hagen. ‘But with those youngsters the other side of that wall, I think it’s time you took yourself home, don’t you? I’ll wait while you pack up.’
At the bottom of the screen, Hagen can see there are two Google windows open on the machine. Gillard hits the power button, and the computer begins to shut itself down. Pulling on his windcheater, he leads the way towards the exit, pushes open the door and lets it swing back in Hagen’s face before walking away towards the shopping centre.
‘Your sister wants you to take her a packet of cigarettes,’ Hagen calls after him, and Gillard sticks a finger in the air.
From the information which comes through from the DVLA, Naylor learns the Focus has had three owners, all women. She studies the addresses but can see nothing there. Sevenoaks, Chelmsford, Woking. The most recent keeper – in Chelmsford – seems as good a place as any to start.
Essex is a county she doesn’t know except for its trashy TV fame, and she puts her trust in the satnav as it guides her round the M25 to junction 28 and along the A12 past Brentwood. Once she’s off the A12, she finds herself on the grandiosely named Essex Yeomanry Way – a bypass by another name – and from there drives into Great Baddow, a place whose origins as a pretty village are still visible despite the opportunistic development on every square metre of available space.
