by Erin Kinsley
‘Are you serious? I should just drop everything, right now this minute? I have a job, remember?’
‘Play truant. Let’s both play truant.’
‘And where’s she? Sainsbury’s?’
‘She’s in London. She won’t be back till late.’
Naylor considers whether to say what she’s got to say, whether to blow the whole thing out of the water.
‘Book a hotel, then,’ she says. ‘Somewhere nice. And stay the night.’
‘I can’t stay the night,’ he says. ‘You know that. But I was thinking we could meet at yours. I’ll bring a bottle of something you’ll like.’
‘So let me translate. You’re too cheap to pay for a hotel, or you just don’t want it on your credit card bill. What you’re after is a quick shag this afternoon while your missus is away, as long as you can be back home at the usual time, smiling like nothing’s going on. Well, you know what? Go screw yourself.’
When she’s ended the call, she switches off the phone. There’s a tightness in her stomach which might be anger and might be hurt. She doesn’t think he’ll call again, for which part of her is relieved and another part is close to tears. Either way, she’s no appetite now for anything but a reflective drive with the music cranked up loud.
The satnav’s set for Petersen’s, but she soon changes that, re-setting it with the postcode of home.
By the time Hagen gets to Mansfield, it’s the wrong side of lunchtime. On the through route he’s following he spots Nick’s Chippy, which is still busy, and, taking that as a vote of local confidence, buys fish, chips and curry sauce and eats them in the car.
There’s still plenty of old back-to-back housing in the town, red-brick terraces which line backstreets looking little different to when they were built. Mansfield’s foundations were in mining, and since mining got the heart kicked out of it, the town’s found no way to thrive. The only businesses doing well seem to be takeaways and convenience stores.
Alan Mayhew’s house is a mid-terrace which stands out from its neighbours for its lack of improvements: no double-glazed front door, no skylight in the attic, no window boxes or fake stone cladding. When Hagen knocks, a neighbour answers, throwing open her own door as if she’s the one he wants.
‘He’s not in, duck!’ She’s heavy-set, a bruiser, her brash Nottinghamshire accent as thick as slurry. ‘He’ll not be back while three.’
‘Where is he, then?’ asks Hagen, and she points to the end of the street.
‘The White Hart, duck,’ she says. ‘Every day, twelve while three.’
The pub’s what the Lamb and Lion used to be before the brewery’s gentrification: sticky bottle-green carpets, ugly brown tables and chairs, an indifferent landlord reading a newspaper behind the bar. Hagen pays a quick visit to the cold and draughty toilets, where there’s no hot water on the basins and the hand-dryer is broken.
In the tap-room Mayhew’s easy to pick out, drinking alone at a corner table holding four brown bottles and a glass. He’s trimmed his beard since the booking photo was taken, but even in the gloom, Hagen sees his health has deteriorated, his skin tinted yellow with encroaching jaundice. His head sags, and his eyelids are fluttering in a half-doze.
As Hagen approaches the bar, the landlord folds his paper and rises from his stool.
‘Now then, youth,’ he says. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Nothing for me, thanks,’ says Hagen. ‘I was hoping for a word with Mr Mayhew.’
He nods to where Mayhew is sitting.
‘Which are you, then, bailiffs or coppers?’ asks the landlord. ‘Not that it matters. Whichever you are, you’re two hours too late. If you want to get any sense out of him, come back tomorrow.’
‘Is he drunk?’
‘He’s one of those drinkers who’s never quite drunk, but he’s close enough to it. Four barley wines’ll do that to a man. You ever tried a barley wine?’
‘I don’t think so, no,’ says Hagen.
‘If you’ve never had a barley wine, be grateful. My grandad used to reckon it was the best stuff you could use for getting a good shine on brass and I’ve never had reason to doubt it. And see there all the good it’s done old Alan. His liver’s shot but he’s a creature of habit, four bottles a day, come hell or high water, with a whisky chaser or two if he’s feeling flush. He says he drinks for the pain, but we could all say that in Mansfield.’
‘He’s in here every day?’
‘Every day without fail. Mostly he’s there waiting when I open up. Come closing time, I show him the door and he totters away home to sleep it off. So like I say, whatever your business is with him, you’ve come too late today. If you want to get any sense out of him, you’ll have to come back before he’s downed his first bottle tomorrow.’
EIGHTEEN
1 July
Feeling guilty for driving straight home from Chelmsford the previous day, Naylor is early for work. In the office, she notices Rose’s biscuit tin is empty, and she wonders if Campbell has been hanging around again, chivvying for results. She switches on Ron’s coffee maker, and as she’s pouring in the water she thinks about him, deciding that she ought to get in touch.
Hagen arrives soon after her, an earplug in one ear from the phone in his pocket, so the first time she wishes him good morning he doesn’t hear. She walks over to him and waves a hand in front of his face until he removes the earplug and switches off the music.
‘Good morning.’
‘Morning,’ Hagen replies.
‘I’m just making coffee, but there’re no biscuits,’ she says. ‘Was Campbell on the rampage again yesterday?’
‘I have no clue. I was late back, so I went straight home to a shower and a cold beer.’
‘How did you get on?’
‘Fifty-fifty,’ says Hagen. ‘Mayhew’s alibied indefinitely by chronic alcoholism and a pub full of witnesses to his daily habits, so put a line through him. Gillard I’m not sure about.’
‘You want coffee?’ Naylor leads the way back to the machine, which is just finishing its perking, and Hagen follows her. She passes him an almost-clean mug, takes one for herself and pours. In the countertop fridge, there’s hardly any milk.
‘You have it,’ says Hagen. ‘I’ll go black.’
Naylor smiles. There’s nothing black about Hagen with his Nordic blood. In summer, his blond hair is at its fairest.
‘So come on,’ she says. ‘What aren’t you sure about?’
‘From what I saw, Gillard was breaching his licence. I found him in a library, apparently indulging in a bit of online gaming. But full and free access to the internet must be out of bounds. And there were children in the library. I sent him on his way, and I think it’s fair to say he wasn’t happy. At the very least we should be notifying Probation. How about you?’
Naylor pulls a face. ‘I think I ticked a box. I spoke to the Focus’s legal owner, but she says she never drove it, that her old man used it for work. Apparently, it was nicked while he was making sales calls in Hartlepool. So I spoke to him to get his story, which sounded straightforward – a taxi and a train back down south.’
‘But?’
‘But what?’
‘Something’s niggling you.’
‘It’s a tiny, tiny niggle.’ Naylor shows a minute gap between her finger and thumb-pad. ‘So tiny, I don’t even know what it is.’
‘Heads up, people!’
Campbell breezes into the incident room in a white shirt straight off the hanger from an ironing service, with an air of excitement about him which can only mean he’s been speaking to the Chief Constable. Officers end calls and sign off keyboards.
Naylor notices Campbell do a quick eyeball of the biscuit tin, which Rose has only moments before refilled with shortbread fingers.
‘OK, so I regret to say we’re having an immediate change of priorities.
’ There’s an undertone of a groan around the room. Naylor and Hagen’s eyes meet. Campbell’s upbeat attitude suggests an increase in workload, and has all the hallmarks of a paid-overtime authorisation. ‘In the absence of solid leads on the Ferrers case, the CC has asked for a diversion of resources – temporary only, I’m pleased to say – on to the Foxley Wood Road shooting. It’s a high-priority case as we all know, and we’re looking for a quick result. There’s an immediate cancellation of all non-essential leave and authorisation for paid overtime, so if you want to bank some cash for Christmas, now’s your chance.’
Ian Austin – a recently married DC – is scowling.
‘What about my holiday, Sir?’ he asks. ‘I’m booked to fly in two days’ time, and my missus will start divorce proceedings if I can’t go.’
‘She’d be doing that anyway, if she’d any sense,’ chips in Dallabrida.
‘You’d better go,’ says Campbell, and Austin grins. ‘We don’t need any more blood spilled on our patch, do we?’
It’s one of Campbell’s favourite gags, and they all dutifully smile.
‘What about the leads we have got on the Ferrers case, Sir?’ asks Hagen. ‘Can we keep someone going on those? I don’t think we should just drop everything. We’ve got Evan booked in for another interview this afternoon.’
‘That should go ahead, of course,’ says Campbell. ‘Naylor, you handle that with Rose.’ He looks around the room. ‘Anyone got anything else? If so, pass it on to Hagen. Bradley, you run with the loose ends for a couple of days, and if there’s nothing new, we’ll have to wind it down, at least for the time being.’
‘And what if we get anything new from Evan?’ asks Naylor. ‘If we finally get him to open up?’
‘That would put a different face on it, of course,’ says Campbell. ‘But if he still won’t talk and we’ve nothing solid by the end of the week, we’ve other high-priority cases we need to focus on. We all know how it is. Resources are tight.’
Naylor and Rose are attempting a different line with Evan – no recording equipment, no photographs – trying to make the interview feel like a casual conversation between three people who would never in the normal run of things find themselves in the same room. The way Evan’s sitting on his hands gives him a peculiar bashfulness more suited to a child half his age, and his rounded shoulders make him look as if he’s cowering, which inside he most likely is. Naylor’s feeling guilty for making him be here. She and Rose both know emotionally he’s not fit, and without Campbell’s insistence, they’d have left him sleeping in the safety of his bedroom.
Naylor begins with an apology.
‘We’re sorry to drag you in again, Evan. I know you don’t want to be here. But the fact is, with your type of case, I’m afraid there’s a very good chance that the men who took you will target other boys. We want to stop that happening, but to do that, we really need your help. Will you help us, Evan?’
Evan lifts his eyes, and Naylor sees in them his distress tangled up with mistrust and panic as if he’s still a prisoner inside his own head. His lips are pressed together and his jaw’s determinedly set, and Naylor knows making him break his silence will be next to impossible.
‘Any little detail, Evan,’ she says. ‘Anything at all. Do you remember what colour the walls were painted?’
Silence.
‘Was there traffic outside? Could you hear cars? Were there curtains at the windows? What colour were they?’
Silence.
‘What did you have to eat? Did you have chips? Did anyone give you chocolate? What’s your favourite chocolate, anyway? I’ll tell you what, I love creme eggs. Can’t resist them. Every year I can’t wait for Christmas to be over so the creme eggs’ll be in the shops.’
‘My son,’ says Rose. ‘He loves Galaxy. If I buy any I have to hide it, or I don’t get any, not a single square. What about you, Evan?’
Silence.
Rose has a pad of paper in front of her, and a wallet of felt-tip pens in attractive colours. She pushes the paper and pens across the table.
‘Maybe you could draw us something, Evan. Something you remember from where you were, what the room looked like, something you could see, anything at all you can remember. You choose something and draw it for us.’
Silence.
Naylor’s running out of ideas. Under the table she touches Rose’s foot with her toe, hoping to prompt her into saying more.
But Rose is biding her time and doesn’t react. The silence grows long, and as it lengthens, it absorbs the pressure they’re all feeling and becomes more comfortable. Then Evan reaches out, draws the paper towards him and, opening up the wallet, chooses a pen with bright red ink.
Uncapping the pen, he positions the tip in the top left-hand corner of the paper and, forming the biggest letters the sheet will hold, slowly and deliberately writes a single word: NO.
He seems somehow pleased with it. Turning the page, he writes it again: NO.
The third time he writes it, he scribbles an underline, pressing so hard with the pen, he rips the paper.
NO NO NO.
Naylor stares at the torn paper and thinks what Rose asked him to do, to draw something he remembers.
‘I think that’s enough for today, sweetheart,’ says Rose quietly.
Naylor’s only too happy to agree. The guilt she was feeling has trebled, and she knows she’s let Evan down. On his behalf, she should have stood up to Campbell, and never allowed this interview to take place.
NINETEEN
10 August
Claire pours the last of the Chablis into her glass. On the TV, someone on EastEnders is shouting at someone else, and it occurs to her she’s no idea who these characters are. It isn’t that she’s lost track of the plot, more that she’s never cared, and all it’s ever been – for weeks and months – is background noise she took for company. But shouting isn’t company, and even after a glass or two of wine, she’s switched on enough to realise that people shouting isn’t what Evan needs to hear, even at the remove of his bedroom. She has a thought, that maybe it would be nice to watch something together – something funny, or David Attenborough, or he used to enjoy Top Gear.
She goes to the foot of the stairs. Upstairs is silent and the landing is dark, so she switches on the light; if Evan needs the bathroom, she doesn’t want him to open his door on to darkness. She thinks of calling up to him, of trying to persuade him to come down, but she knows he’ll be reluctant. What, in any case, is the point? Maybe he’ll come and sit with her, but he won’t speak. He’s living inside his head, hiding from them all, coming down for food and leaving when he’s eaten. On good days, he touches her shoulder as he goes – maybe as a thank you – before heading back upstairs to shut himself away.
Has she had one glass or two? Did she open the bottle this evening as she was making Evan’s tea or was it already open in the fridge? She takes a sip. The wine is unpleasant – sour and warmed to room temperature. Maybe a couple of ice cubes will make it more drinkable.
She wanders to the kitchen. Behind her, the distinctive music over the final credits begins, so it must be 8.30 p.m. Can that be right? So why is Matt not home? The kitchen clock confirms the time, and Claire is suddenly worried. The memory of the night that Evan went missing comes back to her: the slow sinking in of the undeniable truth, the hopeless wait for the ending of anxiety, the dark cloud of despair as reality was faced. Maybe Matt’s been in an accident. Should she be ringing hospitals? She takes ice cubes from the freezer and drops them in her drink. Of course he’s fine. There’ll have been some hold-up on the roads. If he’s passing Sainsbury’s, he could pick up a bottle of wine. And a ready meal from their chiller cabinets, or he could bring a takeaway. They haven’t had Chinese in ages. He could call in there.
But what if . . .? Does history repeat itself? Does lightning strike twice? Of course it does, every day. She dials
his number, but his phone is busy, and though he’s got call waiting, he doesn’t take her call. In the next ten minutes, she tries twice more. Matt’s number is still engaged.
Twenty minutes later he walks in the door, and it’s as if he’s read her mind. He’s carrying a bottle of white wine, and a carrier bag from the Golden Wok.
Now he’s safely home, she doesn’t care enough about his lateness to nag, but what else is there to say?
‘You’re late.’
He puts his lips on her cheek, but holds his body away from her, seeming reluctant to be touched.
‘Traffic,’ he says. ‘Nightmare.’ He holds up the bag of takeaway. The smell is savoury, garlicky and good, and her stomach rumbles. ‘I thought you wouldn’t have eaten.’ He puts the bottle in her hand, and she feels a flash of anger, that he thinks she can be appeased with such a humble prize. But he’s right, she can be, and she is. ‘Singapore noodles, king prawns with ginger and spring onions and veggie spring rolls. You go and sit. I’ll bring it through.’
They eat in silence, letting Channel 4 do the talking, one of those social issues documentaries that Matt enjoys. Claire doesn’t give a damn what’s on; the food’s tasty, and when she’s finished her wine, another bottle’s waiting. She may not drink more anyway. Half the comfort lies in knowing that if she wanted to, she could.
She takes a swallow and feels its acidity running down her gullet, and moments later there’s the little top-up to her alcoholic buzz. Too late, she regrets it, because she realises it’s the mouthful that’s going to make her say something unpredictable, so unpredictable even she has no idea what it’s going to be.
‘Matt.’ His attention broken, he looks across at her, and she realises he wasn’t focused on the TV at all. The presenter rattles on, and Matt’s not glancing back at him. Wherever his mind was, it wasn’t with Channel 4. ‘Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?’
She’s as surprised at the question as he is, and taken aback by her sudden knowledge that of course something’s going on. If she wasn’t living in a befuddled daze every evening, they’d have had this conversation long ago. All she’s done with her comfort drinking is make it easy for him to take his comfort elsewhere.
