by Erin Kinsley
Matt smiles.
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
‘I just think it’s time we pointed the Ferrers family ship back in the direction of normal. You and me, at least. Especially me. Even if Evan can’t join us for the time being, I want there to be a home for him to come back to when he’s ready. There was a moment when I was watching EastEnders and there was a punch-up, all the usual shouting and violence, and it was like I could see myself from above, lying on the sofa, half-drunk in my don’t-care clothes with my don’t-care hair, just a mess. And I thought, the old me would never have done this, drinking from tea-time, watching soaps until I fell into a coma. The old me was busy and sociable and involved, and I thought how could I expect to find the old Evan when he’d come home to new me all raddled and slovenly and sprawled on the sofa? What right did I have to expect him to recover if I haven’t put a foot on that road myself? I want to set an example. None of us can be the same, I know that, but I want to be someone he wants to spend time with, someone who looks strong and together and capable. Someone who looks and acts like the mum he remembers, not this sad thing I am now.’
He feels the tightness in his throat which presages tears, a feeling with which he’s become far too familiar. Leaning forward, he puts his arm round Claire’s shoulder, where he finds more bones than there used to be. While he’s been growing portly on his on-the-road diet, she’s been getting skinny on Chablis and Pinot Noir.
She leans into him in a way she hasn’t since he doesn’t know when, and hides her face in his shirt, in his end-of-the-day smell of stale aftershave and sweat.
‘I can’t say I’m not struggling,’ she says. ‘I’d kill for a glass of white.’
‘Three days,’ he says. ‘I’m proud of you.’
‘I made myself a chart,’ she says. ‘Look.’ Standing up, she opens a cupboard door, where there’s a ragged piece of paper stuck up with Sellotape, two columns with the days of the week and next to two of them, a tick. ‘I’ll get my third tick at bedtime.’
‘That’s my girl,’ he says.
‘It’s hard. But every time I think about heading for the fridge, I think how much harder it’s been for Evan. Infinitely, immeasurably harder. I should have stopped the minute he came home. I don’t know why I didn’t.’
‘Because you weren’t ready,’ says Matt. ‘But if you’re ready now, I’m really, really pleased.’
He squeezes her shoulder and gives her a peck on the cheek. They continue to eat, and Matt feels the beginning of a lightness in his heart he hasn’t felt in too long.
‘He seemed better at the farm,’ he says. ‘Not happy, but more relaxed. Did you mind me leaving him there?’
‘I’m worried about him, but it’s not about me. Not if it’s better for him. Why do you think he’s more relaxed there?’
Matt shrugs.
‘The wide open spaces, maybe. He can see there’s no one coming to get him. I get the impression he daren’t go outside here, and who can blame him? In the middle of a field, there’s no threat.’
‘We should have thought of that.’
‘Maybe. But if he won’t talk to us, there’s no knowing what he’s thinking. Don’t be so hard on yourself. There’s no textbook or manual for this situation. We’re all just groping in the dark.’
‘I’ll come with you to fetch him back,’ says Claire. ‘Or maybe I could pick him up.’
When their plates are empty, Matt stands to carry them to the sink. He has his back to her when Claire says, ‘Matt.’
He senses by the hesitation in her voice, by the softness of her tone – as if she’s reached out for his hand, though it’s been a long time since she’s done that – that something’s coming, something he realises in that moment he’s been expecting. He wants to look at her, to judge from her expression what she’s thinking, but he’s afraid his own face might give something away. Better keep it light, non-committal.
‘That’s me.’
‘There’s something else I want to say. I feel I’ve already lost my son, for the time being at least, and I’d be devastated if I lost you, too. I’m not losing you, am I?’
He turns on the hot tap, and doesn’t look round as he rinses the plates, so she doesn’t see the slight blush colouring his cheeks. He thinks of Dora’s words, her insistence that he and Claire should work things out. When he turns to her, he’s smiling.
‘Of course not. Why would you think that? We’re a team, you and me, always have been.’
She’s watching him earnestly, and her eyes are travelling over his face, reading his features for clues, figuring out if he’s telling the truth.
He keeps his eyes steady and maintains the smile, then shuts it down in case it’s gone on too long, not sure he’s prepared for the scrutiny of this newly sober Claire.
‘What do you think,’ he says, ‘that after all this, I’d give up on us? You know me better than that, don’t you? Didn’t you mention pudding? I’m ready for something sweet. How about cutting us a piece of that chocolate tart?’
TWENTY-FOUR
16 August
‘Look what I’ve got.’
Evan’s on the sofa next to Dora, helping her with word-search puzzles. He’s sitting very close but not quite touching her, his knees drawn up and wrapped round with his arms as he used to do when a very small boy. Dora is holding back, letting Evan do most of the work. When he finds a word, she hands him the pen to draw a line through it, and when he’s drawn his line, he hands the pen back.
Jack’s holding a fishing net on a bamboo pole, and a large pickle jar.
‘Well,’ says Dora, ‘where on earth did you find those?’
‘In your shed. There’s treasure beyond measure in there.’
‘I should have a clear-out, shouldn’t I?’
‘I’m glad you haven’t. It’s been too long since I’ve been fishing, and you know what they say, you’re never too old to do the things you love. What do you say, Evan? Are you going to keep me company?’
Evan looks at Dora, as if he’s reluctant to leave her.
‘You go on, love,’ she says. ‘I’ll have a little nap. You can help me finish this one when you come back.’
The photo of Jack and young Evan with his jar of sticklebacks is still by the phone. As they walk by it, the picture they would make now would be very different. There are physical differences, of course – Evan isn’t smiling, and he’s getting closer to matching his grandfather’s height – but there’s a delightful simplicity in the photo which has been wiped away, smashed like a mallet taken to fine porcelain. It’s Jack’s hope that maybe something remains amongst the shards of what’s been broken, a pearl left undamaged, ready to be found.
As they walk down the track, Evan’s feet are hot in his wellingtons. Millie’s trotting at their heels, breaking away from time to time to sniff what she finds interesting in the verges. The day is warm again, the long grass and cow parsley growing against the grey-stoned walls ruffled by a breeze which blows Evan’s hair into his eyes.
Jack notices Evan’s hair is getting long as Evan pushes it back behind his ears, and it occurs to him that someone must have been cutting his hair while he was gone. Before he was taken, there were trips to the barber’s every four weeks, just Evan and Matt on Saturday mornings, Evan in the chair first while Matt read a magazine, then Evan given a comic while Matt took his turn. Who cut his hair when he was away from them? Was it a woman or a man? Was it done kindly and with care? Such a minor thing raises questions it’s not his place to ask, and he pushes the thought away, not truly wanting to know. What concerns them is Evan’s care now. He’ll ask Dora to find her scissors and have a go, if Evan will allow it.
There are crickets singing in the grass, and overhead a skylark’s risen, singing its heart out. Jack points up at it, and Evan follows his finger, straining to see the tiny spot in the sky.
&nb
sp; ‘See that? She’s a crafty bird. We’ve startled her and got too close to her nest, so now she’s creating a distraction. She’s over there, so you know the one place you won’t find her nest is directly below her. Over there, or over there maybe. But she’s drawing our attention from her little ones with that beautiful song, and here we are, looking and listening. That’s quite a trick Mother Nature gave her, isn’t it?’
At the bridge, the sun’s warm on their backs. The stream’s tumbling over pebbles, rippling the weeds rooted in the water, and tall trees cast shade over the banks, where the grass is lush and stippled with motley-coloured flowers. Where boulders have formed a calm pool a dragonfly hovers, its turquoise body wafting on diaphanous wings.
‘It’s a while since we’ve done this,’ says Jack. ‘Where do you think looks like a good spot?’
Evan makes for the pool. The sun on the water makes it hard to see, but somewhere under the surface there is movement.
Jack nods encouragement.
‘I think you’re right. That’s where I’d be starting. Mind you keep your shadow behind you. We don’t want to let them know we’re here.’
Evan slips the net into the water and slides it cautiously along the bottom. When he brings it up, as water dribbles back into the pool the mesh glitters, mimicking the wriggling of a fish.
But there’s nothing there.
‘Unlucky,’ says Jack. ‘Have another go.’
Evan tries again, and again, and again. Jack crouches beside him, peering into the water, as absorbed as Evan is in the task. The skylark has stopped singing. There’s just an old man, his grandson and the soothing babble of the stream.
A vehicle’s coming down the road, slowing as it draws close to the farm entrance. They hear the crunch of gravel under tyres and music on a radio before the engine is switched off. The music stops and a door slams.
A young man appears, wearing the shorts and red shirt of Post Office uniform. He’s bringing letters, but rather than slipping them into the old mailbox nailed to the gatepost, he wanders the few paces to join Evan and Jack.
‘Morning,’ he says cheerfully.
‘Morning, Ben,’ says Jack. ‘It’s a beautiful day. I don’t think you’ve met my grandson, Evan.’
Ben nods a hello.
‘It’s glorious,’ he says, ‘and too nice to be at work. I’d far rather be doing what you’re doing. Have you caught anything?’
‘Not yet,’ says Jack, ‘but we will.’
‘I used to love fishing,’ says Ben. ‘I should get my rods out, next time I have a day off.’
‘Not so easy to make time for it when there’s a baby in the house,’ says Jack. ‘How’s he doing, anyway?’
Ben grins.
‘He’s champion, absolutely champion. Except for all those nappies. I’m not so keen on them. Look, I reckon there’s one down there, under that rock.’
The three of them peer at the water, and Evan directs his net. When he brings it up, there’s a fish struggling in the bottom, the spines on its back stuck in the mesh.
Jack hands Evan the pickle jar, and Evan extricates the fish from the net. When it’s swimming in the jar, he holds it up for them all to see. And smiles.
‘Look at that, I brought you a bit of luck,’ says Ben. ‘You have to be careful with them, as I remember. They’re not called sticklebacks for nothing. Anyway, much as I should prefer to stay, I’d better get on.’
As Ben drives away, Evan places the pickle jar in the shade.
‘We’ve still got it,’ says Jack, all smiles. ‘We haven’t lost that old magic. He’s a lovely lad, Ben, a lovely lad.’
For a little while, Evan fishes in silence.
‘You know, people like Ben, they make you think, don’t they?’ says Jack, as if he’s been considering the matter. ‘You and I know too well there are bad people in this world – some very bad people – but I can look back from my great age, and if I think about it – really think about it – I can count the number of really bad people I’ve run across on the fingers of one hand. I’m not saying everyone’s perfect, because they’re not, and I’m not saying ordinary people don’t sometimes do things they shouldn’t be proud of. But people who are bad through and through – downright wrong ’uns who’d be better locked up with the key thrown away – the fact is, you don’t run across many of them at all. When you meet somebody new, the chances are astronomically higher they’ll be a cheerful sort like Ben. Now then, look down there. If you play your cards right I reckon you might get two together.’
There are roadworks on Oakland Way, and Naylor’s been stuck at the temporary traffic lights for almost fifteen minutes. Some idiot has set them up wrong, so the main flow of traffic from Byron Road is only getting seconds to pass through.
When her phone rings, she’s expecting a call from Hagen. She doesn’t even glance at the caller display before pushing ‘answer’ on the dashboard.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that DS Naylor?’ A woman’s voice, a voice she knows. ‘It’s Claire Ferrers.’
‘Claire! Hi, how are you?’ She wasn’t expecting this and doesn’t have her story ready. She hasn’t spoken to Claire or Matt in probably too long.
‘I’m OK.’
‘And how’s Evan?’
‘Evan’s away at the moment. He’s staying with his grandparents in Yorkshire. I think the peace and quiet does him good.’
‘I can see it would. You must miss him, though.’
‘I got used to missing him while he was gone. At least I know where he is.’ Is there a reproach in there? Naylor dismisses the thought as the product of her guilty conscience.
‘So, what can I do for you?’
‘I was just wondering, we haven’t heard from you in a while, and I was wondering . . . Well, you know. Whether there have been developments, whatever you call them. I’m sorry, developments sounds a bit Sherlock Holmes.’
There have been developments at Ashridge, but Naylor doesn’t want to tell Claire what they are – that they all relate to other cases, and the resources they piled into Evan’s case have been re-assigned elsewhere.
‘To be honest, there’s not much to report.’ That much, at least, is true. ‘I’ve been looking into leads from the car, and DS Hagen’s pursuing another line of enquiry relating to some photographs of known offenders Evan reviewed.’ But that was six weeks ago, she thinks. Since then we’ve done next to nothing on Evan’s case, thanks to staff shortages and Campbell’s ever-changing priorities.
‘Did he identify someone, then?’ asks Claire. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Not exactly,’ says Naylor. ‘We’re just playing hunches and making routine enquiries. No stone unturned.’
‘So nothing to report?’
‘I’m afraid not. But we only need one good lead, and the dominoes will fall. In the meantime, what do you think about us trying to talk to Evan again? Do you think there’s any chance?’
Claire sighs.
‘Not unless things have changed in the last couple of days. He’s still said barely a word.’
‘Do you want to have another go with the psychiatrist? Or I could ask Rose to get in touch, see if he’ll respond to her. She’s got a bit of a magic touch in difficult cases.’
‘Maybe,’ says Claire vaguely. ‘I was just thinking if there were any chance of arrests being made, Evan might feel better. If they weren’t still out there, he might begin to feel safe.’
‘That’s an excellent suggestion, if only we could deliver. Believe me, Claire, we’re doing our absolute best.’ The lights change again, and Naylor moves slowly forward. ‘As soon as we have anything, you’ll be the first to know. And let me know if you think Rose can help.’
Finally moving and heading home, Naylor thinks about Claire, about how different she is from the woman she first met, about the effect this crime ha
s had on the whole family. They need results so they can move on, and the constant reallocation of resources isn’t fair. How can there be results when they have no manpower?
A Tesco juggernaut pulls up two cars behind her at a roundabout, and Naylor looks at the driver in her rear-view mirror, wondering if she might see Lee Bryant at the wheel.
When she found Bryant in the interview room, she thought they were home and dry.
Something’s got to be done. Something which could cost her job if Campbell finds out.
To hell with it.
She reaches for the dashboard phone, and puts in a call to Ron.
Rain. Evan’s watching the storm from his bedroom window, counting the seconds between the flashes of forked lightning over Blackmire Ridge and the crashes of thunder which follow. Count slowly, Grandpa said. One thousand, two thousand . . . Each second is a mile in distance from the heart of the storm, which makes the storm very close indeed, right over the house, right over his bedroom. Grandma’s roses are taking a battering, and the oak trees in the copse on the opposite hillside, even they are bending in the wind.
The hills are becoming familiar. He likes to look out at them. At home, he doesn’t like looking out; there are too many people about, and he doesn’t want to be seen. But here, there’s nothing between him and the oak trees except the home field and the stream, and then just open, empty space. If he wanted to, he could take the chair away from his door, walk out of the house and into the landscape, and he could walk as far as those trees. No one would bother him. No one would stop him.
Evan feels something shifting in his shoulders and his back. The muscles are looser, more relaxed.
It’s true. No one would stop him. He can come and go as he pleases.
