Found

by Erin Kinsley

‘All right, mate,’ he says. ‘What can I getcha?’

  ‘Just a tea,’ says Ron. ‘Milk and one.’

  ‘Milk and sugar’s at the end of the counter.’

  As the man pours hot water on to a tea bag in a polystyrene cup, Ron fishes in his pocket for change.

  ‘You been doing this job long?’ he asks.

  ‘Couple of years.’

  ‘Little goldmine, this set-up, I should think, in a spot like this. Captive clientele. No McDonald’s or KFC to bother you.’

  ‘I do all right.’

  The man hands Ron his tea, and Ron gives him a two-pound coin.

  ‘Keep the change.’ At the end of the counter, he fishes out the tea bag and adds a splash of milk. As he’s tearing open a sachet of sugar, he says, ‘Actually, I was hoping to find a mate of mine I haven’t seen in a while. He used to work for Petersen’s down the road there, but looks like they’ve closed down or moved on.’ He points to Petersen’s old building. ‘You don’t know anyone who used to work there, do you?’

  The man shakes his head.

  ‘Nah, mate,’ he says, sitting down and picking up his newspaper. ‘Like I say, I’ve had this pitch a couple of years, and there’s never been anyone in that place while I’ve been here.’

  Ron stirs his tea.

  ‘You got a lid for this?’ he asks, and the man hands him one. ‘Looks like I’ll have to look for my mate elsewhere. Thanks for the tea.’

  Back in his car, Ron sips his brew and stares thoughtfully at what was once Petersen’s UK office. Seems Naylor’s hunch was right about those stones still lying in the mud. The pity is, she didn’t turn this one over sooner.

  ‘Let me show you how this works,’ says Jack, and he moves along the bonnet of the old Land Rover he uses for running the sheep so Evan can squeeze in beside him. The sun is hot, and Evan’s glad to be in the bonnet’s shade. ‘This is called a distributor cap, and these leads here are where the sparks come from to fire the engine. So when this old girl is running a bit rough, the first thing to try is to do what I’m doing here, and just tickle the ends up with a bit of sandpaper. If you had a matchbox in your pocket, you could use that. We just need to make the ends nice and shiny again, like this.’ He shows Evan what he’s doing, then hands the sandpaper to him so he can have a go. ‘Not too much elbow grease. Just enough to get them nice and clean. That’s it.’

  When all the points are done, Jack re-connects them and checks everything looks sound.

  ‘Right then. You jump in the driver’s seat, and when I shout, you fire her up.’

  Evan beams, and runs to get in. Jack follows, and leans inside to check that the Land Rover’s in neutral.

  ‘Wait till I give you the thumbs up,’ he says.

  Jack takes up his position under the bonnet, and when he gives the signal, Evan solemnly turns the key. The engine fires, running less roughly than it usually does.

  Jack gives another thumbs up and drops the bonnet down.

  ‘You’ve done a good job there,’ he says to Evan. ‘You’ll make a decent mechanic, one day. Shall we take her for a spin, make sure she’s OK?’

  Evan seems uncertain.

  ‘Go on, shift over,’ says Jack, and Evan clambers over the gearstick, into the passenger seat. ‘Let’s go and see what we can find.’

  Jack drives them down the pot-holed lane. As they pass over the stream, he stops, and from their respective windows they peer down into the water, looking for fish.

  ‘They’re hard to spot when the sun’s on the water,’ he says. ‘But we know they’re in there, don’t we?’

  He follows the lane in the direction of the village, but before they reach it, he takes a turn up an even narrower lane, where the frothy heads of cow parsley brush the Land Rover’s sides. Evan’s looking out over dry-stone walls into meadows alight with yellow buttercups, at doe-eyed cows swishing away flies as they chew the grass. In the corner of one field, there’s a ramshackle barn where rampant nettles are growing through the blades of an abandoned plough.

  They pass a sign announcing a village where Evan hasn’t been before, which turns out to be not much more than a well-kept green with a duck pond, surrounded by a scattering of grey stone houses and cottages. One of the cottages has been converted into a post office, and Jack parks outside.

  ‘This place here,’ he says, ‘is a bit off the beaten track, but it holds a closely guarded secret. This little place just happens to sell the best ice-cream in all England. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  He climbs out of the Land Rover. Evan doesn’t follow, so Jack walks round and opens his door.

  ‘Come on, lad. It’s just one old lady and a bad-tempered cat.’

  Reluctantly, Evan gets out, and follows Jack as far as the post office door.

  Inside, the woman behind the counter might be older than Jack, but she’s not dressing her age. Her hair’s tied in a ponytail reaching below her waist, and her clothes are sixties hippy: purple cords, big hoop earrings, a crocheted jacket in rainbow colours. She should look odd, eccentric, but somehow on her the style looks cool.

  ‘Afternoon, Mona,’ says Jack.

  Mona gives him a big smile.

  ‘Hello, stranger.’ Evan hears an American accent. ‘What blows you into town?’

  ‘The quest for some of your ice-cream. This young man is my grandson. Evan, Mona, Mona, Evan.’

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ says Mona.

  ‘We’ve just been doing some repairs on the old bus.’

  ‘What, more repairs? Buy something newer, Jack.’

  Jack shakes his head.

  ‘There’s plenty of mileage in her yet. But it’s been hot work, so I thought what better way to cool us down than a couple of scoops of your famous ice-cream. Come in, Evan, and choose what you’d like.’

  He holds out his hand to encourage Evan inside the shop, and Evan takes a tentative step in the direction of the freezer, where the tubs of ice-cream are on display.

  ‘All hand-made,’ says Mona. ‘All from our own herd, and all natural flavourings. What takes your fancy, Evan? Strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, rhubarb and ginger . . .’

  ‘That’s for me,’ says Jack. ‘A double scoop. Evan, what are you having?’

  Evan ventures a couple of steps closer, and peers down at the display. He points at the chocolate. When he doesn’t speak, Mona gives Jack a quizzical look.

  ‘He’s a man of few words, is Evan,’ says Jack, touching his grandson on the shoulder. ‘I expect he’d be wanting a Flake in that, if you have one.’

  As Mona and Jack talk – the vagaries of the parish council, vandalism of a phone booth, the upcoming agricultural show – Evan carries his ice-cream outside. It’s sweet and rich; the sunshine is warm and welcome. Intrigued by a mallard with ducklings on the pond, he wanders over there, and takes a seat on a waterside bench.

  Jack and Mona watch him through the post office window.

  ‘Poor, poor boy,’ says Mona. ‘I can’t imagine how you’re all coping.’

  ‘One day at a time,’ says Jack. ‘Like re-acclimatising a beaten dog. We’re trying to teach him not everyone is bad, lead him back to the view of the world he used to have.’

  ‘That’s a long road, after what he’s been through.’

  ‘It’s a very long road, and progress is slow. But he is making progress, and he’s our boy, so whatever it takes, we’re more than glad to do it.’

  At home that evening, Ron opens up the Google browser on his laptop and types in ‘Petersen’s Chelmsford’.

  There’s a website.

  He clicks on it, and a professional-looking page fills the screen, with a logo and the same strap-line he’s seen on the doorplate: Pneumatic Technology Solutions. There’s a picture of a wind farm and another of some kind of machined metal part whose use Ron couldn’t begin to g
uess, and a few lines about Petersen’s being established in Holland in the 1960s and now being at the forefront of wind-farm technologies.

  On the menu across the top are four buttons. Ron clicks on them, one by one. The Products page is empty. So is Current Projects. On the Gallery page, there’s a single line of text asking the reader to use the Contact page to view it. The Contact page appears to be live, though there’s no phone number, only a form to submit his own details.

  Thoughtfully, Ron considers. He opens a new page on his browser and makes another Google search: Petersen’s pneumatic.

  A very different website appears, the website of a major international organisation, fully loaded with lists of satisfied clients, pictures of smart office buildings and men in high-vis jackets supervising installations. The Products pages are many, filled with obscure and expensive precision-engineered parts. The Contact page has phone numbers, an email address, and social media buttons – Facebook, Twitter, a couple of platforms Ron’s never heard of – inviting clicks. The About Us page opens with the short paragraph Ron has seen on the other, somewhat truncated site, but goes on at considerably more length about government contracts and presence in other countries. There’s a list of Petersen’s worldwide offices. Chelmsford isn’t on it.

  June calls to him from the kitchen that dinner’s ready. Ron shuts down the browser and closes the laptop lid. But as they’re eating dinner, he tells June what he’s found, and as he’s telling her, she suggests what he’s already thought to himself: that he should try and get in touch with the creator of the dummy website via the Contact Us page.

  ‘Use a fake name,’ she says. ‘Set up a new email address, Yahoo or Hotmail, one of those junk kind.’

  But Ron’s reluctant, thinking he’s getting too involved.

  ‘Well, pass it on to Rachel, then, if you don’t want to do it,’ says June. ‘Then it’s official.’

  When the table’s cleared and the dishwasher’s loaded, Ron returns to his laptop and watches it power up. Opening a Google window, he re-loads the dummy website. It looks harmless enough, but why is it there? He clicks on Contact Us, and for a few minutes stares at the empty fields asking for his details. Resisting with difficulty the temptation to fill them in, he does the sensible thing, and dials Naylor’s number.

  Dora’s sleeping deeply, almost comatose from the opiates prescribed for her pain, but Jack’s wide awake in the dark, thinking over the future, trying to picture it without Dora, trying to persuade himself he can cope with her loss.

  When the shouting begins, it doesn’t trouble him; he knows how to deal with it. Climbing from the bed, he moves quietly to the bedroom door, feeling his way carefully in the dark, anxious not to disturb Dora or put any worry on her.

  The landing light is on. It’s always been left on since Evan arrived, for times such as this, in case light can be any help to him with his night terrors. They don’t come every night; sometimes days go by now without them suffering broken sleep. Claire has left medication for if it gets too bad, but Jack has his own method which everyone prefers to the drugs – especially Evan, who hates the morning-after feeling from the tablets, the spaced-out weirdness and tiredness which lasts all day and (far worse) reminds him of that place.

  Outside Evan’s door, Jack listens. There’s momentary quiet, and it’s possible the nightmare’s passed and Evan’s fallen back into dreamless sleep. If there’s a chance he might be sleeping peacefully, Jack doesn’t want to disturb him. But listening with an ear pressed to the door, he can hear mumbling, a low, disturbing murmur of no no no no no, the soundtrack of some terrible memory his grandson shouldn’t have. Jack’s heard it many times before but still it gives him chills. The mumbling subsides, and there’s a silence; then a shout which makes him jump, and he knows it’s time to act before the yelling starts in earnest.

  He and Evan have a pact: no barricaded doors by night. Jack won the battle for access by arguing the house’s age and the dangers of fire. Turning the handle cautiously, he opens the door a crack. Startling Evan is to be avoided at all costs. In the early days, Matt made this mistake, and Evan flew at him and punched him in the face.

  He opens the door further. Evan is subsiding back into mumbling, and this is a good time to begin. Slipping through the door, Jack grabs the book he needs from the nightstand, sits down in the chair and by the light from the landing, begins to read aloud.

  ‘Biggles leaned out of the cockpit of his Vandal amphibian aeroplane, pushed up his goggles, and peered ahead anxiously.’

  ‘Grandpa?’ Evan’s voice is drowsy. Jack can see his eyes reflecting the light.

  ‘I’m here, son,’ says Jack. ‘It’s just you and me.’

  Evan’s eyes close, and Jack reads on, an entire paragraph before the import of what has happened hits him. In these dark watches of the night where time seems suspended, the exchange was entirely natural.

  Evan spoke to him. Evan actually spoke to him. Jack’s lost his place on the page, and it takes him a few moments to find his last sentence and regain his rhythm. But then he reads on, page after page until Evan’s breathing is even and Jack’s certain he’s immersed in peaceful sleep.

  Back in his own room, Dora hasn’t stirred. His side of the bed is cold, and he presses up against her, trying to push away the thought that she won’t always be there.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  22 August

  As Hagen enters the office the next morning, his earphones are in, so he doesn’t hear Naylor call his name. He’s wanting to hear the end of the track he’s listening to, and by the time it’s finished and the earphones are out, Naylor’s standing right next to him.

  ‘Morning,’ says Naylor, and Hagen jumps. ‘Anyone could whack you over the head and rob you when you’ve got those things in. Doesn’t it worry you, when you’re walking down the street, that you’re a target?’

  Hagen grins.

  ‘I don’t do much walking,’ he says. ‘Everywhere I go, I dance.’

  Naylor narrows her eyes.

  ‘You’re in a very good mood,’ she says. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I met the girl of my dreams,’ says Hagen. ‘Well, she was last night, anyway.’

  ‘Forget her for now,’ says Naylor. ‘I’ve got a job for you, a nice little desk job. Come and look at this.’

  Hagen follows her to her desk, where she pulls up the Petersen’s dummy website on her monitor. She had a good look at it last night following her phone conversation with Ron, but if she’s going to try and reel anyone in, she wants to do it from an official computer.

  ‘Brian Birch, last official owner of our red Ford Focus and alleged employee of Petersen’s pneumatics.’ She clicks on a couple of the menu buttons. ‘See? Next to nothing there. To be honest, I’m not optimistic this will take us anywhere. Chances are all Brian Birch is guilty of is deceiving his wife, for reasons which will likely turn out to be entirely personal. If he’s lost his job and daren’t tell her, he won’t be the first or the last. But I want you to have a good look at him. No stone unturned.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to Ron.’

  ‘Here’s your starter for ten, address and mobile number.’ She gives him a piece of paper. ‘See if he’s got any form, anything at all. If there are parking tickets, I want to know where they were issued. Bank statements, definitely have a look at those. His wife thinks he works somewhere he doesn’t, so I’m interested in sources of income. Put in a request for credit card info as well, and phone records. Social media maybe, though he may not be the Facebook type.’

  ‘With respect,’ says Hagen, ‘I’m happy to do all that, but isn’t this one for the white-collar guys?’

  ‘It would be if they had any resources, but they’re more strapped than we are. So roll your sleeves up and see what you can find.’

  ‘What about the website? Should I try and make contact?’

  Thinking o
f entrapment protocols, Naylor hesitates.

  ‘Yes, why not? But don’t use anything official, not yet. Campbell says I’m supposed to be leaving this alone, so I can’t authorise it, but you’ve probably got all kinds of random email addresses you could use. Or if you haven’t, set one up. Use your imagination. And for God’s sake leave the earphones out. I’m starting to think you’re antisocial.’

  Hagen spends a few minutes setting up a new Yahoo email address, picking a jokey username, verifying it via his mobile, setting up an email notification on his phone. Opening the Contact page on the fake website, he tries to come up with a name halfway between believable and dubious, the kind any bloke might pick to register on a porn site. He comes up with Mick Rutter and keys it in below the new email address. When he comes to the ‘Message’ field he’s stuck, and settles on I’m interested in your products and price list.

  Suitably generic, he thinks, and presses Send.

  Ron has got the bit between his teeth. Naylor’s given him the remaining two addresses the DVLA supplied as previous owners of the Ford Focus, and the first is an address in Sevenoaks where traffic’s terrible and there’s nowhere to park. Figuring people are out at work, Ron takes a risk on blocking a driveway, and still has a three-minute walk to where he needs to go.

  The address is an old Edwardian house, long ago converted into flats. There’s a scrubby garden out front where what was once a lawn is now overgrown with weeds, and a For Sale sign which looks like it might have been there quite a while. The curtains at the ground-floor windows are floaty, orange and drawn, which immediately makes Ron think it’s occupied by someone with some kind of habit.

  The intercom at the door has a dent in it as if someone might have gone at it with a claw-hammer. There are buzzers for five flats, but only three of them have names, and none of them is the name he wants: Jennifer Lambert.

  He presses one of the buzzers anyway, and waits. There’s no answer, so he tries a second.

  There’s crackling, and a voice that sounds very far away says, ‘Yes?’

  It’s hard to tell if it’s a man or a woman.