Found

by Erin Kinsley

  ‘He can’t be outside, surely?’ he asks. ‘It’s pouring out there.’

  Evan is sitting at the kitchen table, an empty milk glass and a plate with a few cake crumbs by his elbow, engrossed in a Manga version of The Count of Monte Cristo he found at the library.

  ‘Evan, do you know where Grandpa is? He and I need to get going. The registry office closes at four.’

  Evan looks up from his reading and around the kitchen, as if surprised Jack isn’t there. He shrugs, closes his book and leaves the kitchen to go upstairs.

  The door to the bedroom Jack shared with Dora for forty-three years is closed. Evan taps on it, and pushes it gently open. The bed is neatly made, but Jack isn’t there. Evan checks the bathroom, but there’s no one there either. He goes back downstairs.

  ‘No sign?’ asks Matt, and Evan shakes his head. ‘Any idea where he might be?’

  In reply, Evan takes a waterproof coat down from the rack and slips on his wellingtons.

  Outside, the rain’s what Grandpa calls stair-rods, hammering down from dark clouds where thunder rumbles, bouncing off the yard and running in rivulets down the lane. A muddy puddle has already formed under the gate to the home field. The air smells of lightning’s sulphur and dank earth, and of the yellow leaves fallen from the hawthorn trees decaying in the grass.

  His vision hampered by the huge hood on his jacket, Evan makes his way to the field gate, pulls back the latch and slips through the smallest opening he can, checking the gate is properly shut behind him as Grandpa has taught him. Hearing the click of the latch, a few sheep raise their heads from grazing and gaze at him, indifferent to his presence and to the rain, though most are pressed together in the shelter of the wall.

  The field slopes upwards, and it’s towards the top end Evan’s heading, head down against the rain and the blasts of wind that have carried it in, towards one of the twisted hawthorn trees, and three stones set in the wall to form a stile.

  Jack’s there, sitting on the second step of the stile in only his shirt-sleeves, facing the view he frequently tells Evan is the best in all England, of the undulating dales and distant farmsteads, of sky that goes on forever. This is the place, he’s told Evan, where he asked Grandma to marry him, and this is the place he’s chosen to come when his grief is too much to bear.

  When Evan reaches him, the view is obscured. The valleys are hidden by mist and rain, and the sky’s oppressive with the burgeoning clouds. Jack’s face is wet from the rain dripping from his hair, but his eyes are red, and Evan knows some of the wetness is from tears.

  He says nothing, but taps Jack’s feet so he’ll move them along the stile’s bottom step and give him a place to sit. Wondering how he can offer comfort, he reaches for his grandfather’s hand.

  For a while they sit in silence in the rain, Evan watching how shiny the water makes the spots of lichen on the wall, Jack looking into the distance for hope he can’t see.

  Eventually Jack says, ‘I suppose your dad’s looking for me,’ and Evan nods.

  ‘I’m being silly,’ says Jack. ‘We have to go and record your grandma’s death, make it official. But I have the feeling that until that’s done, she might come back. Once they’ve put it in their book, there’s no denying it. Dora Violet Ferrers, née Hodgson, will be no more.’

  They sit a few minutes longer, and as Evan feels the truth of this sinking in, he squeezes Jack’s hand tighter.

  ‘I expect you’ll stay at home, shall you, and look after your mum?’ asks Jack, and Evan nods. ‘Maybe your dad and I could find something good to eat in town, cheer us all up. How about some eclairs?’

  Evan shakes his head. ‘Eccles cakes.’

  ‘Eccles cakes it is.’ With his free hand, Jack wipes the water from his face, and climbs down from the stile. ‘I shall catch my death of cold, being out here underdressed. That’s what your grandma would say, isn’t it?’

  Evan doesn’t answer, but as they walk together back across the field, he keeps his grandpa’s hand in his, trying through his fingers to send Jack as much of his own body warmth as he can, anxious Jack shouldn’t catch his death of cold.

  The loss of two dear people would be too much to bear.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  22 October

  In the churchyard, the late days of autumn have robbed the trees, stripping the bronze from the horse chestnuts, the gold from the sycamores and beech. In the tower of the ancient stone church a single bell begins to toll, as Dora’s coffin is carried between the crooked headstones towards the studded oak door.

  The church is full. Every available seat on the polished black pews is occupied, and there are mourners standing under the medieval stained-glass windows with their scenes of saints’ blessings and the rising of the dead. Jack, Matt, Claire and Evan take their reserved places at the front and the first hymn begins, the wheezy old organ always a few notes ahead of the congregation.

  As the congregation sits, the vicar ascends to the pulpit and talks about Dora, about where she was born, about her sisters and her schooldays, about how all those years ago she and Jack met and fell in love. There’s another hymn – ‘I Vow to Thee My Country’, because Dora loved the tune – and then Matt’s called to read his mother’s eulogy. He looks handsome and smart in his black suit, and as he walks straight-backed and solemn to the pulpit steps, Jack thinks how proud of him Dora would be.

  In the end it’s not the vicar’s reminiscences which fell Jack’s resolve not to make a fool of himself, but the realisation that his Dora’s lying there in a box, unable to see or hear her son at her side. He pulls a white handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket.

  Matt’s hands are trembling, and as he begins to read his speech, his voice is breaking. Somehow the words come out, telling of an idyllic childhood, of help with homework and picnics by the sea and of his gratitude for all the years of diligent care.

  Then he speaks of sponge cakes and splendid roses, and the one thing that defined Dora beyond all else.

  ‘Without any doubt,’ he says, ‘my mother was the kindest woman who ever walked this earth.’

  And Jack weeps.

  Misery loves company. With Dora gone, the misery is more Jack’s than Evan’s, but Evan’s preference for silence suits Jack’s grief while his presence and need for care prevent Jack from sliding from shock and despair into suicidal depression.

  In fact Evan has been a godsend, dealing capably with most of the mundane tasks relating to the farm, prodding Jack into action when he can’t cope by himself to shift bales and sacks of feed. The season’s growing cold, and overnight frosts have already glazed the puddles on the yard, transforming the meadows to silvery white. It won’t be long before the first snowfall, and Christmas will soon be looming, when Jack knows Dora’s loss will be even harder to bear.

  Evan’s got a new interest. After meeting Jack’s distant neighbour, Helen Trewitt, he’s been with Claire to visit her hives, and now spends a good part of his evenings reading books on keeping bees. Come spring, Jack’s promised to think about getting a hive to see how Evan gets on.

  But spring’s many weeks away. In the long evenings, while Evan reads, Jack sits, sipping whisky until he slips into a doze. When Evan’s bored of reading, he turns on the TV, watching cheerful vintage sitcoms and wildlife documentaries, marvelling at the wonders of the animal kingdom in places he’s no wish ever to go.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  8 December

  ‘’Ere, Rachel!’ Dallabrida’s left his side of the office where he’s been holding court with a handful of his mates, and he’s heading for the exit via Naylor’s desk. ‘I bet you look good in sequins! What you wearing for this do?’

  Naylor doesn’t look away from her monitor, where she’s perusing a list of assaults, trying to make a connection in a trio of rapes. There’s a small tinsel Christmas tree on the counter near the coffee machine and glittery foil decorati
ons have been draped round the walls, but with the kind of crimes the team are investigating, the festive spirit seems both irrelevant and lacking.

  ‘Haven’t given it a moment’s thought,’ she says, though that isn’t true. On her last day off, she took herself shopping to buy a new dress for the occasion, a clinging red stunner featuring – as it happens – a lot of sequins. It was a momentary aberration, way out of her comfort zone, and she’s thinking about returning it and finding something more decorous. Anyway, she hates the office party – this year, dinner and a DJ at an Italian eatery – and she’s thinking she’ll be leaving as soon as coffee’s served.

  ‘I’ll be there in me best bib and tucker,’ says Dallabrida. He’s standing close to her and she can smell that Gucci aftershave, a scent she’s beginning to think she rather likes. ‘Play your cards right, I might even buy you a drink. You’re a champagne lady, I bet.’

  Naylor looks up at him. It’s true what they say. He does have beautiful eyes.

  ‘A glass of Chablis will do me,’ she says. ‘And what do you mean, bib and tucker? Sounds like a pair of overalls.’

  Dallabrida laughs. ‘Me, in overalls? That’ll be the day! Nah, I’ll be in me tuxedo and cummerbund, the works! You won’t recognise me, girl, I tell you, you won’t know me! So come on, are there going to be sequins, or what?’

  Naylor smiles.

  ‘If I answer that, it takes away the element of surprise,’ she says, ‘and you know your best friend in this line of work is the element of surprise.’

  Dallabrida laughs again.

  ‘You crack me up, you do. Anyway, I can’t stand round here all day nattering, even if I might like to. Some of us got work to do.’

  And with a wave, he’s gone.

  Though she doesn’t expect it, he’s rattled her concentration. For some reason she now thinks she should make an effort, maybe get her nails done and book a blow-dry.

  She’s taking out her phone to make the call when it rings. Ron Perdue.

  ‘Hi, Ron,’ she says. ‘How’s tricks?’

  ‘Not so bad. Me and June were just indulging in that favourite pastime of the idle retired, watching the lunchtime news.’

  ‘All right for some.’

  ‘I don’t know why we bother. It’s nothing but misfortune and corrupt politicians lying through their teeth, as always. But there’s just been an item on there I think you should know about. How’s the Ferrers case going?’

  Naylor sits up in her chair.

  ‘Stalled. Why?’

  ‘Well, I’m ringing you because it’s a long way off your patch, and I think it’ll take a while before anyone makes a connection, if there is one. And it may not be connected, but it struck me there were some distinct similarities and that you could do with jumping on it while it’s red-hot.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Ron? What’s going on?’

  ‘Looks like the same MO to me, similar age, a bus stop not far from a school. Better get Googling, Naylor, Middlewich, Cheshire. There’s been another snatch.’

  Déjà vu, again. Though it’s still weeks away, on the Ferrerses’ cul-de-sac Christmas appears to be in full swing, with sparkling trees in every window and the house-fronts festooned with LED lights and cheery Santas, waiting to be lit up when dusk falls. Even the Ferrers house seems to be in on the mood, with a wreath of holly and silver ribbon hanging on the door.

  Major progress from last year, thinks Naylor. Christmas last year, they were looking at a life of never seeing Evan again.

  Hagen knocks at the door, and it’s opened promptly by Claire – a different Claire again, still on her way up but definitely getting there: hair nicely cut, better clothes. She smiles uncertainly when she sees them on the doorstep.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Ferrers,’ says Hagen. ‘I’m sure you remember us, DS Hagen, DI Naylor.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Claire. ‘Come in.’

  Naylor’s pleased to see the house looking better, too. There’s the smell of winter spices – cinnamon and cloves – from a reed diffuser, and the place looks clean and cared for, like it did the first night they arrived. That seems a long time ago.

  Claire offers them coffee, which she and Hagen accept. While the kettle’s boiling, Naylor feels the need to apologise.

  ‘I know it’s been a while,’ she says. ‘We’ve no excuse to offer really, except the trail went cold and we’d nowhere else to go. And with the pressure of other work . . .’

  ‘I understand that,’ says Claire, spooning coffee into her smart white mugs. ‘Of course I know budgets are tight. But those men who took Evan are dangerous, and they’re a risk to everyone until they’re caught. Aren’t they?’

  Hagen looks at his shoes and clears his throat.

  ‘Yes, they are,’ he says. ‘To be honest, that’s why we’re here. I don’t want to beat about the bush. Another young boy has been snatched.’

  Claire freezes with the spoon halfway between cup and coffee jar, her eyes wide with shock.

  ‘You’re kidding,’ she says. ‘Another boy’s gone? From Evan’s school?’

  ‘Sadly we’re very far from kidding,’ says Naylor. ‘But he’s not from this area. There’s been an incident in Cheshire. You may have seen it on the news. We’ve been in touch with Cheshire police and there are some distinct similarities, so we’re pretty sure the two cases are related. So we’re here to speak to Evan, to see if he can help us help this other boy. I don’t need to tell you how desperate his parents are feeling.’

  Coffee forgotten, Claire lays the spoon down on the counter. She shakes her head and covers her mouth with her hand.

  ‘My God, those poor, poor people. This is terrible. How awful. How can it have happened again?’

  Naylor and Hagen have no response. With no dedicated resources assigned to Evan’s case and no leads from Bobby Gillard – who has persisted with his no comment stance – a repeat of the offence was almost inevitable, though it’s in no one’s interests for them to say so. They need Claire to believe or be persuaded there’s a good chance now of a breakthrough, because without her co-operation, they’ll never gain Evan’s help. And Evan’s help is absolutely essential if the new victim is to be rescued alive.

  To that end, Hagen opens the leather folder he’s carrying and brings out a photo, a school-uniform pose of a boy in a blue blazer, dark hair freshly barbered, a grin over slightly crooked teeth giving an air of character and cheekiness.

  ‘This is him,’ says Hagen, and Claire’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Liam Keslake, aged eleven.’

  ‘Just like Evan,’ breathes Claire. ‘He looks so young.’

  ‘Just like Evan. On his own at a bus stop, there one moment, vanished the next.’

  ‘The thing is, Claire,’ says Naylor, ‘we’re really hoping this may be enough to persuade Evan to talk to us, to give us that statement. It’s been several months. How’s he been doing?’

  ‘Better,’ says Claire. ‘He’s been doing better, but he’s not right, he’s not normal. He acts like a boy half his age. He lives in his own world, and he’s content there, finding his way. If you go making him remember, how can it not set him back?’

  Claire’s right, of course, and Hagen and Naylor know it.

  ‘We have people who are specially trained,’ says Hagen. ‘They tread very carefully. They’d take it at a pace comfortable for him.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ says Claire. ‘You need information, and you need it as quickly as possible. If that means riding roughshod over Evan, I think that’s what you’ll do.’

  ‘Don’t you think Evan will want to help, when he knows what’s happened?’

  Claire shrugs.

  ‘You’d have to ask him that.’

  ‘Can we speak to him?’

  ‘He isn’t here.’

  This is a blow Naylor and Hagen aren’t expecting.
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br />   ‘Where is he?’ asks Hagen.

  ‘He’s staying with his grandfather, up in Yorkshire. He feels safe up there, and he’s company for my father-in-law. My mother-in-law died recently, and my father-in-law’s taken it hard. They suit each other pretty well, two damaged souls, shut away from the world. I’ve been up there a fair bit myself, so you’re lucky to find me here, to be honest. I come back for Matt’s sake. It’s hardly fair on him, is it, always coming home to an empty house? But to be frank I really wouldn’t be happy about you intruding on Evan, and I don’t think Matt would be either.’

  ‘Claire, I understand one hundred percent where you’re coming from,’ says Naylor. ‘And we can’t force you to do anything, we can’t force Evan to help. But we would really appreciate it if you’d talk it over with Matt, see what he thinks, and maybe talk to Evan. For Liam’s sake, for his family’s sake. You could be key in getting to him before too much damage is done.’

  ‘The damage is already done by now, though, isn’t it?’ says Claire. ‘Now it’s degrees of damage he might never come back from. Like Evan.’

  Naylor is on the point of telling the whole truth, of telling Claire something she hasn’t said before. Too much experience in cases of this kind suggests that when Evan was found, chances are he was hours away from a shallow grave, lost forever on wasteland or bleak moorland. The problem paedophile rings have with their victims is perpetual: children grow older and grow up, and no longer suit their abusers’ tastes.

  But Claire’s been through enough, and if she hasn’t thought of it herself, she doesn’t need to know.

  ‘Please, Claire,’ says Naylor, and she places a contact card on the counter. ‘Please talk to Matt, talk to Evan, and ring me. The sooner the better, if you don’t mind.’

  Back in the car, Hagen throws the folder on the back seat and starts the engine.

  ‘That could have gone better,’ he says.

  ‘You think so? It could have been a lot worse. She might have slammed the door in our faces, and I’d have understood that. We haven’t exactly been heroes in this case.’