Found

by Erin Kinsley

  Beyond the milestone, Claire makes the turn across the stream, on to the track up to the house, and Evan stirs, sits up and looks about him, as if he feels it’s safe to come back to life.

  Jack’s been dozing on the sofa, and the fire’s burned low. Rousing himself when he sees the headlights on the wall and hears the crunch of stones under tyres, he crosses to the hearth, chooses a couple of good-sized logs and drops them on the embers. The dry bark pops and crackles, and smoke begins to rise. He closes the curtains and, making his way into the kitchen, turns on the light.

  ‘We brought fish and chips, Grandpa!’

  Evan’s laying the paper-wrapped parcel on the table, and heading to the cupboard for plates.

  Jack smiles.

  ‘Did you now? And what kind of fish have you brought for yourself? Not those sausagey ones, I hope?’

  ‘Mum said I could have three.’

  ‘Well, your mother’s madly irresponsible.’

  He resists the strong urge to ask about how the day’s gone or make any reference to it at all, except for a slight raising of the eyebrows in Claire’s direction. She signals with a slight nod of the head, OK, but she’s marvelling at Evan, at how now he’s home – for this surely is his home, now – he’s a different child to the one he is in the outside world.

  Evan’s loading up the plates, pouring mushy peas on to his own.

  ‘I’m watching you,’ says Jack. ‘Don’t you be snaffling my chips!’

  They eat at the kitchen table, Evan dousing his food in vinegar and dipping his chips in ketchup.

  ‘You never used to like vinegar,’ says Claire.

  ‘It’s Grandpa’s fault,’ says Evan. ‘He puts vinegar on everything.’

  ‘Apple cider vinegar’s very good for you,’ says Jack. ‘And very good for livestock too, as I’ve shown you.’

  ‘Is Sarson’s made from apples, then?’ asks Claire. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Not Sarson’s, no,’ Jack admits. ‘Sarson’s is made of stronger stuff, to put hairs on your chest.’

  ‘I don’t think Mum wants hairs on her chest,’ says Evan.

  ‘I really don’t,’ Claire agrees.

  Jack winks at Evan, and adds a dash more vinegar to his plate.

  ‘I went shopping this afternoon,’ he says. ‘I bought you a present.’

  Evan’s eyes light up.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘When you’ve finished your tea, you can go in the parlour and have a look.’

  But Evan won’t wait; he jumps down from the table and runs to the lounge.

  In front of the window there’s a Christmas tree, of modest size, but scenting the room with pine, and on the floor in front of it, a box of decorations, another of lights.

  Jack and Claire hear him yelp his delight.

  ‘It’s just a few baubles,’ says Jack. ‘I didn’t feel inclined to be blundering about in the loft. Dora’s got quite a collection up there, as you know, but I thought we’d leave those till next year.’ Claire feels for him, respecting the rawness of his grief, the difficulties of the approaching season, and she’s relieved he hasn’t taken himself up into the attic with no one to help. ‘I’m afraid we’ll be busy this evening. I’m sorry, Claire. You must be tired.’

  ‘I really don’t mind,’ she says. ‘A little weariness I can cope with. But you look tired yourself. Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh, yes, don’t worry about me,’ Jack says. ‘I haven’t been sleeping so well, these last few nights. But now this business is behind us for today, maybe we can relax. Evan! Come back in here and finish your tea!’

  As they’re walking into the incident room, Hagen’s rallying the troops.

  ‘Gather round, people! We need to come up with an action plan fast!’

  The team don’t need asking twice. They’re keen to hear the news from Harrogate, whether there’s been any breakthrough after Evan’s interview.

  ‘Someone ring upstairs and tell Mr Campbell’s PA he might want to join us,’ says Hagen.

  As Dallabrida makes the call, Naylor dumps her handbag and phone on her desk, and finds pens for writing on the whiteboard.

  The team’s pulling up chairs, making seats out of desktops. In a couple of minutes Campbell comes hurrying in, and the loud chatter in the room becomes more stilted. Campbell perches on the corner of a table and folds his arms, trying to look relaxed. Dallabrida finds himself a seat near the front, and gives Naylor a wink as he sits down.

  ‘So,’ says Naylor, ‘good news and bad news. The very good news is, Rose did a first-class job in persuading Evan to finally speak to us.’ A murmur goes round the room. ‘Obviously he’s still in a fragile state, but to have anything at all from him is a major step forward. The less good news is that what he could give us was very limited. From the moment of the snatch he was given drugs – given how he says they made him feel, we’re guessing Diazepam or something of that nature to gain compliance – but that’s affected his memory and his perception of his surroundings. So what there is is minimal.’

  She uncaps a red whiteboard pen.

  ‘I’m afraid I won’t need much room to write down what we’ve got. He was kept mainly in one room, with very restricted access to a bathroom. All he knows about where he was is that it was on a high floor of some building, he thinks a block of flats. A room with a view, as it turns out, because on the few occasions he could look out, he could see a river with two bridges which we’re hoping might narrow it down.’

  ‘So you’ve no idea even what town he was in?’ asks Hagen.

  ‘Not so far, no,’ says Naylor. ‘So that’ll be Job One for someone – Brad, I’m looking at you – to come up with a list of towns that might fit the bill and print off some pictures of the bridges, see if he can identify which ones match his view.’

  ‘Does he know how far he was driven from where he was snatched?’ asks Campbell.

  ‘Not really,’ says Naylor. ‘A long way, he says, but anywhere would feel a long way in the boot of a car.’

  ‘Colour of car?’

  ‘Maybe light blue or silver.’

  ‘Make?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Direction of travel? North, south?’

  ‘Doesn’t know, except there was a long stretch of motorway.’

  ‘What about his abusers?’

  ‘Several men were regular visitors. We had him look at some photos but we got no hits. All white, one with red hair. He describes them all as old, but to a boy his age that could mean anything over twenty-five.’

  ‘So the redhead could be the one who was at the petrol station?’

  ‘Very likely.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘He says they used what sounded like code names, not their real names.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is, all we’ve got is a flat overlooking a river?’

  ‘And two bridges.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it for now. But we’re hoping now he’s not actively repressing it, there’ll be plenty more coming back to him.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  12 December

  Hagen’s booked a conference room for the meeting, and connected a laptop to a screen up front, projecting a blank Google search screen with several windows open behind it. Campbell, Hagen and Rose are already seated round the table, set for the long haul with coffee and biscuits, notepads and pens and an old-school Road Atlas of Britain Campbell’s fetched from his car.

  When Naylor arrives, she’s out of breath from hurrying, her hair damp from running through the rain.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I was talking to Cheshire. In a nutshell, they’ve nothing new to report and they’re desperate for us to come up with something from this. The press is all over them. The Sun’s running a piece on their Chief Constable’s alleged crazy
budgeting priorities. Apparently he authorised hundreds of thousands to be spent on a crack-down on speeding last year, and they’re questioning why that money wasn’t spent on catching paedophiles. Unfortunately for him, there might be a case to answer.’

  ‘Let’s get started then, shall we?’ says Campbell, leaning forward to take a biscuit. ‘Bradley, why don’t you kick off by showing us what you’ve found?’

  ‘Well,’ says Hagen, ‘all I did really was Google every way I could think of for twin bridges over rivers. I restricted it to UK cities and major towns because the high-rise view excludes everything else, on the principle you don’t get high-rises outside urban areas. Here, for example.’

  He clicks on the tab for one of the open windows. The screen fills with an attractive image of two bridges over a wide river.

  ‘This is the Tamar Bridge in Plymouth, alongside the Royal Albert rail bridge, running between Cornwall and Devon. I think we should rule this out for two reasons. First, the settlements with a view of the bridges are mostly full of private houses and in no way fit Evan’s description of the place he was held. No sign of high-rises anywhere. Also, if you look here, you can see a third stone-built bridge just up-river, so I think if this were the place, Evan would have mentioned three bridges, not two. And it’s not a conclusive point but Plymouth’s a heck of a way from Pontefract.’

  Campbell is nodding.

  ‘That’s not it. Are we all agreed? Let’s move on.’

  Hagen opens up another tab. The landscape on this photograph is more urban, and again shows two bridges running over a wide stretch of water.

  ‘Rochester in Kent, a road and a railway bridge crossing the Medway. You can see in this area here, there are blocks of flats which might fit the description.’

  ‘Kent,’ says Naylor. ‘It’s near London, and not too far from the abduction site. That’s a big tick for me.’

  ‘Those blocks of flats, though,’ says Rose. ‘They’re low-rise rather than high-rise. I got the impression from Evan he was on a really high floor.’

  ‘He didn’t really know, though, did he?’ Hagen puts in. ‘I say this one’s a possibility.’

  ‘I agree,’ says Campbell. ‘How many of these possibles are there, Bradley?’

  Hagen glances at his notes.

  ‘Seven in total, Sir. But I think good possibilities, maybe three or four.’

  ‘Carry on, then,’ Campbell says.

  There’s a lengthy discussion on Manchester, where two or even three sites look like possibilities.

  ‘Plus it’s not far from where Liam was taken,’ Hagen says.

  ‘That’s a daunting prospect,’ says Rose. ‘Just look at all those flats.’

  ‘Doesn’t that make it all the more probable?’ asks Naylor. ‘Sadly for us.’

  ‘It’s in,’ says Campbell. ‘We’ll make use of Greater Manchester intelligence. Next.’

  A new picture appears on the screen.

  ‘Sunderland,’ Hagen says. ‘Same set-up as Rochester, a road and a rail bridge running parallel. And plenty of high-rises to go at.’

  ‘Yep,’ says Campbell. ‘Next.’

  ‘Newcastle,’ says Hagen. ‘Same again. The good news is with this one, the bridge has that distinctive green arch, which Evan’s likely to remember.’

  ‘Got it,’ says Campbell. ‘Next.’

  ‘This is the last one,’ says Hagen. ‘Glasgow. I’ve put this one in as an aerial view, because to my mind it’s like London. There may be too many bridges. If you could see bridges, chances are you’d see more than two.’

  Naylor looks sceptical.

  ‘I’m not sure. If you were in those flats down the bottom there, you might only see one, but from those on the far bank, you’d see . . . It’s impossible to say without going there and taking in the view. I think it has to be in.’

  ‘So where does that leave us?’ Rose asks.

  ‘We’ve got five possibles,’ Hagen says. ‘Glasgow, Manchester, Sunderland, Newcastle and Rochester.’

  ‘I love the way you say Newcastle,’ Rose smiles. ‘Newcastle.’

  ‘There has to be a plan,’ Hagen says. ‘We don’t have the resources to go charging off to all points of the compass on the off-chance we’ll find the right room with the right view.’

  ‘Too right,’ says Campbell.

  ‘We have to narrow it down,’ Naylor says. ‘I think the only way to proceed is to print off a montage of all of these places from as many angles as we can find and run them by Evan. Even if he only rules a couple out, it’ll be something.’

  ‘Just pray he rules out Manchester and Glasgow,’ says Hagen, ‘though I have a horrible feeling those are the ones that he’ll leave in.’

  ‘God help us then,’ says Campbell.

  ‘I think I should go back up there and talk to him again,’ Rose says. ‘If I go armed with photos, there’s a good chance he might help us nail down a location. It’s a question of coaxing him to remember but without pressing him too hard.’

  ‘Any more you can get from him will be a bonus,’ says Naylor, ‘and a level of certainty on the location would be phenomenal. But I’m not sure we can rely on the quality of the pictures we’ve got here. No offence, Brad. They’re from the wrong angles, not at all how Evan would have seen the bridges. We need something better. Might it be worth contacting local councils, Chambers of Commerce, planners, rail operators, anyone we can think of, to see if they can help with publicity shots, stuff like that?’

  ‘Great idea,’ says Hagen. ‘Pity we haven’t got time to get people out there with drones. We need a portfolio for each place, with the bridges from every possible angle. Rachel, why don’t you and Rose take a town each, and maybe we can requisition someone to do another. I’ll do two since I had a head start.’

  ‘A vote of thanks is due to you, Bradley, for your hard work on this one so far,’ says Campbell. ‘And let’s make this our priority, so Rose has got something useful and solid to take with her by the time she has to leave.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  15 December

  A few days before Christmas. In the red light of the Christmas tree and the fire, Evan, Jack and Claire are watching a programme about bygone children’s television, a countdown of the most popular programmes from the last fifty years.

  Jack remembers most of them well, and Claire remembers many. For both of them, it’s enjoyable nostalgia, and Evan’s amused by the bright and imaginative characters he’s never met before, and incredulous at the sometimes poor quality of the animations and the occasional oddness of what passed in his mother and grandpa’s days as youthful entertainment.

  They pass through many well-remembered theme tunes – Andy Pandy, Captain Pugwash, Tales of the Riverbank, Noggin the Nog – until a piece of familiar, cheerful music fills the room.

  ‘Oh, I used to love this!’ says Claire. ‘Every tea-time, just before the news.’

  On the screen there’s a little girl puppet with a bow in her hair, and a shaggy-coated dog zipping about. Moments later, they’re joined by a purple-faced puppet on a spring, and a slow-moving rabbit whose eyes droop as if he’s been smoking dope.

  ‘The Magic Roundabout,’ the announcer is saying, ‘was one of the most popular children’s programmes ever to hit Britain’s screens. With its zany mix of loveable characters – including Dougal the dog and Florence, Mr Rusty the organ grinder, Brian the snail and jack-in-the-box Zebedee with his nightly sign-off – viewers were entertained . . .’

  Evan reaches out and touches his mother’s arm.

  Claire looks at him.

  ‘Evan? Are you OK?’

  His face appears frozen, as if he’s glimpsed something which has scared him very badly.

  ‘What is it, sweetheart?’

  Evan says nothing, but seems to have lost all interest in the TV. He picks up one of his bee books and
opens it on his knee, but Claire can tell he isn’t seeing the page.

  The programme runs on, and Evan never turns the page of his book, never jumps up to throw more logs on the fire.

  When the programme ends, Claire feigns a brightness she isn’t feeling.

  ‘Shall I make some hot chocolate?’ she asks, but Jack prefers his whisky and Evan shakes his head. ‘Well, I want some,’ she says, and goes to the kitchen, but as she’s finding a mug and milk, she hears the lounge door open, and a few moments later, the creak of the second stair from the top, as Evan retreats in silence to his room.

  FORTY

  17 December

  Claire manages a smile as Rose leads Evan away, back into the cocooned rooms of the Vulnerable Witness Suite, trying to find the he’ll be fine optimism she relied on in his early primary school days, not finding it in this non-parallel situation. Back then, there were other mums to call, plenty to occupy her mind. Now she sits down on the lime-green sofa and tries not to be resentful, not to think how, as Evan’s in here, other women’s children are preparing for Christmas, rehearsing school plays, shopping with friends. Living normal lives. She thinks back to the days when Evan was small, to the excitement of Christmas Eve, to hanging stockings and putting out reindeer food, the shrieks and laughter on opening presents, the delight he took in looking out of the window for Santa Claus.

  Times change.

  Times do change. This time last year, Evan appeared to be lost to them forever, and life seemed a burden in every way. Now she’s living again for her son, at a time when his friends – boys like Stewie – are cutting the ties. She and Evan are bound together more tightly than ever, and she must try and encourage him back into a world he’s no wish to rejoin.

  She has her cross to bear, but it’s surely much lighter than it was before he came back, and looked at from some angles, it’s no burden at all. This Christmas, that dreadful weight has passed over, to a family named Keslake she hopes never to meet.