Found

by Erin Kinsley

  ‘We all have to come home.’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Ron. ‘You want another drink?’

  ‘I’m all right with this, thanks.’ Naylor points to her orange juice and soda.

  While Ron’s at the bar ordering his pint and their food – steak and kidney as always for himself, regardless of the weather, a chicken Caesar salad for Naylor – she’s thinking he’s changed, and trying to put her finger on exactly what’s different. Straight after his retirement, anyone would still have picked him out as a copper. He hadn’t lost the tension everyone at the job seems to carry, even on downtime, with the permanently overhanging threat of the ringing phone, regardless of whether you were in Malaga or Margate; the buzzing in the brain, did I think of this, what if we did that. All that seems to be leaving him at last. Looking at him now, he’s a regular bloke, as likely to be taken for an ex-accountant as a retired detective. It’s taken him a while, but it seems as if Ron might have actually, mentally, retired.

  As he sits down, she sees it in his face. The old Ron had that skill of keeping one eye on the room, ninety percent focused on whoever he was with, ten percent aware of his surroundings, who was coming in, who was going out. For the first time since she’s known him, he seems properly relaxed.

  ‘Bottoms up.’ He raises his pint, and they chink glasses. ‘So. How’s it going?’

  ‘First day of the trial today. Nothing to report yet, of course, just the usual legal arguments, all the jury stuff. You know how it goes. It’s going to be a long one. The whole case will keep the CPS in business for years to come.’

  ‘How many did you hoover up in the end?’

  ‘The network we’ve uncovered so far includes thirteen men, some more involved than others. There’s been a massive amount of work tracking them down, mainly via internet history and phone records, and we’ve shut down a number of sites on the dark web. Very nasty stuff. Let’s not go there. Gary Prentice has already pleaded guilty but will only do two years, thanks to information he provided. But he’ll go on the sex offenders’ register and that’s worth something too. Thanks to you, Ron.’

  ‘That’s a fantastic result, Rachel. I was merely following your direction. Congratulations.’ Ron raises his pint to toast her.

  ‘It gets me down sometimes, to be truthful,’ she says. ‘No matter how many of the bad guys we take out, there’ll always be more tomorrow.’

  ‘Why can’t people just behave themselves, eh?’ asks Ron.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Ah, the problem of all mankind, right through history. Sounds to me like you’re at that point where you have to abandon your ideas of saving the world and accept you can only do so much. Keep focused on your successes.’

  ‘Is that what you did, Ron?’

  He takes another sip of his pint.

  ‘Sometimes. When June reminded me. The wisdom is hers, not mine.’

  A young waiter arrives with their food. Ron’s pie smells deliciously savoury, and Naylor briefly regrets her healthy choice, but there’s a holiday bikini to be considered, in a few weeks’ time.

  ‘Cracking,’ says Ron, picking up his knife and fork. ‘Wherever you go in the world, you can’t beat British pub food.’ He reaches for the vinegar bottle and shakes it over his chips. ‘How are those two boys doing, Evan and Liam?’

  Quietly in the background, a song Naylor knows well but can’t name begins on the sound system. The lyrics seem sadly apropos, speaking of a return to childhood’s innocence. Without a large dose of amnesia, for Evan and Liam that must be an impossible goal.

  And yet . . .

  ‘Liam I don’t know about,’ she says. ‘He’s not officially our case. But I’ve seen a fair bit of Evan, and I have to say I think he’s finding his way. His own way, at least. He isn’t hanging out with his mates down the skate-park or anything, and the parents are still concerned that he’s stuck in his own little time warp, that he’s suffering from arrested development. And maybe he is, but maybe that’s OK. If he wants to stay a youngster for a couple of years – or even for the rest of his life – does it matter? Isn’t there a bit of Peter Pan in all of us that would rather not grow up? Given a choice, I’d love to spend my time building tree-houses. He’s not shut away in a dark room taking way too many drugs and hooked on video games, which is what a lot of people would call normal, these days. He’s making the best of the terrible, awful hand life dealt him, and I think we can all learn from that.’

  Ron smiles.

  ‘Very philosophical.’

  ‘We have to keep learning. Life’s a shark pool. If sharks stop swimming, they die. If we stop learning, we sink.’

  ‘And what shark’s eating you today, Inspector?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Not really hungry, she lays down her fork. ‘The way it was all handled – which wasn’t exactly badly, but we made some mistakes – I’m not proud of that. Those mistakes weren’t far off being fatal errors. It’s all reactive, changing priorities every five minutes, so there’s never enough time to do a thorough job. But while we were being transferred on to other cases – which I admit were important, it wasn’t like we moved on to handbag-snatching or sheep-rustling – Evan was still lost, still waiting to be found. And we weren’t looking.’

  Ron studies her.

  ‘You didn’t know that. You and I know that he was likely to be dead within days, maybe within hours of the snatch. People like Campbell and the Chief make difficult decisions. That’s why they make the big money. You only have to do as you’re told. They’re the ones doing the telling, and those are tough calls they make.’

  ‘I know. But if you hadn’t got involved and done a bit of the legwork, we might never have made that connection to Prentice, and those thirteen would still be out there now.’

  ‘We broke the rules. It paid dividends. We were lucky.’

  ‘We have to play by rules. Those we’re hunting don’t.’

  Ron picks up one of his chips with his fingers and holds it out to Naylor.

  ‘Carbohydrate and fat deficiency,’ he says. ‘Bad for your mental well-being. Have a chip.’

  Smiling, she takes it.

  ‘You’re the guys in white hats,’ says Ron. ‘Never an easy job, especially when you’re facing a sea of black Stetsons. If you’ve had enough, give it all up and go and work at Primark. But I don’t think you’re going to do that.’

  ‘Too right. I’m too pig-headed to give up. But you didn’t come here to listen to me whinge about how the job’s not perfect. It’s hardly news to you, is it? What about you, Ron? I have to say you’re looking good. Malaga suits you.’

  ‘It’s funny you should say that. Are we having pudding, by the way? I’ve a taste for some sticky toffee cheesecake. June and I are thinking it’s time we did a bit of travelling. She’s persuaded me to buy a camper van.’

  ‘A camper van? Rocket Ron Perdue, one-time legend of the high-speed chase, in a camper van?’

  Ron looks embarrassed.

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘Not quite my thing, you’d be thinking. But to be honest, I feel ready for life in the old farts’ lane. We’re going to head across to France, then just bumble about a bit, see where the road takes us. Down to Italy, if we get that far. Good food, maybe a bottle or two of wine, maybe even a case or two.’

  ‘Sounds brilliant. But what if we need your undercover assistance or an anonymous tip-off?’

  Ron shakes his head.

  ‘Not this side of September. But you never know, come winter, I might be available for hire. And I come cheap, these days. A pie and a pint, and I’m all yours.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘And what about you, Rachel? I trust you’re going to make good use of your precious leave this year? No repetition of last year when you had two weeks home alone in your flat?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I am going away this year
.’ Naylor gives Ron a big smile. ‘Two weeks on the Costa Blanca, just outside Alicante. I can’t wait.’

  ‘And will you be travelling alone?’

  She smiles again.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Ron reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out an envelope.

  ‘Remember at Christmas, I put a name in here?’

  Naylor looks surprised.

  ‘I thought you were joking about that.’

  ‘I did it as a little test for myself, and now I’d like to find out for certain if I’m right. I reckon that I have in here the name of your travelling companion.’ He tears open the flap, takes out a slip of paper and shows her the name written on it. Leon Dallabrida.

  Naylor laughs.

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘By my amazing powers of deduction. Well, more observation, actually. He had a thing for you for a long time. It’s just that you were a bit slow on the uptake.’

  ‘I had other fish to fry.’

  ‘Rotten, dead, stinking fish. Leon’s a good man, a heart of gold.’ He picks up the remains of his pint and raises his glass. ‘Happy holidays.’

  Naylor chinks her glass to his.

  ‘Happy travels. Drive safely.’

  ‘Sometimes you need a break,’ says Ron. ‘But make sure you both come home ready to get stuck back into the fight.’

  FORTY-NINE

  28 June

  Crown Court Trial, Day 21

  Ron’s not taking the kind of interest in the Ferrers trial he would have a year ago. There’s too much to do readying the van, chrome to be polished, crockery to be bought, maps and ferry schedules to be pored over.

  It’s been a while since he’s caught the Six O’Clock News, but he’s sat down for ten minutes while June is putting the finishing touches to dinner. The credits roll, and there it is in the headlines, lead item on the BBC, a summary of the abduction and Evan’s miraculous return, and now the lengthy sentences handed down from the trial.

  A set of mugshots flashes up on the screen. Four unremarkable-looking men with no apparent links between them, dissimilar ages, dissimilar backgrounds: Brian Birch, a middle-aged engineer from Essex; Daniel Kawcznski, a good-looking young man, a care-home assistant from Bolton; Peter Clive Sewell, a red-headed Scot, most recently working as a gas fitter; and Neil Roper, clinically obese and unemployed, a one-time IT specialist from Letchworth.

  Nothing to link them but their predatory appetites.

  Ron switches off the TV. In the kitchen, June’s spooning food on to their plates. Ron takes a bottle of sparkling wine from the fridge and holds it up for her approval.

  ‘This time tomorrow, we shall be far away from all this,’ he says. ‘And I think that warrants a bit of a celebration.’

  Sunlight on Water

  July

  Much of what they owned in Berkshire didn’t seem right for their new lives. A small removal van carried personal possessions and little more: clothes, jewellery, books, the washing machine to replace Dora’s antiquated model, their beds and the TV.

  There are a couple of boxes from Evan’s bedroom too, books, games and posters, the contents of his desk, and he’s been upstairs a while, sorting through it all. When he comes downstairs, he’s carrying a photograph mounted on card.

  ‘Look what I found,’ he says.

  Claire is at the kitchen table, working on her laptop, surrounded by jars of preserves. She makes no pretence at being capable of making jams and chutneys, but there’s talent amongst the women in the village, and Claire’s making it her mission to form and promote a co-operative and get their produce into stores. Amongst the jars there’s one of pale-gold honey, harvested by Evan (with help from Helen Trewitt) from his first hive.

  ‘What is it, kiddo?’

  Evan lays the photograph on the table. Taken in his third year of primary school, it shows his whole class, five rows of grinning children in blue uniforms and Miss Robbins looking disgruntled on the end. There’s Evan, near the front, with a tooth missing, sitting between Stewie and Andrew Duffy, another friend from those long ago days.

  Where are they all now? wonders Claire.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it a while,’ says Evan, ‘and I’ve decided I want to go back to school.’

  When Matt comes home from work – a new job he finds he enjoys, despite a loss of status and an inferior car – Claire tells him the good news.

  But Matt is sceptical.

  ‘He’s two years behind, at least,’ he says. ‘I can’t see how it could work. He’ll soon be fourteen, for heaven’s sake. How could we put him in a class of eleven-year-olds?’

  ‘There must be private schools, a special school who’d take him.’

  Matt’s taken a cut in salary and feels the need – justified or not – to be careful with money.

  ‘And how much would that cost?’

  ‘Does it really matter?’ Claire asks. ‘There’s plenty from the house sale, and there’s his victims of crime compensation. What better use could there be for it than that?’

  ‘We could think about a tutor. Maybe that’s the way to go.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s the education he’s wanting, especially,’ Claire says. ‘I think he’s ready to make new friends.’

  ‘He might hate it once he gets there,’ says Matt.

  ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ says Claire.

  At the weekend, Matt and Evan walk down to the churchyard to visit Jack and Dora’s grave. Evan’s picked wildflowers Jack always loved, and Matt’s cut a few of the best roses from Dora’s garden. The churchyard is peaceful, undisturbed except for a breeze in the beech trees and the cooing of belfry pigeons.

  Matt picks a few blown leaves from the earth still mounded on the grave, and touches the newly placed headstone like a talisman. Evan’s taking his time placing the flowers in the vase.

  ‘So,’ says Matt, ‘your mum says you want to go back to school. Have you really thought about it?’

  ‘Grandpa thought it was a good idea. He used to say I should, one day.’

  ‘You could have a tutor at home, you know. Someone who comes to the house.’

  Evan shakes his head, and places a white rose beside a stem of musk mallow.

  ‘I’d like to try a proper school. See if I can make some friends.’

  ‘If you think you’d enjoy it, I think that’s a great idea.’

  ‘Have you made friends in your new job?’ Evan’s question is heartfelt, and Matt feels touched.

  ‘I think so. It’s not something you can hurry. But there are some people I get on really well with, yes.’

  ‘So it hasn’t been all bad, moving up here?’

  Matt considers. The air smells fresh, and not of diesel and fast food. When he drives home in the evenings, there’s no traffic. Best of all, he has much more free time. Family time.

  ‘No, it hasn’t been all bad,’ he says. ‘In fact, it’s not been bad at all.’

  September

  Claire’s waiting for the bus. Through the open kitchen window she can see down to the road where it joins the track up to the house, and every school day, the wait is difficult, a reminder of the day he didn’t come home. Every time she sees the bus pull up, she feels relief.

  It’s a day of Indian summer but the kitchen smells of autumn, of the fading leaves on the honeysuckle which climbs the house’s old stone walls and of the blackberries she’s picked to make a pie. She’s thinking of tea on the terrace, because outside is always Evan’s preference. He’s drawn to meadows and woodlands and uplands, regardless of the weather. In that, he’s like his grandfather.

  The mini-bus pulls up at last, and Evan climbs down, gawky and slightly awkward in his school uniform. Usually, there’s only Evan who gets off here, but today, there’s someone else.

  Evan is bringing home
a girl.

  Down at the stream, there’s sunlight on the water, sparkling on the ripples.

  Evan beckons to the girl, and leads her along the grassy bank to the pool where sticklebacks hide under the stones.

  ‘Look,’ he says, ‘down there.’

  She crouches beside him, and for a while watches with him the silver slivers cutting through the weeds.

  ‘Come and meet my mum,’ he says.

  As they walk up the track, Evan takes the girl’s hand. She isn’t beautiful, but her face is kind.

  Watching from the window, Claire sees them laugh, and feels a weight she didn’t know was there lift from her heart.

  Evan is reaching the end of his journey home. In his own way, he will be fine.

  A honey-bee lands on the last of the roses, and Claire smiles.

  Acknowledgements

  Found would never have been completed without help from the Society of Authors, whose generous grant bought me much-needed time and space to write.

  I offer a huge thank you to my editor Toby Jones, whose insights and molecular-level dissection inspired me to hone and polish the manuscript he first read into the book I hoped it could be.

  In developing the police investigation, I mercilessly picked the brain of ex-Det Sgt Terry Parry, whose patient and thorough responses on the technicalities of contemporary detective work have been invaluable. Thanks, Tel.

  To all my advance readers, thanks for your time and critiques, and a special thank you to Ken Fishwick, who went the extra mile (and then some) to check and re-check the timings throughout the novel.

  Much of the book was written in the calm Norfolk oasis provided by Ann & Andy Allenby – thanks for the peace and quiet.

  As always, thank you to my lovely agent Christopher Little, who found Found a perfect home.

  And last but never least, thanks for everything to Andy, who’s there through thick and thin.