Cry Baby

by Billingham, Mark

  ‘Let’s be gentle.’ Thorne looked at Roth. ‘All right?’

  ‘As a baby, mate.’

  Thorne turned back to the door.

  ‘It’s a shame,’ Boyle said.

  Thorne stopped. ‘What is?’

  ‘That Swiss equaliser.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t think a draw is the start your boys were after.’

  ‘It’s how we started in sixty-six,’ Roth said. ‘Nil-nil against Uruguay.’

  Thorne had stopped listening and was already reaching for the door again. He was thinking about his conversation with Catrin Coyne; about how animated she’d been just before they were interrupted, and what she’d told him about the father of her missing child.

  Perhaps Boyle had been right to flag that up, after all.

  That slight hesitation.

  He . . . loves both of us.

  FIVE

  With one arm stretched out to brace herself against the granite-topped island, Maria hummed with pleasure as the first mouthful of wine went down. It was quickly followed by another and she immediately reached for the bottle and poured herself a second glass. She could not remember when she had needed a drink quite this badly.

  She was still shaking.

  She had been thinking about that open bottle of Pinot in the fridge all the way home from the station and from the moment she had seen the squad car drive away and closed the front door behind her. Thinking about it when she’d shucked off her coat and ushered Josh towards his bedroom, helped him undress and watched him climb silently into bed. As she’d wiped away the tears that came when she’d crept towards the door, and while she’d told him to be brave, because everything was going to be all right.

  Told herself.

  He’d grizzled for half an hour before she’d finally felt able to leave him and go back downstairs. To get what she needed. Now, lifting herself on to one of the leather barstools, letting out a long breath and lifting her glass, she felt ashamed, because even then – his warm, wet face pressed into her neck – she had felt a stab of resentment towards her son for keeping her from this.

  Mummy’s medicine.

  She set down the glass and told herself that she was being ridiculous, that if ever there was an excuse . . . no, not an excuse, a reason to need a drink, it was this.

  What a miserable, horrible day. From everything ticking along, being perfectly normal; from all of them being happy to . . . this, in what, just a few seconds? It couldn’t have been much longer than that. Time to smoke a cigarette, that was all, to close her eyes for just a few moments.

  It wasn’t her fault.

  A wash of shame moved through her again as she thought about Cat, for the first time since she’d walked through the front door, if she were being honest.

  She wondered if Cat was back at home yet and, if so, what she was doing.

  She wondered if she should call.

  Maria took another drink and decided that it was probably not a very good idea. She’d call first thing in the morning. It wouldn’t be an easy conversation, she knew that, but it had to be done. She wanted to help, to let Cat know she was there for her and that she’d do whatever she could.

  I think you’ve done enough already, don’t you?

  Please don’t say that. You need to try and stay calm.

  You wouldn’t be saying that if it was your kid . . .

  No, not an easy conversation at all.

  She sat and tried to imagine how she might be feeling if it was Josh they were searching for, if she’d been the one coming home alone to an empty house. It was impossible, though, and not just because she was starting to feel a little light-headed. Swallowing another mouthful of wine, she realised that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I can’t imagine, that’s what people always said when something terrible happened and it was the simple truth, because you couldn’t even get close. Grief, she decided, that might be about the nearest thing to it. The same coldness, the shutting down, she had felt when her father had died.

  Or when Jeffrey had left.

  That had been a kind of grief too, of course; a deadness that had lasted longer, if anything. Looking back, she should not have been surprised. There had been a distance, an oddness. Try as she had, she had clearly never been what he’d wanted, but still . . . when he’d finally come out and told her he wanted a divorce, like he was telling her he’d run out of socks or quite fancied lamb for dinner, it had been a sucker-punch.

  It had been months before she’d felt she could breathe again.

  All very civilised now, of course. Ancient history. They both had lives to get on with and obviously there was their son to think about, especially of late when he’d seemed so unsettled. She remembered ducking Cat’s question in the park earlier, about how Josh was getting on at school. There were still problems that were becoming harder to ignore – outbursts of aggression and bad behaviour – and the bedwetting was now an almost nightly occurrence.

  Christ, what was she thinking?

  It was all a million miles away from what Cat must be going through. Her son’s things scattered around, the smell of him all over the house and the thought of him being alone in those woods or . . . wherever else. Even worse, the thought of him not being alone.

  Maria reached for the bottle again, but it was empty.

  It wasn’t her fault.

  ‘Mummy . . . ’

  She let out a gasp of surprise, then turned to see Josh standing in the doorway. He looked on the verge of tears again, his fat bottom lip quivering, an expression that, until today, might just have meant that he wanted something. Another story, usually.

  He said, ‘I think I’ll sleep better if I come in your bed.’

  That wasn’t something he’d asked for in a very long time.

  ‘Come on then, chicken,’ Maria said. ‘Let’s get you tucked up.’

  As they walked towards the stairs, Josh took her hand and said, ‘I’ve been thinking about it, and maybe Kieron just got confused. About whose turn it was to hide.’

  ‘Yes, maybe that’s it,’ Maria said.

  The boy nodded, satisfied, as though he’d solved a big mystery. He held up his free hand for a high-five, which, after a few seconds, Maria stooped to return. ‘He’s still hiding, that’s all.’

  SIX

  Catrin Coyne lived a few minutes south of Archway tube station, in a two-bedroom flat on the sixth floor of Seacole House, a twelve-storey block off the Holloway Road.

  A mile from Highgate Village and a world away.

  Stepping into the lift, she turned and said, ‘I really don’t see why you need to come in. I’ll be OK on my own.’ She had not spoken a word on the drive from Islington, hunched in the passenger seat of Thorne’s Cavalier and staring intently out as though she might catch a glimpse of her son on the darkened pavements.

  Thorne pushed the button and the doors began to clatter shut. ‘Best if we do.’

  ‘I promise I’m not going to throw myself out the window.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Roth said.

  Nobody spoke again until a few minutes later, when Catrin led them into her living room. She stood with her back to the wall-mounted electric fire and stared at them. ‘So?’

  ‘Is it OK if I have a quick look round?’ Roth asked.

  ‘What?’ Catrin looked from Roth to Thorne and back again. ‘Why?’

  The DC cleared his throat and shifted a little awkwardly from foot to foot. There was a job to be done but clearly he was paying heed to what Thorne had said about being gentle. ‘It’s just what we have to do. It’s not—’

  ‘You think Kieron’s found his way home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You think he’s hiding under the bed?’

  ‘It’s a box we need to tick,’ Thorne said. ‘That’s all.’

  Catrin looked at him, her eyes narrowed. ‘Or maybe you reckon I’ve made the whole thing up. That we’re all just pissing you around and Kieron’s been here the whole time.’

  ‘Of course n
ot.’

  ‘Fucking . . . tied up in a cupboard or something.’

  Thorne could see that Catrin Coyne was becoming agitated and he could hardly blame her. He had no more idea where Kieron Coyne was than she did, but he knew for certain that he wasn’t here. That said, there had been cases where parents had reported their children missing maliciously. There had even been occasions when they had done so with rather more sinister motives, to cover up the fact that the children had been hurt, or worse, during incidents at home, which was why such possibilities needed to be dismissed as soon as was practicable.

  He said, ‘It’s just a box.’

  ‘I promise I’ll be quick.’ Roth backed slowly towards the hallway. ‘I won’t make a mess or anything.’

  Catrin nodded and he stepped out.

  ‘It’s ridiculous.’ She moved away from the wall and dropped on to a leather sofa.

  ‘Most of it’s about covering our arses as much as anything.’ Thorne walked across to the chair opposite. She grunted permission, so he perched on the edge of it and leaned towards her. ‘And some of the other stuff might not seem too . . . sympathetic, even when it’s got to be done.’

  She nodded again and sat back. She looked even more exhausted than she had done back in the interview room.

  ‘It’s best in the long run, you know?’

  ‘I don’t want there to be a long run,’ she said. ‘I want it sorted. I want one of your lot to ring the bell right now with Kieron in his arms.’ She looked close to tears but pushed them back with the heel of her hand. ‘I want him here. I want him home.’

  ‘Course you do.’

  ‘The long run’s what scares me.’

  Thorne could hear music – the stuttering drone of a bassline – from the flat above, and Roth moving about in one of the bedrooms. ‘We need to ask you for a DNA sample.’

  She sat up fast. ‘What the hell do you need my DNA for?’

  ‘A sample from Kieron.’ Thorne saw the spasm of horror on her face, that glimpse of what might be there at the end of the long run. ‘Would you mind if we took his toothbrush?’

  She leaned down to unlace her boots. ‘Do what you have to.’

  ‘A recent photograph would be useful too, if you have one. Something we can get up on the appeal boards, in the newspapers.’

  Catrin kicked her boots off, dragged herself to her feet and left without a word to fetch the things Thorne had asked for. She passed Roth in the doorway. He stepped into the living room and shook his head to let Thorne know he’d found nothing to be concerned about.

  Box ticked.

  ‘She’s gone to get the stuff.’ Thorne lowered his voice. ‘Listen, you might as well get on your way and I’ll see you back at the office.’ He saw the question on Roth’s face. ‘I think I’ll stay here for a bit.’

  ‘Really? I don’t see the need—’

  ‘All the same.’

  When Catrin returned, Roth took the photograph and the toothbrush which she’d put into a plastic sandwich bag. He thanked her and told her to take care of herself. He told Thorne he had Ms Coyne’s phone number and would call if anything came up.

  Thorne followed him to the front door.

  ‘Get the toothbrush over to the lab and make sure the media liaison boys get cracking on that photo.’

  ‘Running all the way.’ Roth moved across the landing and stabbed at the button to call the lift. ‘Listen . . . I meant to say.’ He turned and took a few steps back towards Thorne. ‘All that stuff with Boyle, that shaking hands business, the digs about what you’d know or whatever. It’s all just a wind-up. You get that, right? Nobody means anything by it.’

  Thorne looked at him. He said, ‘It’s probably too late for tomorrow, but we need the boy’s picture in the papers on Monday.’

  The DC nodded, embarrassed suddenly, as though he wished he hadn’t said anything. ‘I mean, everyone’s heard the story, that’s all.’

  Thorne said nothing and, when the lift arrived, he wasn’t sure which of them was the more relieved.

  When Thorne came back into the living room, he and Catrin stood looking at one another for a few seconds. The thumping bassline seemed to have got louder. ‘Can I make you a cup of tea or coffee?’ he asked. ‘Something stronger?’

  ‘There might be some heroin in the flat next door.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ she said, quickly. ‘I’d rather not piss my neighbours off. They watch Kieron sometimes . . . and before you ask, not the one doing the smack.’

  ‘I’m kidding,’ Thorne said.

  They looked at one another again.

  Thorne cast an eye around the room. The sofa and armchair took up most of the available space, but the carpet and glass coffee-table were spotless, and everything seemed well organised. There was a large plastic box filled to the brim with toys in one corner and a stack of videotapes sitting next to the TV. Animaniacs, ChuckleVision, Mike & Angelo. He walked across to the window, stared down at a main road that was still busy at quarter to nine at night. He guessed it was always busy.

  He turned back into the room. ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ Catrin chewed at a fingernail. ‘That’s why we’re moving. Well, supposed to be moving.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Council flat in Walthamstow.’ She nodded towards the window. ‘I mean it’s OK round here, been perfectly happy and all that, but nowhere this close to the Holloway Road is ever going to be nice. You can feel it in your chest, you know? Black snot, all that.’

  ‘Lower Highgate,’ Thorne said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve heard estate agents say that about Archway. Trying to make it sound a bit more fancy. Upmarket.’

  ‘Wankers.’

  ‘You’re not wrong.’ With Jan determined to sell the house, Thorne was desperately trying to put off his own inevitable dealings with them.

  ‘Actually, round here, we prefer to call it Highgate’s Bollocks,’ Catrin said. ‘That’s definitely got more of a ring to it.’ Seeing Thorne smile she began to laugh, high-pitched and almost hysterical, but it quickly caught in her throat and became a sob.

  ‘Don’t,’ Thorne said.

  He watched her reach out an arm and for a second or two he thought she was going to fall. Thorne said her name, and stepped quickly across, just in time for her to collapse into his arms.

  SEVEN

  It was after midnight by the time Thorne got home to the house in Highbury, half past when he carried a few slices of cheese on toast and a can of Kestrel through to the living room. He sat down in front of the TV. He had not banked on the day being quite as full-on as it had turned out to be, but, anticipating the worst, which was generally his default position, he’d set the video recorder just in case. Belt and braces. He watched the game as he ate and the can emptied, the remote in one hand to fast-forward when necessary. It was hard to summon any more than a passing interest, though, and not just because – thanks to Gordon Boyle – the result was hardly going to come as a surprise.

  He’d left Catrin Coyne asleep on her sofa.

  For over an hour, he had held her while she’d wept, feeling more than a little awkward with her head against his shoulder, feeling as though it should have been someone else’s job. A friend’s. Under normal circumstances, it would probably have been Maria Ashton doing the comforting, had relations between them not been as understandably strained as Thorne guessed they currently were. He hoped for both their sakes that they were able to move past their . . . situation.

  On screen, the Shearer goal went in and, predictably, the crowd had begun to sing ‘Three Lions’.

  It took a damn sight less than a missing child to sour a relationship, Thorne thought. He swallowed the last of the lager. It didn’t take much to kill the magic.

  The smallest lie, a selfish remark.

  Almost any little incident could do it.

  Coming home to find his wife being shagged by her creative w
riting teacher had done the trick very nicely.

  Her desperate protestations. His hairy fucking back.

  There had been two messages from Jan waiting for him when he’d walked through the door. A piss-perfect end to the day. That blinking red light on the answering machine almost always meant bad news of one kind or another, but lately Thorne had found himself hoping it had been a colleague calling with postmortem results or to tell him he was needed at a crime scene, as opposed to some accountant or, God forbid, a solicitor.

  He could handle murder.

  Instead it had been Jan’s voice he’d found himself listening to, while he’d stood in the kitchen and watched his bread browning under the grill. Polite enough, because they were grown-ups and had stopped shouting at each other a long time ago, but with an edge he could have grated his cheddar on.

  ‘We have to get the sale of the house organised, Tom . . . it’s just sitting there . . . we’re both in limbo.’

  Thorne wondered how long limbo had been defined as ‘shacked up with a randy lecturer in Cockfosters’, but he knew what his wife was getting at. His wife legally, if in no other respect. Having both agreed on a sensible way forward months before when Jan had left, she had said she was very happy to leave all the arrangements to him. Not because she was remotely shamefaced at walking out on him after twelve years, but because Thorne, being a police officer, might have a ‘bit more clout with estate agents and the like’. While Thorne had not argued, because he was certainly not going to let Jan or her new boyfriend take charge, he’d been unable, as yet, to muster enough enthusiasm to do anything about it.

  A hundred and seventy-five grand she reckoned they could get for this place, enough for each of them to get a decent flat. A hundred and seventy-five grand and they’d only paid sixty thousand for it. Property was changing hands for bloody silly money these days.

  He thought about what he’d said to Catrin Coyne in that tower block.

  Nice . . .

  The spiky response he had so thoroughly deserved.

  He sat back and looked at a room in which there was a lot more space than Catrin and her son had. He was definitely rattling around in the place, rather more noisily since Jan had come over to collect her stuff in a van the lecturer had hired for the day. It wasn’t as if they’d had that much of anything to begin with.