The Lost Ones

by Ben Cheetham

  Tom wound down his window and inhaled as if to clean out an unpleasant smell. This was a happy day. He was determined not to let anything ruin it. By the time he arrived at his house, Graham’s parting words had faded to a shadow at the back of his mind. Amanda’s VW Golf was missing from the drive. Obviously she was still out walking with the kids. He bounced into the house and headed for the kitchen. He removed several bottles of champagne from a wine rack. Amanda had put them in the fridge the previous night, but he’d returned them to the rack. Chilling the bubbly before they had anything to celebrate seemed a bit too much like tempting fate.

  He kept one bottle out of the fridge. It wasn’t even eleven, but to hell with it. He more than deserved, and needed, a drink. He popped the cork, took a swig from the bottle, then filled a champagne flute. He reached for a phone on the work surface and tried Amanda. Again, he only got through to voicemail. Was she still out of signal? Or was she on the phone to someone else? A crease appeared between his eyebrows. Henry better not have called her or there was going to be trouble. This was his day, his big news to give. Washing away the thought with another mouthful of bubbly, he headed upstairs to the bathroom. He unbuttoned his shirt and checked his shoulder in the mirror. There was a red mark where he’d gone down hard on the Town Hall steps. He flexed his shoulder and winced as something pulled tight. No matter, a hot shower and a couple more glasses of champagne would sort that out.

  He started to unbuckle his belt, but hesitated as the heavy strains of rock music thumped through the floor overhead. His frown returning, he quickly ascended to the attic. Jake was straddling the window ledge, smoking a cigarette. Caught out, he guiltily jerked his gaze to Tom.

  ‘Put that out,’ snapped Tom.

  Recovering himself, Jake eyed his dad defiantly. ‘Why should I? You smoke in the bathroom.’

  Tom opened his mouth to deny the accusation, but thought better of it. The bathroom window was directly below Jake’s window. Smoke doubtless wafted into his bedroom. ‘That’s different. If I want to smoke in my house—’

  Rolling his eyes, Jake interrupted, ‘Do I have to hear the this-is-my-house speech again already?’

  ‘Yes, you do! And you’ll keep hearing it until you learn to respect what I say. Now put it out.’

  Provokingly slowly, Jake stubbed the cigarette out on the window ledge and flicked it into the garden.

  Tom pressed his lips together, then said in a voice of forced calm, ‘You can go pick that up when we’re finished speaking. But first, what are you doing here? I thought we decided you were going out with your mum and Erin.’

  ‘No, Dad, that’s what you decided. I tried to tell you I didn’t want—’

  Tom held up a silencing hand, cocking his ear towards a sound that was scarcely audible through the grinding music. ‘Turn that down, will you.’

  Jake hopped from the window ledge and switched off the music. Someone was persistently, almost forcefully, knocking at the front door.

  ‘Who the hell’s that?’ Tom wondered out loud. It crossed his mind that it could be Carl ‘Greenie’ Wright come to take another pop at him. He shot Jake a glance. ‘I’m not done with you.’ If he’d had eyes in the back of his head, he was pretty sure he would have seen his son giving him the finger as he turned to go downstairs.

  His movements grew cautious as he neared the front door. If it was Greenie, he had no intention of resuming their confrontation. He crouched on the stairs where he could see the door without being seen. It wasn’t the eco-warrior, it was Constable Foster and a female colleague. Unsure whether to be relieved or more worried, he quickly buttoned up his shirt and opened the door.

  ‘Whatever it is, I’m innocent,’ he joked.

  Unsmiling, Constable Foster indicated his colleague. ‘Tom, this is Constable Hutton. Can we come in and talk?’

  ‘Sure.’ Tom stepped aside and closed the door behind them. ‘So what’s this about?’ He fully expected to be told they were there about the quarry. It wouldn’t have surprised him one bit if Eddie had gone against his wishes, gathered together a few of the lads and launched an attack on the encampment.

  ‘At approximately half past ten we received an emergency call from your wife,’ said Constable Hutton.

  ‘My wife?’ echoed Tom. He added quickly, ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘She called to report your daughter missing.’

  Tom’s mouth fell open. Missing. The word hit him like an icy blast, threatening to snatch his breath away.

  ‘What do you mean, Erin’s missing?’ The voice belonged to Jake. Tom twisted to see him descending the stairs.

  ‘Go back to your room.’ Tom’s voice was hollowed out by shock.

  ‘We need to speak to Jake too,’ said Constable Foster.

  Jake repeated his question and Constable Hutton answered, ‘All we can tell you right now is that Erin was reported missing in Harwood Forest.’

  Panic touched Tom’s voice. ‘Does that mean someone might have taken her?’

  ‘It means we’re still trying to figure out what the exact situation is,’ said Constable Foster.

  ‘When was the last time you saw your daughter, Mr Jackson?’ asked Constable Hutton.

  ‘I kissed her goodbye when I left the house. That was just before nine.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her since then?’

  ‘No.’

  Constable Hutton looked at Jake. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I haven’t seen or spoken to Erin since yesterday.’

  ‘Do you mind if we have a look around?’ asked Constable Foster.

  ‘What for?’ said Tom. ‘Erin’s not here.’

  ‘She might have made her own way home.’

  ‘Why would she run off from her mother? And besides, the forest’s over two miles away.’

  ‘I know it’s unlikely. Still, it pays to be certain.’

  Tom gestured for them to go ahead.

  ‘Could you please take me to your daughter’s bedroom,’ said Constable Hutton.

  As Tom led her upstairs, Constable Foster said, ‘I’ll have a look around down here.’

  Constable Hutton’s gaze swept intently over Erin’s pink bedroom. ‘Erin, are you here?’ she called out.

  Silence.

  Tom leaned against the door frame, his head reeling. He watched the constable peer under the bed and into the wardrobe, hardly able to believe what was happening. The whole situation seemed both unreal yet all too horribly real, like one of his lucid nightmares. ‘Dad, Dad,’ Jake was saying.

  Tom replied without looking at him, ‘Not now, Jake.’

  ‘But Dad—’

  ‘I said not—’ Tom started to snap, jerking towards his son. His anger died as quickly as it had flared when he saw Jake’s pale, worried face. His voice softened. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I just wondered if I should I go out and look for Erin?’

  Constable Hutton answered before Tom could. ‘When we’re done here, we’re going to join the search at Harwood Forest. I assume you’ll be coming with us, Mr Jackson.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then Jake needs to stay here in case Erin returns home.’

  Constable Hutton searched the remaining first-floor rooms, before climbing the attic stairs. ‘My bedroom’s up there,’ said Jake, squirming at the idea of someone snooping through his things. ‘I’ve been in it all morning.’

  The constable gave him a sympathetic glance. ‘I believe you, Jake, but we have to search the entire house.’

  Jake stood fidgeting while Constable Hutton checked out his bedroom. His cheeks reddened as she moved aside scrunched-up boxer shorts and dirty crockery to look under his bed. Her gaze lingered briefly on the pentagram before she left the room.

  ‘All clear down here,’ called Constable Foster as they descended to the hallway.

  ‘Same up here,’ replied Constable Hutton.

  ‘Tom, can you think of anywhere outside the house where Erin might be? Does she have a favourite place to go?’
r />   Tom’s forehead knotted. His head was aching so badly it was difficult to process even such a simple question. ‘The newsagent’s. They stock her favourite magazine. And of course she likes the park. We don’t allow her to go very far. We only recently started letting her out on her own.’

  ‘What about her friends?’ asked Constable Hutton.

  ‘I . . . I’m not sure,’ Tom said as if admitting something slightly shameful. ‘Amanda deals with that kind of thing.’

  ‘She’s best friends with Emily Fogerty,’ put in Jake.

  ‘I know the Fogertys,’ said Constable Foster. ‘I’ll give them a call.’

  ‘Are you riding with us or would you rather follow in your own car?’ Constable Hutton asked Tom.

  ‘I’ll follow you. I might need my car later.’ Tom laid his hand on Jake’s shoulder. ‘Are you OK staying here on your own?’

  Jake nodded.

  ‘I’ll call as soon as we find your sister,’ added Tom, trying to sound as if it was a foregone conclusion that they would. He gave Jake’s shoulder a squeeze and hurried to his car.

  DAY 1

  11.26 A.M.

  On the way out of town, they stopped by the newsagent and the park. Erin hadn’t been into the newsagent. Nor was she at the park. Tom felt a squeeze in his chest at the sight of the swings, slide and climbing frame he’d spent so many hours watching Erin play on. He could almost hear her sweet laughter echoing in his ears. For the second time that day, he found himself climbing gently away from the western edge of Middlebury. He snatched out his phone at the ping of a text. ‘You’re a fucking star!’ read the message. It was from Eddie. It took Tom a second to register what his business partner was referring to. All that already seemed so distant.

  A quarter of a mile or so before the turn for Graham’s farm, they followed a sign for FONTBURN RESERVOIR. The cars rumbled over a cattle grid onto a single-lane road that arrowed through fields of rough grass and wetland scrub dotted with scattered farms. A couple of hundred metres to the right of the road a thin line of birch and oak followed the River Font. They passed a flock of sheep – white-faced Cheviots that got their name from the rounded hills straddling the border between Northumberland and the Scottish Borders. The flock, Tom knew, belonged to Graham – which meant his brother had most likely been out this way earlier. Tom wondered whether Graham had seen Amanda and Erin on their way to the forest. He hadn’t mentioned it, but then again there hadn’t been much room in their conversation for chit-chat.

  The road swung around a wooded corner, emerging at the eastern shore of Fontburn Reservoir by a stone valve tower that rose from deep-looking water like the tallest turret of a drowned castle. They crossed the dam, which sloped steeply away on their left into the water and on their right into a broad grassy depression. At the base of the depression was a water-treatment plant shadowed by the towering stone arches of a disused railway aqueduct. At the far side of the dam a tarmac drive split leftwards from the road, terminating after a short distance at a car park popular with the fly and bait anglers who were scattered along the sandy shoreline. As a child, Tom had spent many hours on that shoreline himself. On rare days off, his dad had loved to fish the reservoir for the rainbow and blue trout that teemed in its cold depths. Whenever a fish bit, his dad’s usually grim face used to come alive with excitement. Those were some of the few memories from childhood that Tom cherished.

  Tom braked and honked his horn. The police car stopped too and Constable Foster wound down his window. ‘That’s Amanda’s car over there,’ Tom called to him, pointing towards the car park.

  ‘We know,’ replied the constable. ‘We’ve got someone keeping an eye on it.’

  About fifty metres beyond the turn, the road split again at a small pine plantation. They took the narrow left-hand fork, which steadily climbed the flank of the river valley. As they crested a slope, the dark-green swathe of Harwood Forest came into view. Rank after rank of pines, a vast army of trees marching against the craggy fortress of the Simonside Hills. The cars rumbled over another cattle grid, descending towards a stone farmhouse connected to a long string of slate-roofed barns.

  Shortly before the farm, three police cars were parked at the roadside. They pulled in behind them and got out into the blue-skied July day. Tom followed the constables along a footpath that sloped down through a field of grazing sheep, passing the farm on its left.

  ‘Did you manage to contact the Fogertys?’ asked Tom.

  Constable Foster nodded. ‘They haven’t seen Erin today.’

  Beyond the farm, the terrain was strewn with thickets of bracken and clumps of marsh grass. They crossed the shallow River Font by a wooden footbridge. The path looped towards the forest. Five more minutes’ fast walking found them on a grey gravel road shadowed by tall pines. After a quarter of a mile, they came to a huge clearing.

  To the north a couple of constables in hi-vis jackets were poking around in long grass and bracken. There was another constable just inside the treeline to the east. A Land Rover was parked on the bridge at the clearing’s centre. Amanda was beside it with a park ranger and a fourth policeman. Breaking into a jog, Tom called to her. She whirled towards his voice. Her eyes were swollen from crying.

  He wrapped his arms around her. Her clothes were wet through. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I . . . Erin was playing . . .’ The words were gasped out, stumbling over each other.

  ‘Where?’

  Amanda pointed towards Blanch Burn. ‘She was playing and . . . and then she was gone.’

  ‘What do you mean gone?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Amanda’s voice was shrill, close to breaking. ‘I wasn’t . . . Oh, God, Tom, I wasn’t watching her, I wasn’t watching—’ The words snagged in her throat as tears overwhelmed her.

  Tom held her close, stroking her hair. ‘It’s OK, shh. It’s going to be all right.’

  She shook her head, pulling away from him. ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Yes, it is. We’re going to find her.’

  ‘You don’t understand. Martin found—’

  ‘Who’s Martin?’

  ‘He was out walking with his wife. They helped me look for Erin and he . . .’ Amanda clutched Tom’s shirt as if to stop herself from falling over. ‘He found blood.’

  His stomach lurched. ‘Show me where.’

  Amanda drew him towards the far side of the bridge. Their way was blocked by a policeman wearing a flat-topped cap. ‘I’m Sergeant Phil Dyer. I’m coordinating the search,’ he said, extending his hand.

  Tom briefly shook it. ‘Why wasn’t I told about the blood?’

  ‘Because we didn’t want to panic you.’

  ‘You have no right to keep something like that from me.’

  ‘We have every right, Mr Jackson.’

  ‘I want to see where this blood was found.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we can’t let you near that area. There’s nothing to see anyway. The blood was on a stone that’s been removed for analysis.’

  ‘There was blood on the grass too,’ said Amanda. ‘I thought maybe she’d slipped and hit her head.’

  Tom stared into the narrow channel the stream had cut through the turf. His head was full of an image of Erin lying at its edge, her face pouring blood. How had she got there? Had she slipped? Had she been pushed? Both possibilities were gut-wrenching – the latter so much so that he could barely bring himself to consider it. ‘How many people have you got searching?’

  ‘There are currently six constables and myself, plus three park rangers,’ said Sergeant Dyer.

  Tom frowned. ‘Ten of you. My daughter’s missing, maybe even . . .’ he forced himself to say the word stabbing at his mind, ‘abducted—’

  ‘Now, hang on,’ interjected the sergeant. ‘Let’s not start bandying around words like that. There’s no evidence a crime has been committed. We can’t even be sure the blood belongs to your daughter. The carcass of a sheep that looks like it was recently killed by an animal was found
nearby. The blood may well have come from that. Chances are, Mr Jackson, your daughter has simply wandered off into the forest.’

  ‘Erin wouldn’t do that. We’ve been bringing her out here since she was a baby. She knows not to wander off.’

  ‘Sometimes children do things they shouldn’t do.’

  ‘Of course, but—’ Realising the conversation was going nowhere, Tom broke off and took out his phone.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Sergeant Dyer.

  ‘We need more people out here.’

  ‘I agree, but we can’t have members of the public searching the forest willy-nilly. Any search needs to be properly coordinated by myself.’

  ‘Then you’d better get coordinating, Sergeant, because in about an hour there’s going to be half of Middlebury out here.’ Tom looked at Amanda. ‘Call your dad. I’m going to call Eddie.’

  They were forced to walk a few metres up the slope to find a signal. Eddie answered the call and said, ‘I was just about to ring you. I’ve been on to the bank about—’

  ‘Forget the bank, Eddie,’ broke in Tom. ‘Something awful has happened. Erin’s missing.’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘What I said. She’s gone and we don’t know where.’ Tom rapidly recounted what he did know.

  ‘Fucking hell, Tom,’ breathed Eddie. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Spread the word. We need as many people as possible to help with the search.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Tom hung up. Amanda was still on the phone. ‘OK, Daddy,’ she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I love you too.’

  So she can say I love you to him but not me. Tom flung the unbidden thought aside, silently admonishing himself, Save your self-pity for after Erin’s found. ‘What did he say?’ he asked as she lowered the phone.

  ‘He’s going to get someone he knows at Radio Northumberland to put the word out for volunteers.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Sergeant Dyer. ‘Have the volunteers meet at the Town Hall. I’ll send some of my constables to help organise them.’