Far Cry

by John Harvey

  In amongst a litter of fliers for take-away pizzas and tandoori specials was a piece of pink card, creased at the centre, advertising floral tributes and bouquets, funerals a speciality. There was an address written on the reverse: 47 Bellamy Street.

  Will didn't have a great feeling about it and when they arrived he was proved right. Bellamy Street was a cul-de-sac, number 47 just two houses before the end. A large skip outside was filled with old boards, bits of broken lath, plaster and brick. In the front garden, a portable toilet stood next to bags of sand and cement. High on the scaffolding, a workman was removing the guttering from below the roof. Sacking hanging down across empty windows, plywood for a front door, the place was little more than a shell.

  Of Mitchell Roberts, no one had seen hide nor hair.

  They managed to catch Nina George, Roberts' probation officer, just as she was leaving, scarf loose at her neck, bundling files into the rear of her Nissan Micra. 'Yes,' she said, in answer to Will's query. 'His six months was up. Clean sheet. Every appointment kept. I don't think he was ever even late, not by more than a few minutes. Same where he worked, apparently. Punctual, reliable. Employer swears by him.'

  'You know he's quit?' Will said. 'Chucked it in.'

  'The garage? Lansdale's? No, no, I didn't.' She brushed a length of hair away from her eyes. 'I must say I'm surprised.'

  'And now he's left his approved lodgings, you do know where he's gone?'

  'Oh, yes. Of course. East of the city somewhere. Out towards the airport. I've got the address on file.'

  'Bellamy Street?'

  'Yes, that's it.'

  'You checked it out?'

  'Well, not exactly. Not yet, at least. Why?'

  'We've just come from there. Number 47. The entire building's more or less gutted. Enough Polish workmen to start their own soccer team. And Mitchell, no one in the street's ever heard of him. He's scarpered. Off the leash and gone.'

  'I'm sure there's some explanation ...'

  'Yes,' Will said. 'Yes. I'm sure there is.'

  They left her standing there, confused, thoughtful, buttoning and unbuttoning the front of her new wool blazer, a bargain from TJ Maxx.

  40

  Beatrice had worn her down, almost to the point of capitulation.

  'Mum, why? Just tell me why?' 'Why not?' 'Why though? It's not as if I've never been there for a sleepover before. I have, twice, and she's been here.' 'Go on then, give me one good reason? Just one. You see, you can't.' And finally: 'That's stupid! It's just so unfair.' Followed by the ritual flouncing out, tight-lipped and fierce-eyed; the stomping upstairs and the slamming of doors,.

  'I do think,' Andrew had ventured, looking up from his newspaper, 'she might have a point.'

  'You think I'm being unreasonable?'

  'Well, perhaps a little. After all, she's right in a way, we have let her stay there before. Sasha's, isn't it? Just a few streets away, not exactly the end of the world.'

  'Andrew, that's not the point.'

  He folded his paper. 'What is?'

  'I don't know, it's just ...'

  'It's those photos, isn't it? They've got to you. That bloody email.'

  'Yes, I suppose so.'

  'There haven't been any more?'

  'No, I'd have said.'

  'Nothing else out of the way, unusual?'

  'No.'

  'Nobody hanging round?'

  Ruth shook her head.

  'When is it she wants to go?' Andrew asked.

  'This Friday.'

  'That's when I've got this meeting. This damned steering committee. I wish I'd never joined. But I could easily drop her off on my way. Arrange to pick her up again Saturday, not too early. Or they might agree to drop her round.' He smiled. 'We could both do with a bit of a lie-in.'

  'I don't know.'

  Getting up from the chair, he kissed her gently on the forehead. 'I do understand, you know. I know sometimes you think I don't, but I do. Really. But you can't keep her too close. You've got to let her start to live her own life; grow up in her own way.' Taking a pace back, he squeezed her hands and smiled his reassuring smile. 'It won't happen again.'

  Ruth gazed out of the first-floor window at the rain as it fell in long, slanting lines across the yellow curve of the street light and collected in small puddles close to the kerb. Not really hungry, she had made herself a sandwich earlier and eaten it at the table with a glass of wine and that day's paper. It was not yet nine-thirty and she had phoned Sasha's house three times already, checking everything was okay; each call more needless, more irritating than the last.

  'Ruth,' Sasha's mother had said finally, 'you are all right?'

  'Yes, yes, I'm fine. I'm sorry, I'm being silly. I promise I won't phone again.'

  Instead she had watched ten minutes of some moronic television programme before switching it off and picking up the new Marilynne Robinson novel she had grabbed for herself the minute it had arrived at the library. She had liked Housekeeping so much, but this was different, more difficult to get into; the characters, to her eyes, unwieldy and distant.

  After half an hour she gave up and went upstairs, thinking she would take advantage of being on her own and have an early night. But in the bathroom, getting ready, it didn't feel right: she should wait for Andrew to come home. It's what he would expect.

  She was standing at the bedroom window, peering through the curtains, when she first heard the noise.

  A sound like a single footstep from the floor above and then, as she listened, the click and small echo of a door being opened and then closed.

  Her skin froze.

  The backs of her arms and legs.

  She waited, straining to hear a sound. There. But no, that was nothing, someone walking by on the street outside. She could feel her pulse, faintly against her skin. She turned towards the bedroom door, partly opened out on to the landing. A soft fall of light becoming shadow.

  The telephone was across the room, beside the bed, but who would she call? And why?

  It was nothing. Beatrice had left her window open upstairs; a door closing in the wind.

  The street outside was deserted now, save for a fox trotting along, almost daintily, close to the far wall, its coat shiny and darkened by the rain.

  She was on the landing before she heard another sound. Something tapping. There, again. It must be the wind, she thought, that's what it was, a night like this, it had to be the wind. If she went up and closed the window it would stop.

  Still she hesitated.

  There were several items of Beatrice's discarded clothing on the stairs—nothing unusual about that—and she stooped to pick them up: a pair of pants, a T-shirt, a single sock.

  The door to Beatrice's room was closed.

  My Room, read the handwritten sign. Private Property! Keep Out!

  Ruth went in and switched on the light.

  Everything was as she'd last seen it; a mixture of meticulous order and utter dishevelment. Both sides of her daughter's character. For a moment, she smiled.

  The window, as she'd assumed, was open at the bottom, curtains shifting a little in the breeze, the window itself rattling against the frame. That was what she'd heard. That and the door.

  As she slid the window shut, something moved for a second in the shadowed glass, quick, behind her head.

  'Mum?'

  Ruth's breath caught for a moment in her throat.

  When she turned, there was Heather standing alongside the bed, one of the small stuffed animals that still littered the area around Beatrice's pillows in her hand.

  'This used to be mine,' Heather said.

  'I know.'

  'And now it's Beatrice's.'

  'Yes.'

  Heather held it, soft and ragged, to her cheek, a black and white dog with worn fur and one buttoned eye. 'She won't be playing with it for much longer.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'You know. Growing up.' She smiled. 'Setting aside childish things.'

  Ruth rea
ched out and took it from her hand. Lucky, that's what she'd called it. Lucky.

  'I thought I heard someone earlier,' Ruth said. 'Walking around. Was that you? Were you here?'

  'Mum, I'm always here, you know that. You don't always see me, that's all.'

  'Heather...'

  But when Ruth stepped forward she was gone. There was just the small dog, there in her own hand.

  She set it down on the bed and switched out the light, pulling the door firmly closed behind her.

  Andrew would be back soon and until then she would listen to music, play patience, try not to look too often at the clock.

  When Beatrice arrived home, shortly after eleven the next morning, Ruth threw her arms round her and held her tight.

  'Mum! Mum! You're strangling me, okay?'

  'I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm just pleased to see you, that's all.'

  'Okay, but it's not like I've been away for a fortnight. Just chill, yeah?'

  'Yes.' Aware of the daft grin that was plastered across her face. 'So did you have a good time, you and Sasha?'

  'Yeah, fine.'

  'So tell me, tell me all about it.'

  'Mum ...'

  'I'm interested, that's all. Is that such a bad thing?'

  'Hello? Sleepover. Staying up late, watching videos, midnight snacks, talking. Girl talk. Remember?'

  'Not really, no.'

  'Tough, Mum. Too late now.' And with that she disappeared up to her room, only to return some minutes later, just this side of aggrieved.

  'Mum, you haven't been in my room while I was at Sasha's?'

  'No.'

  'You sure?'

  'Yes, why d'you ask?' Hoping that she wasn't blushing.

  'Doesn't matter.'

  'Beatrice...'

  'No, it's okay.'

  Three mornings later, already past the time she should have been ready for school, Beatrice called down the stairs.

  'Mum! You haven't seen my new top?'

  Ruth looked up from buttering her toast. 'Your new what?'

  'My jumper.'

  'Which one?'

  'The one we bought in Cambridge. Stripes, you know? Black and gold?'

  'The one that makes you look like a bee.'

  'I can't find it anywhere.'

  'You've looked in the washing basket?'

  'Not there.'

  'How about with the ironing?'

  'I've looked there too.'

  'Beatrice, I don't know. It's probably somewhere in your room.'

  'It was. But it's not.'

  'Well, if you put your things away more carefully ...'

  'Mum, I've been looking for the last half-hour.'

  'Well, I'm sorry, I can't help. Why's it so important, anyway?'

  'Because I want to wear it, of course.'

  'Well, you'll just have to wear something else, won't you? And do hurry up, or else you'll be late.'

  Beatrice said a rude word beneath her breath. 'Yes, Mum, just coming.'

  41

  Liam Noble was at his desk a good thirty minutes later than usual, no one thing in particular to blame: the traffic certainly, thanks to a lorry shedding its load across two lanes of traffic; his children also, the middle one throwing a wobbly about something that had happened the previous day in the classroom—neither he nor his wife had been able to get out of him what exactly it was—and not wanting to go into school at all, clinging to the banisters so hard his fingers had to be prised away; and then, as if that weren't enough, the clothes dryer had delivered all three of his shirts back to him with a speckling of dark brown adorning each one. So there he was, conscious of starting the day late and wearing an ancient cotton shirt with fraying collar and cuffs that he normally kept for knocking around in the garden, and there waiting for him was Will Grayson, with a face like barely concealed thunder.

  It started before Noble had time to take off his topcoat or close the door. Accusation upon accusation: inefficiency laced with wide-eyed optimism and a refusal to look at the facts.

  'All right, all right. I said, all right!' Noble as close to shouting as he normally came. 'Mitchell Roberts, I know, I know. It looks like you were right and I was wrong. Now we're agreed on that, can we dispense with all the rhetoric and work out what can be done to see the situation rectified?'

  'And that's it?' Will threw up his arms in disbelief. 'A nice quick admission of guilt and a line gets drawn under everything? Well, I don't think so.'

  'No? What is then, Will? A bit more grovelling, will that do you? Preferably in public and down on my knees? Or perhaps you want more? The rest of my time on the force spent counting coffee spoons and delivering lectures on road safety and the Highway Code? No? Resignation, then? Is that it? You want to see me fall on my sword? Live up to my name and do the noble thing? You and your lot don't come out of this exactly spotless, you know.'

  His sting drawn, Will pulled round a chair and sat, waiting for Noble to do the same.

  'I know some of it,' Noble said. 'The bare bones. His probation officer called me at home. That business about the address is a major cock-up if ever there was one. Should have been checked out by one of us first thing.' He let out a short, heartfelt sigh. 'You'd better tell me the rest.'

  Will laid it out: the positive identification that pointed at Roberts as responsible for the abduction and sexual assault of a twelve-year-old in 1995; the very real possibility that he had been involved in two similar incidents in 2000 and as far back as 1993.

  Will told him about his meeting with Christine Fell, her mental state, her reaction to the photographs.

  'And the earlier case? Peterborough.'

  'Rose Howard. That's the one I wouldn't swear by. The circumstances of the abduction are similar, but because the girl's never turned up, there's too much we don't know.'

  'Peterborough to London, couple of lifts down the A1 and she could still be there now, late twenties, living a life.'

  'And never as much as phoned home, never got in touch?'

  'It happens.'

  Will knew. How many hundred a year simply walked out and never came back. Crossed the line into another life. What he'd been able to glean of Rose Howard's home life from reading the reports, it hadn't exactly been the stuff of happy families. For a while the investigation team had looked at the father, but other than him being a callous and work-shy loudmouth with an over-fondness for drink, they'd never found anything they could prove.

  'These other instances,' Noble said, 'there's a pattern. He keeps his victims for a relatively short time, two or three days, then lets them go.'

  'Maybe with Howard something happened. She tried to get away or, whatever he was doing, the abuse, it went too far.'

  Noble narrowed his eyes. 'You think somewhere there's a body?'

  'I think it's possible.'

  'Long time to stay buried.'

  We are, Will thought. In truth we are.

  Noble walked him back out to his car. What had promised, early that morning, to be a better day—the sun, flame red, rising above the field edge as Will had set out on his run—had withered into the same overlapping grey as so many days before.

  'You've thought of this, I'm sure,' Noble said, 'but if Roberts is a serious serial offender, some of those gaps are difficult to explain.'

  'Could be he was lucky,' Will said. 'Nobody found out, complained. Either that or he left the area, tried it on elsewhere.'

  Noble nodded. There was a third possibility, they both knew, without wishing to spell it out. Just as Rose Howard's body could have been lying hidden in the vast East Anglian landscape all those years, waiting to be found, so could the bodies of others, their names as yet unknown.

  Helen was waiting for him when he got back to Parkside, something of a shine in her eyes.

  'Good night?' Will said with a grin.

  'Good morning.'

  'How come?'

  'I got to thinking about our meeting with Vernon Lansdale yesterday. More I thought about it, more it seemed he was
most interested in winding you up. Pissing you off.'

  'So you thought you'd try your feminine wiles instead? The soft approach.'

  'Something like that.'

  Will went round behind his desk and pulled out his chair. 'Any luck?'

  'After a lot of pussyfooting around he came up with a name. Someone ringing the garage a couple of times to speak to Roberts. Hayward. W-A-R-D. At least, that's what it sounded like to him.'

  'He have a first name?'

  'Lansdale wasn't sure. Something beginning with P. Peter. Paul.' A smile spread across her face. 'I ran it through the computer, just in case. There's a Paul Heywood. E-Y not A-Y. Double-O-D. Heywood. Two offences against the Obscene Publications Act, offering obscene videos for sale or rent, 1997. Fine and six-month suspended sentence. One offence of sending indecent literature through the post, 1999, further fine, probation. 2005—and here's where it gets really interesting—he was prosecuted for having indecent photographs of children in his possession, with a view to distributing them to others. When it came to trial, the distribution charge was dropped—not clear why—and he pleaded guilty to possession. Protection of Children Act, 1978. Sentenced to eighteen months. Released after ten.'

  'And this was when?'

  ''05.'

  'Which would have meant he was inside at the same time as Roberts.' Something akin to a smile moved across Will's face. 'They met in prison.'

  Helen nodded. 'Three months in the same wing, Lincoln.'

  'Nice, very nice. I don't suppose the computer spewed out an address at the same time?'

  'Not difficult. Like Roberts, he's on the Sex Offenders' Register. Address in Norwich. I've asked the local nick to check.'

  'Good work.'

  'Thanks.' She took a seat on the corner of Will's desk. 'Perhaps, after all this time, Mitchell Roberts is running out of luck.'

  'Luck?' Will arced his arms up above his head and released a slow breath. 'If we're right and Roberts is a serious offender with a string of sexual assaults going back fifteen years and only one arrest, one conviction—that's got to be down to more than luck.'