Like This, for Ever

by Sharon Bolton

  ‘Start with the most likely routes,’ he said. ‘We could get lucky. In the meantime, I want to bring a profiler in. I know you don’t—’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Dana.

  For once, Weaver let what he was feeling show on his face.

  ‘There’s something very odd about this one,’ said Dana. ‘It’ll be good to have a fresh perspective.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  Dana turned. One of the detectives on her team, a blonde woman in her early thirties called Gayle Mizon, was at her computer. ‘You might want to know that Peter Sweep posted on Facebook at 21.37 hours this evening,’ she said. ‘Announcing quite correctly that Jason and Joshua’s bodies had been found.’

  Several members of the team moved closer to Mizon and peered over her shoulder at the screen. More than one helped themselves to an open jar of sweets on the desk. Mizon seemed to eat continually.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Weaver, glancing over.

  ‘We’ve been monitoring social network sites, Sir,’ replied Mizon. ‘A hundred and sixty of them, to be precise. A couple of dozen mention the murders on a reasonably regular basis, mainly the London-based ones and the parents’ chat sites. They all seem pretty innocuous, but we are interested in a Facebook site called the Missing Boys.’

  She paused to get her breath and Weaver nodded to show he was following.

  ‘Quite a few of the contributors seem to have known the boys personally,’ Mizon said. ‘Which is the main reason we’ve been taking an interest, in case one of them lets something slip that they wouldn’t necessarily say to us. Nothing so far, but this chap called Peter Sweep keeps popping up. He knows about developments in the case before anything’s been officially released.’

  ‘I assume we’ve tried to trace him,’ said Weaver.

  ‘Facebook have been quite helpful,’ replied Mizon. ‘They let us have the email addresses of the site’s main contributors. Then it was a question of getting in touch with the internet service providers to get the IP addresses and the Mac addresses. Most of them are coming from normal family computers in homes, occasionally schools. A lot of them are using their real names and they all check out. Peter, though, doesn’t. He uses computers in public buildings or a mobile phone. No profile, just a completely random picture of roses, and no personal information of any kind, which is just odd for young people on Facebook. They normally like to tell the world everything. And, to me, he just doesn’t sound like the other kids.’

  ‘Not a kid?’ asked Weaver.

  Mizon shrugged.

  ‘So far, he’s not used the same building twice,’ said Dana. ‘If we could pin him down even to a few, we could put cameras in and catch him that way. All we know at the moment is that he probably lives in the same area of South London that most of the murdered boys did.’

  ‘Any number of people will know what we’re up to before official announcements are made,’ Weaver said. ‘On the other hand, his trying to conceal his identity is interesting in itself. It’s worth keeping an eye on.’

  The door to the incident room opened and a woman in civilian clothes made eye contact with the superintendent. She tapped her watch and gestured towards the corridor.

  ‘Five minutes,’ Weaver told her. She left the room.

  ‘Press conference at eight,’ Weaver said to Dana. ‘Will that give you enough time?’

  As Dana nodded, Weaver walked back to the incident board. He took his time, looking from one young face to the next. ‘We had to wait a week to find Ryan,’ he said. ‘Noah was missing for five days, and now Jason and Joshua turn up after only two.’

  ‘We know, Guv,’ said Dana. ‘Whoever he is, whatever he’s doing, he’s killing them faster.’

  10

  Friday 15 February

  BARNEY WOKE IN darkness and knew something was different. He often woke at exactly four o’clock in the morning and then lay for what felt like ages staring up at the ceiling. Usually, though, his head wasn’t anything like this fuzzy. He turned and looked at the clock. Well, that explained it – only just gone midnight. He’d not been asleep much more than an hour and a half.

  He sat up, wondering what had woken him. London was never quiet. There was always noise coming up from the street: traffic, sirens, older kids screeching, the occasional drunk. In the back gardens and alleyways, rubbish bins would clatter when cats or foxes got amongst them. He was used to all that, though. Normally, nothing woke him until four o’clock.

  He got out of bed, crossed to the window and lifted the blind. If there’d been something in the garden the security lights would be on. They weren’t.

  Years ago, Barney’s dad had hired a landscape designer to make the best of the long, narrow, shady plot behind their house. The young man came fresh out of college with grand ideas of Zen gardens and Japanese influences that had worked surprisingly well. From the back door of the house a mosaic path led in gently curving lines down to the very end of the space. The undulating beds on either side were filled with tall, architectural plants that kept their shape and foliage throughout the winter. Quirky sculptures lay amidst the shrubs like random surprises on a treasure hunt, whilst wind chimes and water features kept silence at bay. There were few flowers, even in spring, and no scent, but thanks to the presence of several small ponds, dragonflies, frogs, even newts could be seen and heard throughout the summer months.

  Right at the very end of the garden, only just visible behind the bordering plants, was a tall mirror. It reflected the garden, the mosaic path being the predominant feature. From the house, it gave the impression that the winding, colourful path went on for ever.

  As Barney looked out, the moon appeared, only fleetingly, but long enough to cast a soft, silver light across the garden. The mirror glowed and in its very centre a small, pale face looked back at Barney.

  Barney stared back, more curious than alarmed, knowing that the pale face was his own reflection. And yet it seemed to have taken on a life of its own out there. As though there were two Barneys: the one he knew inside-out, the constant, the familiar; and then the other one, the one who was him and not him, the boy in the mirror who was both smaller and thinner than he, spectral pale and with a smile on his face that Barney was sure he never saw in the bathroom mirror. He almost expected to see the phantom Barney wave, turn and walk away.

  The moon vanished and so did the other boy. Barney let the blind fall back into place then crossed to his bathroom and used the loo. He reached for the flush, then stopped. There was something about the flush of the cistern that always sounded so unnaturally loud at night. He found it a bit unnerving, if he was honest, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he hated to get up and see the mess the next day, he’d never flush the loo at night. Usually the forces of tidiness won, but tonight felt different.

  For one thing, there was that pressing cold weight in his stomach that told him he was alone in the house.

  He realized then, for the first time, that he had no idea what time his dad returned home on his evenings out. The pattern they’d established was always the same. Dad went out at 7.30, immediately after dinner, and phoned on the half-hour, every hour, until 9.30pm when he checked that Barney was in bed and the light was about to go out. He always asked if both doors were locked and Barney always had to get up and check, even though he knew they were. When Barney woke again, at 4am, his dad was always back.

  ‘Dad!’ he called from the bathroom doorway. No reply.

  Barney stepped out on to the landing. On the first floor of the house, the doors to his dad’s bedroom and study and to the two spare bedrooms were all shut. Barney had closed them himself on his way to bed as he always did when he was alone, because it was impossible to go to bed with open doors in the house. So there was really no way of knowing whether his dad was home or not.

  Except he knew. Apart from him, this was an empty house.

  ‘Dad!’

  No, don’t say that again. Too freaky to keep calling out for a parent who wasn’t there.r />
  Downstairs, in the kitchen, something fell to the tiled floor. Dad was home, after all.

  Except he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. The first floor and the ground floor were in darkness. Barney reached behind and pulled the drawstring that switched off the bathroom light.

  It had to be his dad. Barney had locked both doors before he’d gone to bed. Both had deadlocks, and the back door that led to the garden had bolts top and bottom. The windows were locked – he had a ritual, he checked them every night, running his hand along the aluminium, making sure the lock was in place. And then he always got up to check after his dad’s last phone call. No one could have broken in.

  Except someone was downstairs, he could hear footsteps. The gentle, stealthy footsteps of someone who didn’t want to be heard.

  His dad would have switched lights on. His dad didn’t sneak around. Barney had a sudden flashback of the boy in the garden, the thin, pale boy, who was him and not him, slinking round the back of the house, looking for a way in, groping, feeling, pulling. Finding one.

  OK, he had to stay calm. His dad’s study was the only room with a lock, he just had to get down the first flight of stairs without being heard and lock himself in. He’d phone Lacey. She could be here in seconds.

  On tiptoe, Barney took the first step and then the second. There was definitely someone in the kitchen, he could hear a distinctive and familiar sound. That made him pause. Why would a burglar, let alone a phantom, open the door of the washing machine?

  He reached the first-floor landing and stopped outside the study door. Lock himself in, or carry on down? Could he phone Lacey and say someone had broken in and was doing their washing? And what if the police did turn up, and found him alone in the house? They wouldn’t like it. They might take him away and put him in a care home like the two brothers who’d recently joined his school. They weren’t quite right, those two. They were way behind the rest of the class and had all sorts of what adults called behaviour issues. The rest of the kids had got the message loud and clear. Care homes were not the sort of places you wanted to be.

  Barney left the door of the study behind and carried on down, knowing from years of practice how to walk at the left edge so that the stairs never creaked. From the hall at the bottom he could see that the kitchen door was open, and he knew it hadn’t been when he went up to bed.

  A hand touched his shoulder and Barney screamed like the kid he hadn’t known he still was.

  ‘Barney, for heaven’s sake, it’s me.’

  His dad, as startled as Barney, had stepped back and raised both hands in the air in a surrender gesture. His dad, looking different somehow. Flushed and excited and nervous. His hair was untidy, there was colour in his cheeks, his clothes looked dishevelled. There was alcohol on his breath, too, not the bitter smell of beer but the sweeter one of red wine. The bottom couple of inches of the left leg of his jeans were wet. He caught Barney’s eye and looked away immediately.

  ‘Why didn’t you put any lights on?’ asked Barney, whose entire body was still trembling with fright.

  ‘I didn’t want to wake you up.’

  His dad’s right hand was tucked behind his back, as though he were holding something he didn’t want Barney to see. Then he shoved his hand into his jacket pocket. Whatever he’d been holding was now tucked inside. He raised his other hand and looked at his watch.

  ‘It’s gone midnight,’ he said. ‘Come on, back to bed.’

  For some reason, his dad seemed to have trouble looking at him.

  ‘You’re wet,’ Barney said.

  His dad looked down, saw the wet trouser leg. ‘Stepped in a puddle,’ he said.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Barney asked.

  ‘Working.’ His dad’s eyes drifted up to Barney’s face, then back down to the tiled floor. ‘You know I have to work sometimes.’

  Till midnight? How many people worked till midnight? Barney wanted to say it, didn’t quite dare. ‘They found those two boys,’ he said instead. ‘They found them tonight. Did you know?’

  Something that looked a bit like pain and a bit like anger crossed his dad’s face. ‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen the news. Were you worried?’

  ‘No,’ said Barney. ‘Not till just now. I thought you were a burglar.’

  ‘Burglars can’t get in, we talked about that. Come on, up you go.’

  Barney did what he was told. On the first landing, he looked back. His dad was standing at the foot of the stairs, in the still-dark hallway. His eyes were shining in the light from the street lamp outside and there was something about them that looked very different.

  Back in bed, Barney realized he wasn’t getting back to sleep any time soon. He heard his dad draw the chain on the front door and climb the stairs. He listened to the sounds of the bathroom and then two doors being closed. Sometimes, his dad remembered Barney’s dislike of open doors at night.

  As silence fell over the house once more, Barney got up. He could have another wee, he supposed, although he didn’t need one. Maybe get a drink of water. Then he would need a wee.

  As he crossed the landing, he saw a light shining from his dad’s study. He’d have to be very quiet. He took extra care opening the door of his den and closing it behind him. The desk-lamp made no sound and he turned down the volume on his computer before switching it on.

  He went to the news site first. The discovery of Jason’s and Joshua’s bodies was official now. There was even a photograph of the crime scene taken from Tower Bridge. You could see the police tent, the crime-scene tape, detectives looking as though they didn’t know what to do next. Barney wondered if Jorge and Harvey’s mum had taken it – it was typical of the sort of factual but, at the same time, slightly depressing and really rather hopeless pictures she always seemed to take.

  He read that the twins’ dad had identified his sons’ bodies earlier that evening and there would be a press conference at Lewisham police station the next day.

  Further down, the webpage carried pictures of all four boys, Ryan, Noah, Joshua and Jason, with details of their disappearances, including the dates they’d vanished and the dates they’d been found. Seven days, five days, two days, respectively, the boys had been missing. He was killing them faster. Barney sat back to think about that, and then immediately saw something else. He blinked, double-checked. Blimey, had nobody spotted that? It all happened on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

  Barney made sure, cross-checking the dates on the webpage with his electronic calendar, but he hadn’t been wrong. Ryan had disappeared from the garden of his house at 6pm on a Thursday evening. His body had been found a week later on Thursday. Noah had been taken on a Thursday and found five days later on Tuesday. Jason and Joshua had disappeared just two days ago, a Tuesday evening, and had been found this evening – Thursday. The news pages didn’t mention days of the week, just dates, so Barney knew there was a good chance most people wouldn’t have realized. But the police would have, surely? What about the other one, the one they weren’t sure was involved? Barney found his files on Tyler King. Vanished on a Thursday.

  Barney flicked away from the news page and on to Facebook. As most kids would have gone to bed, the comment stream had slowed down in the last couple of hours. Barney hovered the cursor over his status box and started typing.

  Has anyone else spotted that this is all happening on Tuesday and Thursday evenings? Check it out! Do the police know they should be looking for someone who doesn’t have an alibi on Tuesdays and Thursdays?

  He pressed Update without thinking about whether or not it was a good idea. Then realized it almost certainly wasn’t. Of course people would have spotted it. It had probably been picked up ages ago. He’d just made himself look a proper jerk. The piss-taking he’d get tomorrow.

  Within seconds someone replied. It was that rather odd Peter Sweep character. Bracing himself, Barney started to read. After one sentence, he felt like someone had placed large, cold hands on his shoulders.

  I was w
ondering when someone would spot that. Oh, the cleverness of you. Are you busy next Tuesday?

  Barney sat for a second, looking at the comment, waiting for someone to respond. No one did. He checked back up the thread. The last comment before his own had been left at 11.30pm. Still nothing else. It was as though he and Peter were alone on Facebook. Barney logged out and closed his computer down. He’d go back to bed and tell himself very firmly that there was nothing to get uptight about. Peter was just a twat trying to freak him out. Peter had no way of knowing where he lived. He could only get to him on Facebook.

  Barney closed the doors, switched off the lights and climbed into bed. As he lay in the darkness, he realized that Facebook felt quite close enough.

  11

  ‘IT’S THE BLOOD that I remember. Out of everything that happened that day, it’s the blood that won’t go away. There was this splash – spatter, I think you’d call it – on the windows and I remember I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Bright red. Like rose petals. Or rubies. Or balloons. Little red droplets. The colour they made in the sun was just incredible.’

  ‘Blood is a beautiful colour,’ agreed the psychiatrist.

  ‘And the way it moves in water. Have you seen that? It doesn’t mix, like a water-based paint, it hangs, suspended, twisting and turning like one of those lava lamps, forming its own shapes. Sometimes I think I’ll never get it out of my head. The blood.’

  12

  THE COLD, SOGGY light of a winter dawn seemed to be snaking its way up the Thames and settling over the city when Barney got back from the newsagent’s the next day. Strictly, he was too young to have a job, and there was no way his dad would have allowed him to have a paper round, but Mr Kapur had never been able to find a child he trusted to sort and organize the papers in the morning until Barney came along. Barney had the neatest, most logical mind he’d ever come across, he said at least weekly.

  There had been nothing from Mum in his secret email account this morning. It was getting harder, somehow, to look at that empty in-box every day. Still, he’d only just sent off the latest ads. He had to give them time.