He's Gone

by Alex Clare

  ‘I’ve got a new mapping app on my phone, Guv, I’ll see if there’s a quicker way.’ Ravi pressed some buttons. ‘Yes. Turn right here.’

  After crossing the river, they followed a series of narrowing roads, until they turned into a lane only wide enough for a single car, tufts of yellowed grass between the wheel-tracks.

  ‘Are you sure this is right?’ The high hedges blocked visibility and a bramble scraped the wing as they squeezed past a pair of hikers. She’d only seen one passing place and had visions of tractors around every bend.

  ‘Don’t panic, Guv. A bit further along here we take a lane on the left. Signal’s bad though.’

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t leave us stranded.’

  Ravi shifted in his seat. ‘The turning should be here, Guv. Yes, now go left.’

  The lane met a road at a right-angle bend. Robyn nosed the car back onto two-lane tarmac, the main road they could have taken.

  ‘We’re nearly there. Just coming up on the left.’

  On the next bend, a faded sign had been hammered into the verge. Robyn slowed the car. The dense hedgerows gave way to scrubby trees in front of a tin shed, where a painted ‘St Oswald’s Furniture’ sign competed with rust. A telegraph pole had a chair and table nailed to it, six foot off the ground.

  The car bumped down a driveway between two Nissen huts, dust rising from the wheels. They parked next to an old Transit, hand-painted with graffiti images of a figure in biker gear and sunglasses, holding a hammer and saw, a golden halo at a rakish angle.

  Ravi noted down the number plate. ‘Cool artwork.’

  In the building nearest the road, the double doors were open, painted furniture on display. At the far end, a caravan was propped up on blocks. Washing lines stretched between the caravan and the nearest building, filled with faded check shirts and jeans. On a separate rotary dryer hung patterned skirts, printed blouses and a bright, flowery dress.

  ‘Can I ’elp you?’ The voice had equal parts question and challenge.

  Robyn had to shade her eyes to see the man standing on the steps of the caravan. His broad shoulders strained a white t-shirt, head seeming too small. ‘Paddy Hall? I’m DI Bailley and this is DC Sharma. We need to talk to you for a moment.’

  The man folded his thick arms. ‘If we must.’ He passed back into the caravan, turning sideways to fit his shoulders through the door.

  Climbing the metal steps, Robyn and Ravi edged into the smoky fug. The caravan was a shell with two mismatched desks jammed in the centre, Hall glowering from behind the one nearest the door. The only other chair looked like a sale reject, covered with multiple shades of wood stain and missing a spindle. Robyn sat, lumps in the cushion pushing at the strapping between her legs, making her wish she had remained standing. Behind her, there were creaks from the plastic wall as Ravi leant back.

  ‘Mr Hall, we’re here to talk to you about one of your residents, Jack Parkes. How long has he been with you?’

  Hall occupied himself with shuffling papers on the desk into a loose pile. Robyn recognised the attempt to buy time. The smoke from his roll-up wound up past a carved wooden crucifix. It was an impressive piece of work, Christ’s agony captured in full detail, the straining tendons shown in curves of wood grain.

  ‘Mr Hall?’

  Hall’s fingers were stained with paint and nicotine as he gave the papers another prod.

  ‘Mr Hall, we’d like to know how long Jack Parkes has been with you at St Oswald’s.’

  ‘Six months. What d’ye think ’e’s done then?’

  Robyn noted the tone; part defiance, part resignation. ‘We’re investigating the disappearance of a toddler from Meresbourne yesterday. This is a routine enquiry.’ There were little creaks and scuffles as Ravi fidgeted behind her.

  ‘You’re ’ere because you think Jack done something.’ Hall leaned forward, the blue of old tattoos visible under the sleeves.

  Ravi spoke before Robyn could answer. ‘Mr Hall, do you know the record of the ex-prisoners you take on before they come to stay here?’

  ‘No. We don’t ask and they don’t tell. It’s ’ard enough when you come out of prison and people just expects you to step into your old clothes before they chuck you out without asking if you’ve got somewhere to sleep.’

  Robyn’s elbow dug into Ravi’s leg.

  Hall glared into the space between them. ‘No one cares about prisoners when they’re let out. Anyone can apply to come and, if we’ve got a space, we’ll take’em, long as they’re not on anything.’

  A couple more questions, Robyn thought, get him used to talking. ‘Do people tend to stay with you long?’

  Hall deepened a scratch in the desk with a fingernail. ‘Depends. We give’em a trade. Most sets out for themselves as once you’ve got a record, no one won’t give you a chance. There’s nobody comes ’ere that doesn’t want to just leave all the crap behind them.’

  ‘It’s a good site. How did you get set up?’

  ‘Some local people bought the farm and equipment. Now, we make money with what we sell.’ Hall looked at Ravi and his expression changed. ‘And the rest gets donated, before you start thinking.’

  Robyn kept her face pleasant. ‘Thank you, Mr Hall. Could we speak to Jack Parkes now?’

  With a long sigh, Hall manoeuvred himself from behind the desk. ‘When you see’im – just think, maybe’e’s not so different to you. People judge what they see by what they expect to see.’ He stumped down the steps. Robyn shifted on the chair, her trouser leg catching on a rough patch of wood.

  ‘Is it safe – him going on his own?’ Ravi sounded worried.

  Robyn craned her neck around. ‘Even if he does warn Parkes, he can’t get far.’

  Ravi kicked a cupboard. ‘We knew all of this stuff already. Why didn’t you ask him about the Dearmans?’

  There was a low exchange on the steps, before a man slid through the doorway and took Hall’s chair. Despite the heat, his denim shirt was buttoned up at the collar and wrists, the visible skin pallid. Hall remained on the top step, filling the doorway and blocking most of the light.

  ‘Mr Parkes, thank you for talking to us. I’m DI Bailley and this is DC Sharma. These are routine enquiries. We’d like to know where you were yesterday between eight and nine am.’

  From across the yard, the sound of a power-tool rose then fell. A closer buzzing came from an insect trapped under a blind. Hall tossed his tobacco packet onto the table. Parkes began rolling a cigarette. A scabbed cut ran across the base of his left thumb.

  Robyn felt squashed between Ravi’s presence behind and the desk pressing against her stomach. ‘What happened to your hand?’

  Parkes finished rolling a cigarette, placed it on the edge of the desk and began making another. ‘Lathe here is a bit more powerful than the ones I’ve used before.’

  Robyn nodded once, wondering how a voice so deep could come from such a slim frame. ‘Can you tell us where you were yesterday morning?’

  The tip of Parkes’ tongue ran along the edge of the paper. He gave the second cigarette to Hall, who produced a battered lighter. The noise of the power-tool rose again. Robyn had to lean forward to catch his words, wincing as the desk pressed her bra’s underwire against her ribcage.

  ‘… in the van.’

  Ravi grabbed the back of her chair. The tool’s whine came to a pitch, then slackened. ‘I’m sorry?’

  Smoke dribbled from Parkes’ nose. ‘Was out in the van.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  Something flew through the cigarette smoke, buzzing up towards the mouldy ceiling.

  ‘To pick up some donations from Upper Markham.’

  ‘And you were doing this between eight and nine?’ Robyn had to stop to cough. ‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to wait until the morning traffic had died down?’

  Parkes shrugged. ‘The lady wanted the stuff picked up before she left for work.’

  ‘We’ll need her name and address please. Was anyone else with you?’


  ‘Maggie. I picked her up on the way back.’

  Ravi couldn’t keep quiet any longer. ‘Who’s Maggie?’

  In the doorway, Hall dropped the remains of his cigarette. ‘Maggie does the books and the orders. She’elps us out a couple of days a week.’

  Slowly, Robyn thought, slowly. ‘And where does Maggie live?’

  ‘By Meresbourne station.’

  Ravi leant forward. ‘So to pick her up, you’d have driven close to the Riverside entrance to Whitecourt Shopping Centre?’ He pulled out the picture of Ben. ‘Did you or Maggie see this toddler yesterday morning?’

  Parkes hadn’t changed position but his fingers tightened on the cigarette. The end fell to the desk, glowing red for a second before it went out. He glared at Hall, lips drained of the little colour they had. ‘You didn’t tell me they were trying to set me up.’

  Hall waited until a drill whined to silence. ‘Because you’d have set yourself up, Jack. I didn’t want you clamming up and seeming as if you’d something to ’ide.’ He twisted his shoulders, stepping into the caravan, taking up most of the free space. ‘’E’s told you where he was and Maggie can confirm it. Maybe you’ll believe ’er because she’s a Christian lady.’

  Robyn found herself tensing as she turned to meet Hall’s glare. ‘Thank you, Mr Hall, we’ll need her full name and address. Can you show us the van?’

  The yard shimmered in a heat haze of sticky air. A man was taking in the washing. ‘Radio says a storm this afternoon.’

  Robyn watched him. ‘I thought it was just men here – whose clothes are on the dryer?’

  A gobbet of spittle landed at her feet. The man picked up the laundry basket and slouched off.

  Hall’s nostrils flared as he rooted in his pockets for the van keys. ‘They’re Maggie’s. ’Er washing machine broke and she needed some stuff done. She ’elps us, we ’elp ’er.’ He kicked at a stone in the dust. ‘Jack was back here by nine-fifteen with Maggie and a load of furniture so I don’t see ’ow ’e could have taken your kid.’ One spatulate finger pointed to Robyn’s chest for emphasis. ‘Even if ’e wanted to. Which ’e don’t.’

  15

  Hall flung open the back door of the painted van. Ravi already had his phone out to call for a forensic team. Robyn scanned the crammed space and saw spiders’ webs between the clutter, concluding the load had not been touched since the previous day and they would need more evidence. Hall watched them go, face flat.

  ‘What more do you want, Guv?’

  ‘I really want to know about this Maggie woman and why she was washing her flowery dress – visit her as soon as possible. He said she’s a Christian: check out her church and whether she knows Ms Chivers. Then check the woman in Upper Markham and where he went afterwards: the paint job should make the van easy to track on CCTV.’

  Ravi was leaning into the door, as far away from Robyn as he could get.

  ‘Anything on your mind, Ravi?’

  Another buzz from Ravi’s phone. He stared at the screen.

  ‘Talk to me.’

  Ravi swallowed. ‘Do you know what people are saying about you?’

  At last. They might be about to get to the root of this. ‘I can guess.’

  ‘I don’t mean around the station, I mean on social media.’ Ravi held up his phone. ‘There’s loads of stuff about you.’

  ‘And I bet most of it’s pretty unpleasant. Exactly why I don’t use any sites.’ Robyn was amazed by how easy she found it to lie now: Roger had always been awful at those little social fibs that help interactions go smoothly. She’d been active online as Robyn and other names for over a year. What had started as a quest for information had become the discovery of a community.

  ‘Don’t you care?’

  ‘People have their opinions and that’s fine. I’m not asking everyone to agree with me, just to let me live my own life.’

  ‘But what about when what you do affects other people?’

  There were echoes of Becky’s anger. ‘What’s up, Ravi?’

  A lorry went past as Ravi muttered something.

  ‘Speak up. We haven’t got time to faff around, we’ve got a job to do. Tell me what the problem is.’ Robyn could hear the impatience in her voice.

  ‘Guv, I’m getting people telling me I shouldn’t work with you, because you’re a …’ He tailed off, gazing into the footwell.

  Robyn wanted to be angry but tried not to let it show in her voice. ‘People. What people?’

  ‘At the temple.’

  Goodness knows what Ravi had told everyone. Robyn’s attention was jerked back to the road by a learner scooter weaving out in front of her. Beside her, Ravi’s rounded shoulders reminded her of early days in her own career when Prentiss, or one of his crew, had questioned her suitability as an officer. She took a deep breath.

  ‘Ravi, you joined the police. Our job brings us into contact with some of the worst people in the world. When I interviewed you for the fast-track programme, you told me how you went against your parents’ wishes when you joined up because it was something you believed in.’ She risked a glance across to see Ravi with his head in his hands. ‘So, if you consider I’m worse than the people we spend our time locking up, then maybe you shouldn’t work with me. But I hope you will, because you’ve got the potential to go a long way.’

  They crossed Pickley Bridge, now covered in orange netting, the Gadd below bright green with algae. Robyn’s phone sounded a series of missed call alerts.

  ‘Could you check my phone? It’s in the bag on the back seat.’

  Ravi lifted the bag’s strap between two fingers, as if it were something unsavoury. Fumbling with the heavy clasp, he dived into the bag, sending the make-up pouch, pen, notebook, mints, penknife, teabags and, to Robyn’s surprise, a clothes peg, flying. ‘Blimey, Guv. Oh, here it is.’

  He pulled out the phone. ‘What’s the code? Right. Five missed calls, three from Tracey. Uh-oh. One from Janice, one from someone called Becky. Shall I listen to the voicemails?’

  Three calls from Tracey was never going to mean good news. And Becky – she couldn’t risk it. ‘No, thanks. We’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  Ravi made a vain attempt to repack the handbag. ‘Honestly, Guv. Do you need all this crap?’

  They pulled into the station. Robyn didn’t answer. Her stomach was tightening with the anticipation of a real bollocking. Ravi had his seat belt off and opened the door before the engine was off.

  Robyn felt the snub but now wasn’t the time to deal with it. ‘Ravi.’

  At least he looked back at her.

  ‘You go on – follow up on those leads and can you ask Janice to have a look at the church and its congregation? We haven’t investigated them yet. I’ll listen to these and then see Tracey.’

  ‘Right, Guv.’ You couldn’t miss the relief in Ravi’s voice.

  Robyn leaned against the car and listened to the most recent voicemail, Change of plan. Get back and see Fell now. With Tracey’s tone, ‘now’ meant an hour ago. She made her way across the car park, the phone jammed to her ear.

  Becky’s message was over so soon, she had to replay it: OK, call me. Robyn allowed herself a moment of pleasure. Then the wretched handbag wouldn’t shut as she pulled open the front door and there were amused glances in the lobby as her make-up pouch and hairbrush tumbled to the floor. Unable to face the five flights of stairs to Fell’s office, she pushed the button for the lift. As she waited, she scanned the noticeboard, the usual rubbish, a caravan for sale, a quiz night happening the previous week. Then her name: Fell’s memo to the team. Beside the phrase Roger will be returning in a different gender role, someone had drawn an axe chopping at a penis with little sprays of blood.

  She waited until the lift doors closed, before leaning her face against the wall of the lift and shutting her eyes. She stayed slumped until the lift slowed, when she focused on her fuzzy reflection in the steel walls and replaced the vanished lipstick, irritated that the stuff only last
ed a couple of hours, even though it was sold as making you ‘all-day kissable’.

  Tracey was on the phone; her hair was set to curve around the receiver. She covered the phone with her hand. ‘Go straight in – he’s got ten minutes before the start of the press conference at three.’

  Robyn tapped on the door, wondering why they were doing another press conference. As she walked in, sunshine lanced through slits in the blind lighting up the large silver trophy for ‘Division of the Year’ on Fell’s desk. Khalid stood by one of the open windows. There was the distant sound of traffic on the ring road but no relief from the temperature or the smell.

  ‘Where are we, Bailley?’ Fell sat in his black uniform jacket. ‘Almost thirty-six hours have passed since a boy was kidnapped and we appear to have made no progress. We have the national media’s attention at a time when the command structure in Kent is being reviewed.’ He paused. ‘Do you have any sightings of the boy?’

  ‘None confirmed, sir.’

  ‘Do you have any leads?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We have a previous sex offender who was in the area at the time of the disappearance. There were also recent threats against the family and we’re investigating whether there’s a link to the mother’s work. As part of the search we’ve also found a body and evidence of a drugs shipment in the Docks this morning, though we don’t believe either are connected to Ben’s disappearance.’

  Fell made a grating sound in the back of his throat. ‘Are there any credible leads?’

  Robyn had been asking herself the same thing as she watched the team at work. They were all so busy and purposeful but was anything they were doing making any difference? The air smelled of old leather and rotting vegetation. She’d only been in there five minutes and it felt like an hour.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you believe Ben is still alive?’

  It would be so easy to say yes for some momentary relief. She had no evidence either way. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  This time, the noise in Fell’s throat was more like a growl. ‘Given, as part of our “Open Policing” strategy,’ he threw a guarded glance at Khalid, ‘I have to face the national press in a few minutes and I would like to know exactly what you do know, Bailley. Have we got any identification of the woman in the flowery dress?’