Leo, for the first time in a while, was attempting sitting. He beat the table, drumming out his fretfulness through his fingertips.
‘Leo.’
Megan was standing beside the sink, her arms around her middle and her back to the room. In front of her was a plastic milk bottle and a mug of half-made tea. Either she had forgotten what she had been doing or she was drawing out the ritual for as long as possible.
‘Leo,’ she repeated. ‘Please.’
Leo, with a glance, settled his fingers. He stared at his flattened hands. What if he’d fled? He must have known, surely, that they would catch up with him. Some-
how, at some point – in this day and age. So if he fled. If he panicked. If he suspected he was running out of time . He would let her go. Wouldn’t he? Surely he would. It was the only rational course of action. He was caught anyway. Why make things worse? Not just worse: intensely, immeasurably so.
‘Leo.’
Even to someone as addled as this . . . this lunatic . ‘Leo, you’re . . .’
And he was that. A lunatic. Someone deranged. Quite what had happened to make him so, Leo could not begin to imagine. It wasn’t rage, this, after all. Or if a mist had descended, it had settled. Low enough to obscure any guiding light but not so dense that the man was unable to plan, to scheme, to act as though—
‘Leo!’
Megan was facing him now across the breakfast bar. Something in her seemed to have shattered. ‘Stop!’ she said. ‘Please! Stop drumming your blasted fingers!’
Leo swallowed. He slid his hands into his lap. Sorry, he tried to say but his throat, his mouth, was gummed dry.
Megan, eyes closed, said it instead. She started to say something more but turned back in silence towards the worktop. She stood facing the sink. She flicked on the kettle. It must have been the third or fourth time she had set it to boil.
Leo studied her. She had on her pyjamas, as well as the jumper that had emerged from her closet on day two: a polo neck, the one she described as her hot-water bottle and only ever wore when she was ill. It was fraying at the joins and two sizes too big, so that the sleeves hung to her knuckles and the shoulders overlapped her arms. Her hair was gathered in a shabby bunch and her skin was sallow and free of make-up – and not just because it was the middle of the night.
Leo swallowed again. He slid back his chair. It scraped on the ceramic-tiled floor and he saw the sound rattle Megan’s spine. She twitched her chin in his direction, then gripped the handle of the kettle, as though impatient for it to steam. Leo touched the chair, the table, the dresser. He moved from one piece of furniture to the next. He closed on Megan’s back and reached his hands towards her shoulders.
‘Don’t.’ Megan stepped away and turned. She pressed herself against the roll of the worktop and wrapped herself tight.
‘Meg.’ Leo took another step and his wife seemed almost to flinch. ‘Don’t,’ she said again. ‘Please.’
It was the please that hurt most.
‘Meg. We need to talk. Don’t you think?’
She did not answer – and her silence, suddenly, was more than Leo could bear. After weeks of this. The skulking, on his part; the passive loathing on hers. Nothing said, everything implied, even through the cold formality of the words they did exchange. No physical contact of any sort, though Leo longed to hold his wife, to be held in turn by her. They had collided, once or twice, in doorways, around corners, and he had caught the scent of her – the warmth of her – only for Megan to bear it briskly away. She had not even un-packed. The case she had filled the day Ellie had been taken lay distended on their daugh-ter’s floor. Her family had returned to their homes – to their beds, anyway, though Megan’s mother was invariably back with them by nine – but Megan herself behaved like a guest: sleeping apart, eating apart, confining herself to narrow corridors of space. Not a guest, then. A prisoner. Someone trapped. And even though Leo had tried everything he dared to free the both of them, she refused to look beyond what in her mind had the inviolability of scripture: that everything that had come to pass – all of it – was Leo’s fault.
‘I didn’t mean for this to happen, you know.’
Plaintive, he was dimly aware, would have been a better tack: healthier, more nourishing, less like gobbling grease to sate a hunger. Yet he could sense his fury gathering, barging its way towards the surface. ‘Is that what you think?’ he heard himself saying. ‘That I meant for this to happen? That this was somehow my plan all along?’
Megan remained silent. Everything about her seemed to tighten. ‘I’m sorry, Meg! I don’t know how many times you want me to say it!’ She watched him. Just stared at him.
‘She’s my daughter too. I want her back too!’
No movement. Nothing. Not a twitch – until he stepped. Megan slid away, towards the open part of the room. ‘Don’t,’ she said once more. Don’t. Don’t, don’t, don’t. Leo held up his hands. ‘Fine.’ He backed as far from his wife
as the kitchen units would allow. ‘Don’t talk to me. Don’t touch me. Just carry on acting like I don’t exist. Like you’re the only one who’s feeling any pain.’
Megan made a sound. It was difficult to read. Disdain, most likely. Or pity? ‘We need to get past this, Meg. We need to talk about it. Because when they find him.
When they find El—’
‘Don’t! Don’t say it!’
Not pity then. Leo felt his chin fall. ‘What? Why not? They’ll find her, Meg! How can they not? One way or . .’ He shook his head. He had not meant to start that sentence. ‘The picture,’ he said. ‘It’s all they needed. With the picture they—’
‘Stop it! For God’s sake, Leo! Don’t you think you’ve taunted fate enough!’ ‘Fate?’ Leo felt his lip curl. ‘Fate has nothing to do with this!’ ‘No. Of course not. I forgot: this is about you. Right from the start, this has only ever
been about you!
He shook his head. ‘That isn’t fair. You know it isn’t.’ Megan angled her chin as though studying him. ‘You think this absolves you. Don’t you?
You think finding some blasted picture makes everything else all right. Well it doesn’t, Leo! It only goes to prove how much you’re actually to blame!’
Leo spread his arms. ‘I just said! Didn’t I? I said I was sorry!’ ‘And what? I’m supposed to forgive you?’ She touched her forehead, let her hand re-
bound. ‘Of course. I forgot. In Leo-land, that’s how it works. As long as you’re sorry , you can get away with anything.’
Leo smiled. He looked at his watch. ‘Congratulations, Meg. You made it, what, a whole thirty seconds this time before bringing up the case?’
‘I didn’t say anything about the fucking case!’ She wiped her chin with a sleeve. ‘And anyway so what if I did? I can’t mention it? We can talk about your daughter being abduc-ted but Daniel Blake being convicted of murder – sorry, that cuts too close to the bone.’ Megan pressed a palm to her brow. She opened her mouth to say something more but seemed suddenly overwhelmed by the futility of it, the effort of it. She made, instead, to walk away. Just walk away.
‘It doesn’t absolve me,’ Leo said. And a voice, after, added: stop. Leave it there. Let Megan go and be grateful that you did. But this was something. Shouting, fighting: it was better than doing nothing. He wanted to keep Megan there because he could not face going back to where they had been. He would do anything to avoid that.
‘It doesn’t absolve me. I never said it did. But at least I’ve done something. At least I’ve been doing something .’ He paused, peered over the edge. ‘What have you done, Megan? Between blaming me? Between pining, making tea? What have you actually done ?’
‘Excuse me?’ The warning sign on Megan’s face was plain to read. Leo hurtled past it. ‘I’ve been out there. Every day. Driving, walking, searching. And I found something.
Something important. All you’ve been doing is—’ ‘How dare you!’ Megan moved with a speed that caught Leo by surprise. She flung a
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hand and Leo, reacting, caught it. She flung the other and hit Leo on the upper arm. She swung again and this time Leo caught her other hand too. She was thrashing in his grip, yanking at her wrists to try to free them.
He pushed and she stumbled away. She made to come again but Leo held out his hands to ward her off.
‘Megan! What the hell are you doing! Calm down!’ ‘You wanker . You bastard !’ Her hair had come loose. Her jumper had twisted and she
writhed to try and straighten it. She started to cry. More than that, she began to heave, gulp-ing and sobbing all at once. She gave up on the jumper and tried to drag her hair from her mouth, as though to make space for air – but it was stuck there by her spit and her snot and her tears. Leo had never seen her look so wretched; so wounded and terrified both.
‘Meg.’ He took a step. Megan sniffed, sobbed again but marginally recovered her breath-ing.
‘Meg, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean . . .’ She recoiled.
‘I need you, Meg. More than ever. You need me too, I know you do.’ Which made her look. Into his eyes and beyond them. It was just a look but as clear an
answer as Leo could have asked for.
‘Meg.’ Leo could feel his own tears now, massing though yet to break. ‘Meg, please. Don’t. Just think for a minute before you—’
A ringing. The sound they had been waiting for. Leo was closer. He looked at the phone and back at his wife. She was motionless all of a
sudden, her hand halfway to her cheek, her lips pressed tight. A tear fell and she let it. The ringing. Once again Leo turned. His feet pointed one way, his shoulders the other. ‘Answer it.’
Leo looked at Megan.
‘Answer it!’
Leo scrambled. He lunged and snatched up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ There was quiet for a moment at the other end. A rustling, voices in the background, then
finally a cough. ‘Hello?’ said a voice back. ‘Mr Curtice?’ ‘Inspector?’
‘You’re there. Thank God.’
‘What’s happened? What’s going on?’
‘Are you . . . Can you get down here?’
Megan, Leo was aware, was beside him. He turned and held the receiver so that she might hear.
‘Of course. But what’s happening? Have you got him?’ ‘We’ve got him but . . . Look, you need to come down here.’ ‘Why? Inspector? Have you found my daughter? She’s not . . . Please don’t tell me she’s
. . .’
‘Don’t drive, Mr Curtice. Just stay put. A car ’s already on its way.’ ‘He says he won’t talk to anyone but you.’
They marched along the corridor, Detective Inspector Mathers supposedly leading but Leo setting the pace. He was surprised, given the hour, how busy the station was. It was kicking-out time at the city’s nightclubs, which explained the bustle in the lobby, but here, amid the back rooms, they had barely passed a room without a light on.
‘He’s refused a solicitor, too,’ said the DI. ‘Doesn’t want a duty. Says you’re the only law-yer he trusts. Seemed to think that was amusing until I reminded him what it was he was doing here.’
Leo broke step. He was laughing? He was sitting, waiting . . . laughing? They stopped outside a windowless door. Mathers reached for the handle and held it.
‘Listen,’ the DI said. ‘I realise this is going to be hard for you but it’s important that we keep our cool. We still don’t have your daughter, Mr Curtice. Whatever he says, whatever he does, you need to keep that in mind.’
Vincent Blake was pacing the edge of the room, tapping his cigarette packet against his thigh. From the door side of the table, a constable roughly double Blake’s size tracked his progress. Other than a chair either end of what looked like a 1980s school desk, there was nothing and no one else in the cell.
Keep your cool. The words, briefly, tethered him. But when Blake turned; when he spot-ted Leo and smiled – smiled , as though genuinely pleased to see him – Leo felt his fury snap its leash.
He surged. He felt a touch on his shoulder – a flailing grip – but he was free of it and past the table and through a chair and falling against his cowering prey. He seized Blake’s throat. He pressed him to the wall. He smelt sweat and soured smoke and the scent was like a taste of blood.
‘Where’s my daughter!’ He squeezed and Blake’s eyes bulged. ‘Where is she! If you’ve hurt her I swear to God I’ll . . .’
A hand on each arm: rough, strong, prising at his grip and wrenching it away. Another set around his middle, yanking until Leo tumbled. He searched for Blake’s face but saw only the constable’s, the inspector’s, and felt himself hurled against something solid. He cracked his head. He barely noticed. He tried to push himself forwards but there was a weight across
his chest that pinned him: a forearm, the size of Leo’s lower leg. ‘Mr Curtice!’ DI Mathers appeared around his colleague’s shoulder. Their faces were in
Leo’s, blocking his view of the coward in the corner. ‘Look at me. Look at me!’ Leo, re-luctantly, allowed his focus to settle. He saw Mathers growling. ‘I said cool, didn’t I? I said we needed to keep our cool!’
Leo jerked. The constable held him still.
‘Okay!’ Leo struggled again but less forcefully. The policemen were a wall in front of him and he would have said anything to get a glimpse of the man beyond. ‘Okay,’ he re-peated and this time Leo held the inspector’s eye. Gradually the pressure across his chest began to ease. The constable drew back. The inspector, though, held his ground.
‘Cool!’ He showed Leo a finger. ‘Got it?’
Leo nodded. He shifted and there he was: Daniel’s stepfather, his cigarette packet crumpled at his feet and his nicotine-stained fingers massaging his throat. The man coughed. He hacked and he spat. He glared at Leo and Leo glared back.
‘Sit,’ said the DI. ‘Both of you.’ He dragged Leo towards a chair. The constable, less tenderly, assisted Blake.
‘Hey!’ Blake resisted but the policeman shoved him down, then slid the chair so Blake’s stomach impacted against the table. He took up position at Blake’s shoulder. Leo sensed the DI looming over his.
‘I could do you, you know,’ said Blake, spluttering. ‘Him and you both.’ He jabbed a thumb at Leo but spoke across his shoulder to the PC. ‘That’s assault. So much as touch me again and I’ll have you for ABH.’
The policeman said nothing. He stared at the opposite wall. ‘Settle down, Mr Blake,’ said Mathers. ‘I don’t think you really want to broach the sub-
ject of formal charges just yet, do you?’
Blake faced them. He glowered.
‘Now. The matter in hand. We’re listening. Mr Curtice here: he’s listening.’ Blake, tentatively, moved his gaze to meet Leo’s. He licked his lips. He made a motion to
lean forward but, catching something in Leo’s expression, changed his mind. He propped his elbows on the surface and spread his fingers.
‘Curtice,’ Blake said. ‘Leo.’ He wetted his lips again. ‘I sent the notes. Okay? I admit it. But this business with your daughter . . . I swear to you I had nothing to do with it.’
Leo made no movement.
‘Please,’ said Blake and this time he did lean forward. ‘You need to tell them. You need to convince them I’m telling the truth. Because they won’t listen. They just won’t. I mean, you know what they’re like, right? You have to deal with them all the time. Right?’
Leo twitched and Blake flinched. Mathers, at Leo’s shoulder, edged closer. ‘Where is she?’ Leo’s voice, in his head, sounded distant. It seemed steady, under con-
trol, when Leo felt anything but. ‘Blake,’ he said. ‘I helped you. I helped Daniel, your fam-ily. Please. Just tell me where my daughter is.’
Blake was shaking his head as Leo spoke. ‘Listen to me. Please. You’re not—’ Leo held up a hand. ‘Even if she’s . .’ Leo registered the horror spreading on Vincent
Blake’s face. ‘You just need to tell us. Now.’ He had intended to sou
nd intimidating. On the final word, however, Leo’s voice cracked.
There was silence. Leo, the men around him, watched Blake. Blake looked at each of them in turn, as though willing for someone in the room to admit the joke. He focused on Leo.
‘Curtice. This is me!’ He pressed his fingers to the faded logo on his sweater. ‘You know me,’ Blake was saying. ‘You know my family. You said it yourself. You were trying to help us! Why would you help us if you didn’t trust us?’
‘Not you,’ Leo hissed. ‘Never you!’
Blake shook his head. ‘I admitted it. Didn’t I? I wrote the notes. But that’s all. Honest! That’s all I did!’ He checked around again in desperation. ‘Okay,’ he said, and splayed his hands again. ‘Maybe I sent a mate of mine round to your house and all. But he didn’t do anything, did he? Gave your wife a bit of a scare but there was no harm done. Was there?’
Leo sat motionless. The man with the beard. The man Megan saw. Leo had forgotten all about him.
‘I told him you owed me money,’ Blake was saying. ‘I said to him, throw a brick into your living room or something. But he couldn’t even manage that, could he?’ Blake re-clined slightly and muttered, as though revisiting some lingering grievance. ‘Twenty-mill units, he tells me. Your double glazing. Says he took a proper look but a brick would have bounced right off. But if he’d done it right, if he’d chucked it at one of the corners . .’ He raised his eyes, seemed to realise he owed the room an explanation. ‘Glazing’s my trade,’ he said. ‘Pat’s, too: my useless mate. It’s how I got this.’ He fingered his crooked nose, the scar across it. ‘Cash-in-hand job. Almost lost a bloody eye. At least I get my disability now but I should probably be claiming for the undercover work too.’ He tested the room with a smile. It faltered. ‘The beach,’ he explained to Leo. ‘The day I followed you. I mean, I was wrapped up pretty tightly so I’m assuming my ugly mug’s how you . . .’
Leo made to cut him off and Blake held up his hands. ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter. The point is, you’ve got me all wrong. The notes,
the brick: I had my reasons. But that was it, Leo. Honest. That, for me, is where it stops.’ ‘Why?’
Lelic, Simon - The Child Who Page 21
