Every Missing Thing

by Martyn Ford

  About a quarter of a mile ahead it was cordoned off – rows of traffic cones intermittently crowned with flashing orange lights. A curved runway. Huge machines, beeping metal juggernauts were busy down there.

  They were carving an exit ramp, connecting the road to a sprawling building site at the bottom of a slope – the bare skeleton of a half-finished shopping mall. The ground was dried mud, gravel, lined trenches with steel foundation rods spiking up from cement beds, like exposed vertebrae. Diggers and trailers, all dark and hidden behind temporary fences clad in glossy boards which promised consumer nirvana by the end of next year. Brand logos. Expensive smiles.

  But Sam wasn’t interested in that – instead he needed to speak to this small team of nocturnal roadworkers, who were yet to notice his approach. Two of them were shovelling sand, both with high-visibility trousers, boots, and nothing covering their chests. Another was reversing a large roller, holding the steering handle, looking over his shoulder through the yellow siren light above his head.

  ‘You lost, chief?’ someone said.

  The engine cut out and there was a lack of sound, so quiet it seemed lower, if it was possible, than silence.

  Now all the men were staring. Sam imagined what they saw – a hooded figure, standing there in the middle of the empty road.

  ‘I’m looking for Henry Marston,’ he said.

  ‘Oi, Hen Do,’ the guy sitting high on the roller yelled.

  A younger man carrying a broom emerged from a pile of earth to Sam’s left. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Think you’ve been rumbled, boy,’ one of the men shouted, triggering some laughter.

  Henry seemed embarrassed, then scared – a startled white to his eyes that Sam recognised as someone who was about to flee. On that thought, he dropped his broom and ran – his heavy boots thumping down the dirt path towards the dormant building site.

  Something had taken over and Sam was, without thinking, chasing him. Younger and faster, Henry was up and over the tall fence with ease. Sam, close behind, smashed into it shoulder first, bouncing off and thudding to his back on the gravel. But he’d hit it hard enough to dislodge a panel and, denim ripping at his knee, he was through and scanning the area. Henry was jogging now, past a cement mixer, heading for an exit on the far side. But when Henry checked back, he picked up the pace and took a quick right, disappearing into the gloom of what would be a multistorey car park when this project was complete.

  Inside, Sam found him at a dead end, heaving and resting his hands on his knees. But, once again, Henry took flight and ran towards the spiralling ramp. With a sigh, Sam followed, catching odd glimpses of fluorescent trousers half a floor above as they mirrored each other, round and round, up and up the fresh tarmac.

  Three tall storeys later, Henry stopped and turned. He’d clearly realised that altitude was no advantage for prey.

  ‘Why are you chasing me?’ he said, out of breath.

  ‘Because you’re running.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense . . . I didn’t tell them anything.’

  ‘Where’s your sister?’ Sam asked.

  ‘My . . . what?’

  ‘Your sister, where is she?’

  ‘I . . . I haven’t got a sister.’

  ‘Don’t lie. Diane.’

  ‘She’s not . . . I . . . I have no idea.’

  Behind Henry, there was no crash barrier, no railing. All that stood between them and the edge was a thin strip of plastic tape – red and white and rippling in the breeze.

  ‘Why did you run?’

  ‘I thought you worked for . . . I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘What do you know about North Serpent?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The church, your sister’s cult.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘It’s connected to them.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘The Clarkes. The Clarkes. Just fucking—’

  Sam moved closer and, as though he’d hit a tripwire, Henry swung a punch – it connected, rattling Sam’s vision. He tried to block and, somehow, they were gripped in a clumsy grapple. A handful of T-shirt and flesh, arms locked straight – teeth and eyes – until another strike seemed to come from above. Sam’s jumper pulled up, his face falling, a strong arm squeezing him in a headlock. All he could see were his feet, stepping, stumbling. He couldn’t breathe. Something struck his back, his ribs. His face hot, swelling with blood. And then, at the mercy of instinct, Sam felt his legs drive forwards. Adrenaline granted new strength to his arms. And he pushed.

  Slapping, knees first, on to the tarmac, he looked straight down over the edge. For a strange, eerie moment, Sam was all alone, three storeys up that spiralling ramp. As though Henry Marston had been nothing more than a vivid hallucination he’d simply stopped believing.

  But, below, he saw that this was not the case.

  The upper half of Henry’s falling body had clipped a horizontal scaffold pole, which sent him spinning. He landed backwards, sideways. A savage thud as the torso hit the packed earth, bouncing flat and sending out a perfect shockwave of dust.

  Now a ragdoll, helpless, injured in the way you are in nightmares, Henry wheezed as he tried to roll over. Tried to move. Tried, perhaps, to wake up. But he couldn’t. So he screamed.

  PART TWO

  FRANCIS CLARKE

  Chapter 17

  This was not the first time Sam had watched dawn rise through a prison-cell window. But he decided it would probably be the last. He rolled over on to his side, then swung his legs off the plastic crash-mat bed. Piss-proof. Blood-proof. Apparently sleep-proof too.

  Now sober enough for a statement, he stood and put his beltless trousers on. Something juvenile, oddly domestic about walking around this place with nothing but socks on his feet. It took Sam a while to realise who the custody officer was – the years had done some work on him.

  ‘Morning, Darrel,’ he said.

  Professional as ever, Darrel kept it strictly business as he escorted Sam for his questioning. He felt nervous as he sat down – like he was about to be grilled for a job. A job he didn’t want. Sam sipped water and, the moment he swallowed, discovered just how dehydrated he was – with three more gulps he finished the cup.

  About a minute later, the door opened and Isabelle – of all people – entered. Before he could remark on the odds, he realised it wasn’t a coincidence.

  ‘Hello, Sam,’ she whispered, sitting opposite him, her shoulders square to his.

  Situations like this are significantly less stressful for honest people. Sam had watched countless men and women tie themselves in wild knots – lies can take you anywhere you need to go, anywhere but backwards. He told her everything.

  ‘Henry Marston has a broken spine, spiral femur fracture and his pelvis was described to me as a “bag of bones”,’ Isabelle said. ‘He won’t walk again.’

  ‘I assure you, that was not my intention.’

  ‘He says it was an accident – a misunderstanding.’

  ‘That’s true. I didn’t mean for him to go over the edge.’

  ‘You put yourself in that situation.’

  ‘He attacked first – I defended myself. But, yes, I shouldn’t have been there. I shouldn’t have chased him.’

  ‘Are you even sorry?’

  ‘Yes. It is unfortunate.’

  ‘He’s twenty years old. He’s going to be in a wheelchair. It’s more than unfortunate, Sam.’

  He didn’t respond. Because she was right. This was so many things alongside unfortunate.

  ‘I’m suggesting a charge of perverting the course of justice,’ Isabelle said.

  ‘Fair.’

  ‘As for possession, that’s being overlooked.’

  Sam frowned.

  ‘The cocaine they found on you.’

  And he remembered. While waiting for the ambulance, he’d pulled three bags from Henry’s pocket – all weighed up and ready to sell. There was also a folded packet of prescription SSRI antidepressants
, with all but two pills gone. An extra touch of guilt at this memory – poor Henry Marston was struggling to endure reality at the best of times. What kind of doom was he navigating now?

  Sam pictured him lying in a hospital bed, broken, machines beeping. A glimpse of anger at the punch. Stupid kid. But there was no mitigation here. Literally none of this would have happened if Sam had just stayed at home.

  ‘Henry thinks you should face no charges,’ Isabelle said.

  ‘I imagine his brothers have something else in mind. Every cloud.’

  ‘Do you want to go somewhere safe?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Eye for an eye . . .’

  ‘If it really was an eye for an eye, they’d go after my brother,’ Sam said. ‘And he’s already dead.’

  Upon his release, Sam took back his mobile, laced up his shoes and checked all his personal effects were in place. Then he stepped outside, out into the warm morning, and scrolled through his contacts. Lei R. He would help.

  ‘I’m in the alley by the station, you about?’

  A few minutes passed before Lei arrived with a disappointed face – this was all such a shame. ‘What’s going on Sam?’

  ‘I need you to do something else for me.’

  ‘No. We’re square.’ Lei moved closer. ‘There’s already a complaint lodged against me for yesterday’s antics. Don’t know what I was thinking. We’re looking at very serious ramifications here. What the hell am I supposed to say?’

  ‘Tell the truth,’ Sam said, shrugging.

  An outrageous suggestion. ‘What?’

  ‘You arrested her after a former colleague gave you a tip-off. Say I told you there was a good reason to bring Mary Osbourne in.’

  ‘You want me to blame it all on you?’

  ‘It was my idea.’

  ‘And what about last night?’

  Joey’s warnings echoed in his thoughts. A hornets’ nest. Fire and fury. The most literal interpretation of the worst Bible passages.

  ‘I think I’ve upset some . . . bad people.’ Bad people. He sounded like a scared child.

  ‘You want me to protect you? I’m not your big brother, Sam. Report it.’

  ‘I don’t trust the police to keep me safe.’ This was true, but not the whole reason. If he’d baited the Marstons, it made little sense to hide. Sam had their attention now – he couldn’t find them, but he would bet big money they could find him. ‘Listen, you’re often out with armed response. Maybe you can send something for repair or . . .’

  Lei regarded him with actual disgust. ‘Sam, I respect you – I would do anything I can to help with any problems you might have. But I am not doing that. And if you ask again . . .’ He glared.

  ‘I understand,’ Sam said. ‘It’s a tall order.’

  ‘I’ve got to say, I’m surprised. What is it about Francis that makes you so sure he’s innocent? You always struck me as a rational person, and a good judge of character.’

  Contrary to all this speculation, Sam had no special attachment to Francis and, should he die, should he serve the rest of his life behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit, Sam would feel no more sorrow than he would for the next man.

  ‘It’s not his character I’m reacting to.’

  ‘You can see why people think he’s guilty, yes? At least tell me that.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sam said. ‘He’s eccentric. His mannerisms are off. I get the impression he’s not a nice person to live with. Bookies’ favourite, no question. But there is a lot of ground between being mildly unlikeable and murdering children. Francis is telling the truth. It really is that simple.’

  ‘You’re willing to do all this for a man you don’t even like?’

  Sam shook his head. ‘I’m not doing anything for him.’

  ‘Blind faith, then.’

  ‘No, I can see clearly. Who’s working Operation Clove nowadays?’

  ‘We are . . . We all are.’

  ‘Then you must know someone who knows someone. Just give me a name, that’s all I ask.’

  Sam drove north, to a dairy farm, and parked by a broken wooden fence. The estate shop was at the far end of a concrete track lined with open barns. Most were empty, besides one that housed a few cows. A smell of straw, dry ground dust and, when the wind blew, faint manure. Sam stopped and leaned on a steel gate – it wasn’t bolted in place and instead rested against the enclosure, which was made from wooden pallets tied together with wire. Deep scratches traced the dragged metal – a trench in the concrete – the kind of damage that takes years.

  Sam watched one of the cows – its dark eyes stared back, its rubbery nose wet and glistening. A yellow plastic tag on its left ear, the ink faded to a smudge. It stepped forwards into the light, hooves brushed through matted hay. He touched its head, felt its strength as it turned its neck and showed him its broad side. Short hair, warm and thick, black and white – he patted its haunch. It shivered flies away. Now uninterested, the cow wandered off into the barn, back to the cool shade.

  Turning, Sam left the slumped gate and went towards the farm shop, rubbing his lightly greased fingertips together. Just as he arrived, the white wooden door jingled open, a brass bell ringing twice. A woman holding a bucket strode out across the flat concrete, wearing wellies and a summer dress.

  ‘Afternoon,’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Hannah.’

  ‘You’ve found her.’ She was thin and her youthful clothes were at odds with her face – Sam guessed she was maybe sixty years old.

  Hannah took him inside the shop, where tall freezers hummed, their glass fronts clouded in frost and condensation. He had to squint to see the products on display. All the white tubs were marked with a green ribbon, on which the words ‘Dairy Day’s Ice Cream’ were written.

  This was not at all what he was expecting.

  ‘So, are you after something in particular?’

  ‘I would like to buy a gun,’ he said.

  ‘We sell mostly ice cream here. Lamb in the spring. Eggs. Lemon cake.’

  Sam reached inside his pocket and pulled out a brown envelope, held it low and lifted the flap. It was bulging with fresh notes. Confidently, he placed it on the counter.

  Glancing down at the money, Hannah said, ‘What makes you think I provide such a service?’

  Cue that unique feeling Sam was able to ignore like no one else – the temptation to lie. Most people experience it daily, most people barely even notice, most people simply comply with its demands.

  But no.

  ‘A man called Lei Rin told me – he’s a police officer working on Operation Clove,’ Sam said. ‘It’s a long-running initiative to stamp out the sale of illegal firearms. He described you as relatively small-time, although with relevant contacts to larger importing groups. I would suggest, if you want to continue trading, you do not expand. And cut ties with your current suppliers from mainland Europe – their days are numbered. I would also recommend that you do not inform them of this, as it might impact the investigation and, in turn, your livelihood.’

  Hannah was frowning – trying to process what possible reason there could be for such a candid explanation. What grand scheme was at play here? What could this man want from her?

  Sam lifted his shirt, then he showed her his phone was not recording, and slid the large brown envelope of cash across the counter.

  Here was her answer – the man wanted exactly what he said he wanted. There could be no simpler transaction than this.

  ‘Which flavour are you looking for?’ she said, taking the money.

  We see a living room. The back wall hosts a wide, panoramic TV. The news is on. A large man sits in the middle of a sofa in the foreground. Flanking him either side are two other men. Both are bald, although one has a long, plaited rat-tail at the base of his skull and a pointed beard. His moustache is twisted at the ends, curling up his face like bull horns. He is visibly underweight.

  Easy-listening jazz plays in the backgro
und, gentle drums, low bass, the piano waltzing up and down – sounds better suited to a hotel lobby. Elevator music. Somewhere gold.

  We can see World War II memorabilia on a shelf to the left, including a German helmet, stamped with the imperial eagle, a faded swastika carried in its talons. There’s a red flag, various medals and crests pinned to a noticeboard and a pair of well-worn Luftwaffe goggles. Somewhere within this shrine – the outline shape of a crucifix, buried amid the eclectic icons. Aside from this collection, the decor is new and expensive – this place is home to a wealthy person.

  The music continues.

  ‘What did she do?’ the man on the right asks.

  ‘She just laughed,’ the bearded one says. ‘She thought I was joking.’

  These two are animated, chatting, both swigging from bottles of beer – the one on the left, the slimmer of the pair, is wearing camouflage trousers and a scruffy vest. His counterpart dons a shirt and a loosened tie. It looks like he might have just come from a white-collar job. Despite the disparity of their body fat, and the long plait on the slim man, these two are identical. They are twins.

  The living room is arranged in a square – three sides are taken up by equal-sized sofas and the television covers much of the fourth wall. We are at the back, looking out through a webcam on a laptop.

  The man in the centre of the frame, facing away, has short, thick hair, although it is thinning on the top. He wears a pale blazer – his broad shoulders are square and still. Unlike the other two, he’s neither talking nor moving. He just sits there, a silhouette watching TV.

  And the jazz is close, whispering from small speakers somewhere below.

  ‘What time we leaving?’ The man with the rat-tail checks his watch.

  ‘Soon,’ his twin brother says.

  ‘You getting changed?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m pretty much ready.’ The slimmer man stands and puts on a cargo jacket – it’s khaki green, scuffed and frayed.

  ‘You can’t wear that.’

  ‘Why not? It’s my favourite.’

  ‘It’s got an Iron Cross on the arm.’

  ‘So?’