by Martyn Ford
‘Shit.’
‘Just the final straw, I think. He wrote a long note. He said that . . . that if you’re not scared, if you’re not riddled with dread, and terror, and all-encompassing sadness about the world, then you haven’t seen enough of it.’
Sam blinked. ‘They ever catch them?’
‘Who, the mob? No one to catch them. That’s the point. That area had disintegrated.’
‘Did she do it? Run over the boy?’
‘It doesn’t matter. But no . . . I didn’t come away disillusioned like Richard. But he was right – we should be scared. It’s easy to blame the mineral trade, poverty, drugs, money, corruption, ideology – whatever. I think the reality, the bedrock, is that people will hurt each other. That was just what humanity looks like in places the police don’t go. Where you call for help and no one comes. Most people have no idea how fragile all this is. Civilisation falls to pieces given half a chance. Stability and security – it’s an illusion. And it takes a lot of work to make it seem real.’ Isabelle drove, her attention on the road ahead. ‘The rule of law is all we have,’ she said. ‘And it deserves to be respected.’
Henry Marston Junior, somehow out of his bed again, sitting in a hospital wheelchair on that shingled terrace. The car park below is alive with dusk light so warm and so red, it’s as though a volcano has opened up on an unseen hill to the west. The colour is eerie, hellish, otherworldly – beautiful to anyone still able to find such things in these places.
His useless legs are rigid – but one of the casts is broken, some plaster dangles near the ground. Perhaps he’s dragged himself part of the way here. When he finishes his cigarette, his hand shakes as he stubs it out and flicks it over the side. From his lap, he takes a small packet of pills. He pushes one of them into his palm and stares at it for a long while. We see him hold it in his thumb and index finger, lifting it to his face. We see him consider where it should go. And we see him decide. Like everything else, Henry throws it over the edge.
Chapter 25
Now that Robin had finished sharpening the spoon handle on the bathroom tiles, she realised something. At first, the thought scared her. She hadn’t made a screwdriver, or a chisel, like she’d planned. No. Robin had made a weapon.
So, now, she had to make something else. A very important decision: should she use it?
She sat on the toilet seat, holding the spike in her hand. Gripping it like it was a knife. The point was shiny, with thousands of tiny scratches all leading up to the tip. She touched it and sighed. Could it be sharper than this? Robin didn’t think so.
Then she began wondering about the sharpest object ever. If everything is made of atoms, could there be a knife that was so sharp the edge was only one single atom thick? It would slice through anything, even rocks. Even diamonds.
Even bars on a window. A knife like that, she decided, was simply impossible.
Sliding the spoon handle up her sleeve, she went back into her bedroom and, perching on the mattress, she leaned sideways and slipped it under her pillow.
Then, crawling across the bed, she went to the window. On her knees, she poked the metal bars a few times and put her hands between them – elbows on the windowsill. Even though there were wooden boards against the glass, Robin could feel the difference in temperature between each plank. Thin lines of faint light, thin lines of slow, cold air, fell across the backs of her fingers. She licked her thumb and held it at the opening, felt the chill. Closing her eyes, she placed her palm flat on the wood and wished she was out there. Wished, from the bottom of her heart, that she could push and somehow pass through these walls, these bars, these doors, like a ghost.
Today had been her saddest one so far. Because Robin had started to really doubt anyone was looking for her. It had been too long now. Robin thought about her brother. Sometimes people do just disappear, she thought. Sometimes they never come home. And when everyone else gets old and has new children, eventually no one cares. No one cares about children who disappeared a hundred years ago.
She wondered how many people cared about her. She wondered how much they cared. And she wondered whether it would ever even matter.
So she turned again and looked at her pillow.
And then, with sudden purpose, Robin took her sharpened spoon handle, hid it well, and slowly, in absolute silence, she left her bedroom, walked across the landing carpet and down the stairs.
There was a sound in the living room. She frowned; it was like a high-pitched rip of Sellotape.
Stepping along the tiles, creeping, Robin paused at the doorway. With the metal in her palm now, held behind her back, she leaned round the door frame and saw him.
For a long, long time she simply stared. Julius was hunched over something, in the corner, on the carpet. Facing away.
She entered the living room and, moving forwards, still slowly, still silently, like a cat, Robin approached.
He didn’t notice her, even when she was at his back, standing right over him. She saw his neck, his scruffy grey hair. She heard his breath.
Robin couldn’t see what he was doing but, over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of something red in his hands.
What was it, she wondered, this sharp object in her hand? Could it be her way out? It was a tool, but what kind of—
He turned.
‘Hey,’ he said and, strangely, she was the one who flinched. ‘I’ve got you a gift.’
She swallowed. Bit her teeth together. ‘Uh . . . what . . . what is it?’
‘Close your eyes.’
Maybe it would be easier to decide, she thought, if I can’t see him. So she did as he told her.
‘Here,’ he said.
A sound on the coffee table, near her leg. And when she looked, she saw a large square present, wrapped in purple paper with a red ribbon tied in a perfect bow.
Julius was holding a pair of scissors. He seemed to notice her hesitation – maybe he’d realised something else was on her mind. And there was a long silence.
‘It’s . . . it’s an art box,’ he said, still on his knees on the carpet.
‘Why . . . why did you wrap it if you were going to tell me what’s inside?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He bowed his head.
And Robin pretended to smile as she slid the spoon handle into her pocket. She’d been wrong. It was just a chisel.
Chapter 26
Daniel Aiden’s house was at the end of a long, winding drive, surrounded on all sides by woodland. As they pulled around the final corner, it seemed to unveil as though a green curtain of leaves was swept from left to right, presenting the home in all its glory.
The building itself was a square monolith set among the trees – white and modern. The facade, half glass with sliding doors, opened on to a well-kept garden. Up close, Sam saw the outer shell was made from shipping containers stacked together, clad in pine. One exterior side wall had been left bare, to show off the serial number stamped on the old red steel. Back again to the Coriolis – the hollowed metal, the blistered paint, the streaked rust tears. Wind whistling through wet handrails, lifeboats swaying on ropes, banging in storms.
This house was industrial. It was cold.
Daniel met them on his veranda, greeting Sam with a firm handshake and a pat on the back. He held Sam’s hand for a second or two longer than he normally might, tilting his head, furrowing his brow – as though they were in a state of mutual grief. Both mourning the untimely death of Robin Clarke. This morbidity, however, went unsaid. Sam could see that their visit, as far as Daniel was concerned, was a formality. No sense in dwelling on the unsavoury elephant in the room.
The interior looked like a show home, as if they’d walked right into a catalogue – pale marble, wide-open space, brand-new furniture on display. They followed him through into the kitchen. Isabelle’s shoes were loud on the bamboo flooring.
‘Can I get you guys a drink?’ Daniel asked, his bare feet silent as he moved to his double-door fridge.
Standin
g by the breakfast bar, Isabelle sipped a glass of water, but Sam found himself wandering towards the living area.
On the back wall, a large shelf unit exhibited a number of unusual objects. Sam realised they were artefacts, each representing one of Daniel’s films. There was a carved tribal mask from his three-part documentary on the Amazon; a scorched leather jacket, covered in sponsor logos, from his time living with a flamboyant NASCAR driver; and even a warped 7.62x39mm bullet which, he claimed, skimmed off his helmet and ended up lodged in the centre of his camera when he was covering the war in Iraq.
‘Ah – you’ve found the good stuff,’ Daniel said, arriving at his side.
He seemed to enjoy guiding them along this eclectic shrine, his hands behind his back, pointing when they came to each item.
‘This,’ he said, picking up a small jewellery box, ‘is a pair of Elvis Presley’s cufflinks.’
‘You made a documentary about Elvis?’ Isabelle asked.
‘No,’ Daniel said, turning back to the kitchen. ‘It was about UFO conspiracy theories. Just so happened the guy I was with also believed the King is alive and kicking. He knew I wanted a memento, but sadly he’d misplaced his ray gun.’ He laughed. ‘There’s a story to all of this.’
Daniel had flawless teeth – a genuine Hollywood smile. And no wrinkles. The smattering of grey in his black hair was at slight odds with his seemingly eternal youth, but it only made him look distinguished. He was the kind of handsome that gets better with motion – his expressive face, the glisten in his eyes. His skin perfect, clean and smooth, like clay. Sam wondered if he was wearing foundation. However, close up, he saw that, no, Daniel was just wearing money, a sensible diet and good genes.
Towards the end of the display, Sam discovered the awards. Shown here with greater prominence than the collection of keepsakes preceding them. Maybe his trophies mattered more than the work itself. And he’d amassed plenty over the years – Sam had reacquainted himself with this illustrious career in the car.
Daniel Aiden’s documentaries were critically acclaimed – his unique brand of faux-naïf humour added broad appeal to any subject he touched. He’d started out writing political satire for some comedy shows, but soon slipped to the other side of the lens for a series of hour-long profiles on the most eccentric celebrities he could find. Later, he explored more serious themes, and took multiple trips to the Middle East, which became Sand – his first feature-length picture to bag him the top prizes.
Shortly after that, he started working on The Clarkes – the film that truly established him as a household name both in the UK and abroad. Foreign interest in the British royal family was an anomaly Sam could understand. But Britain’s missing children? This was surely one of the strangest exports to gain traction overseas.
Sam was intimately familiar with this piece of work, as well as the hours of unused footage. The finished documentary was a relatively balanced exposition of the case and its coverage, although at times it did veer towards indulgence. There were long, panning shots of suburban skylines, empty playgrounds, the faint sound of children laughing, and the music often guided the most emotional scenes. Although occasionally contrived, it was effective.
They used about ten minutes of Sam’s three-hour interview, peppered throughout. And the trailer featured a particularly fitting line in which he said, ‘It’s as though Ethan just . . . vanished.’
In one of her interviews Anna explained that, hundreds of times a day, like clockwork, she refreshes her emails, missed calls and every social-media account. Just in case. There’s video of her doing this, shot between takes, with camera and lighting equipment in sight. This disregard for the fourth wall was another of Daniel’s hallmarks – he captured his subjects at their most authentic, even if it meant exposing the seams.
A choir, a full orchestra and a playlist of classic pop songs provided the soundtrack. This bittersweet dissonance – upbeat music, rendered slow – allowed the tone to shift at a few points during the 89-minute runtime. Towards the end, there’s a heart-warming montage set to an instrumental version of ‘Runaround Sue’ – said to be the track playing when the Clarkes first met.
In one scene Robin is crouched in the garden, following a line of ants back to their nest. Later, during a talking-head sequence with Anna and Francis sitting at their dining table, the living-room backdrop blurred by the shallow depth of field and studio-style lighting, Robin walks past carrying an empty shoebox. The camera zooms out, ruining the composition but creating a charming moment when a voice, Daniel’s voice, asks her quietly, away from the microphone, where she’s going. She replies, ‘To build Bug City.’
Old footage from the Clarkes’ wedding day makes an appearance. In that scene, Francis and Anna dance together, her pregnant stomach bulging beneath her white dress. At one point, the amateur camera zooms in on her bump as Francis nestles close for a kiss. Anna’s eyes open halfway through the intimate moment. She spots whoever is filming, then laughs, holds her skirt and runs towards them, swinging her bouquet at the lens.
Quick edits make it seem perfect. Daniel’s ability to add warmth, to find innocence and tap into the full spectrum of emotions was, Sam supposed, how he could afford to build such an impressive house.
Fortunately, the film didn’t focus too much on Sam’s fall from grace – his assault charge came to light during post-production. However, it closes with a ‘where are they now’ epilogue, during which photographs and text appear on screen. It’s set to a slow piano version of one of the obscure doo-wop songs played at the wedding.
Sam’s face. ‘Detective Sam Maguire has since retired from service. He received two hundred hours Community Payback for ABH, following an altercation with George Hinds.’
And then George’s picture, a scruffy mugshot, came on the screen. ‘George Hinds received a twenty-two-month prison sentence, suspended for a year, for perverting the course of justice.’
Then Francis, Anna and Robin together on a sofa, laughing while they pose for a photo. Instead of the picture, we see this as footage. A small, close-knit family. They look happy. Resilient. Defiant. Robin squirms on Anna’s lap, leaning away and frowning as her mother attempts to make her smile for the camera. Before she can, a tired, elderly dog enters and Robin slumps down to the carpet and yells, ‘Button has to be in the photo too.’
The white text reads, ‘The Clarkes reside in Hallowfield.’
A still of Francis’s head and shoulders fades in. ‘Francis Clarke continues his charity work. To date, the Clarke Foundation has helped more than seven hundred orphaned children find a home.’
After this, we’re shown Anna’s picture. ‘Anna Clarke stood down from her consultant position, though she continues to write for medical journals, as well as lecturing on surgical practice at a number of prestigious institutions across the globe. She has donated many thousands of pounds to the Spinal Research charity.’
Then, Robin’s photo. ‘Robin Clarke will move up to junior school next September and looks forward to art lessons, but not maths . . . She is currently serving as mayor of Bug City.’
The last image we see is Anna sitting on their garden patio, looking down into her mobile – checking every app three times. This fades slowly to black and the final line of text comes on to the screen, without an accompanying photograph.
It simply reads, ‘Ethan Clarke is still missing.’
And, with slow piano, the credits begin to roll. At the very bottom, when the music is gone, the words, ‘A film by Daniel Aiden’.
Standing at the glass display, just before the awards, Sam arrived at the item Daniel had kept from The Clarkes. He’d made documentaries about war, murder, genocide, rape, about every shade of good and evil our species has to offer. And yet, Sam found Ethan Clarke’s scout scarf somehow more distasteful than the other objects. It was the only trophy taken without the owner’s permission. Even the bullet from Iraq had been fired intentionally.
‘When was the last time you visited Orchard Cou
rt?’ Sam asked.
‘Hmm, maybe a month ago?’
‘You’re still quite close with Anna and Francis?’ He turned away from the shelves and faced Daniel.
‘Of course, we go way back. I keep telling her she’s welcome here. But she won’t have it.’
‘Is there no other family?’ Isabelle said.
‘Anna’s mother passed away in April and her father is in a care home. And Francis’s side, they’re all in Canada.’
Sam had wondered about the hotel – Anna said it just made sense. Perhaps she was worried it could look suspicious to shack up with Daniel. What might people think?
‘Where were you on that Wednesday evening?’
Daniel tilted his head and frowned. ‘Uh. I was . . . I was in Berlin.’ Then he opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself, glancing at Isabelle. ‘Why are you asking?’
Neither of them responded.
‘Are you . . . ?’ Daniel laughed. ‘Wow. You’re at the bottom of the barrel now, buddy.’
Sam did not smile. ‘Have you ever had any romantic interest in Anna?’
Again, Daniel seemed somewhat insulted. ‘Um, no,’ he said. ‘We’re just friends.’
This was an incredibly well-composed lie. Sam almost admired it. The slight disbelief and drop in tone implying it was unthinkable. As though this was the first time he’d ever even considered something like that. Body language, eye movement, the calculated hesitation – it was impeccable. A work of art. His alibi was almost certainly true though – too easy to check. Besides, even if he did have a hand in this, Sam very much doubted he’d use his own. Being miles away slotted neatly on to all versions of events.
‘I’m sorry, but – are you suggesting I had something to do with Robin’s murder?’
