by Tony Nash
He turned away, and then turned back. ‘I dunno what you did to get changed into a scarecrow, but I bet you deserved it. And you don’t scare me. So there!’
He stuck his tongue out and grimaced at the scarecrow, hung his jacket over his arm and walked off towards the road, but as he neared it, he saw the track leading to the sea and read the signboard. He nodded to himself – it sounded like a good idea.
It was a lot farther than he expected, and it was almost half an hour later when he came up to the dunes – low heaps of sand with marram grass clumps sprinkled among them. Beyond, forty yards of sandy beach sloped down to a quiet sea. The sea was a flat calm, and the only sounds were the soft ‘shush-shushing’ of the surf on the sand and the cries of half a dozen or so seagulls, fighting over the remains of something left by a visitor.
He walked through the dunes and down to the water, whistling happily and swaying gently to the tune, his jacket, held by its collar, over his shoulder.
At the water’s edge he removed his shoes and socks and put them in the carrier bag, rolled up his trouser legs, then walked into the water, until it came up to his knees. Looking pleased with himself, he rolled the jacket into a ball and threw it as far as he could out to sea, then walked away along the edge of the surf, staying all the time in the water.
Only a mile away, his father and mother were passing the field with the scarecrow in it, in their Ford Mondeo. Both were silent, Mr Harsley becoming more and more angry. His wife, who had been searching the fields with her eyes, turned to look at him, saw how irritated he looked and began to cry, which made her husband’s anger increase even more. As his anger increased, so did the speed of the car, as his foot went down harder on the accelerator.
He almost shouted, ‘Come on, Helen! What good is that going to do?’
She sobbed, ‘He’s so small…and defenceless.’
‘Defenceless, my arse! He’s got more confidence than most adults I know. What are we doing out here, that’s what I want to know? You know he’s still somewhere in the town.’
‘But the police are searching there, and I just think he might be getting more adventurous. He’s so little, and there are so many horrible crimes these days. That girl last month…’
‘Oh, no. As if things aren’t bad enough without you…’
‘Look out!’ She was staring wide-eyed at the road, which he had taken his eyes off. She grabbed the wheel.
He over-reacted, taking violent avoiding action, and skidded sideways along the carriageway, unaware of what she had seen.
A ‘bump’ told him he’d hit something, but he still didn’t know what.
The car came to a halt, sideways on across the carriageway.
‘What…the…hell?’
‘The cat – you didn’t see it!’
‘A bloody cat? You did that for a cat? You could have killed us! Look at those ditches either side of the road. If we’d gone into one of them…’
‘It was black.’
He turned and looked out of the rear window, ‘Well, it’s black and dead now.’
She began to cry again, ‘A black cat…Ooooh, Billy.’
‘Oh, hell!’ He slammed the gear lever into first and accelerated viciously, jumping the car ‘kangaroo-style’, making him even angrier.
He suggested, ‘D’you think it could be something to do with school?’
‘His reports are always good, and you heard what the teachers said at that last parents’ evening.’
‘Bullying, then?’
‘He’d tell us, or we’d notice. In any case, why on a day off?’
‘There’s got to be something. Haven’t you noticed anything?’
‘Why me? What’s wrong with you? Anyone would think I’m his only parent.’
‘Well – you are his mother. He takes after you. You’re there when he comes home from school, and when he goes, and you’re at home all day! I have to work my guts out to…..’
‘It’s all my fault now, is it? I always knew you grudged me not going out to work. It was your idea, if you remember.’
He put the car in gear and pulled away again, ‘Now, I didn’t…’
‘Oh, yes, you did! I’m the one to blame. Me and my genes. Where are you when he needs a father? Did you ever find time to play with him, tell him stories, take him fishing? When did you last take him anywhere?’
‘I used to bounce him on my knee…’
‘My God! That was years ago.’
There was silence for a while as the man sulked, realising what she said was true.
At last, he suggested, ‘Helen, be fair. You know I don’t have time…with the job, and all. You like your expensive home and your freezer and dishwasher. How do you think….’
‘You have time for that bitch of a secretary! Just wait till I…’ She broke off, looking past him through the side window of the car. Suddenly she shouted, ‘Billy! Stop the car! Stop the car!’
He jammed his foot down and the brakes shrieked.
‘Where? Where?’
‘There!’ She pointed out of the side window on his side and began to open the door.
A boy about Billy’s age and general description, dressed similarly, but not exactly the same as Billy, was walking across the field to their right, his back to them.
She got out of the car and began shouting, ‘Billy! Billy!’
The boy turned, puzzled, and she realised it was not her son. She fell back onto the seat, and began to cry piteously. Her husband took her in his arms, his face showing his inner turmoil.
CHAPTER SIX
Greg Haines loved beach combing with a metal detector. He had been at it since daybreak and had already found more than eleven pounds in coins, dropped by summer visitors, a brooch, two horseshoes and a gizmo that looked like part of the nose cone of a shell or bomb. He was in his late fifties, and wearing what he always wore, ex-army khaki over trousers and combat jacket with gumboots. The earpieces of the detector were jammed firmly over his ears, and he was humming part of the theme tune from ‘The Ipcress File’. He’d watched the film the night before and couldn’t get the damned tune out of his head.
Head down, he moved slowly along the beach, suddenly noticing Billy’s footprints, leading down to the sea. Intrigued by the single set of small prints, he lifted his head, looking in that direction, and saw Billy’s brown jacket rolling in the surf.
Running quickly down to the water, he waded in and hauled the jacket out. He looked down at the jacket, then at the footprints leading down from the dunes, then back at the sea. Looking down at the jacket again, he noticed the label inside the neckband.
He was loathe to give up his day’s work, but made an executive decision. Finding a small boy’s jacket in the sea after following the single set of footprints was decidedly ‘iffy’ and not something to be ignored; he had to tell someone.
In the Yarmouth police station, Carole Somerset was standing alone at the filing cabinet with the top drawer open, leafing through files. Transome took a phone call and made several monosyllabic answers. He put the phone down, looking annoyed and mumbling under his breath.
She turned, grinning, ‘Someone give you a parking ticket?’
He grunted, ‘Damned Germans! Get the DVO on the phone while I get a cup of coffee, will you?’
She was moving to the phone when he had an afterthought, ‘What about you?’
‘No thanks, just had one.’
She could hear the coffee machine boiling up when the call was connected, ‘Yarmouth police here. Could I speak to the Divisional Veterinary Officer, please? Yes, Great Yarmouth, Inspector Transome. Thank you.’
Transome came in carrying the plastic cup, and put it down to take the receiver.
‘Hello, David. Very well, thank you…No, I haven’t had time for a round in ages; they’ll be cancelling my membership soon, but that’s not what I rang about. We apparently have an illegal importation, but it isn’t quite as simple as that. The animal escaped and is loose somewhere in Town�
��a small, mongrel dog, yes…no, quite healthy, I believe. It br…of course, but the animals – there are two of them, have never been vaccinated. I’ll issue a description to all our units. You think we should institute that already for such a small matter? No, of course I don’t think it is insignificant. Very well then, I’ll set up roadblocks at a five-mile radius. Yes, immediately. Yes, of course. I’ll let you know.’
He hung up, ‘Now I’ve got to damned well work late.’
‘Just deserts, I’d say, for trying to seduce a poor, innocent maiden.’
‘Poor? Innocent?’ He advanced towards her, mock menacing, and she backed away into the corner, mock afraid.
‘Ah-ah! What if Jack comes home unexpectedly?’
‘You told me his ship is still in Rio.’
‘You mean you hope so.’
‘Anyone would think you were already married.’
‘He thinks we are.’
‘Well, there’s always a second opinion.’ He laid his hands on her shoulders.
‘Careful, Sir. Don’t mishandle the other ranks – you could become contaminated, or start a class war.’
‘I look forward to the first shots’
Carole removed his hands from her shoulders firmly. ‘Sir, I am but a maiden, and promised to another.’
He sighed heavily, ‘Why don’t you just say, “S’wive you, I’m all right for Jack”?’
‘Because one of us is far too well brought up.’
‘There’s something very fishy about that Jack business. You met him when I was away at college, and he’s been away ever since. Over a year. You know something?’
‘Uh-uh?’
‘I think I know why Jack never came home.’
She looked at him enquiringly.
‘He doesn’t even live here.’ He looked slightly angry and frustrated, while she smiled mischievously at him and walked out of the door.
He sat down at his desk and began taking near-miss swipes at the top of the rubber plant with the desk ruler, ‘And that’s for being such an unemotional bitch!’
He took another swipe as the telephone began to ring, and misjudged the aim. The ruler smashed through one of the large leaves.
“Oh, Christ.’ He moaned, ‘That’s torn it.’
He picked up the receiver, ‘Norfolk Constabulary, Inspector Transome.’ He took a report from the drawer, ‘Your name? Address?’ He began to write then suddenly stopped, his face showing his reaction to what he was hearing.
A light tap on the door preceded Carole Somerset’s re-entry into the room. She walked over to the desk and bent over to whisper something to him, but he fiercely shook his head and grimaced to stop her.
‘Actually in the sea? What colour is the jacket?’
Carole was posing a question with her eyes, and he nodded at her. Her eyes closed in horror.
‘And the size of the footprints? Where are you now? Stay there. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’ He almost threw down the receiver.
‘Not the boy?’
‘I hope not, but it sounds very much like it. Call up the helicopter and tell them to start a search for the body in the sea. Hold the fort, and don’t let any Indians in – the labour exchange is down the road. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
He collected Peter and Charlie, the two civilian scene of crime officers attached to the station and they hurtled out of town, siren going and lights flashing.
Ten minutes saw them parked at the gap in the dunes. At that time of the day there were only two other cars parked there – early dog walkers.
As they got out of the car, the search helicopter appeared from inland and started its first sweep of the sea.
They walked along the beach to where Geoff Haynes waited, Peter carrying his holdall with a standard set of equipment, Charlie carrying the camera.
Geoff showed them the footprints and the jacket, which was bagged up after a quick look at the nametag. Charlie began taking pictures of the footprints and following them back into the dunes. Transome felt strangely emotional: this was not the outcome he’d expected, and he was not looking forward to meeting the parents again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Billy had been walking all morning, after leaving the sea about a quarter of a mile after he’d entered it, keeping well away from the roads, and crouching down whenever he heard a vehicle. Every few yards he stopped to pick up a stone and throw it as far as he could. The sun was shining in a cloudless sky and he was happier than he had been for months. He felt as free as the skylarks that were singing above him, and had not even thought about home. He decided to eat the last of his biscuits, and sat down on a pile of large flint stones the farmer had removed from the fields.
Suddenly he realised he was not alone. A small mongrel dog in several shades of dirty brown stood looking at him about fifteen yards away.
‘Oh, where did you come from, dog?’
Billy looked around carefully, worried in case the dog’s owner was nearby and would hand him back to his parents.
‘Where’s your master?’ He stood up and scanned the fields in all directions.
‘Here, boy.’
The little dog was unsure, but gradually drew nearer as Billy continued to cajole it.
Eventually it stood by his legs, and he bent down to stroke its head.
‘You’re on your own. What’s your name?’ He pulled back the fur on the dog’s neck and tut-tutted, ‘No collar? You’re a stray, just like me, but you ought to be more careful – they’ll just take me back, but they might shoot you. You don’t care, do you? No, you don’t, but you’re a nice dog, aren’t you?’
The dog began to shake, as if with cold. Billy noticed it, but misunderstood, ‘Don’t be afraid of me – I won’t hurt you.’ He patted the dog’s head again, ‘No, you’re not afraid, you’re starved.’
Billy stood upright, put his hand into his plastic bag and took out a piece of bread, which he held up.
‘Here.’
The dog sat on its haunches and begged. Billy gave it the bread, which it ate with relish.
‘Poor dog. Bet you haven’t eaten for days, have you? You’ve been ill-treated by a wicked master, who locked you up in a damp old cellar and beat you three times a day and never fed you, and you escaped by chewing through the brick wall and jumping over the ten-foot fence and finding your way out through the mine-field, past the machine-gun nests and patrols…here, have another piece.’
The dog wolfed the morsel down and then begged for more.
Billy shook his head, ‘Sorry, dog – have to save the rest for dinner. And I’ve got to go now.’ He bent and patted the dog, ‘You go back and find your master, there’s a good boy. He won’t beat you again. Tell him I said so.’
The dog sat looking up at him.
‘Look – you just can’t come with me. They’ll be looking for you. Go on – off you go.’
He walked off and again the dog followed him. He stopped, looked at it again, hands on hips. “Well, I s’pose if you’re lost, you might as well come with me. Come on.’
Billy walked off again, with the dog at his side, and every few yards he bent and fondled it.
At the end of that field they came to a wide ditch, filled with water, and Billy realised there was no way round. They would have to go onto the road, for a little distance at least.
There was very little traffic on the small minor road, and Billy dropped down into the dry ditch, taking the dog with him, when a vehicle did approach.
It was a lot easier walking on the tarmac, but he was getting tired.
A few hundred yards along, a red Ford Transit closed van sat at the road end of a long drive, leading down to a large redbrick house.
Using his famous Red Indian stealth, Billy approached the van from behind, looked in the mirrors, could not see anyone, so sidled along the van until he could see in.
The cab was empty.
He walked round to the back of the vehicle, opened the back door and picked the dog up.
‘I’m tired, dog.’ He told it, ‘Let’s go for a ride.’
He was so tired that he was asleep within minutes, and was unaware when the driver returned to the van and drove off. Billy only woke when the van hit a large pothole six miles further along the road.
A short while later the van drove past a signpost, which read, ‘Horsey Mere one mile’, and a few minutes after that it drew into the parking area of a roadside pub.
The driver got out, slammed the door and walked into the pub, where he ordered a pint of twos and a sandwich.
The rear door of the van opened just a trifle and Billy peeped out, the dog at his feet. The boy saw that the coast was clear, and jumped out of the van, followed by the dog. Billy closed the door behind him, and they walked quickly away off the road onto the marshland adjoining it. He didn’t notice that he had left his plastic bag in the van.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Police constable Archie Argyle had called in to the station to drop off two brace of rainbow trout he’d caught that morning from his club water, Norfolk Flyfishers, at Swanton Morley, for two of the civilian staff, and read the notices while he was there, one of which detailed the search for the missing boy. Argyle was on holiday, having finished duty the day before, and was off to Scotland for the bigger prey - the elusive salmon.
He got back into his vintage silver Passat and began the drive back along the coast road to his home in Bacton.
Passing Horsey Mere his eye caught movement out on the marsh. A boy and a small dog were strolling along about three hundred yards from the road, the boy bending every now and again to stroke the dog’s head. Argyle tried to remember what he’d read. There’d been no mention of a dog with the boy and the search was in Yarmouth Town anyway. What was the boy wearing? Argyle did not have a photographic memory, but his was not bad. It came back to him: a brown jacket. The boy out on the marsh was wearing a blue anorak. It was unusual for a kid to be out there on the marsh, but there were houses in the vicinity, and the constable decided it could not be the boy they were looking for. He re-started the engine and drove home. He spent the next two hours checking his equipment and tackle for the umpteenth time. He loved salmon fishing, although many of his trips to his homeland in the Highlands had resulted in blank days, when the fish either weren’t there, or were not interested. No matter what the weather reports said, he often found the rivers with no flow, or so much that it was not unusual to see whole tree trunks and dead sheep speed past. Hey-ho! That was salmon fishing for you. He whistled happily as he checked all his flies. Had he packed the roll of electrical tape to go over the fly-rod joints to stop them flying apart after hours of casting? Yes, there it was. Just for insurance, he made sure he had packed enough ‘flying condoms’; black and yellow were always the best, he found, but he’d only use them on the last day, if nothing had come to the fly by then.