by Erin Kinsley
He and Hagen pull chairs up to the table, and Hagen opens up his file. Dallabrida switches on the tape, declares the date and time, and names those present in the room.
Mr Griffiths has been here a while now, alone with a cup of coffee and a promise he won’t be kept long. He called in, as requested, on his lunch hour, expecting to be back on the playing fields by two. He’s still wearing sweats and trainers, and faced with suits, ties and close haircuts – Dallabrida’s tailoring is almost suave – he feels somehow outranked.
‘You do not have to say anything,’ says Dallabrida. ‘But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you wish to have a lawyer present?’
Mr Griffiths looks alarmed.
‘What’s going on?’ he asks. ‘Is all this really necessary? I’ve come here voluntarily. You said an informal chat.’
‘We like to keep things on the level,’ says Dallabrida. ‘It’s for your protection, more than ours. You’re not likely to suffer any police brutality with the tape running, are you?’
‘I hope I’m not likely to suffer police brutality anyway,’ says Mr Griffiths, catching Hagen’s eye. ‘Not in this day and age.’
Dallabrida’s smile broadens.
‘Not our style, mate,’ he says.
‘Shall we crack on, then?’ asks Hagen. ‘Thanks for coming down. We wanted to talk to you, as I’m sure you know, in connection with the disappearance of Evan Ferrers. We believe you were one of the last people to see him. One of the last adult people, that is.’
‘Of course.’
Hagen runs the point of his pen down the form which is the topmost piece of paper in his file.
‘Can you just confirm your full name, Mr Griffiths?’
‘Robert. Robert Griffiths.’
‘Date of birth?’
‘Twelve, seven, seventy-two.’
The tip of Hagen’s pen moves back up the form. Dallabrida’s smile has disappeared.
‘It says here,’ says Hagen, ‘your full name is Quentin Robert Griffiths. Quentin. That’s an unusual name.’
‘My mother had delusions of grandeur on my behalf.’
‘So why didn’t you say your name is Quentin?’
‘Would you?’
‘The thing is, Mr Griffiths, you’re a person of interest to us because you’ve been on our radar before.’ He begins to sift through his papers, as if searching for the document he requires. ‘Seven years ago. A complaint was made by a pupil, one David Sellers. He said you tried to touch him up in the changing rooms. Would you like to tell us about that?’
Dallabrida folds his arms. Mr Griffiths’s expression is one of incredulity.
‘You have to be joking!’ he says. ‘For Christ’s sake! A person of interest? It was all trumped up, all crap! You established that at the time.’
‘Actually, it was before my time. So why don’t you tell us what happened?’
Mr Griffiths colours.
‘I’d had a bit of a fling with the boy’s mother. He didn’t like it when I dropped her.’
Dallabrida raises his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise.
‘So do you make a habit of having relations with pupils’ mothers?’
‘Once or twice.’
It’s difficult to say if Dallabrida is admiring or disapproving, but Hagen’s face is stern.
‘Some parents would take a dim view of that,’ he says. ‘They might be led to think you’re a man without too many scruples. I’ve got someone out looking for David Sellers, so we’ll see what he has to say when we track him down. In the meantime, I expect we could drum up another cup of coffee while you wait.’
‘If you’re lucky, we might even throw in a couple of Hobnobs,’ says Dallabrida.
‘I want a lawyer,’ says Mr Griffiths.
In the classroom, Naylor is seated at the teacher’s desk. The playground shouts and screams beyond the window take her back years, but there’s no smell of chalk and over-boiled dinners here. Times have moved on, to whiteboards and interaction, and the sandwich she bought for lunch in the canteen earlier was grilled chicken on ciabatta.
The man coming through the doorway is dressed casually, without the tie the headmaster insists male teaching staff should wear. His beard is blurred into several days’ growth of stubble, and his crooked teeth are ugly and discoloured as a smack addict’s. But he seems pleasant enough, diffident, eager to please, softly spoken.
‘I hope I’m not late?’ he says.
Naylor glances at her watch, and at the list of school staff she’s been given.
‘Mr Prentice?’
‘That’s right, that’s me. Gary Prentice. Gareth at birth. People like to shorten it to Gary.’
‘Have a seat, Mr Prentice.’
He lays a hoop of keys on the desk and sits down in front of her, smiling unselfconsciously, in spite of his teeth.
‘Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.’ Naylor turns to a fresh page in her notebook and writes Gary Prentice’s name at the head of the sheet. ‘It’s just routine. We’re talking to everyone on the school staff as part of our enquiries into Evan Ferrers’s disappearance.’
‘It’s very unsettling, especially for the parents,’ says Prentice. ‘I don’t have children myself, but I’m sure it must be a worry.’
Naylor looks at him.
‘A little more than worrying, I should say.’
‘I’m sorry, yes, of course. It’s hard to know what word to use.’
Naylor glances at the notes she’s made on her list.
‘Mr Mullis tells me you haven’t been caretaker here very long.’
‘About six months.’
‘And before that?’
‘I was at a school in Guildford.’
‘And you left there why?’
‘I was made redundant. The school I was at merged with another, and they already had a caretaker. He had longer tenure than me, so I was out. I was lucky to find this job. Good school, nice area.’
Naylor makes a line of notes.
‘Were you in school yesterday evening?’
‘I was,’ says Prentice. ‘There’s no time off for me, in term time.’
‘And did you see Evan and Stewie Wareham at all?’
‘I saw them on their way out. They were the last to leave. Everyone else was long gone, so I chivvied them a bit, encouraged them on their way, you know? I was waiting to lock the front doors so I could go up to the second floor and check on the cleaners.’
Naylor doesn’t look up from the notes she’s writing.
‘They were lucky you knew they were still in the building. If everyone else was long gone.’
Now she glances up, and sees Prentice shift in his chair.
‘When I say everyone, I mean the other rugby lads,’ he says. ‘There were a couple of members of staff still to leave. Mr Mullis always stays late, but I knew Bob Griffiths would be going soon. I was waiting for him when I heard the boys coming down the hall. Youngsters never talk quietly, do they? Anyway, if they had been locked in, it would only have cost them a few minutes. There’s a button to push which activates my beeper. They’d have had to wait for me coming back downstairs, that’s all.’
Naylor nods her understanding.
‘Can you recall seeing anything unusual? People hanging around who shouldn’t have been here?’
Prentice shakes his head.
‘I’m sorry, no. I’m not much use to you, am I?’
‘If you think of anything, you will let me know?’ says Naylor.
‘Of course I will,’ says Prentice. ‘Anything at all I can do to help.’
At 3.50 p.m., Hagen takes a call from a detective constable. He listens to what’s being said, then goes to find Dallabrida,
who’s watching yesterday’s CCTV footage from cameras in the Belmont Road area.
‘Any joy?’ asks Hagen, and Dallabrida shakes his head.
‘Nothing so far,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing on the bus stop itself. I’m looking for anything of interest but it’s hard to know exactly what that would be.’
‘Will you do me a favour?’ asks Hagen. ‘Will you go and tell Robert Griffiths he’s free to go?’
‘Has his story checked out?’
‘Seems so. They tracked down David Sellers working in an optician’s on the high street, and he was happy enough to confirm his accusation of assault was malicious.’
‘You can ruin a man’s career doing things like that,’ says Dallabrida.
‘Now we’ve done him no favours, keeping him here all afternoon,’ says Hagen. ‘So the sooner he’s off the premises, the better.’
‘What about the CCTV?’
‘Come back to that when you’re done with Griffiths. I’ll give you a hand with it when I get back.’
‘I’m on my way,’ says Dallabrida.
‘Is there somewhere private we can go, Mr Jadoon?’ asks Hagen.
The newsagent lets out a sigh. He has the wiriness of a man who never sits, and the wariness of one who isn’t trusting. His quilted jacket’s fastened to the neck, and standing near the counter, Hagen understands why. Constant opening and closing of the door lets in the cold air, melding damp leaves and wet tarmac with the shop smells of newsprint and bruised apples.
‘Normally, of course I would be glad to help,’ says Jadoon. ‘But this is my busiest time of day. Maybe you could come back later?’ His eyes flicker to the CCTV monitor, where a woman out of sight from the counter is checking the price of canned spaghetti. ‘The schoolkids will be in soon, and I need eyes in the back of my head. They rob me blind, and – no offence – but you and your colleagues, you do very little to help businessmen like me.’
‘I’m sure you can appreciate this is an urgent matter,’ says Hagen. ‘A boy is missing, and we’re very concerned for his safety. Isn’t there someone who can help out for a few minutes?’
Jadoon mutters something in a language Hagen doesn’t know, and goes to a door behind the counter. He calls out a name, and when a woman answers, beckons Hagen forward, stepping back himself to allow his wife to take his place.
In the back room, Jadoon motions Hagen to an armchair, and sits down facing him. As Hagen takes out his notebook, Jadoon’s looking round him, into the shop.
‘Do you remember two boys who came in yesterday afternoon?’ asks Hagen. ‘Later than the usual time for the schoolkids, somewhere around five?’
Jadoon shrugs.
‘I must be honest with you, it’s hard for me to remember specifically. So many of them come in here, different sizes, different ages, same clothes.’
‘We have a statement from the boy who was with Evan who remembers a man who was in here at the same time. Bald head, a snake tattoo on his hand. Do you remember him?’
Jadoon considers.
‘Yes, I think I do. A big man. He bought milk.’
‘Do you know him? Have you seen him before?’
Jadoon looks doubtful. There’s a rush of noise from the shop, the chatter of the first of the schoolchildren.
‘I couldn’t say for sure. We get a lot of passing traffic, people who come in only once and then never again. Certainly he’s not what I would call a regular.’ Jadoon rises from his chair. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go. My wife won’t cope alone.’
‘Just a couple more questions,’ Hagen persists. ‘Was there anyone else here at the shop yesterday afternoon, anyone else who might have seen the boys?’
‘Yesterday?’ Jadoon shakes his head. ‘Not yesterday, no. I was here by myself.’
‘We’ll talk again, then, when you’re not so busy.’ Hagen gets to his feet. ‘We’ll be needing a copy of your CCTV, so please be sure the recording stays intact. I’ll send someone over to pick it up.’
‘The CCTV? Why?’
Hagen’s eyebrows lift.
‘For obvious reasons, I’d have thought, Mr Jadoon. The man with the tattoo must be on there, along with Evan Ferrers. It could be critical to the investigation. Let me give you my card. We’ll be in touch to fix an appointment for you to come down to the station and make a formal statement.’
‘Why a formal statement? Like I said, I don’t remember very much about them, not specifically.’
‘But you remember the man with the tattoos,’ says Hagen. ‘We’ll be in touch. Thanks very much for your time.’
No news is not good news.
As far as the general public is aware, there have been no sightings of Evan, nothing to go on at all. After tea, with a subdued Stewie shut away in his room and George happily watching Charlie and Lola, Vicky thinks she should ring Claire. Then she changes her mind. In the fridge, the remains of last night’s Pinot Grigio are well-chilled and tempting, and enough to fill a large glass. By the time she’s drunk a third of the wine, she feels braver, picks up the phone and dials.
The man who answers isn’t Matt. Vicky asks for Claire, and the man asks her who she is. Vicky describes herself as a friend of the family. She hears muffled voices down the line, the wind-in-microphone noises of a hand covering the receiver. Then the man takes his hand from the mouthpiece.
‘She’ll call you back,’ he says.
The evening goes by. Vicky bathes George and puts him to bed, finishes the Pinot Grigio and opens another bottle. Paul arrives home just after nine, exhausted and full of traveller’s tales of tailbacks and motorway closures. He’s eaten a sandwich and doesn’t want dinner, but he opens a beer, slips off his shoes and flops down on the sofa. Grabbing the remote, he skips through the channels to the second half of a football match.
‘You should go and talk to Stewie,’ says Vicky.
‘How is he?’
‘He’s a bit withdrawn.’ She’s about to say more – how Stewie didn’t eat much this evening, how he wasn’t full of his usual chatter when he came home from school – but the phone rings. Paul picks it up from the sofa arm, glances at it and holds it out to Vicky. The Ferrerses’ number is showing in the display.
She takes the phone from him and lets it ring. And ring. By the time she presses the answer button, the caller’s gone.
She and Paul look at each other.
‘I don’t know what to say to her,’ says Vicky. ‘What can I say that won’t sound inadequate?’
She presses the dial button and hears the dual tone which means there’s a message. She puts the phone on speaker, so Paul can listen too.
‘Hi, Vicky, it’s Claire.’
And it is Claire’s voice, but the confident, sometimes strident woman it belongs to has been replaced by a new Claire, who speaks hesitantly, almost timorously, with a vulnerability which brings a lump to Vicky’s throat.
Claire starts with niceties – thanks for ringing, hope Stewie’s OK – then stumbles over a few words Paul and Vicky can’t make out.
‘The thing is,’ she says next, ‘they’ve asked me to ask you if he’ll do it. And you know I would never ask such a thing, only things here are . . .’ There’s a laugh, bitter and crazy. ‘Unsurprisingly, things here are not great. And I know it’s a huge, huge favour, but Vicky . . . Vicky, for Evan’s sake, please say yes.’
FIVE
18 October
The morning of the reconstruction – which will begin one week to the day, hour and minute of Evan’s disappearance – is clear and cold. Two hours after the time she’d usually arrive at work, Claire is lying in bed, looking out at the sky. Downstairs, Matt’s yelling at the Family Liaison Officer, a well-meaning man who seems content to be punchbag for them both. Tears and anger run off his back, and even the most stinging tirades on police incompetence are met with expressions of sympathy, and fresh mugs
of tea.
But this morning, the Liaison Officer’s really got off on the wrong foot. He’s let Matt know the reconstruction won’t be screened until it’s shown on Crimewatch, five days from now.
‘If that’s not an admission of defeat, I don’t know what is!’ Matt is shouting. ‘Don’t think I’m going to let you lot drag your feet until Monday! I want my boy home long before then!’
Claire, too, aches to have Evan home. Her waking hours are a torment, yet sleep feels like a betrayal. What normal parent sleeps while their child is lost? She catches herself making observations on her own behaviour, quite able to distinguish her rational from her irrational thoughts. She wonders if she might, in spite of herself, be losing hope. The past day or so, increasingly the possibility slithers through her mind that Evan might be dead. On that detached, removed level, she notes her biggest concern for him, dead or alive, is broadly the same: she wants him to be warm. What would be most unbearable, what she could never begin to forgive, would be if his body were left in the open, exposed to the cold, to foxes and scavenging crows.
As Matt continues to berate the Liaison Officer, Claire talks in her head to her newly discovered best friend, God. Please God, she prays, let him not have suffered. And please God, let them give him a blanket, and cover my baby’s face.
It’s a bad day to be out. Jack Ferrers pauses by the yard gate, wind worrying his white hair, and watches the squalls of rain blowing in over Blackmire Ridge. There’s a view from here right down the lane, as far as the eye can follow it, to the beck turn.
No one is there.
He walks slowly up to the home field, his boots squelching in the mud. Birds have already stripped the berries from the scrawny hawthorn trees, sign of a hard winter to come. The ewes are sheltering along the bases of the grey stone walls, and when they hear the latch click on the gate, they raise their heads from the thin grass and run bleating towards him, following him to the tumbledown store at the field’s top end. Jack hauls a sack of sugar-beet feed from the store, and tosses a couple of handfuls to the ewes before filling two buckets. He carries the buckets to the middle of the field, scattering the feed as broadly as he can. The ewes are looking well, ready for the tup in another week or two.