Cry Baby

by Mark Billingham

  She’d read about people who’d lost kids and made a point of never touching their rooms. Keeping them exactly as they were when their son or daughter had last been there, like some kind of shrine. Football scarves draped over mirrors or Madonna posters peeling from the walls. Cat understood why people did that and she wasn’t about to start judging anyone, but all the same she thought it was a bit creepy.

  Like thinking you were keeping something frozen, when really it was . . . going off.

  She would hold on to certain things, obviously – the drawings and cards, the bits and pieces that meant something – but she wasn’t going to get sentimental about everything. She would keep what was precious safe and close by, but as long as she had her memories of her son, she wouldn’t feel too awful about clearing stuff out and moving forward. She had begun telling herself that moving on was important, reminding herself that however things panned out, she was going to survive this.

  Changed, for sure, but still alive and kicking. Stronger even, maybe.

  Of course, there was the one obvious thing they could do with this room.

  Billy would be out in a couple of years and she wasn’t too old to get pregnant again. No child could ever replace Kieron and she would never want it to, but having another one was something worth thinking about, wasn’t it? Now probably wasn’t the time, but once the dust had settled, she reckoned she and Billy ought to at least talk about it.

  She turned on to her side, stared at the picture Kieron had drawn of her, Blu-tacked to the wall above a chest of drawers, and wondered why she had gone from imagining the worst to expecting it. Why what was happening at that moment on live TV didn’t make her feel remotely hopeful, even if everyone kept telling her that she should be.

  Having things like this on TV always works, you just watch . . .

  Someone’s bound to have seen something.

  Right, Cat thought, like seeing a child get abducted in broad daylight, which for some unknown reason they’d completely forgotten, but now people were acting it all out on the telly-box it’s suddenly come flooding back.

  Besides, there’d been something in Thorne’s manner when he’d told her about the reconstruction. He hadn’t seemed . . . excited. Instead, to her, the whole thing felt more like something the police did when they were desperate and had run out of ideas.

  The last-chance saloon, whatever.

  She checked her watch to see if the programme had finished yet. Still another fifteen minutes and by now they’d probably be showing the picture of him in his West Ham shirt. Cat said, ‘Fuck,’ and clutched at the duvet, angry because she had promised herself that tonight she wasn’t going to cry, but these days it was like telling herself not to breathe, so she closed her eyes and gave in to it.

  Thorne had to hand it to Gordon Boyle. The arsehole could certainly turn it on when he had to. He appeared to be totally at home on live television, the accent softened enough to be viewer-friendly, his answers concise and given without fluff or hesitation. He seemed every bit as much of a pro as the woman asking the questions and there was even – during the direct appeal for information – the occasional look straight to camera.

  Trustworthy and sincere, when Thorne knew very well he was neither of those things.

  In the studio behind Boyle and the presenter, men and women scribbled while talking quietly into phones, and even though Thorne had once appeared briefly on the programme himself – performing with rather less confidence than his boss – he still wasn’t sure if they were there for show or were genuinely fielding calls. Either way, watching the numbers for the studio and incident room scroll across the bottom of the screen, Thorne knew that the calls would already be starting to come in.

  Plenty of them.

  ‘I think I saw the boy in a shop in Darlington. The jacket was definitely the same.’

  ‘I’m a medium – and before you say anything, I’ve been right about these things before – and I sense very strongly that the child is somewhere close to water.’

  ‘I took him. I took the boy. I took him and killed him . . .’

  There would be no shortage of nut-bags and serial confessors, of those thinking they were helping with their half-arsed hunches or half-remembered sightings, and bar those callers who were clearly acting out of malice or mischief, Thorne and the rest of the team would have to check out every single one.

  They had little choice.

  They would do what Thorne had always suspected they would end up doing.

  They would be thankful they were doing anything besides waiting for a body to turn up, and pray they got lucky.

  On-screen, Boyle turned to the camera again. ‘If you have any information, however unimportant you think it might be, please pick up the phone now and call one of these numbers . . .’

  Thorne did as he was told.

  He dialled then waited, a half-smile appearing as he decided that some of his more Job-pissed colleagues might well be right and that a good copper was one who always obeyed a direct order from a senior officer.

  ‘Crimewatch Live . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got some information about the copper that’s just been on.’

  ‘You mean Detective Inspector Boyle?’

  ‘Right, the pig-ugly Scottish one.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but—’

  ‘He’s knowingly perverted the course of this investigation, he might well be responsible for leaking sensitive information to the press and he’s indirectly responsible for the death of a man named Grantleigh Figgis. I can spell that, if you want . . .’

  There was a pause, a clearing of the throat. Thorne imagined the woman on the other end of the phone waving frantically at her colleagues to get their attention. ‘Could I have your name please, sir?’

  Thorne pointed the remote and turned off the TV. He let his head fall back. ‘I’m the Man from Del Monte,’ he said.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  These days, he had better things to do in the evening than watch television, but once he’d been told about the reconstruction, curiosity had got the better of him and he’d decided to make an exception. Not idle curiosity, of course. The very fact that the police had taken this step at all meant that they were still struggling and in need of help, but nevertheless, he was keen to see whether he had anything at all to be concerned about. If they were even close when it came to the details.

  Car, clothes, all of that.

  It had been a strange experience, watching this cobbled-together version of himself, of what he’d done. It wasn’t a million miles away, he was happy to admit that – the nuts and bolts of it, the actors and the costumes – but they’d made it all appear so much more casual than it was. A cosy chat as he and the boy strolled towards the car in the sunshine, like this was something he did every day.

  Or even something he might do again.

  As if he was one of those men.

  It was forgivable, he supposed. No witness could ever have known what was actually being said or come close to understanding just how terrified he’d been at the time. On the day, he’d prepared a cover story in case things had gone a little less smoothly than he’d been hoping; on the off-chance the boy had decided to be awkward. Even now, he felt confident that he could have talked his way out of it if he’d needed to, but still . . .

  Once he and the boy were in the car and on their way, things had settled down relatively quickly and he’d begun to relax, but up until then he’d been sick with nerves, shaking with them. It had probably been no more than a minute, two at the most, but he’d fought to keep the tremor out of his voice, because the very last thing he wanted was for the boy to see how frightened he was. He knew just how easily children picked up on that stuff, reacted to it. Walking out of the woods and along the road to where he’d parked the car, it had been an almighty effort to plant one foot in front of the other and to keep smiling, but what he’d seen on the TV, what the witness had seen, convinced him that he must have made a pretty good fist of it.

&n
bsp; Relieved, he got up and wandered towards the kitchen. It was mercifully quiet downstairs, so he decided to make himself something to eat while he had the chance. He opened the freezer and pushed aside the stack of pizzas and boxes of ice-lollies he’d stocked up on a month earlier.

  He was clearly a better actor than he gave himself credit for, better than the ones he’d been watching, because in the end the whole thing had looked as innocuous, as everyday, as he’d intended it to look.

  They could have been father and son.

  While the man is making himself dinner, twenty feet below him in the cellar, Kieron and Josh are whispering about ways to escape.

  ‘The Hulk would just smash through the walls,’ Josh says.

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘Easy-peasy.’

  It was the kind of thing Josh would definitely have said, Kieron thinks, but much as he loves it when they talk about this kind of stuff, he knows it isn’t going to help him. ‘The Hulk’s not here,’ he says. ‘It’s just us.’ He blinks. ‘It’s just . . . me.’

  ‘OK.’ Josh squeezes his eyes shut. ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘No superheroes,’ Kieron says.

  ‘Copy that, partner.’ Kieron is imagining his friend sitting on the mattress next to him, but now Josh stands up and paces around. He walks slowly from one wall to another, like he’s seen people do in films and TV shows when they’re trying to work something out. He leans down to pull at the heavy chain again. ‘This is the big problem,’ he says.

  ‘We need something to cut it with,’ Kieron says.

  ‘Maybe he’s got tools upstairs. Yeah, I bet he has . . . a big saw or something.’

  Now, Kieron tugs at the chain. ‘I can’t get upstairs though, can I?’

  Josh laughs. ‘Oh, yeah . . .’

  Kieron laughs, too, slaps his forehead. ‘D’oh!’

  ‘D’oh!’ Josh says.

  Kieron tries to concentrate. He breathes slowly and looks around, searching for something, anything, that might give him an idea, but he already knows every inch of the room. Every crack in the tiled floor and the shape of every stain on the low ceiling. Each peak and trough in the black spiky-rubbery stuff that the man had stapled all over the walls.

  ‘So the noise sort of bounces back, and we don’t disturb anybody . . .’

  He can feel an ache beginning to build in his stomach, and he doesn’t know if he’s hungry or needs the toilet.

  ‘What if I pretended to be ill?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, that’s good.’

  ‘Then he’d have to come down and take the chain off.’

  ‘You mean moaning and crying or whatever?’ Josh pulls a face. He clutches at his stomach and begins to whimper. ‘Like this . . . ?’

  Kieron nods, getting excited. ‘I’ve done it a few times when I didn’t want to go to school and if I did that, but like . . . times a hundred or something, he might think I need to go to hospital.’

  ‘Of course he would. He wouldn’t want you to die, would he?’

  ‘Then, when I get to the hospital I can tell them.’

  Now, Josh is nodding, too. ‘You just find a nurse or something and tell them and they can ring your mum.’

  Kieron thinks about it some more, then sighs and shakes his head. He lifts his hand then lets it fall on to the mattress. ‘He might just take my temperature though, same as Mum does, and then he’d know I was putting it on.’

  ‘He might not, though.’

  ‘Yeah, he would,’ Kieron says, his head dropping. ‘He’s really clever.’

  Josh says a bad word and kicks at the wall. He trudges back across the room and drops down on to the mattress. After half a minute or so he puts his arm around Kieron and squeezes and begins to nod again.

  ‘So are we . . .’

  PART THREE

  Grandmother’s Footsteps

  FIFTY-SIX

  She had briefly considered being adventurous and meeting Simon Jenner for lunch somewhere a little further afield, or in a place she hadn’t been to before, but in the end Cat had decided to play safe. She had always liked the food at the Turkish café, and was fond of the people who ran it. The two brothers, Adem and Aksan, had always been nice to her and Billy, had gone out of their way to make a fuss of Kieron and given him free Coke and ice cream. These days, friendly faces were even more welcome than usual, and more importantly the café was only a few minutes’ walk from Seacole House. Cat didn’t want to stray too far from home.

  The teacher was waiting for her and stood up when she walked through the door. He was wearing shorts and trainers, a white polo shirt with the school logo on the breast. He said, ‘I’m really glad we could do this. I know you need to stay close to a phone.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Cat caught the eye of Aksan who was chopping peppers behind the counter and waved. ‘It’s sorted.’

  She had passed on the café’s number to the incident room at Islington station before she’d left the flat. She’d spoken to a nice officer named Kimmel who had told her that they were likely to be very busy after last night’s reconstruction. Cat had said that she hoped so, though in truth, she could no longer have said where hope ended and dread began.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Kimmel had said. ‘I’ve made a note of the number and we’ll call you if there’s any news.’

  Now, Jenner picked up the menu and studied it. ‘Can’t be for too long, anyway. I need to be back at school by two o’clock.’ He looked at his watch. ‘PE straight after lunch.’

  ‘Well, you’re already dressed for it.’

  ‘I changed when I got here.’ He nodded towards the toilets then pointed to the sports bag at his feet. ‘Thought it might give us a bit more time. Rush back, stick my whistle on and I’ll be away. Not that I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘PE not your favourite?’ Cat asked.

  He laughed. ‘Little sods are all so much fitter than I am.’

  Cat smiled. ‘I know what you mean. Ten minutes in the park running after Kieron and I’m absolutely—’ The smile froze and she could do nothing but stare at him, shaking her head.

  Jenner leaned across and nudged Cat’s water glass towards her.

  When they’d ordered – taramasalata and tzatziki, chicken wings and lamb ribs – Jenner laid his menu down and said, ‘You look great, by the way.’

  Cat thought it was an odd thing to say, all things considered, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t nice to hear. That she hadn’t wanted to hear it. She had spent an hour picking out a dress and shoes to wear, blow-drying her hair and putting on make-up that hadn’t come out of its bag for two weeks. She said, ‘Thanks,’ but was grateful when the waitress arrived with bread and olives, because it meant she didn’t have to say any more.

  ‘This a regular haunt for you then, is it?’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s handy,’ Cat said. She told him it had been the first place she and Billy had come to when they’d moved to Archway. She told him how nice the staff were and that sometimes she’d ring up for a takeaway at teatime and they’d do egg and chips and halloumi specially for Kieron because it was his favourite. She told him that he’d be in no fit state to teach PE after he’d eaten because the portions were so huge and said, ‘See?’ when Aksan delivered the food, but all the while she was thinking about the last time she’d been here.

  Sitting at the very same table a week and a bit before, having breakfast with Tom Thorne.

  Telling him all about those few stupid nights with Dean Meade.

  Confessing that Billy wasn’t Kieron’s biological father.

  ‘You were right,’ Jenner said, tucking in. ‘I think I might have to start coming here, myself.’ He gnawed delicately on the wings and then the ribs, wiping his mouth with a paper serviette after each mouthful. Cat was every bit as hungry, if rather less dainty, though once they’d finished she noticed that he was the one with the stain on the front of his white polo shirt.

  ‘You’ve got . . .’ She pointed, then leaned across and touched the sp
ot.

  ‘Oh, shit.’ Jenner dipped the corner of the serviette into his water glass and dabbed at the mark. Without looking up, he said, ‘Did you see Crimewatch last night?’

  Cat shook her head.

  He glanced at her. ‘It was really good.’

  Cat waited, leaning away from the table while the plates were cleared away. He’d said it as though it was just some new crime drama he’d watched. Like he might start talking about how great the lighting and the music were. She began to wonder what the hell she was doing there.

  ‘I mean . . .’ Jenner reddened a little as he raised his glass. ‘Well, here’s hoping.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She saw how solemn he looked suddenly, struggling to hide his embarrassment. ‘Yeah, of course.’

  ‘They were talking about it at school this morning. The TV thing.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘Well, the headmistress did this whole bit in assembly.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  Now the teacher’s embarrassment was rather more obvious. ‘She said that anyone who, you know, wanted to . . . could say a prayer for Kieron.’

  ‘Right.’ Cat sat back, folded her arms. ‘Well, a fat lot of use that’s going to be.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’

  Cat grunted. ‘Whatever.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve done it myself and I don’t believe in anything.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what God’s there for,’ Jenner said. ‘When we get desperate.’

  ‘Oh, right. Are you religious, then?’

  ‘No, but . . . I mean, the idea of God.’

  ‘Well, whether he’s an “idea” or some old bloke with a big white beard, it’s a bit bloody ironic that we should be asking for his help, don’t you reckon? Seeing as, if he makes everything happen, he’s the one who took Kieron in the first place.’

  ‘God didn’t take your son,’ Jenner said.