Knox wouldn’t meet his eye, but this time he concurred.
‘I didn’t know your car was off the road,’ said Mariner conversationally as his own vehicle began to fill with the warm smell of cumin and coriander.
‘The bus is fine.’
Drawing up outside Knox’s house Mariner noted the complete darkness. Knox’s kids were grown up now, his daughter living with her own child and partner and his son away at university. ‘Theresa not home, then,’ Mariner said.
‘She’s up in Liverpool, has been the last few weekends. Her mother’s not well.’
‘I’m sorry. How old is she?’
‘Seventy-two.’
‘Well, I hope she pulls through.’
‘Thanks.’ Knox pushed open the car door. ‘I won’t ask you in, boss, the place is a bit of a tip. But cheers for the lift.’
Chapter Five
Closing his front door on the world, Tony Knox bent to pick up the mail from the mat. He’d recovered from that first plunging disappointment he’d felt on seeing the empty driveway, but now anticipation rose again as he embarked on the emotional bungee jump that had become his end-of-the-day ritual. He sifted through the post, each letter stabbing at him anew as he passed over bills and junk mail and found none bearing her handwriting. Disgusted, he tossed them on to the growing stack. She hardly ever wrote to anyone so why would she suddenly take to writing him letters? Especially now.
For a moment he hovered over the phone, wondering whether to check call minder now, or to wait, in the superstitious hope that patience would be rewarded with a positive outcome. Superstition lost out. Leaving his supper on the kitchen table, he returned to the phone and keyed in the number of the answering service. Two new messages. His hopes soared again. ‘Come on, come on!’ he urged the recorded voice. But call one was from a call centre in Delhi, asking him to reconsider his mortgage arrangements and message two was a hang-up. Cresting the wave of optimism, he came tumbling down on the other side and the searing emptiness that had taken temporary residence somewhere above his diaphragm returned: the same black hole he’d woken up with every morning for the last two weeks.
Walking back into the kitchen, Knox stared at the plastic carrier bag, smelled the rich spices, and they made him want to gag. Instead, in the lounge he picked up the next in the neat row of Glenfiddichs that he’d stockpiled over the last few Christmases. For years they’d stood untouched in the cupboard. He didn’t really even like Scotch, but the in-laws had got it into their heads years ago that he did. Now, after less than a fortnight, the shelf was nearly empty. Still, it needed using up and if it got him to sleep at night and helped him to face the day, that couldn’t be a bad thing. The phone rang as he was swallowing the last dregs in the glass. He raced to pick it up.
‘Dad? It’s Sinead.’ Knocked back again. ‘Mum told me. Are you OK?’ Asked out of concern or sense of duty?
‘I’m fine.’
‘Will you be able to sort this one out?’
‘I don’t know, love.’
‘You have before.’
‘This is different.’
‘Well, if you need anything, you know where we are.’ The offer was cool, the onus on him. The sub-text: this is your fault, you stupid old git. Well, he didn’t need his daughter to tell him that.
‘Dave and the kids OK?’ he asked.
‘We’re all good; just worried about you.’ Christ, when did that about face happen? So suddenly he hadn’t even noticed it. ‘See you, Dad.’
‘Bye, love.’ Cradling the phone, he looked around the room at the depressing mess: the accumulation of soiled mugs and glasses, items of clothing discarded from the nights when he couldn’t face the bed they’d shared and had opted instead to sleep on the sofa. He’d clean it up later. But first he’d have another drink. He couldn’t find his glass so he swigged straight from the bottle, the first mouthful burning a path to sweet oblivion.
Mariner, likewise, returned home to an uncharacteristically empty house. His lodgers, Nat and Jenny, students at the university, were away backpacking in Eastern Europe for their summer vacation. After years of contentedly living alone, he was surprised to find how much he missed them. The top floor of the canal-side house was almost a self-contained unit, so it wasn’t as if they were under each other’s feet all the time. In fact, Mariner had seen more of them since he’d invested in a DVD player—they used it more than he did. But they’d given him an insight into the student life he’d missed out on, and he liked having them around.
Snug in the winter, in the summer the house could get stuffy, so he threw open all the windows in an attempt to entice in some stagnant air.
The light on his answer phone was flashing, so he pressed the play button. Two hang-ups and his mother: ‘How are you, dear? It’s so long since you’ve been to see me. Give me a call soon, would you? There’s something I want to talk to you about.’
Mariner sighed. What scheme was she hatching now? Something, no doubt, that would involve him in endless discussion and research on her behalf, which would come to nothing when she changed her mind, like her idea of selling up and moving to a retirement property in Westonsuper-Mare. That one had kept him busy for weeks. Three times inside a month he’d even taken her down there to get a feel for different areas. Then, on a whim, she’d dropped the idea and that was when he first developed the suspicion that she’d concocted the whole thing just to keep his attention focused on her.
When he’d left home as a teenager, he’d hurt her. He knew that and had come to regret the fact, even though at the time his leaving had been pure self-preservation. It was only a matter of three or four years before their relationship was re-established, but she’d never let him forget the digression. Since that time, she’d demanded assurances that though they had their separate lives, as long as he was able, he would be there to support her. And she’d held him to his word, making sure that at regular intervals some project or minor ailment would occur that required his attention. Projects that invariably failed to come to fruition, but were enough to keep him dangling. Over the last few years her demands had increased in frequency so that she seemed to be developing classic ‘cry wolf’ syndrome. With a stab of guilt, Mariner thought of Theresa Knox ploughing up and down the motorway to visit her mother on Merseyside. Funny, Tony hadn’t mentioned that before. How long had it been going on?
Cracking open a bottle of home-brewed Woodford’s Wherry, kept cool by storing it in the lowest depths of the old-fashioned scullery, Mariner took his dinner out on to the canal-side. The water was silent and still, with hardly any sound from the surrounding city and no breeze to sway the birches on the opposite bank. With the cooling of the air the smell of vegetation was strong: Mariner even caught a hint of perfume from the single strand of wild honey-suckle a few feet away. Screaming swallows had given way to bats and crane flies, but even now the air was mild and sultry. If Ricky or Yasmin were sleeping rough tonight, at least they’d be warm.
Usually at this time of the year there would be a couple of narrow boats parked a few hundred yards up river where the two canals joined, but the low water level was discouraging most, forcing them to steer a central line or risk being grounded in the mud. In some areas of the country stretches of the waterway had even been closed. It being the close season, fishermen, too, had given up on the dark, stagnant waters and even the ducks seemed lethargic in their quacking.
In the twilight he could just make out the perfect symmetry of the guillotine lock beyond the junction with the Stratford-on-Avon canal, put there years ago for just such circumstances as these. The two canals were on different levels and it was to prevent the water running from one into the other: one of the remnants from the city’s industrial past as a contest was created between the canals and the river that ran alongside.
His meal finished, Mariner took a long shower to wash off the grime of the day, before tuning in to watch the late news report on TV.
‘There are growing concerns for the safe
ty of schoolgirl Yasmin Akram, who disappeared on her way home from school yesterday afternoon,’ the anchorman said. The same smiling photograph that Mariner carried in his pocket was flashed up on the screen. ‘She was last seen boarding a train for the university station, and police are appealing for anyone who may have any information about the schoolgirl’s whereabouts to get in touch.’ The bulletin ended with the Granville Lane telephone number. It would prompt the usual flurry of crank calls. Some anorak was bound to have seen Yasmin abducted on to a spacecraft by aliens, at the very least. An incident information centre had been set up at Granville Lane to weed out the genuine stuff.
Mariner wondered if Colleen Skeet was watching. If so, she’d want to know why there was no mention of Ricky. He’d deal with that one tomorrow.
He tried Anna’s number a couple of times but strangely her line was engaged. A bit late to be canvassing for donations, he thought, but he didn’t like to consider any other possibilities. And now he’d left it too long to think about calling his mother. That one would have to wait, too. Checking that his mobile was charged and switched on, Mariner went to bed.
It was an undisturbed night and Mariner woke early to another blistering morning: the sun pushing up over the skyline, already dazzlingly bright. He got to the office to find, among other things, a call from Colleen Skeet waiting to be returned. Millie was already at her desk, deep in a phone conversation; trawling the hospitals once again, just in case. Mariner gestured ‘drink’ and got a thumbs up in reply.
On his way to the water cooler he had to pass DS Charlie Glover’s desk. Glover too was on the phone, shirtsleeves up, tie hanging loose and a thin sheen of sweat coating his pale features. He looked as if he’d been up for hours. Without breaking the conversation, he looked on warily as Mariner sorted through his in-tray, finding the file he wanted two thirds of the way down the pile.
‘That’s great. I’ll look forward to hearing from you soon,’ said Glover, concluding the call. He replaced the receiver. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked mildly.
Mariner was reading the top sheet of the chosen file. ‘Not much progress,’ he observed.
Glover leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m doing the best I can with just the one pair of hands, one pair of legs and a desk full of other crap.’ He wasn’t being insubordinate, merely stating the facts.
It’s not enough though, is it? Mariner wanted to retort, even now picturing Colleen sitting at home, poised by the phone, longing for it to ring. But he kept quiet, because Glover was right. It was just one case among dozens. And it wasn’t Charlie’s fault that it had been pulled from Mariner and given to him.
‘I’ve talked to the lad’s friends,’ Glover went on. ‘Not that he’s got too many of those. He seems to be a bit of a loner. According to the school, he’s a bright kid with a promising future. Nobody saw him beyond Tuesday afternoon when he left school. He went off on his bike. And we’ve checked the places his mum says he usually hangs out.’
‘Fido thinks he’s a runner.’
Glover shrugged. ‘Could be. He’s taken his life savings with him.’
‘Has he?’
‘All seven quid of it. Did you know he’d been talking to his mum about joining the army?’
‘The army?’
‘Apparently she didn’t take him too seriously.’
‘I’m not surprised. He’s not that sort of kid.’
‘Maybe he wants to be that sort of kid: a hero.’ To make up for the times he hadn’t quite managed it before.
‘Colleen has phoned me. OK with you if I return it?’
‘Sure.’
Back at his desk, Mariner made the call. Colleen picked up before the phone had even rung.
‘Why have they taken you off it?’ she demanded immediately.
‘Something else came up.’
‘Something more important than Ricky?’
‘Something different.’
But she wasn’t listening. ‘Is it that girl? She went missing round here, too. I saw it on the telly last night.’
‘Charlie Glover’s a good bloke,’ said Mariner, sidestepping the question. ‘He’ll do a thorough job. He’s talking to Ricky’s friends—’
‘Huh. That won’t take long. Why can’t they put Ricky’s picture on the telly?’
‘They still might. They’re doing a search of the places you suggested first. Plus, we’ve issued a description of Ricky and his bike. We’re doing all we can, Colleen.’ But it wasn’t enough, and it wouldn’t be enough until Colleen had her son back safe and sound. That twinge of guilt returned, remembering what he’d put his own mother through all those years ago.
The knock on the door preceded Fiske. Mariner groaned inwardly.
‘Anything?’ Fiske demanded. ‘Any results from last night’s appeal?’
‘It’s still too early.’
‘But there’s nothing? I thought not, which is why we need to push on.’
Tony Knox appeared.
‘The search volunteers are awaiting your briefing, boss.’ he told Mariner.
‘What search volunteers?’
Fiske smiled knowingly. ‘I’ve enlisted the help of the Operational Support Unit and their team of specialist “search-trained” offices. We need to up the ante,’ he said. ‘Yasmin’s been missing for two nights now. As you so rightly said, you need to widen the investigation team, so I thought it would be helpful if I put in a word on your behalf. Uniform have rounded up some volunteers to help do the search, too. It seems they’re awaiting your instructions. ’
‘But as I said yesterday, sir, we still don’t know for certain where Yasmin got off the train. The last people with a definite sighting of her were the friends who saw her running for the train at Kingsmead. We don’t have—’
‘You have the CCTV footage.’
‘I don’t think it’s conclusive.’
‘It’s enough.’ Fiske’s abrupt departure said the debate was over.
‘They’re all waiting for the party to start,’ prompted Knox.
Mariner glared at him. ‘Well, we’d better get on with it then.’ He didn’t like this one little bit. ‘Either he lets me run this or he doesn’t,’ he muttered, on the walk to the briefing room. ‘We don’t have enough clear evidence that Yasmin even got as far as the university. Next thing, we’ll have finance on our backs telling us we’ve run out of money.’
‘He has to be seen to be doing something,’ Jamilla said, trailing behind.
‘Even if that something could be a complete waste of fucking time?’
‘Look on the bright side, boss,’ said Knox. ‘There’s an outside chance it might not be.’
Because the main search area was on the university campus, as a courtesy they had to get permission from the Dean to go ahead. Before going to see her, taking Millie and Tony Knox, Mariner parked by the university railway station and walked the route that Yasmin would have taken, to give them an idea of the general lie of the land. Emerging from the station, a tarmac footpath took them through well-groomed park land that ran for several hundred yards alongside a piece of rougher, untamed ground before climbing a slight incline towards the central cluster of mock-Elizabethan buildings that was dominated by the clock tower pushing up into the cornflower sky. Outward from the core, buildings encompassing every architectural era of the twentieth century had grown up. The path emerged on to a network of roads, just along from the stripy arm of a security barrier. Some of the roads were public thoroughfares: connecting the main routes that ran either side of the campus, and linking the different faculties of the university.
From there, Yasmin would have walked past the main student union building and out on to a well-populated public highway. Looking back, it was plain that the most vulnerable section of Yasmin’s journey would be between leaving the railway station and getting to the main body of the campus. And that would be where they would concentrate their search.
Dean Angela Woolley’s office was situated on the first floor of one o
f the original university buildings that surrounded the impressive Chancellor’s court, and was overlooked by the three-hundred-foot tall Chamberlain clock tower; affectionately known as Old Joe. An information board outside told them that they were on the site of one of the original red-brick universities, built at the turn of the twentieth century with the intention of educating those who would manage the Midlands’ burgeoning manufacturing industries. Not much call for that any more, thought Mariner. But its reputation had lived on and now the university seemed to serve as many students from overseas as it did local youngsters. The main building reeked of academia, an atmosphere that Mariner found at once comfortable and intimidating.
‘You ever wish you’d gone to university?’ he asked Knox, as they stood cooling their heels outside Woolley’s office.
The vacant response said that the thought had never entered Knox’s mind. ‘You?’ he asked. Mariner wasn’t so certain. Sometimes he wondered how different his career path might have been had he taken that route. How different his whole life might have been. People like Fiske met their life partners at university, or emerged with a core group of friends. It was certainly an opportunity that would have been open to him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’
Angela Woolley was sturdily into middle age, her hair set in a rigid perm, the colour of honey. They didn’t need to explain their purpose in being there: she was fully abreast of current events.
‘Anything we can do to help, Inspector. Though I’m sure nothing untoward could have happened here in the university without someone noticing. There aren’t many students on campus now because of summer recess, but there are some and I’ll make sure that word gets round to the relevant departments to cooperate with your officers.’
Along with all the search team from the operational command unit, a handful of students had also come forward to help, mostly postgraduates. The summer exams were over and many of the students had gone down, but a straggling line of about forty strong swept across the ground like an ill-disciplined advancing army.
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