by John Harvey
‘Not to me. Keeps herself to herself, mostly. Not unfriendly, but you know…’
‘You didn’t see her leaving? Her and the children?’
‘Can’t say as I did.’
‘And there hasn’t been anybody else hanging round? A man?’
‘Look, what is this? Are you the police or what?’
Kiley tried for a reassuring smile. ‘Nothing like that. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Well, you could try next door the other side, they might know something. Or the fruit and veg shop back on Melton Road, I’ve seen her in there a time or two, chatting like.’
Kiley thanked her and rang the next-door bell but there was no one home. Between serving customers, the fruit and veg man was happy enough to pass the time of day, but could provide nothing in the way of useful information.
There was a narrow alley running down behind the houses, mostly taken up with green wheelie bins; a low gate gave access to a small, square yard. The rear curtains were pulled partway across. Through the glass Kiley could see the remains of a sliced loaf, left unwrapped beside the sink; a tub of Flora with no lid; a pot of jam; a wedge of cheese, unwrapped. A child’s coat lay bunched on the floor; a chair on its side by the far wall. Signs of unseemly haste.
The back door seemed not to be sitting snug in its frame. When Kiley applied pressure with the flat of his hand it gave a few millimetres, loose on its hinges, rattled, then stuck. No key, Kiley guessed, turned in the lock, but bolted at the top. A swift kick would have it open.
He hesitated, uncertain what to do.
Derek Prentiss’ number was in his mobile; Prentiss, whom he’d worked with as a young DC when he’d first made it into plain clothes, and now in line for Commander.
‘Derek? Hi! It’s Jack. Jack Kiley No, fine, thanks. Yes, grand… Listen, Derek, you don’t happen to know anyone up in Nottingham, do you? Someone you’ve worked with, maybe? Might be willing to give me the time of day.’
Resnick had been up since before five, Lynn heading up some high-power surveillance and needing to be in place to supervise the changeover, a major drugs supplier their target and kudos all round if they could pull it off. Resnick had made them both coffee, toast for himself, a rye loaf he’d picked up on the way home the day before, Lynn crunching her way through Dorset muesli with skimmed milk and a sliced banana.
‘Why don’t you go back to bed?’ she’d said. ‘Get another couple of hours.’
She’d kissed him at the door, the morning air cold against her cheek.
‘You take care,’ he’d said.
‘You too.’
One of the cats wandered in from outside, sampled an early breakfast and, despite the presence of a cat flap, miaowed to be let out again.
Instead of taking Lynn’s advice, Resnick readied the smaller stovetop pot and made himself fresh coffee. Easing back the curtains in the living room, the outside still dark, he sat thumbing through the previous night’s Evening Post, listening to Lester Young. Would he rather have been out there where Lynn was, the heart of the action, so-called? Until recently, yes. Now, with possible retirement tapping him on the shoulder, he was less sure.
He was at his desk by eight, nevertheless, breaking the back of the paperwork before it broke him. Derek Prentiss rang a little after eleven and they passed a pleasant enough ten minutes, mostly mulling over old times. There was a lot of that these days, Resnick thought.
At a quarter to twelve, an officer called up from reception to say a Jack Kiley was there to see him. He got to his feet as Kiley entered, extending his hand.
‘Jack.’
‘Detective Inspector.’
‘Charlie.’
‘Okay, then. Charlie.’
The two men looked at one another. They were of similar height, but with Resnick a good stone and a half heavier, the buttons on his blue shirt straining above his belt. Both still had a fullish head of hair, Resnick’s darker and, if anything, a little thicker. Kiley, thinner-faced and a good half a dozen years younger, had a leaner, more athletic build. Resnick, in contrast, had the slightly weary air of a man who has spent too long sitting in the same comfortable chair. Balzic, Kiley thought for a moment, harking back to the book he’d been reading, Mario Balzic.
‘Derek Prentiss said you might need a favour,’ Resnick said.
‘You could call it that.’
Resnick gestured towards a chair. ‘Better sit.’
Kiley gave him a succinct version of events, what he knew, what he feared.
‘You think they might be inside?’
‘I think it’s possible.’
Resnick nodded. There had been a case not too long ago, north of the city. A man who’d discovered his wife was having an affair with a colleague and was planning to leave him; he had smothered two of the children with a pillow, smashed their mother’s head open with a hammer and left her bleeding on the kitchen floor. The police had found a third child hiding in the airing cupboard, limbs locked in fear.
There were other instances, too.
Almost a commonplace.
‘You say the back door’s only bolted?’
‘So it seems.’
‘You didn’t go in yourself?’
‘I thought about it. Thought it might not be such a great idea.’
Resnick considered, then reached towards the phone. ‘I’ll organise a car.’
‘This could be a wild goose chase,’ Kiley said as they were descending the stairs.
‘Let’s hope, eh?’
The driver was fresh-faced, carrot-haired, barely out of training. They’re not only getting younger, Kiley thought, this one can only just see over the top of the steering wheel.
In the back of the car, Resnick was studying Kiley intently. ‘Charlton Athletic, wasn’t it?’ he said eventually.
Grinning, Kiley nodded.
‘Cup game down at Meadow Lane,’ Resnick said.
Another nod.
‘’90/’91.’
‘Yes.’
‘A good season for us.’
‘You had a good team.’
‘Tommy Johnson.’
‘Mark Draper.’
Resnick smiled, remembering.
‘Good Cup year for you, wasn’t it?’
‘Through to the Sixth Round. Spurs beat us two-one at White Hart Lane.’
‘We should’ve stopped you sooner.’
‘You had your chances.’
Kiley looked out through the window. Off-licence. Estate agent. Delicatessen. He had spent most of the game on the bench and only been sent on for the last fifteen minutes. Before he could adjust to the pace, the ball had come to him on the edge of the area and, with the centre half closing in on him, he had let fly and, leaning back too far, his shot had ballooned over the bar. Then, a goal down and with less than five minutes to spare, he had nicked the ball away from the full back, cut inside, and, with only the goalie to beat, had skewed it wide. At the final whistle he had turned away disgusted as the Notts players ran towards their fans in triumph.
‘All a long time ago,’ Resnick said. ‘Fifteen years.’
‘And the rest.’
‘Think about it much?’
Kiley shook his head. ‘Hardly at all.’
The car swung round into Manvers Road and they were there. Still no one was answering the door. Round at the back, Resnick hesitated only a moment before putting his shoulder to the door, once, twice, before the bolt snapped free. He stepped carefully into the kitchen, Kiley following. Nothing had been moved. The cloth dog, two shades of brown, still sat, neglected, in the hall. The front room was empty and they turned back towards the stairs. A chill spread down the backs of Resnick’s legs and along his arms. The stairs creaked a little beneath his weight. A child’s blue cardigan lay, discarded, on the landing. The door to the main bedroom was closed.
Drawing a slow breath, Resnick turned the handle. The bed had been hastily made; the wardrobe doors stood open and several garments had slid from their hange
rs to the floor. There was no one there.
They turned back towards the other room, its door ajar.
The closer of the two, Kiley looked round at Resnick enquiringly then nudged the door wide.
There were bunk beds against the right-hand wall. Posters on the wall, a white melamine set of drawers. Several clear plastic boxes, stacked on top of one another, filled with toys. Stuffed animals and pieces of Lego and picture books strewn across the floor.
Kiley felt the muscles in his stomach relax. ‘They’re not here.’
Thank God for that.’
Back downstairs they stood in the kitchen, Resnick taking in the evidence of hasty sandwich making, the fallen chair.
There were a dozen explanations, mostly harmless, some more plausible than the rest. ‘You think they’ve done a runner?’ he said.
‘I think they might have tried.’
‘And if they didn’t succeed?’
Kiley released a long, slow breath. ‘Then he’s taken them, that’s what I’d say.’
‘Against their will?’
‘Odds are.’
Resnick called the station from the car; arranged for the place to be secured and Scene of Crime officers to attend. Jumping to conclusions they might be, but better that than to do nothing and wait for bad news.
Terry Anderson had waited, cautious, van parked just around the corner on Exchange Road, back towards the primary school. From there he could see the house, see if Rebecca had any callers, visitors in or out, make sure the coast was clear. Waiting. Watching. Alert. Ready for danger, the least sign. It was nothing to him. What he was trained for. Northern Ireland. Iraq. Afghanistan. Belfast. Basra. Sangin. Someone waiting to take your head off with a rifle or blow you to buggery with an RPG.
Little happened. The occasional couple returning home from visiting friends, an hour in the pub, an evening in town. Men taking their dogs for a last walk around the block, pausing perhaps, to light a cigarette. Television screens flickering brightly between half-closed blinds. House lights going on, going off.
He sat behind the front seats, leaning back, legs stretched in front of him, out of sight to passers-by. Beside him in the van were blankets, sleeping bags, bottles of water. A few basic supplies. First-aid kit. Ammunition. Tools. Tinned food. His uniform, folded neatly. Waterproofs. Rope. Prepared.
As he watched, the downstairs room of Rebecca’s house went suddenly dark and he imagined, rather than heard, the sound some moments later as she turned the key in the front door lock. Careful, he liked that. Not careful enough.
Eleven thirty-five.
She’d been watching, he guessed, a rerun of some American soap or a late-night film and had either got bored or found her eyes closing, unbidden. How many times had they sat together like that in the semi-dark, the change in her breathing alerting him to the fact that she had dropped off, unwillingly, to sleep? Her warm breath when he had leaned over to kiss her, her head turning away.
The upstairs light went on and, for a brief moment, he saw her in silhouette, standing there, looking out, looking down; then the curtains were pulled across, leaving a faint yellowish glow.
Automatically, he rechecked his watch.
Imagined the children, already sleeping.
The houses to either side had gone dark long since, but up and down the street there were still signs of life.
He would wait.
Rebecca stirred, wondering if she had ever really been asleep and, if so, for how long? The bedside clock read 01:14. It was her bladder that had awoken her and, grudgingly, she slid her legs round from beneath the duvet and touched her feet to the carpeted floor. The house was smaller than she might have liked, and at times, even for the three of them, barely large enough — bedlam when one or more of Keiron’s friends came round after school to play. But the fixtures and fittings were in better nick than in many of the other places she’d seen and the rent, with her parents’ help, was reasonable enough. If it weren’t for them, she didn’t know what she could have done.
Careful not to flush the toilet for fear of waking Billie — a light sleeper at best — she eased back the door and slipped into their room. Keiron’s thumb was in his mouth and carefully she prised it free, causing him to grunt and turn his head sharply to one side, but not to wake. Billie, pink pyjama top gathered at her neck, was clinging to the edge of the blanket she had slept with since she was three months old.
Straightening, Rebecca shivered as if — what did her grandmother used to say? — as if someone had just walked over her grave.
Rubbing her arms beneath the sleeves of the long T-shirt she was wearing, she turned and went softly back to bed, this time, hopefully, to sleep through. The morning would come soon enough.
When she woke again it had just gone two. Levering herself up on to one elbow, she strained to hear. Had one of the children woken and cried out? A dream, perhaps? Or maybe Keiron had got up and gone to the toilet on his own?
No, it was nothing.
The wind, perhaps, rattling the windowpanes.
Her head had barely touched the pillow when she heard it again, for certain this time, the sound that had awoken her, a footstep. Next door, it had to be next door. Quite often, late at night, she heard them moving. Early, too. Her breath caught in her throat. No. There was somebody in the house, somebody down below, a footstep on the stairs.
Rebecca froze.
If I close my eyes, will it go away?
It.
He.
Whoever…
For the first time she wanted a phone beside the bed, a panic button, something. With a lunge, she threw back the covers and sprang from the bed. Three, four steps and she was at the door and reaching for the light.
Oh, Christ!
The figure of a man, turning at the stop of the stairs.
Christ!
Her hand stifled a scream.
‘It’s all right,’ the voice said. ‘It’s all right.’ A voice she recognised, reassuring, commanding.
‘Terry?’
He continued slowly towards her, his face still in shadow.
‘Terry?’
‘Who else?’ Almost smiling. ‘Who else?’
With a sob, she sank to her knees, and he reached down and touched her hair, uncertainly at first, easing her head forward until it rested against his body, one of her hands clinging to his leg, the other pressed hard against the floor.
They stood in the bedroom, Rebecca with a cotton dressing gown pulled hastily round her. She had stopped shaking, but her breathing was still unsteady. He was wearing a black roll-neck sweater, camouflage trousers, black army boots.
‘What are you… What are you doing?’
When he smiled, nothing changed in his eyes.
‘Terry, what…’
‘Get the children.’
‘What?’
‘Get yourself dressed and then get the children.’
‘No, you can’t…’
When he reached towards her, she flinched.
‘Just something sensible, jeans. Nothing fancy. Them the same.’
She waited until he turned away.
‘Keiron and Billie, they’re in back, are they?’
‘Yes, but let me go first, you’ll frighten them.’
‘No, it’s okay. You get on.’
‘Terry, no…’
‘Get on.’
‘You won’t…’
He looked at her then. ‘Hurt them?’
‘Yes.’
He shook his head. ‘They’re my kids, aren’t they?’
Billie was awake when he got to the door and when he moved closer towards her she screamed. Rebecca, half-dressed, came running, brushed past him and took the three-year-old into her arms. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart, it’s only Daddy.’
She sobbed against Rebecca’s shoulder.
On the top bunk, Keiron stirred, blinking towards the landing light. ‘Dad?’
Fingers and thumbs, Rebecca helped them into their clo
thes, Keiron with a school sweatshirt pulled down over his Forest top, Billie snapped into her blue dungarees.
‘Where we going, Mum?’ Keiron asked.
‘I’m not sure, love.’
‘An adventure,’ his father said, coming through the door. ‘We’re going on an adventure.’
‘Really?’
‘You bet!’ He tousled the boy’s hair.
‘You mean like camping?’
‘Yes, a bit like that.’
‘Like you in the army.’
‘Yes. Like that.’
‘Some of the year sixes go camping overnight. Cook their own food and everything. Can we do that?’
‘Prob’ly, we’ll see.’
‘And take a pack-up? Can we take a pack-up?’
‘No need, son. I’ve got all the stuff we need.’
‘But they do, carry it with them. Can’t we?’
‘Yes, all right, then. Why not? Becca, how about it? Like the boy says. Fix us something quick. Sandwich, anything. Go on, I’ll finish up here.’
When he got down to the kitchen, a few minutes later, there were bread, a pot of jam and some cheese but no Rebecca; he found her in the front room, texting on her mobile phone.
‘The fuck!’
Before he could reach her, she’d pressed delete. Swinging her hard towards him, he snatched the phone from her hand. ‘Who was that going to be to? The police? The fucking police?’ He hurled the phone against the wall and, pushing her aside, crushed it with the heel of his boot. ‘Now get in that kitchen and get finished. Five fucking minutes and we’re leaving. Five.’
Keiron was standing, open-mouthed, at the living-room door and behind him somewhere Billie had started to cry.
It was early evening and they were sitting in Resnick’s office, a light rain blurring the window, the intermittent snarl and hum of traffic from the street.
‘Here’s what we’ve got so far,’ Resnick said. ‘Two sets of adult prints in the house, one we’re assuming Terry Anderson’s. Looks as if he forced the lock on the back door. Not difficult. Explains why it was only bolted across. There was a mobile phone, Rebecca’s, in the front room. Beneath the settee. Broken. Smashed on purpose.’
‘Used recently?’ Kiley asked.
‘One call earlier that evening, to a friend. We’ve already spoken to her, nothing there.’