He was at his desk by eight, nevertheless, breaking the back of the paperwork before it broke him. Dave 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 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-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.
"Dave 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 2-1 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 fullback, 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 hangers 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 passersby. 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 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 top 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 clothes, 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 was bread, a pot of jam, and some cheese but no Rebecca; he found her in the front room, texting on her mobile phone.
"The hell!"
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?” 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 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 are 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."
"No mention of going away, taking a trip?"
"Nothing."
"And the husband? She didn't say anything about him? Being worried at all?"
Resnick shook his head. “We've checked with the school and the nursery where she takes the little girl. Both were surprised when the kids didn't turn up this morning. Nursery phoned but got no answer, assumed she'd been taken sick. School, the same."
Kiley shifted uncomfortably on his chair.
"More luck with the neighbours,” Resnick said. “Old lady next-door, bit of a light sleeper, reckons she heard a child scream. A little after two. Either that or a fox, she couldn't be sure. Person from across the street, sleeps with the window open, thinks he might have heard a vehicle driving away, that would be later, around two-thirty. There's not a lot more. A couple of people mentioned seeing a van parked in Exchange Road, just around the corner. Not usually there. Small, white, maybe a black stripe down the side. Could have been a Citroen, according to one. We're following that up, checking CCTV. That time of night, roads shouldn't be too busy. Might
spot something.” He leaned back. “Not a lot else to go on."
"You've sent out descriptions?” Kiley said.
"As best we can. Local airports. Birmingham."
"They could have gone with him willingly,” Kiley said.
"Is that what you think?"
"What I'd like to think,” Kiley said. “Not the same thing."
* * * *
Keiron helped him put up the tent. The trees in that part of the forest had mostly lost their leaves, but the undergrowth was thick enough to shield them from sight. None of the regular paths came near. Tent up, they foraged for fallen branches and dragged them to the site, arranging them over the bracken. Several times, Keiron cut himself on thorns and briars, but he just sucked at the blood and bit back the tears. Big boy, trying not to be afraid.
"How long?” Rebecca wanted to ask. “How long are we going to be here?” Reading the look on Anderson's face, she said nothing.
The sandwiches were finished quickly. Amongst the supplies he had provided were tins of corned beef and baked beans, peach slices in syrup. Biscuits. Bottles of water. Tea bags and a jar of instant coffee, though he didn't want the risk of lighting a fire. They had driven the van some way along the main track, then gone the rest of the way on foot, making two journeys to carry everything. Still dark. Just the light of a single torch. Taking Keiron with him, Anderson had gone back to move the van.
Before leaving, he had taken Rebecca to one side. “You'll be here when we get back, you and Billie. Right here. Okay?"
"Yes.” A whisper.
"I'm sorry?"
"I said, yes. Yes, all right.” Not able to look him in the eye.
"It better be."
By the time they had returned, Keiron was exhausted, out on his feet, and his father had had to carry him the last half-mile. Billie was asleep, stretched across her mother's lap. While he had been away, she had tried walking a little way in each direction, taking Billie with her, careful never to wander too far and lose her way back. She had seen nobody, heard nothing. She felt stupid for not doing anything more, without knowing what, safely, she could have done.
"You look knackered,” Anderson said. “Tired out. Why don't you get your head down? Get a bit of sleep while you can."
EQMM, November 2008 Page 3