My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay

by Ben Trebilcook

  "Right. Well, you watch something relaxing on TV and any news that I receive, I'll give you a call. Text us if Mike arrives home."

  "I will. Thank you, Ed. Thank you."

  "Speak soon. Love to you, Rebecca."

  "And to you. Bye."

  Rebecca reached for her glass of wine. Her eyes became more and more glassy as her quivering lips touched the rim of the glass to take a sip of the Chianti. She swallowed and clutched the glass, staring blankly ahead into nothingness. She began to rock her body back and forth.

  "Please be all right, my love. Please be all right. I love you so much. Please be all right."

  The front door to Edward and Violet's neighbour's house opened and Simon found Edward standing on the doorstep outside.

  "'Allo Ed, what's up?" asked Simon.

  "Sorry it's late, but I wondered if you could get in touch with your gang unit," Edward asked politely.

  "What's that? Erm - why?" frowned Simon, stepping outside and pulling his door to.

  "My son, you know, Mike, hasn't returned home after his day at work. I've been in touch with the local Met and his car's been found abandoned. Some joyriders burned it out. It's all on the PNC," Edward said.

  "Right. So, what can - what can I do?"

  "Your gang unit patrols the area where Mike was last and where his car currently is. It's on Winn Common, in Plumstead. I was thinking if your boys could make a few inquiries, speak to their snouts, they might unearth something new," Edward said, in a rehearsed manner, bordering on the desperate.

  Simon sensed the urgency and nodded his head, understanding Edward's thinly disguised angst. "I'll give them a call. I got the envelope by the way and passed it on. What's the make of the car?"

  "Thanks for that. A VW Golf. Silver."

  "And where was it last?"

  "Winn Common. Where he left it. Where it was also found on fire."

  "OK."

  "He called his girlfriend at ten to four this afternoon to tell her he had a flat tyre," Edward briefed him.

  "Ten to four. OK."

  "His phone's no longer ringing and that was the last we've heard."

  "Local garage, tyre fitter or something like that?" asked Simon, fixing his look constantly on Edward.

  "No. I called all the ones in Plumstead and Woolwich, and the ones that border Welling and Erith, asking if anyone of Mike's description had come in regarding a flat tyre. No reports at all," Edward shrugged.

  "OK and what - what was the name of his code? What's the listed name that Mike goes under as an informant?"

  "Jacob Ramsay," answered Edward.

  It was midnight and Rebecca was in her pink pyjamas and a black vest, lying on the sofa with a thin, grey airline blanket loosely draped over her. She was lightly sleeping, with her glasses on her chest and her hands still gripping her phones. It was dark in the living room and the only light that was being cast was from the glow of her MacBook on the coffee table.

  Her Samsung mobile phone rang, making her jolt and widen her eyes, forming the briefest of smiles of joy which disappeared in similar split second time when she saw that it was Michael's mum and dad on the display.

  "Hello?" she answered, wearily.

  "Hello Rebecca. It's Ed. I'm not waking you, am I?"

  "I was just on the sofa. Have you heard anything?"

  "I was calling to ask if Mike's returned home yet," asked Michael's father, quietly.

  "Oh. No, no, not yet. I don't know what to do." She had cried herself out of tears and simply shook on the sofa. Her body shivered and trembled as if she had just been plucked from an icy lake.

  "It's all right. We'll find him. You go to bed. Get some rest for work tomorrow and if either of us hear anything new, then we'll contact one another, does that sound all right?"

  "Yes," Rebecca whispered.

  "Remember, don't answer the door to anybody unless it's Mike and you know it's his voice."

  "I won't," she promised, obeying Edward's comforting voice on the other end of the line.

  "I'll speak to you tomorrow. Night Bec. Night. Love to you."

  "Night," she said softly, as the line went dead, with Rebecca trembling further. Her lips quivered and suddenly she found more tears. They streamed from her eyes and down her cheeks as she wailed. She sat up and rocked herself in the dim light of the room. "Where are you, baby? Where are you? Please come home. Please. Please. I love you. I love you so much. Don't leave me. Please come home," she sobbed.

  Edward's eyes were glassy. Sitting at his desk in a white towelling dressing gown, he pondered his next move and put his gold-rimmed glasses on. He unscrewed the cap to a bottle of still Evian water and swigged a mouthful, gulping it down before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He pressed the tip of his forefinger to the corner of his eye, sliding away some sleep that had built up within. He yawned and turned around to see Violet, also in a white towelling dressing gown, holding a fluffy pink hot water bottle against her stomach.

  "Has he come home yet?" she asked, with a pained expression.

  "No," he answered softly.

  "Have you heard back from Simon?"

  "No. He's quite unreliable really. How he's a DCI I just don't know," Edward digressed.

  "Yes, I know. As you always say, Ed. So, what are we going to do? I want to know where my son is!" she said, raising her voice.

  "Do you think I don't? Bloody hell, Violet! Goodness me."

  "All right, Edward!"

  "Crikey, I'm doing all I can."

  "No you're not. No, you are not."

  "Oh Violet, please. I have to go through the correct channels first," he explained, calmly.

  "Like you always do - tip toe, tip toe, ever so softly," Violet said, criticising her husband.

  "Oh don't. Please."

  "Oh, I was just wondering if you knew where my son was. Doesn't matter if you can't find him. It's all right," she said, mimicking him and suddenly letting loose her tears.

  "Violet, it will be all right," Edward said, reassuring her.

  "I can't help it. He's such a good son. He's just like you, always helping people and never taking from anybody. Always putting himself last all the time. Where the bloody hell is he?" Violet sobbed, turning to walk away, but stepping back to continue. "And that poor girl. Is Rebecca OK on her own? I don't like her being on her own and worrying all night. That dear, dear, sweet girl. Oh God," she cried and turned away.

  Edward pulled on a pair of jeans and then a pair of thick black socks. He buckled a brown leather belt around his waist. He removed his dressing gown and retrieved a dark green polo shirt from the back of the chair, which he put on. He stepped out of the room and grabbed a dark blue fleece from a hook in the hall and entered the kitchen to see Violet sitting in a chair in the corner, clutching a mug of boiling water with a slice of lemon floating in it.

  She looked up at him as he put on a pair of brown leather shoes.

  "I'm going to where Mike's car is in Plumstead."

  "Not on your own, you're not," she commanded.

  "Oh I'll be all right!" he snapped back, lovingly.

  "Come here and let me tie your laces."

  "I can't get down there. Thank you," he said in a different, much more gentle, child-like manner, shuffling a couple of steps to her.

  Violet tied the lace to one shoe.

  "Give Jason a call. He'll go with you," she said, tying the other lace.

  "I'm not waking him up now. I'll be fine."

  "He'll want to go with you. You call him and meet him there," she instructed, letting him straighten his legs and sigh.

  "Right. I'll give him a call," Edward agreed, stretching out his hand, clutching his mobile phone and scrolling to a name that read "AAJASON'.

  A Blackberry phone vibrated on the dashboard of a black Suzuki Vitara jeep. The vehicle pulled to the curb of a residential street.

  A male hand shifted the gears into neutral, pulled the handbrake up and took the call.

  "'Allo Dad, wh
at's up?" boomed a deep sounding voice. It belonged to a very tall, tanned, dark-haired, handsome man behind the wheel. His name was Jason Thompson and he was Michael's middle brother. He was forty-two years old and always used to play with Michael when they were younger. He once shared a room with his brother and was always there for him, like he was at this particular time, when Edward told him briefly of the situation at hand.

  "I'll be with you in five minutes," Jason said, as he shoved the vehicle into gear, released the handbrake and roared up the street into the night. Jason had once been a police officer himself, but was too young and immature to handle the responsibility, not to mention the decent wage. An incident embarrassed his father and Jason was due to be sacked, however Edward wangled it so Jason was able to resign before the damage set in too deep for those of a higher rank to realise. He'd have made a good copper now, though, probably a better spy than anything, but having spawned several young children over an equal amount of years, he had found himself in a more stable and less dangerous occupation.

  The black Vitara jeep rolled onto Edward and Violet's driveway and to a halt, under a tree. It caused security lights to flare up which illuminated Jason inside.

  He exited the car to be met by Edward.

  "You all right?" Edward said, hugging his tall son.

  "Yeah, cool. How's Mum?" he asked.

  "Oh, you know. Worried."

  "Of course. Shall we go in yours then?" Jason said.

  "Yeah, OK," replied Edward, leading the way to his own car, another Suzuki jeep, but a dark metallic grey.

  "Where do you think he is then?" Jason asked his dad, buckling his belt and adjusting the seat back as far as it would go as his father drove.

  "I don't know," Edward muttered.

  "If it's those bloody kids he works with... I keep telling him to get shot of that job. What's he do there anyway?" moaned Jason.

  "The children tell him their problems. All sorts of stuff."

  "Why Greenwich? It's nuts. It's not like it was when we were growing up round there." Jason reminisced of youth long gone.

  "Oh, I know. Mike's told us all about it. I don't like him doing it either," Edward stated, as he continued to drive, heading through the streets of Crayford, a town not too far from them.

  Violet sat at the desk in the office-type spare bedroom. The landline handset was in the grasp of one hand and a crumpled Kleenex was in the other, moistened slightly by tears she had previously cried.

  "Hello Carolyn, it's Violet. I'm sorry to be calling you at such a late hour, but I just didn't know what else to do. I'm so sorry. It's Michael. Mike. He hasn't returned home from work to his girlfriend and she's terribly worried. We all are. Edward's been in touch with some of his police contacts and - and - and they informed him that Michael's car was found, broken into and then set on fire." She couldn't contain her emotion and began to cry. She tried to compose herself quickly. She coughed and straightened. "I'm sorry, Carolyn. I'm sorry. I know. I know. It is completely out of character, otherwise I wouldn't call to ask if you're able to check anything at work. Is it possible? We hate putting on anybody - well, you know we don't, but I don't know what else to do. Is it possible, do you think?" continued Violet, in a desperate, pleading tone. "His mobile phone number? Michael's? Yes, just a moment. I have it here," she said, reaching to the side of the desk to locate a piece of grey cardboard with rows of names and telephone numbers written on both sides of it. Neighbours. Family. Emergency numbers. Gas. Electricity. Water. Violet flipped the board round and found Michael's name and his mobile number. His girlfriend, Rebecca Samson, was listed underneath. "I have it. Oh, our mobile, too? And his girlfriend's? OK, I have them, Carolyn. Are you ready?"

  Edward and Jason turned into Winn Common Road, the last place where Michael was known to be.

  Jason's eyes were everywhere as the car drove down the tree-lined, pitch-black street. Only a handful of streetlamps were visible and did a poor job in illuminating even the smallest of areas around them. Jason pointed at the windscreen, looking at something up ahead and to the left, in the darkness.

  "Up there, Dad. Keep going and pull in," he instructed.

  Edward pulled the car to the side of the road.

  "Hold on a minute," Edward said, and retrieved a couple of mini Maglite torches from the glove box. He handed one to Jason.

  "Inward or outward spirals? Parallel, grid or zone?" Jason questioned, with a smirk on his face, reeling off the five different searching techniques that a crime scene investigator might decide to take.

  Edward managed a smile and a chuckle, patting his son on the shoulder. "Let's just see what the situation is first, son."

  They both exited the jeep and twisted their torches on, shining a bright ring on the ground in front of them. Edward rounded the vehicle and went to the boot, which he opened.

  Jason was already stepping on the grass and turned to see his father retrieve a fishing tackle box from the jeep. Jason aimed his light this way and that, like a farmer cutting crops with a scythe.

  Edward accompanied Jason and directed his light ahead of him, picking up Michael's burnt-out VW Golf. His eyes glazed over and he tightened his mouth, saddened to see such a sight. He stopped and stared at it for several seconds.

  The rear window was smashed. Three of the rubber tyres had melted.

  The driver's window had been smashed, too. The passenger windows were blackened by fire. The windscreen was cracked. The driver's side mirror dangled. The ground and bushes around it were charred black and wet.

  "Dad?" Jason said, breaking his father's gaze.

  "Yep?" he answered, turning to see Jason holding up a reel of silver gaffer tape with his torch.

  Edward frowned. "What's that? Electrical tape, something like that?"

  "Yeah, and it's dirty. Take it with us?"

  "Oh yeah," replied Edward, watching Jason literally take one lengthy stride to the pavement.

  Jason dropped the tape near the jeep and stepped back onto the grass to shine his torch around further. "There's another set of tracks over there, Dad," he signaled to his father, gesturing for him to look further down the road, but still on the grass.

  Edward shone his light to combine the two beams of his and Jason's torches. He squinted his eyes for a better look. He turned his head to the burnt-out vehicle amongst the bushes, shining his light to cast it downwards at the ground, searching for tread marks.

  "Mike's car made this set of marks," Edward noted, as he followed a twisted path with his torch.

  "So what's the other one? Fire engine?" Jason asked.

  "No, the fire engine would have come from that direction. Erith station is just up there. Probably would have been them. What's the other one? East Greenwich? I don't know. Either way, a fire engine would have entered the way we came and driven across. There. That's their tread." Edward pointed, casting his beam at a set of dead straight tyre marks in the ground.

  "And those?" Jason inquired, curiously, as he aimed his light further down ahead.

  "They're not Mike's and nor do they belong to the fire engine," Edward stated, pulling his digital camera out of his fleece pocket.

  "Do you want my light?" asked his son.

  "Please," answered Edward, kneeling down and opening his fishing tackle box. He retrieved an L-shaped photomacrographic scale and placed it on the ground and on part of the tyre track. He held the camera vertically, in a portrait position, and waited for Jason to cast his beam down to the ground and then took a picture of the set of car tyre marks within the mud. He stepped to a more defined patch and crouched to snap another photo, with the scale in place.

  "How do they look?" Jason asked, curious to see what his father had taken.

  "Good enough," replied Edward, showing Jason the display. He nodded in approval at the clearly visible tyre markings.

  Edward lowered his head and then received an arm around his shoulders from Jason, who patted him on the back.

  "We'll find him and he'll be fine,"
Jason said.

  "Yeah, I know. Here, press this in would you?" Edward asked, taking a polythene bag of some sort and handing it to Jason. "Do what it says on the bag."

  The bag was a Crime-Cast, a plaster casting mixture.

  Jason broke the small water bladder that was housed inside and gently shook and kneaded the dough-like mixture inside the bag. Meanwhile Edward unfolded an adjustable aluminum frame which he set over a hardened tyre mark.

  "How's it doing?" asked Edward, looking up at Jason's peculiar expression as he inspected the squishy bag.

  "Weird. What is it?" he asked, handing it down to his father, who sprayed the tyre track with a tiny spray.

  "It's a casting mixture."

  "And that?"

  "Hair spray. Keeps any stones or loose stuff from moving around. Fixes it all in place," Edward told him, tearing open the bag and pouring the mixture over the hardened tyre track within the metal frame. He carefully squeezed it all out and scraped the mix across to each corner and side of the frame.

  Jason watched his father keenly and curiously, wondering what else was in that box of tricks of his. "Where'd you get all this stuff?"

  "The internet," Edward said, glancing up with a smirk.

  "I thought you got it all from work."

  "I'm retired," answered Edward.

  "You never retire from a job like that," quipped Jason as Edward gently lifted up the plaster cast and took out a brush from his box, dusting off any dirt.

  He squinted to look as he brushed away to reveal the tyre track in Jason's beam, cast by his torch.

  "Cool." Jason was impressed by the indentation on the cast.

  "Not bad, eh?"

  "Shall we check the car then?" Jason said, stepping to the darkness with his light source leading the way.

  Edward closed his box and followed him, putting the camera into his pocket and pulling out a VW car key.

  "Will that fit?" asked Jason.

  "Should do. It's Mike's spare key," replied Edward, unlocking the boot of the car and opening the lid.

  "Why didn't he change the wheel?"

  "Don't know. He's done it before, shrugged his father, thinking to himself, glancing around and then looking back inside the waterlogged boot. He shone his light inside. Nothing was unusual at all. Apart from a couple of damp Sainsbury's shopping bags, it was empty.