Far Cry

by John Harvey

  'Simon, thank you. But really, I'm fine. I don't need any help. We're all fine.'

  She bustled Beatrice away and when she looked back, some moments later, he was still standing there, neck craned forward, watching them go.

  'Mum,' Beatrice said, as they hurried for the bus, tugging at her sleeve. 'That man. You weren't really married to him? Before Dad. That was him? You couldn't have been.'

  'It was a long time ago,' Ruth said. 'A long time. He was different then.'

  Thinking, no, he's different now.

  'And that was it?' Andrew said. 'You didn't find out what he was doing there? Where he's living? Anything?'

  They were in the dining room after supper, curtains moving lightly in the breeze. From the squawks and flutters elsewhere, after a certain amount of nagging, Beatrice was practising her flute.

  'No. Close, that's what he said. Now that we're living so close.'

  'You don't think he's actually here in Ely?'

  'I don't know. I didn't ask.' She poured a little more wine into her glass and passed the bottle. 'Quite honestly, the whole thing freaked me out.'

  'It was the surprise.'

  'Yes, I suppose so.'

  'Seeing someone when you least expect it, out of context, it's always strange.'

  'Yes, I know. But this ... And all that stuff about support groups, people who'd understand...'

  A quick shudder ran through her and Andrew reached across the table and took her hand. 'He probably hasn't got anyone else, poor bloke. Maybe that Internet stuff—I suppose that's what it is—is what he needs.' Smiling, he gave her hand a squeeze. 'It's okay for you. You've got me.'

  33

  Will had spent most of the morning closeted with the Divisional Commander and other senior officers, discussing the policing of the increasingly diverse communities within the county. After a slight hiccup, the numbers of asylum seekers and economic migrants continued to rise: tensions had already overflowed in certain areas, most recently Huntingdon, where clashes between groups of Poles and West Africans had become worryingly violent and prolific. Elsewhere, significant numbers of Eastern Europeans were becoming involved in the farming and distribution of cannabis. The death of a Lithuanian man, discovered with his throat cut in a field outside Newmarket, was considered by the Major Investigation Team to be the result of a drug deal turned sour.

  When, after the best part of four hours and presentations from both the Diversity Steering Group and the Regional Immigration, Asylum and Migrant Worker Group, Will finally stumbled out of the meeting, his tongue was furred by too many cups of instant coffee and his mind numbed by an excess of bullet points, pie charts and well-meaning obfuscation.

  He phoned Helen, but, for some reason, her mobile was switched off. Overhead, the sky, which earlier that morning had promised much, was now a meagre veil of grey. There were more papers to attend to at his desk, target assessments, reports, a case that was coming up to trial. Easing the Astra out of the crowded car park, he headed north.

  He had seen photographs of Christine Fell taken when she was just eleven: a dark-eyed, willowy girl in school uniform, smiling hopefully at the camera, her life before her. Those taken after the abduction had shown something else: fear, a residue of pain, a knowledge of things she should have neither seen nor known.

  What chance that he would recognise her now?

  There were more charity shops on the high street than he remembered, each offering a mixture of cast-off clothing, discarded books and CDs, unwanted videos and bric-a-brac, carelessly arranged. Will walked slowly along, peering in windows, half in hope, until there, surely, she was, anonymous in muted colours, standing beside a rail hung with cardigans and fake-leather coats, eyes cast down. She had grown tall, as those early pictures had suggested she might, but the way she stood, stoop-shouldered, disguised her height as best she could.

  Will watched as a customer approached her with a question and she seemed almost to flinch, then half-turn her head aside before answering, her voice, Will could tell, kept low. With a shake of her head, the customer moved away, seeking help elsewhere, and Christine was left standing, wringing her hands, willing the floor to swallow her up.

  Will pushed open the door and went inside.

  Feigning interest, he ran a finger along a shelf of paperbacks: Desmond Bagley, James Patterson, Anita Shreve; several copies of Bridget Jones's Diary—Lorraine had read the choice bits out to him in bed.

  Jumper loose and at least a size too large, skirt too long, Christine Fell had moved to the cash desk near the back of the shop.

  Toys and games were stacked haphazardly close by and Will crouched low, contemplating first a jigsaw for Jake, then, for Susie, a small brown bear missing one ear. The only thing with second-hand jigsaws, he thought, you could never be certain vital pieces weren't missing. After some scrabbling in a plastic box, he found a Matchbox car for Jake instead, a red Jaguar XK with only a single scratch along the bonnet.

  'How much are these?' he asked at the counter. Christine Fell glanced up at him for just a moment, then, without looking at him directly, she took first the bear and then the car from his hands and set them down. Her nails, he could see, were bitten to the quick.

  'I'm not sure,' she said quietly. 'I think they might be a pound. Let me ask.'

  'A pound each?'

  'Yes. Is that too much?

  'No, no, that's fine.' He took a five-pound note from his wallet. 'I don't have the right money, I'm afraid.'

  Her fingers were uncertain on the old-fashioned till; the change, when she held it out towards him, slipped from her hand on to the surface of the desk and rolled from there to the floor.

  'Christine,' one of the other staff called from across the shop, 'is everything all right?'

  'Yes,' she replied, flustered. 'Yes.'

  Will waited while, still fumbling, she retrieved the coins, rewarding her with an encouraging smile.

  'I'm really sorry,' she said.

  'It's not a problem.'

  'I ... I should have asked if you wanted a bag.'

  'Thanks, no. This will be fine.' The car he slipped down into one pocket, the bear into the other. 'And thanks for all your help.'

  Hand to her face, she turned, flushing deeply, away.

  Back outside, Will hesitated.

  If she could identify the man who abused her, can you imagine what effect that might have? What it would do to her? Forcing her to go through all of that again?

  He glanced through the window to where Christine Fell still stood.

  I'm sorry, Inspector ... f the man in those photographs is the one who hurt my daughter, you're going to have to catch him some other way.

  With a quick shake of his head, Will began to walk away, quickening his pace as he neared the spot where he'd parked the car. A waste of an afternoon. A mile or so along the A10, he spun the car across the central reservation and headed back.

  Christine Fell left the shop a little after five-thirty, a long raincoat covering her skirt and jumper, though there was no clear sign of rain.

  Will crossed towards her cautiously, not wishing to startle her any more than was necessary.

  'Christine?'

  Halting, she blinked uncertainly.

  'It is Christine Fell, isn't it?'

  'Ye ... Yes. Why? I don't ...' She gulped in air.

  'I was in the shop earlier.'

  'Oh, yes, how stupid of me. You bought...'

  He showed her.

  'The bear, of course. And a little car.' She almost smiled. 'Is there something wrong? I charged too much, perhaps, I wasn't sure. Or the change? I gave you the wrong change. I'm really sorry. If we went back, I think there's somebody still there ...'

  But even as she blustered on, words tumbling over one another, she realised it was something more.

  'Detective Inspector Grayson, Cambridge Constabulary.' Where there had been a small bear in Will's hand, there was now a warrant card, identification. 'Perhaps there's somewhere we could si
t quietly.'

  'My mother ... I'm meeting my mother.'

  Will nodded, smiling. 'Just a few minutes, I promise.'

  Gently, he took her arm.

  The café was on a narrow side street off the main road, the kind that Will didn't think really existed any more; a menu offering Welsh rarebit, poached egg on toast, toasted teacake or scones. Tea came in a pot, coffee—the best Nescafé—with cold milk or warm; none of your highfaluting lattes and cappuccinos here. The walls were painted a bilious shade of yellow, relieved here and there by pictures of flowers that had been fashioned from pieces of coloured fabric and then framed.

  The woman in charge broke off from sweeping the floor—they were likely due to close at six—to make a pot of tea for two.

  'Sugar's on the table,' she announced, lest it had escaped their notice.

  Having unfastened her raincoat, but not taken it off, the edges trailing on the floor, Christine fidgeted with the heart-shaped buttons of her jumper, the folds of her skirt. The tea came in a metal pot with a hinged lid, milk already in the cups. 'I spoke to your mother,' Will said.

  'My mother ...' She looked alarmed.

  'A few days ago, she didn't mention it?'

  Christine shook her head.

  'Didn't want to upset you, I expect.'

  'Upset?'

  'I said I might want to speak with you...'

  'What about?'

  'All those years ago, the man who abducted you ... I'd like you to look at some photographs ...'

  Something flashed across her eyes.

  'See if it's anyone you recognise.'

  'No. No, you can't make me.'

  Something clattered behind the counter; Christine loud enough now to be overheard.

  'You can't.' There was panic in her voice.

  Carefully, Will placed the photographs, three of them, on the table between the teapot and the sugar bowl: Mitchell Roberts in profile and then head on, staring into the camera, all expression sucked from his eyes.

  'I won't look,' Christine said, but, of course, she did. How could she not?

  'Take your time,' Will said. 'Think. It's important. Do you recognise this man?'

  'No,' she said breathlessly. 'No, no.'

  'Christine...'

  She threw herself blindly forward, brushing the photographs from the table with a flailing arm, cup and saucer spinning away and shattering on the floor.

  'Go away! Go away! Leave me alone!'

  Pulling her coat around her, she was halfway to the door when it opened and her mother stepped in sharply from the street, anger and concern etched in every line of her face.

  34

  'Christ, Will! What were you thinking of?' Helen said.

  They were in Will's office, late morning, door closed. Helen, looking fresh and sparky in a tan skirt and tailored jacket, had brought in two cups of coffee from the nearest Caffè Nero and they sat on the edge of Will's desk, as yet untouched and growing cold.

  'Thinking of?' Will said. 'Doing my job?'

  'You think? Interviewing a particularly vulnerable witness without her parents' consent ...'

  'She's eighteen. Nineteen, good as. An adult. Come on, Helen, I don't need their consent.'

  'Eighteen and in psychiatric care, or did I get that wrong?'

  Will shook his head. 'I've just spent the last hour upstairs with the boss getting my balls chewed off—the last thing I need is for you to do the same.'

  Helen laughed. 'Wasn't what I had in mind.'

  'Very funny.' But he smiled anyway and, reaching for one of the coffees, levered off the lid.

  'So how did it go upstairs?' Helen asked. 'You still got a job?'

  'Just about. That and a possible harassment suit.'

  Helen grinned. 'Shame. I was hoping you'd get a suspension at least. Time for me to step up. Acting DI. Get my feet under your desk.'

  'It'll come.'

  'I'd just like it to be this side of my pension, that's all.' Picking up the second coffee, she carried it across to the window. Another grey East Anglian day. 'When you showed her the photos—I assume that's what you did, the photos of Roberts—what did she say?'

  'She didn't say anything.'

  'She didn't recognise him?'

  'She shouted, screamed. Didn't want to see. But she knew him, all right.'

  'It's never going to be admissible, you realise that. None of it. And if you did ever get her to agree to take the stand, which is unlikely, they'd rip her to shreds.'

  'I know.'

  Helen moved back away from the window. 'This all should have been sorted years ago.'

  'You think you need to tell me that?'

  'Why wasn't it, though? I mean, if it was Roberts—one of those girls, one at least. We should have known. Questioned him when we could. Instead of letting him get off as lightly as he did.'

  'Yes, well...' Will pushed back his chair and stood. 'We fucked up. I fucked up. What more d'you want me to say?'

  'Will ...'

  'What?' He was reaching for his coat.

  'You're going to go and see him, aren't you? Roberts. Confront him.'

  'I might.'

  Helen dropped her cup into the litter bin beside the desk. 'Be careful, Will.'

  'Careful?'

  'Whatever you feel. Guilt, whatever. Don't let him become an obsession.'

  'You think that's what this is?'

  'It could be.'

  Will smiled. 'I'll leave the obsessions to you. More your mark than mine.'

  'You think?'

  'How is Declan lately?'

  He left without waiting for her reply.

  Mitchell Roberts checked the pressure in the new tyre and made sure the lug nuts were correctly secured before lowering the chassis back down to the ground. The wrong side of four, and a couple of hours still to go. Wiping his hands down the front of his overalls, he moved away from the work area and, stepping outside, took a packet of papers and a pouch of tobacco from his top pocket.

  If Vernon sodding Lansdale didn't like him taking a smoke, then he could just screw himself. Not that Vernon, unless he'd come up worse on the horses that day than usual, was likely to create a fuss. A decent enough bloke, long as you stayed the right side of him, and not above giving work to them as had been inside. Just as long as they pulled their weight. And Roberts did that.

  Straightforward stuff, for the most part: bald tyres and blown exhausts. Once in a while, an engine job would come in and Vernon would let him loose. Not much about cars and lorries Mitchell Roberts couldn't fix, folk'd tell you that. Place he'd had out by Rack Fen, before that business with the girl, people'd have him look at their tractors and all sorts, combine bloody harvesters, whatever it was, chances were he'd get it sorted. Not charge the earth, neither, not like some of them.

  He lit the roll-up and held the smoke down in his lungs.

  That stupid blasted scrap of a girl.

  Flirting with him all the time, the way she did. Not above letting him grab a feel, neither, if she thought it'd earn her a free bottle of pop or some of them chocolate buttons.

  Prick tease, that's what she was.

  Regular prick tease.

  Well, he showed her.

  Himself, too.

  A lesson learned. Prison. He didn't want to go back there. He was about to head back into the workshop when he saw Will Grayson walking fast towards him.

  'Wait up.'

  'Can't. Due back at work.'

  Will placed himself in his path. 'Take five, you can take ten.'

  'Says who?'

  'You need to see some ID?'

  Smart bastard, Roberts thought.

  'Going well?' Will asked.

  'The job?'

  'What else?'

  'Well enough.'

  Roberts had let his hair grow out since Will had last seen him, dark at the roots, fair, almost ginger, at the nape of his neck and where it curled around his ears. His teeth were long and yellow and stained with nicotine.

  'Money
in your pocket,' Will said, 'time on your hands.'

  'You say.'

  'Five-thirty when you're done? Six?'

  'Round there.'

  'Plenty of time before dark.'

  Roberts made to push past.

  Wiggenhall, what's that from here? Fifteen, twenty minutes, drive?'

  Roberts stared back at him. Small, hard eyes.

  'Nice round there. Up along the river. Wiggenhall St Peter. Wiggenhall St Mary Magdalen. Wiggenhall St Germans. Wiggenhall St Mary the Virgin. Very holy.'

  Roberts blinked.

  'That's where you took her, wasn't it? Wiggenhall St Mary. Where you left her, anyway. That barn out past the bridge. Eleven, wasn't she? Eleven years old.'

  'Fuck you!'

  He made to push past again and Will caught hold of his arm.

  'Fuck me? Fuck me? Eleven years old and you left her trussed up with baling wire, blood and shit stuck to her legs and still wearing her best blue party shoes.'

  'Fuck off!'

  'Liked that, did you? Turned you on? Blue fucking shoes!'

  Fear showed for an instant at the back of Roberts' eyes and, before he knew what he was doing, Will had punched him hard in the chest, immediately below the breast bone, sending him stumbling back, then down to his knees.

  'Trouble?' called a voice from behind. Vernon Lansdale, car jack in hand, standing by the garage door.

  'Not any more,' Will said.

  Roberts was breathing heavily, ragged gasps of air.

  'Christine Fell,' Will said, leaning close. 'June of 2000. A little over eight years ago. In case you didn't remember her name.' He straightened. 'She remembered you.'

  Roberts showed him a broken-toothed grin and it was all Will could do not to put a boot in his face.

  'You're lyin'.'

  'Am I?'

  'Then prove it. Just prove it.'

  Will leaned even closer. 'I will. Rose Howard, too. Was she one of yours? You remember Rose?'