A Cry in the Night

by Tom Grieves

‘Some people said … No, I don’t like to gossip.’

  Push them gently. Everything helps, no matter how small. They’re helping. It’s confidential.

  ‘It’s just she got her claws into good ol’ Tim pretty quick.’

  ‘Soon as she saw how rich he was she had her hand down his pants, if you know what I’m saying.’

  No to the tea, but thank you.

  ‘That little angel, makes your heart shudder, don’t it?’

  Shake hands, make eye contact. Friendly but firm. They want to feel that you’re in charge.

  ‘Tim’s salt of the earth. Proper decent fella. Good man. You know? Not a bad bone in him.’

  ‘She runs rings around him, that Sarah.’

  It’s all gossip, but it keeps pushing the same way.

  ‘You gonna find them, love?’

  ‘She’s got a temper on her, that Sarah. I tell you, a couple of drinks and that foul mouth shows itself quick enough.’

  ‘She loved the boy, though.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, loved him to death. Sorry, poor choice of words, honey.’

  ‘You’re a bit pretty for a copper, aren’t you?’

  ‘The mum? I never liked her, but I’m old-fashioned. My family’s lived here for generations. Know what I mean?’

  Frown and play dumb for more.

  ‘Well, her family – not the sort you’d want to meet your mother, if you get my drift.’

  Note it down.

  Knock and smile. Ask and listen. More doors, more names ticked off the list.

  ‘You know the witches have got him, don’t you? You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘Go on, love, have a scone, tiny slip of a girl like you. You’ll never find a man looking like that.’

  Stop for lunch – sit alone in the room above the pub, stuff down a sandwich, catch up on Twitter. Then back at them.

  ‘God bless their poor little souls. We pray for them at church every Sunday.’

  ‘Never knew them really, or the family. Not my type. But she certainly got awfully stuck up once she had a joint bank account.’

  Folded arms on a doorstep. ‘Can’t help you. Didn’t know him, don’t know anything.’ The door slams.

  More names ticked off.

  The nursery school is nice. Cosy and safe. Lovely teachers who are all on the verge of tears. One holds up a painting that Arthur had completed the day he disappeared. A classic boy’s picture of dragons and fire. No hints of any darkness or fear.

  ‘They sit in the trees, you know. Watching and waiting for little children to come close. And then they drag them down to the bottom of the lake.’

  What’s with these stories? No one says them as though they actually believe them, but they tell them nonetheless.

  ‘Oh there’s always been witches in the lake, everyone knows that.’

  ‘I just want to know what she put in his drink. One minute he’s normal Tim, top bloke, next he’s besotted. You women, I ask you.’

  Walking from one row of houses to the next, the lake pops into view. The water glistens in the sunlight like a postcard.

  ‘Poor little mites.’

  ‘No, never saw nothing. Heard all about it, like everyone else. You sure you don’t want a cuppa?’

  Shake hands, watch their eyes.

  ‘You’re lovely, you are.’

  Sit in a small, stuffy sitting room, staring at a set of china dolls, listening to the old geezer ramble on about anything but the case.

  A second investigation has already started, twisting and rerouting everything to Sarah Downing’s door, although no one will say as much. And why do they all talk about witches? Snap out of this, listen to what the man has to say. Stay focused.

  ‘Little angels.’

  Another name to cross off the list.

  ‘Terrible, just terrible.’

  Greet the first just the same as the last. Nod and listen.

  Knock, smile, show your warrant card, smile and take it all in.

  ELEVEN

  Sam found the kids down a dirt track, sitting on metal beams in the eaves of a ramshackle barn at the edge of the village. They didn’t see him coming until too late, so the smell of dope was still strong in the air. Sam stood at the entrance – a large, double-fronted expanse – and looked up at them, knowing he had them trapped.

  He flashed his warrant card and introduced himself with a bored voice.

  ‘I’m not interested in gear or anything else, just the missing kids, so you can all calm down,’ he said.

  The teenagers glared at him, then glanced nervously from one to the other, but no one said anything.

  ‘Come on, come down from there, talk to me and then I’ll be gone,’ he said.

  He heard a noise behind him and turned sharply to see the girl in white. She’d appeared behind him and when their eyes met, he felt a surge run through him. He hid it, looking back at the kids without acknowledging her. Sam called them down again, and after a pause they slowly made their way to the ground and stood facing him in a morose semicircle. He pulled out a file and read out a series of names.

  ‘Daniel Boardman? Natalie Redpath?’ He got a variety of grunts and nods in return. ‘Ashley Deveraux?’

  The girl in white behind him answered. ‘Here, Miss.’ And everyone laughed.

  Sam smiled. ‘Yeah, it is a bit like that, isn’t it?’

  He was greeted with scowls all round.

  ‘Okay. So, you were all down at the lake when Arthur and Lily Downing went missing.’

  ‘We didn’t do nothing,’ snapped one of the kids.

  ‘I’m not saying you did. I’m here to find out what you saw. When did you get down there?’

  There were various mutterings and arguments between them. Sam sighed. They’d been asked these questions before by the police and had given detailed answers. How could they be so casual and forgetful?

  ‘About five? Maybe slightly earlier?’ one of them – a spotty lad with a black beanie pulled tight over his head – ventured.

  The others nodded in agreement.

  ‘Okay, thank you. And what did you see?’

  ‘Nothing. Not until Mrs D. came down with Tim and started screaming all over the shop.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She’d found Arthur’s bike.’

  ‘None of you had seen it?’

  ‘Nah, but then we weren’t looking for anything like that.’

  Someone nudged the lad in the back and he shut up. Sam knew they were worried about drugs and he didn’t want them to clam up, so he moved the conversation on.

  ‘She was down there with her husband. Anyone else?’

  ‘Bud.’

  Sam checked his file. ‘Bud. That’s Matthew Bryden, yes?’

  They all laughed at this.

  ‘Is that his real name?’ one of them said. ‘Matthew? Epic!’

  ‘That’s what it says here. So he was with them?’

  ‘Anywhere she goes, he’s not far behind,’ said a girl at the back with piercings through her nose, lower lip and eyebrow. The others nodded and grunted their agreement.

  ‘Go on,’ Sam said, but no one responded.

  ‘Are they having an affair? Is that what you’re suggesting?’

  ‘Her and him?!’

  The metal barn rang with their sarcastic laughter.

  ‘He’s more a pet.’

  Sam wondered what this said about Sarah.

  ‘What else can you tell me about that evening?’

  Shuffled feet, a few sniffs.

  ‘What are people saying about why the children disappeared? What do they think?’

  More grunts, nothing about nothing. No one had a clue. These things didn’t happen around here.

  ‘And no one saw anyone that day that looked odd or suspicious or just out of the ordinary?’

  They all just shook their heads, looking bored now.

  ‘So, Mr and Mrs Downing came down with Matthew Bryden, saw the bike and started to panic?’

  ‘N
o, he found the bike.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Bud. He found the bike, went and got them, and then they went all, you know, mental.’

  Sam checked his notes. There was no mention of Bud in the notes. Odd. He circled the man’s name.

  ‘Why did you guys go down to the lake?’ he asked the boy with the black beanie, who now couldn’t meet his eye. Everyone was a little shifty. Sam assured them all, again, that he had no interest in whether or not they had been smoking weed. He was here to find the missing children and that was his only concern. The kids nodded at his words, but no one spoke. He pushed on, but if anyone started to speak, they were hushed by the others.

  ‘Come on,’ he urged them. ‘Talk to me. This isn’t a police station, I haven’t cautioned you, nothing’s being recorded.’

  ‘We score down there,’ said a kid whose jeans hung so low you could see 90 per cent of his flowery boxer shorts.

  ‘Right. That wasn’t so hard. Who from?’

  ‘Piss off. And they never turned up anyhow. Totally unreliable.’

  ‘As always,’ someone else added.

  ‘Is that the place you always go to buy drugs?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s how we know Mrs D.’

  There was a hiss from someone – shut up.

  Sam’s skin prickled.

  ‘Sarah Downing used to score drugs down at the lake?’

  No one spoke. It was so quiet that a horse’s sudden neigh seemed deafening.

  ‘Did she do this often?’

  Silence.

  ‘Okay. Just answer me this. Would she have done this recently?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ one of the boys said. There was a knowing lilt to his answer.

  Sam put away his file and looked around at them all one last time. He wanted them to see him watching them, clocking them, remembering them. They didn’t like his stare. Except Ashley Deveraux.

  ‘Thank you for your help.’

  He dug his hand into his back pocket and pulled out a series of cards with his name and number on them. He passed them around the group, noting that Ashley made sure that she had one.

  ‘If you remember anything more, please call me. I just want to find Arthur and Lily.’

  He turned and walked away, his mind racing with this new information. He heard a moment’s pause then a burst of breathless gossip and whoops of laughter. It was the same wherever he went, wherever he left. Silence, then laughter.

  TWELVE

  Sarah opened another bottle, filled the glass and drank down most of the wine in one. She placed the glass on the table a little unsteadily then started to refill it.

  ‘What?’ she snapped.

  Tim watched her from the other side of the kitchen. She’d thrown a jumper over her nightie but had made no other concessions to the day’s arrival. He looked down at his neat cords and stripy shirt and felt a twinge of irritation at her and a loathing of himself. You weakling, he thought.

  ‘Say something, then,’ she said, then knocked more wine down her throat.

  ‘You’ll kill yourself if you carry on like that.’

  ‘I’ve barely got started.’

  He turned away from her. She was loud and ugly like this and he couldn’t bear it. He heard the glass land heavily on the table. She’s going to finish the entire bottle in ten minutes flat, he thought. It was the cops coming back, that’s what this was about.

  He wanted to draw the curtains, to feel the sunlight on his face, but he knew she’d scream at him if he did. He saw Sarah sway in the chair, and for a moment he hated her. He hadn’t expected it to be like this. The panic, the grief, the torment – all that made sense. But this new feeling of dirt and guilt, impotence and crushing boredom, these were new, cruel emotions that he hadn’t been prepared for. The curtains stayed shut to keep prying eyes out, eyes that would see just how badly he was failing.

  So this is what trauma does to you, he thought. It eats at you, from inside. At first it feels like an assault and it leaves you winded. But then it comes back, from deep in your gut, so deep you feel as though it’s a part of you. It drags you down and mashes your thoughts and feelings into bits so nothing makes sense.

  That’s your wife, just there. Your beautiful wife. And she needs you. That’s why she’s drinking, you fool.

  Tim turned back to Sarah. He saw her pour the dregs into the glass. He looked at her red eyes and saw her swallow painfully, holding back more tears. And his heart softened.

  But then she caught his eye and he saw the sneer on her lip, and he had to turn away again to hide his anger.

  He went out and smoked a cigarette. She opened another bottle.

  He came back inside later, feeling no better. She knew he was there, he was sure of it, but she didn’t look up. He was not worth looking at.

  He watched her, stuck against the kitchen worktop, too exhausted to do anything else.

  THIRTEEN

  Matthew Bryden had always been known as Bud, but he couldn’t tell anyone why. Zoe asked Bernie about him and she told him that he was a likeable, straightforward guy with no airs and graces. Reading between the lines, Bud sounded a bit thick, but Zoe would wait to meet him in person before making any judgements. A police check revealed repeated moves from one foster home to another.

  Bud could normally be found in the pub, unless he’d run out of money, in which case he’d hole up at home, watching TV. He earned his keep through gardening and odd jobs, most of which he did for Sarah and Tim Downing – raking leaves, mowing their lawn and maintaining this and that for them. Or rather, for Sarah, as Bernie said with a lift of her eyebrows. It became clear that Bud had a soft spot for Sarah and trailed after her in a manner that suited neither of them. It made him a joke among the men, her a siren. Another reason to point at her, Zoe thought. She had her strategy in place as she rang on Bud’s doorbell. Sam had let her do this one on her own, hedging that Bud was susceptible to a woman’s charm. And although she appreciated his openness about the tactics, she still felt a little grubby.

  Bud lived in a tidy run-down bungalow on the edge of the village. Tall evergreen trees robbed the building of light, and as she walked up the neat path she felt the air become colder. There was a green tinge of moss on the walls and around the white plastic window frames. A fire burned inside and logs were neatly stacked against a wall. But as tidy as he had made it, there was something functional rather than homely about the place.

  Zoe watched through the bubbled glass as Bud approached the door. She saw his rippling silhouette pause in the hallway, clearly surprised by the unexpected call, before hesitantly unlocking the door and opening it. He was big but hunched, as though embarrassed by his own presence, and wore ironed jeans and a fading tracksuit top. His eyes flicked to her and behind her, nervous.

  ‘Hello?’

  She flashed her warrant card. ‘Mr Bryden?’ He nodded. ‘I’m Detective Constable Barnes. I’m investigating the disappearance of Lily and Arthur Downing. Can I come in?’

  He nodded and gestured for her to enter, before carefully shutting the door. She looked around, taking in the frayed carpet, the big muddy boots by the door, the lack of any pictures or paintings on the walls. He pointed to a door that led to a small, equally neat and equally dispiriting living room. It housed a big TV, a sofa, an armchair and a black Labrador panting in its basket.

  ‘Has something happened?’ His voice was surprisingly high for such a big guy.

  ‘Just routine inquiries at the moment.’

  He nodded, pulling nervily at his fingers. Zoe noted how big his hands were; thick and calloused from working outdoors in all weathers. She briefly imagined those hands on a small boy.

  ‘So. You know the parents, Mr and Mrs Downing?’

  ‘I do jobs for them. In the garden, mostly. Put up all that post-and-rail fencing at the end of their land.’

  ‘They’re good people.’

  ‘I like them a lot.’

  ‘Terrible thing to happen.’

  ‘Awful.
’

  ‘Did you know the children?’

  ‘Sometimes Arthur would kick a ball around on his own in the garden. I’d kick it back. But I didn’t do it much. People get odd ideas.’

  ‘Oh, I know. You pat a kid on the head and they do you for assault!’

  He laughed, nodding. Eager to please.

  ‘Did he seem lonely, then?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Arthur. You said he was kicking a ball about on his own. Didn’t he have many friends?’

  ‘No, he was okay. Just, at home, it was …’

  She watched him pause, saw him calibrating the lie.

  ‘What was wrong at home, Mr Bryden?’

  ‘Nothing.’ His reply came out too quickly. ‘Nothing. Lily didn’t like football, is all. And you should call me Bud. I feel odd when people say Mr Bryden.’

  ‘Bud. Please. What was wrong at home?’

  ‘Nothing.’ His voice was a pitch higher now, and Zoe felt a tingle in her neck. The feeling that she was about to break and enter.

  ‘Bud …’

  ‘There’s nothing. They were good kids and that’s that. She’s very kind, Sarah is, so don’t start stirring things up, okay?’

  He stared down at the floor, still fidgeting with his fingers.

  ‘Bud,’ she said softly, and waited until he looked up. ‘I’m here to find them and get them back to their mum and dad. We’re on the same side, you and me.’

  He nodded but was still withdrawn. He reminded her of her teenage nephew, when he’d been found with a stolen bottle of vodka under his bed.

  ‘I know I’m just a girl and a bit goofy, but you need to trust me.’

  ‘You’re alright,’ he said, and blushed. She knew she had him now. She told him how the case was like a jigsaw with lots of pieces, which don’t seem to fit at first. But unless she could get them all, every single one, then no one would ever get the whole picture. And without that, they’d never find Lily and Arthur. Bud nodded, keen to help.

  ‘So help me,’ she said. ‘Please. Even if it seems unimportant, help me.’

  His foot twisted on the carpet. She urged him on with gentle, kind coaxing, keeping the conversation light.

  He sighed. ‘People don’t like Sarah, that’s the thing.’