A Cry in the Night

by Tom Grieves

  ‘What did Bud say?’

  ‘He said that he was the one who found the bike. He alerted you to your children’s disappearance.’

  Tim just opened and closed his mouth, nodding uselessly.

  ‘And this is something that wasn’t in the original police report,’ Sam continued, watching Tim fidget. He then turned and walked on, waiting for Tim to catch up. He stopped at the lake and took in its beauty and scale. It was easy to look distracted. He felt Tim standing by his shoulder.

  ‘Why did you try to hide Bud from us?’ Sam asked without turning to him.

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘It was your wife’s idea, then?’

  ‘She didn’t hurt our children. She couldn’t.’

  The avoidance was telling.

  ‘Your children are missing and you’re playing games with the police, Mr Downing.’

  ‘I’m not. I swear. We want them back, of course we do, we’re desperate!’

  ‘She made you lie.’

  Tim couldn’t find a reply.

  ‘People have also alleged that she’s a drug user.’

  ‘No!’ Tim’s face flushed with anger. ‘No. No way. That was in the past. But not any more, not for years, not since the kids were born. I swear.’

  Sam just stared at him and Tim began to flounder.

  ‘She was wild before, she liked to party. Who wouldn’t when there’s nothing to do except fish and stick your hand up a cow’s arse?’

  ‘So why hide Bud from us?’

  His reply was timid. ‘I don’t know why.’

  ‘Come on, Tim, it’s just us guys here. No one listening in. Say what you’re scared of. Get it out, let’s hear it.’

  ‘Who said I’m scared of anything?’

  ‘I’m going to find your children. And if it means steamrolling straight through you, then I’ll do it.’

  He could feel Tim wilting in his presence.

  ‘You need to talk to your wife and then come and talk to us,’ Sam said.

  ‘She didn’t take our children. It’s just not possible.’

  ‘You’re trying to protect her and I appreciate that. You’re a nice guy. But women can be …’

  He shrugged. He didn’t really know how to finish the sentence. He didn’t have a view on ‘women’ in that sense. But now he was playing the ‘man to man’ card, he needed to keep it going. He could feel Tim’s resolve weakening by the moment.

  ‘What has she made you do, Tim?’

  Again, the poor man couldn’t find a reply. Sam left him there by the lake. There was a chance, he thought, that Tim would come running after him, but he wasn’t expecting it. Right now, he imagined the man was staring out at the water, his thoughts scrambled and panicked. Soon he would run back to Sarah. And then, later, he would come and find Sam. The case was moving now, like a heavy train, slowly heaving itself forward, gaining momentum.

  Sam walked through the wood. He enjoyed the crunch under his boots, his mood buoyed by his work and the progress he felt they were making. And then the moment was undone by the chirruping ringtone from his phone. It was Issy.

  ‘Hi, love, what’s up?’ he said as merrily as he could. There was no reply, but then he heard her tearful sniff. ‘Issy?’

  ‘I hate it here.’

  ‘Oh, love.’

  ‘Magda’s being weird.’

  ‘Weird? How?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think she’s on drugs or something. And Gran keeps going upstairs and not coming down for ages.’

  Sam sighed inwardly and rubbed his tongue over his teeth.

  ‘Issy. What’s the matter, hon?’

  ‘I just told you, didn’t I? You should be here.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It won’t be long.’

  She just snorted her derision back at him.

  ‘Tell me about Gran.’

  ‘She’s just fucking senile, that’s all.’

  ‘Language.’

  ‘She’s ga-ga. Seriously, Dad. She’s going to burn the house down or something. And she stinks.’

  ‘Oh come on.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘How’s Jenny?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Yeah,’ came the dull reply.

  ‘Is she there? Can I talk to her?’

  ‘No, she’s doing more homework or something spoddy,’ his elder daughter replied.

  Sam made a laughing sound down the phone, but he couldn’t tell if it was getting the right reaction or not.

  ‘Look. Get Magda to call me and make sure she does it when Gran’s around. I’ll talk to them, okay?’

  There was a long pause at the other end.

  ‘Issy? Okay?’

  ‘It’s not the same,’ she said quietly and then hung up on him.

  He sighed and stuffed the phone deep into his pocket. He was about to head back to the hotel when he saw Ashley standing a little further up the path, watching him. The girl in white, her arms folded with a small smile on her face. His first instinct was to walk past her without acknowledging her presence. But the instinct was sucked down and drowned by more primitive, more powerful desires.

  She led him deeper into the woods. It was warmer now, a sudden change in the weather which reminded you of the fading summer. She led him forward but didn’t take his hand. And when they reached a spot that she thought suitable, she pushed him down onto his back and rode him, a tiny laugh slipping from her lips as he came. Her eyes pinned him down, merciless, and he felt like her prisoner. Neither moved. Sam felt a stick prod painfully into the small of his back.

  ‘Your girl looks cool,’ she said.

  ‘My girl?’

  ‘Yeah, the tomboy cop.’

  ‘She’s not my girl. I don’t think she’ll ever be anyone’s girl.’

  ‘Why? She’s a lesbo?’

  ‘No, I meant, she’s too proud and strong to be … oh never mind.’

  Still the girl didn’t move. They were conjoined. She pushed some hair away from her face.

  ‘Who do you buy your drugs off?’ he asked.

  She just shrugged.

  ‘It could be important.’

  ‘I don’t buy them, I let the others do it, then get mine off them.’

  ‘You don’t even know the name of the person they score from?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been a great help, thank you.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Did you ever see Sarah Downing at the lake? Buying drugs like they said?’

  ‘I’ve seen her down there, sure, but I don’t think I’ve seen her actually scoring. You want to do it again?’

  ‘No, talk to me about that.’

  ‘I didn’t nick no kid.’

  She bit his ear. It hurt and he liked it.

  He looked up at the tree branches above him and felt stupid and dirty.

  ‘Get off, eh?’

  She did, then pulled at her coat and threw it over her shoulders. Sam stood, pulling his trousers back up.

  ‘You know the witches live in these trees?’ she said, that same mischievous look on her face.

  ‘I thought they lived in the lake.’

  ‘Oh they do, but when they’re out, they come and perch in the treetops, like birds waiting for their prey. When you walk through the forest, you need to look up, check they’re not going to sweep down and rip you up. They can rip your stomach open with their claws.’

  ‘What’s with all this shit about witches round here?’

  She burst out laughing. And then looked up and Sam found he was looking up too. And he saw how much this pleased her.

  ‘Next time we fuck,’ she said, ‘we’re going to do it somewhere nice. Not out in the open.’

  ‘Who says there will be a next time?’

  She sniffed at this and they both knew she was right. She gave him a little wave, the sort a tiny child does from their car seat, and walked away, already on the phone to a friend.

  ‘Hiya, where are you? I’m coming now. Did you hear
about Billy? I know! What a douche!’

  Sam watched her walk away. His eyes slipped up once more to the treetops, and then he walked hesitantly behind her, keen for the distance between them to grow.

  He needn’t have feared. Within moments, she had disappeared.

  EIGHTEEN

  Zoe joined Sam in his room. She’d wandered down to the bar, seen David and the other men grumbling to themselves and hot-footed it back up the stairs.

  Sam had laughed when she told him that the locals were revolting, and they agreed to eat in his room. He spread out the Downings’ case files over the bed and together they talked through the dribs and drabs. All conversation inevitably returned to Sarah.

  ‘But why would a woman kill her own kids? That’s just not natural. And we’ve got no motive,’ she argued.

  ‘No. Not yet,’ Sam said.

  Zoe wondered why he said it like that. The case itself was fragile enough. They had nothing beyond gossip and the possibility that Sarah had lied.

  ‘We know bugger all, don’t we?’ she said.

  She wanted to press him about this, but there was a polite knock on the door and they turned as a waitress appeared, carrying a tray. She looked sixteen or so, no more, with tied-back dark hair and a mousy disposition.

  ‘Dinner,’ she said apologetically, though it was unclear as to whether she was sorry for her disturbance or the food.

  ‘Great, thank you,’ said Sam, clearing some space so she could put the tray down. The waitress glanced at the papers spread out all over the bed. Zoe stood between her and them and gave her a stern look. Cowed, the girl scampered away.

  ‘They’ll be talking about us, downstairs,’ Zoe said. ‘How long till this whole thing turns into the Wicker Man and they’re burning you at a stake?’

  Sam smiled and muttered something. She gave him a shove.

  ‘Say that again, boss.’

  ‘I said that I have a feeling it’s not me they’ll go for.’

  For a woman who would tell you she was tough as fuck, Zoe felt strangely disarmed by the comment.

  *

  Downstairs, pints and chit-chat were downed in equal measure. The hearth burned warmly, and were it not for poor little Arthur and Lily, God would be in his heaven. The place hadn’t changed in years and felt all the better for it.

  There was a stir when Tim entered the pub. Heads turned and voices dropped, but he was soon welcomed in by one and all. There were pats on the back, warm handshakes and many offers to buy him a drink. He found himself leaning against the bar, enveloped by men he knew, but no one whom he would really call a friend. Tonight it didn’t seem to matter.

  Tim had watched Sarah open another bottle and had fled, wordless, into the night. The words from his neighbour, Alby, and from Sam had been spinning around in his head and had rendered him mute in her presence. They’d raised awful questions about Bud, and about that terrible day. He was scared of asking them, of the hurt he would cause and the answers he might hear. So he’d stormed out and then, stopping at the end of the road, realised he had nowhere to go but the pub.

  ‘How’s Sarah?’ they all asked as a pint was poured for him. He repeated the well-worn phrases that gave them a sense of the truth, and of what he would and wouldn’t speak of. He noted their kind responses and the way they hung politely on his words. He felt at home here. He found the beer loosened his tongue and he felt some of the crushing anxiety lighten a little.

  He smiled as the conversation slipped to Duncan’s sheep – a source of constant amusement in the village, as the hapless farmer seemed incapable of keeping them on his land. He joined in as they argued about football, about the RAF jets that roared so low over the valleys, about the cost of petrol and a first-class stamp. He drank a third pint with his old muckers and let the fug in his head settle and thicken.

  *

  On the other side of the bar, David sat at a table with Al and Jerry. He nodded to Tim when he entered and raised his glass to him.

  ‘Poor bastard’ and other similar phrases fell from their lips.

  But soon, David was on about Zoe again. ‘They’re treating the case like it’s a joke,’ he spat. ‘Like it’s a holiday.’

  They laughed at him, teasing him for the way she’d duped him. She wanted him, really, Al insisted. She was just playing with him, cock-teasing until she finally let him get in her knickers. He just needed to persevere. But David was still stinging from her brush-off earlier and their taunts only poked harder at his broken pride. He drank hard, the confusion and the embarrassment bubbling inside.

  As the evening progressed, so the mood slowly twisted and soured. Sarah, who had been spoken of with sympathy, became ‘the ball and chain’ when Tim was invited out for an afternoon’s shooting.

  ‘Need to get a chit signed first?’

  Tim clenched his pint glass hard and made all the right noises.

  The chatter continued around him. He was surrounded by his peers, laughing aggressively, every comment a competitive pose, every joke vying for superiority. He listened to it all, secure in their presence yet utterly disconnected. He thought of his wife at home, vulnerable and alone, crying. He felt the urge to run back to her, and at the same time a desperate desire to forget everything about her.

  Someone mentioned Sarah again, but this time the question was more probing and less respectful.

  ‘Still locked away in her dressing gown, is she?’

  ‘You’re a bloody saint, you know that?’ came another voice as a hand patted him hard on the shoulder.

  He felt the rage ripple within. He stared down at his empty glass and one of the guys grabbed it from him and replaced it with a full one.

  *

  David had drunk too much. He sat there, slurring angrily. His mates had tried to pull the conversation away from Zoe, but he wouldn’t allow it and they were bored with the way he wallowed in it.

  ‘She wants to fuck you, alright, but what she really wants to do is fuck you up there,’ said Jerry, tapping his head. ‘That’s what women do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Look at poor old Martin,’ said Al, idly tearing a bar mat into tiny pieces. ‘It used to be the four of us here, didn’t it? Now look what’s happened to him – stuck with that miserable cow all the time, watching box sets of Sex and the City.’

  ‘That’s what they do to you,’ Al nodded drunkenly.

  David remembered the thrill he’d felt when he’d entered Zoe’s hotel room. He remembered thinking that she was beautiful. He hadn’t only wanted sex, he’d wanted her. And she’d mocked that.

  ‘Fucking bitch,’ he muttered.

  His friends laughed at him.

  *

  Upstairs, Zoe and Sam pored over the documents. All roads led to Sarah. But there was never a reason. No sense of why something so cruel would or could have happened. Sam received a call from his elder daughter, Isabelle, and Zoe pretended not to listen in as her boss stammered into the phone, clearly unable to placate her.

  ‘Women, Christ,’ he said wearily as he finally hung up.

  She winked at him, then cuffed him lightly over the head, again and again until he laughed.

  *

  Downstairs, Tim’s head spun. He had to get out of there. The men were laughing and the words rebounded around his head, shapeless and senseless. He was grinning as best he could manage, but all he could think about was Sarah.

  *

  David poured more beer down his throat.

  *

  They pushed through the door at the same time, staggering out into the cold and the dark together. David felt awkward next to Tim, wanted to say something appropriate, but he was all too aware of his drunken, enfeebled mind. So he patted him weakly on the shoulder instead. Tim looked at him but said nothing, marching away. David felt stupid. He turned and looked up at the windows on the first floor. One of them would be Zoe’s. He considered throwing a stone against it, breaking it. But then he too walked away and, like Tim, the darkness hid him soon enough.


  NINETEEN

  Cameron and Angus Farmborough dragged the dinghy down to the water and jumped in, ripping the off-board engine into action as they raced away from the shore and out towards the middle of the lake. The sun was up, but it wouldn’t get over the peaks for a good hour yet, and Lullingdale Water was dark and somnolent. A mist hung over it, fighting with the warmer air. This brief respite would soon give way to the inevitable icy blast. It could be brutal here in the winter, and the two lads wanted to enjoy the last few days of good weather that the year would offer. They were athletic boys who were always outdoors. Winter for them was a dour purgatory.

  As the elder brother by two years, Cameron steered the boat, heading into deeper waters while Angus attached floats and bait to each rod. They had some food, a six-pack of Coke, sunscreen (‘like we’ll need it!’) and a big can of maggots. Today was going to be bloody ace.

  Sheep wandered around the lower slopes of the fells, and Cameron watched Mike Ham’s tractor dragging hay over to his cows on the far side of his land. He gazed back at the patterns the propeller made, the white foam and the twisting funnels of water that chased behind. A little later he killed the engine and let the boat drift. They were about halfway along the lake now, bang in the middle. He always used the same markers: the old stone wall on the east side and the dilapidated boathouse, half hidden among the woods, on the other.

  ‘You don’t think it’s too deep?’ Angus asked. Cameron just pulled a face, grabbed a rod and got down to it. Neither spoke and there was little noise except the waves against the boat, the sound of casting or reeling in, or a distant murmur of activity from the shore.

  Two hours later they’d had little luck. They’d caught a few tiddlers but nothing to take home. The boys peered down into the deep, still water and watched for the shadows that slipped beneath; the big ones who were too old and too wise to be caught by mere children.

  And then finally a shadow rose from the depths. It spun and twisted, a big one. But it wasn’t a fish. It was Arthur Downing.

  He rose with inelegant speed, breaking the surface with a slight hiss, and floated face-up, seemingly staring at the sun that now poured down from a cloudless sky. His body bobbed in the water, slipping back just below the surface as though he were now part fish.