His mother swung her staring face toward him and then decisively away, as if the wall deserved her attention more than he did. "Carry on, son," Angel said.
"I was at the Arndale, so he wasn't lying after all."
"That's the way. Feels better when you tell the truth, doesn't it? Now tell us the rest of it. Take your time."
"That's all."
"I don't think so, son. When were you there?"
"Afternoon."
"That's our information. Who were you with?"
"Myself."
"You would be, and who else?"
"No bugger."
"Now, son, that's not how the guard tells it. You don't want to go calling him a liar again after you were saying he was right."
"He was wrong if he says I was with anyone, and that's not all he's wrong about."
"What are you trying to tell us now, son?"
"He saw me the day before yesterday, that's when I was there. He couldn't have seen me yesterday because I told you, I was home all day with my granda."
"Is that true, Mrs. Fancy?"
"You don't expect me to call my kid a liar. He already told you I was out."
Her face was blank with defiance. She looked exactly like an overgrown child refusing to own up, Susanne thought, and gripped her hands harder with her arms, because if they pulled free she no longer knew what she might be capable of. Angel rested his gaze on the Fancys, then straightened himself away from the mantelpiece. "I think it's time we spoke to the gentleman upstairs."
"I can't stop you, I suppose. There's only one of me, and you're the police."
This was a kind of defiance too. She knew everything, Susanne was certain, otherwise there were any number of questions she would have asked by now. Askew opened the door and stepped into the hall, and Susanne followed quickly to make it harder for the Fancys to hide anything, although what could there be for them to hide? He was halfway up the stairs, and she was close behind him, when Mrs. Fancy tramped after them in a fit of anger. "Third one along," she shouted.
At the top of the stairs a bathroom gaped; along the right-hand wall were three closed doors. Askew leaned into the bathroom and surveyed it, then strode along the narrow landing as Angel arrived at the foot of the stairs, trapping Darren and his mother on them. Askew closed his hand around the last doorknob and was turning it before Mrs. Fancy started yelling, "Third one, I said, you. That's my room."
"Oh, third door. I thought you meant third bedroom." Askew opened the door as he spoke, and Susanne edged along the shaky banister so that she could see in. Had the woman tried to direct him away from the room simply because she was ashamed to have him see how she lived? Even from across the landing Susanne could smell the staleness, a mixture of cigarettes and perfume and unwashed sheets. Askew picked his way among the clothes littering the carpet and held onto one door of the wardrobe while he persuaded the other to wobble along its grooves. Having peered within, he squatted to glance under the bed, where Susanne could see there was nothing worth seeing. He gave the room a thorough scan and came out to face Mrs. Fancy, who was standing on the top stair with her legs so wide apart that the lowest surviving button on her dress was losing its grip on its hole. "This one, you mean," Askew said, moving to the next door.
"That's what I said and you know it."
Darren's head rose over the edge of the landing as he crept up one more stair. Now he would be able to see into the room, and Susanne saw him set blankness on his face. He was nervous, she was almost certain, and she felt her body grow brittle as Askew raised his fist to rap on the door. "Mr. Fancy, is it?" he said to Darren's mother.
"I wouldn't have him for my da, I'll tell you that."
Askew knuckled the flimsy panel, which looked coated with coloured oil. "Mr. Fancy? Can we speak to you?"
A series of noises responded. At first they were groans, rising in pitch, and then they formed into a word, still rising. "What? What?" they protested as Askew pushed open the door.
The smell of the room filled Susanne's throat, and she had to plant her feet more firmly in order not to sway against the banister. For a dismaying few moments the smell affected her vision, so that she was unable to distinguish the contents of the room. It resembled a long-abandoned attic more than a bedroom, and a rubbish tip more than either, but in the midst of the clutter an old man lay in a bed. His long white half-melted candle of a head wavered up to peer at the intruders, his chin bumping against his collarbone, as he wrapped his thin arms about himself. The quilt was sagging off the foot of the bed, uncovering him as far as his navel. "Come to see how I'm doing, have you?" he growled at Askew. "All the same, you bloody officers. Never there when there's fighting and then you come sniffing round to find out who's been hurt."
"It's the police, Mr. Fancy."
The old man tried to lift his head further, but his chin was already on his chest. "I've done nowt. Touched nobody. Who's been putting it round that I have?"
"This isn't about you, sir. We just want to ask you some questions. Do you know where you are?"
"What's that you want to know?"
"I'm asking you if you can tell me where this is."
"Where what is? It's like a bloody court-martial, this. Worse than being captured by the Japs, going up in front of an officer."
"I just want you to tell me where you're living now, where this house is."
"Handel Close." What Susanne took at first to be a wriggle of delight passed through the old man's undernourished frame, but he was easing himself worm-like up the creaking bed to rest his shoulders against the pillow and let his head fall back. "Ask me another. Do I get a fiver if I get them all right?"
Askew gave him a fleeting almost straight-lipped smile. "I don't mean this rudely, but would you mind telling me what day this is?"
"That's as easy as wiping your bum, that. The day after yesterday," the old man croaked, adding a cackle which turned into a cough. This was the signal—or rather, Susanne thought, the excuse—for Mrs. Fancy to intervene, hurrying along the landing to shove past Askew. "Granda, you'll be catching something undressed like that. Let's do you up."
Susanne wouldn't have allowed her in the room. Suppose she murmured to the old man what to say or silently menaced him into it? At least Askew had followed the woman, though he stopped short of the bed. She hauled the old man's pyjama jacket around his chest while he flapped his arms like a dying chicken's wings, then she seized the edge of the quilt. "Let's have this up over you. You don't want everyone looking at you in your nightie."
The quilt shifted an inch, and then something caught at it from under the foot of the bed. As she gave another tug the quilt was pinned down more firmly from beneath, and the cause of that began yapping. "Leave it, mam," Darren called over the edge of the landing, "or the dog'll get out."
Her gaze drifted toward him, passing over Askew and Susanne. "Right enough, it will," she said slowly as the yapping grew louder and more vicious. "It bites, so don't you all come crowding in here. It goes for anyone it doesn't know."
Askew retreated softly out of the door. Susanne was considering taking his place when Angel tapped Darren on the shoulder. "Just go along to your grandfather's room where he can see you. No need to talk."
He paced after Darren, not quite treading on his heels. The yapping sounded as though it was tearing the animal's throat raw. The noise—the meaninglessness of it—felt like hooks in Susanne's brain, and she couldn't help being grateful to Darren when he intervened from the doorway. "It's all right, boy. I'm here. It's Darren. Quiet now. You'll be fine."
His voice had grown progressively gentler. As he fell silent, so did the yapping. If he cared so much for an animal, Susanne thought, perhaps he wouldn't have been able to bring himself to do anything very bad to Marshall. "Mr. Fancy?" Angel said.
"Another bugger. How many more of you is there out there? Come cheaper by the dozen, do you? Trot them all on and let's have a gander."
"I'm PC Angel, Mr. Fancy, and this is P
C Askew. We're—"
"They've got Phil's lad." The old man thumped the mattress with his knuckles in an attempt to raise himself. "Look, Marie, they've got Darren. You sods lay off him. Pick on someone your own size for a change."
"It's Darren we want to ask you about," Angel said.
"Ask away. Here I am, not going nowhere. He's a good lad, sits with his old granda. Never saw him do nobody no harm. Needs a bit more loving, that's all. You can see he does. Just look at his face."
"Sits with you, you said. But he wasn't doing that yesterday, was he?"
"What, was you in here watching? I don't reckon so, pal. Him and me knows he was here, don't us, Darren?"
"Ah, but which part of the day, Mr. Fancy?"
"Eh?"
The old man dug his elbows into the pillow and succeeded in cupping his hands behind his ears. Angel took a heavy step forward, and the quilt at the end of the bed stirred where it touched the floor. "Which part of the day?" Angel repeated, separating each word.
"Hard to tell in here. Haven't seen proper daylight for years, seems like."
"I see what you mean. So you'd have to say you don't know—"
"Hang on, pal. Let a man get his breath to answer. I'm saying nowt like that. Which part, every part. The lad was sitting with me all day yesterday until after it got dark."
"Excuse me for suggesting this, but I wonder if you can be sure—"
"I'm sure what bloody day it is and don't you be saying different, and I'm sure we're talking about yesterday before you ask. He was in here soon as he'd got up and had his bath because I asked him to come in, and he listened to his old granda telling tales all day about the war. He only went down for five minutes to get me a drink and a bit of bread."
"You're absolutely certain."
"Absobloodylutely. Certain as I am that I'm due for a piss if someone brings me the jerry and if they don't too."
Mrs. Fancy stooped, more deftly than might have been expected from her bulk, and slid a tin pot from under the bed, and stared at Susanne and the policemen. "Satisfied? Or do you want to watch?"
"We're finished for the moment, thank you," Angel said, and pulled the door shut, setting off an outburst of muttering from the woman and groans from the old man, succeeded by a metallic resonance falling in pitch. Neither policeman looked at Susanne; she couldn't tell whether they were embarrassed by the sound or by their lack of progress. She was alone with something far worse than embarrassment—the thought that the security guard had been mistaken. He'd jumped to a conclusion, just as she had, and she was further than ever from finding Marshall.
The noise trailed away, and a few seconds later Mrs. Fancy opened the door. "Empty that for us, lad." She could have been addressing anyone except Susanne, at whom she gazed defiantly, and Darren didn't take the pot until she shook it at him. He stalked to the bathroom and sloshed its contents down the toilet and yanked the handle, every one of the sounds and movements plucking at Susanne's nerves. His mother accepted the pot he thrust at her, and placed it next to the bed. "Stay there," she murmured to the creature underneath, and marched out of the room and shut the door. "Seen enough?"
"This'll be your room, will it, son?" Angel said, opening the door of the last bedroom.
Darren darted after him, and Susanne moved in pursuit, thinking as she did so that there was nothing suspicious about the boy's swiftness—he simply didn't want a stranger invading his room. No wonder when it was such a mess, almost as cluttered as his grandfather's, though with newer stuff. It made her yearn for the untidiness of Marshall's room—the sight of clothes on the floor did. A purple track-suit top like Marshall's was hanging out of the bottom of a wardrobe; for an instant it made her see him lying still on the floor, and then it seemed to render his absence visible, as though he'd been snatched out of the purple top, leaving it to mime his bid for escape. It was very like his track suit—so like that the words she was suddenly desperate to speak felt solid in her throat. "That's—"
Renewed blankness clamped itself to Darren's face. "What is it, Mrs. Travis?" Angel prompted.
"That's my son's. It's Marshall's."
"The item of clothing, you mean? How can you—"
"It's his, I'm sure it is." She wouldn't have been except for the way Darren had reacted as soon as she'd begun to speak. "I'd know it anywhere. It's his favourite. He wouldn't wear anything else on the plane over though we told him he'd be too hot. He'd wear it to school if they let him."
Darren's mother flounced along the landing and stopped just short of knocking Susanne aside. "What's the bitch saying now?"
"Mrs. Travis says that's her son's track suit, Mrs. Fancy."
"Then she wants her eyes examined, or her head. The lad bought himself that in the market. Them suits is all he ever wears."
Susanne knew she was lying. Defiance, an aura of hot staleness, seemed to surround the woman. Angel paced into the bedroom and hunkered down on an uncluttered patch of carpet to scrutinise the purple garment. Susanne was wondering what he expected to establish, and how quickly the mother or the boy could be made to admit the truth, when Askew sidled past Susanne and what fell like two captors keeping her away from Marshall. "Maybe there's a way to sort this out," Askew said.
"Be my guest," said his partner as Askew squatted beside him, blocking Susanne's view of the track-suit top. She saw him reach for it and do something to it, and Angel craned over to examine whatever he was indicating before both men turned their heads toward her. Their faces were unreadable. "You say your son was wearing it on the flight over," Angel said.
"He definitely was, yes."
"Which means he would have bought it..."
"His father bought it for one of his birthday presents last November."
"I see. I'm sorry if this is painful for you, but can I ask where?"
"In our local mall in West Palm Beach. I know you see people over here wearing the same style, but believe me, that's his."
The policemen didn't quite look at each other as both of them rose to their feet. Askew had the track-suit top, its empty arms waving helplessly. "You'd better look for yourself, Mrs. Travis."
He'd turned the headless neck toward her to expose a rectangular tag. That couldn't identify it unless the other woman had sewn her son's name tag in it overnight, in which case what had Angel just been talking about? Susanne stepped forward, her legs not as steady as they should be, and read the words printed on the tag, a set of standard instructions from the manufacturer. "What am I supposed to be seeing?" she said with more patience than she felt. "What do you want me to see?"
Askew pinched the tag between finger and thumb so that the garment dangled from it. Now the words were the right way up for her to read, but his thumb covered the first lines. "I can't..." she said, then wondered if he was indicating whatever he imagined was significant. His thumbnail, which had recently been clipped almost to the quick, was digging into the tag directly above one word, at which she narrowed her eyes in case that might squeeze some extra meaning out of it. It was "color," and if he could make that signify more than it did to her—It was "color," except that it wasn't spelled quite like that, it was spelled—As Askew watched her realise, regret glistened in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Travis, but it can't be your son's, can it? It's British."
She saw him fold the garment in half twice and plant it on top of the pile in the wardrobe. She caught herself looking for another purple garment which might be Marshall's, and was appalled by her own desperation. Angel eased himself past her to the doorway. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Fancy," he said briskly, only just apologetic. "I'm sure you appreciate we have to be thorough when a boy of your son's age is missing."
"No excuse for picking on us." Mrs. Fancy shoved Darren to clear space outside the room. "Have you done in there yet? Anywhere else you want to snoop around? Want to take the floors up?"
"We'll get out of your way now," Angel said, but Susanne thought he was allowing his gaze to linger on the room in the hope of noticing some overlook
ed clue until he murmured, "Mrs. Travis?"
"What?" She felt inert, drained of energy by her lack of sleep and by her mistake. All she'd done was delay the police from searching elsewhere and give them reason to distrust any further ideas she might have, not that she had any. Once she grasped that he'd asked her to quit the room she did so, followed by Askew, after whom Mrs. Fancy slammed the door. The old man groaned a protest from the next room, and his companion recommenced yapping as Mrs. Fancy stomped downstairs and threw the front door open with a rattle of its bolts. "Goodbye," she snapped, adding "Good riddance" as she flung it shut as soon as Susanne and the police were through it. "Shut that bastard of a dog up," Susanne heard her yell, and then there was silence from the house.
"We'll run you home, Mrs. Travis," Angel said, taking her arm.
"Yes," Susanne said, and once she'd thought to say it, "Thanks." It wouldn't be home until Marshall was there. She was aware that Angel held her arm lightly all the way to the car and handed her into it while his partner dealt with the gate. They must be afraid that she might try to get into the Fancy house again, but she had to admit when she was wrong. She wouldn't be able to help Marshall otherwise, though she felt as if she no longer could. As Angel started the car she turned her head away from the Fancy house. It weighed down the edge of her vision, reminding her how she'd tricked herself, just as the guard at the mall had been too eager to be right. When at last the house sailed out of sight, she experienced only relief.
31 Last Chance
"Shut that bastard of a dog up," Darren's mother yelled, and Marshall stopped yapping at once. Darren heard the gate screech on the path, and two car doors slam, and the car engine start and then shrink around the corner. His mother tramped into the front room and stared out of the window, then turned on him. "So what are you hanging round for? You needn't think you're keeping him up there."
"Just making sure they've gone."
"They've gone all right. They're never coming back here, not for him, anyway. Maybe for you if you don't get rid of him quick."
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