Like This, for Ever

by Sharon Bolton

  He was getting upset again. The skin around his eyes was turning pink, the contours of his mouth stiffening. He was shivering too, his smaller body had chilled down quickly. He needed to be indoors with a hot bath and hot chocolate, to be looked after properly. Oh, she was so out of her depth with this. ‘Have you told your dad?’

  He shook his head. ‘They seem to happen when he’s out. I don’t want him feeling guilty.’

  Well, it was about bloody time he felt guilty. An eleven-year-old kid suffering blackouts and his dad was leaving him on his own? ‘Is your dad out at the moment?’ she asked him.

  He nodded, but couldn’t look at her again. ‘I think so.’

  ‘When does he get back?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m usually asleep.’

  ‘Do you want me to come in and wait with you?’

  ‘No. Don’t tell him I told you. Please. Or about Mum. Or about me being at the boat tonight. Please.’

  What was he so afraid of?

  ‘OK, listen to me, Barney. A few years ago, when I was a bit older than you are now, but still quite young, I had episodes too. Periods of time that I had no memory of. It was like someone had taken a whiteboard rubber and just wiped away my memory.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s what it’s like.’

  She made herself smile at him, even though she felt like crying.

  ‘It was a very difficult time for me,’ she said. ‘And I think the periods of memory loss were caused by sadness and worry. I think there were times when I was just so unhappy my mind couldn’t cope, so it sort of went to sleep. Does that make sense?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I think something similar could be happening to you. I think your anxiety over your mum could be the main cause of it. The important thing to remember is that for me it didn’t last, and I don’t think it will for you either.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Now, it’s late and you need to be in bed. I’m going to think hard about everything you’ve told me and we’ll talk again. Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?’

  He shook his head, but he looked a bit happier. At that age, having a grown-up take charge was always going to be a relief.

  ‘You’ve got my number?’ she said. ‘I’m just next door.’

  He smiled at her again. She watched him unlock the door and disappear. When she heard the sound of the deadlock being turned on the inside, she went down to her own flat.

  Lacey found Barney’s mother in a little over an hour. She double-checked her facts and then got up and walked out into the garden. Somehow, it was always easier to think out here. Sometimes, if she closed her eyes and zoned out the roar of the traffic, she could almost imagine she could hear the river.

  From the shed door she could see directly into the window that she’d always assumed must be Barney’s because she often saw him just behind it, working at the computer. The room was in darkness and the curtains drawn.

  She really needed to talk to someone. Someone who was a parent. Someone whose judgement she trusted. Shit, was there really no one else?

  The handset of the landline phone was in her pocket, because she’d already decided she was going to call him. Maybe she’d even been glad of the excuse. You’re number one in Favourites, that funny cute kid had told her. She, on the other hand, had no need to save his number as anything: she’d known it off by heart for months.

  ‘Hi,’ said the familiar voice a second later.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said, unnecessarily. He’d have caller ID, he’d have known exactly who it was.

  ‘If this is a booty call, you’re about to make me a very happy man.’

  ‘Are you in the middle of something? And it isn’t, by the way.’

  ‘I’m on the Embankment, heading home. Something up?’

  ‘Sort of. I need advice.’

  ‘Blimey, I’d have been less surprised if you’d wanted sex.’

  No, she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t be in the same room as him, especially not this late, not feeling like this. ‘It’s quite late,’ she said, backtracking. ‘It can wait till the morning.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in ten, Flint. Put the kettle on.’

  Barney closed the front door and saw the pizza box where he’d left it before fleeing the house earlier. Not really wanting to touch it, he knew he couldn’t leave it there. He’d never sleep. Still with his gloves on, he carried it through to the kitchen. About to put it in the bin, he had a sudden thought and opened the box.

  The pizza was American Hot: chilli beef, spicy pepperoni and jalapeno peppers. His favourite. The sort he always ordered. It hadn’t been a mistake, it had been meant for him.

  For a second, he toyed with the idea that he might have ordered it himself, during one of his ‘episodes’. But how could he have paid for it? He didn’t have a credit card.

  Some time later, Barney realized he was sitting on the hard tiles of the kitchen floor. He had no idea how long he’d been out of it. His dad had been on the boat. Oliver Kennedy – or more likely, by now, Oliver Kennedy’s body – was on the boat and his dad was the killer. Even if he said nothing – and how could he send his own dad to prison? – even if he kept quiet, the police would find him. They always did and then he’d be completely on his own. But maybe Lacey would find his mum. Maybe she’d find her in time. He dragged himself upright and climbed the stairs.

  On his own floor, Barney wanted nothing more than to go straight to bed. Somehow, though, he just couldn’t resist opening up Facebook one last time. Just to see if there was any news on Oliver. Unable to stop himself, he read through the various postings Peter and others had left throughout the evening.

  Jeez, that wasn’t his dad. He just knew it. No way would his dad be that sick.

  Without even bothering to log out, he was about to turn away when he spotted a message waiting for him. Messages on Facebook were private. Only the sender and the recipient could see them. He clicked open Messages. It was from Peter Sweep.

  My new obsession is you. How was the pizza?

  ‘Let me get this straight. You offered to use Metropolitan Police resources to help a disturbed eleven-year-old boy conduct a missing-persons search?’

  Lacey glared over the top of her mug. It was the first time she’d ever willingly invited Joesbury into her flat and she’d expected to be jumpy as hell. Instead, she was finding his presence strangely soothing. The knots that had been clenched up inside her for most of the day were loosening. But Christ, why was her flat so unwelcoming? Why did she insist upon plain white, picture-free walls, spartan furniture, a complete absence of ornaments or personal possessions? She didn’t like clutter, but would a few cushions hurt? And those light fittings had probably been trendy in 1965.

  ‘Give me some credit,’ she said. ‘I promised him nothing. He told me his mother’s name and I said I’d give it some thought.’

  ‘OK.’ He nodded at her to go on.

  ‘I did then remote-access the system, so if you want to report me to Tulloch, I’m sure she’ll be delighted.’

  One eyebrow flickered. ‘Save your breath, Flint, I’m not getting involved in your catfight.’

  ‘She started it.’

  The eyebrow went up. Five wrinkles appeared between it and his hairline.

  ‘First thing I did was to run her through the box. Nothing.’

  Joesbury nodded. The box was slang for the Police National Computer. ‘So we know she’s not banged up somewhere,’ he said.

  ‘Then I thought I’d better make sure she’s still alive,’ Lacey said. ‘Because I’d feel a proper prat if I spent hours trying to track her down, only to find out she’d gone under a bus five years ago.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘Go under a bus? I wish.’ Lacey got up, pressed the space bar on her computer to activate the screen and looked back at Joesbury. He crossed to join her. He hadn’t been home all day. There was no trace in the air of the lightly spiced cologne he wore after a sho
wer. He smelled of London, of fast food and traffic and smoke and beer.

  Knowing exactly what she was doing, and how it would be interpreted, she stepped closer to him. Their shoulders brushed and stayed together.

  ‘Oh lord,’ said Joesbury, as he took in the information on the screen.

  It was a coroner’s report, dated seven years earlier. The report itself ran to some ten pages and contained police statements, medical details, post-mortem reports. The summary was just two paragraphs long and told them that Karen Roberts, aged thirty-six, of Lambeth Road in Kennington, had taken her own life after several years of mental illness, including severe post-natal depression. She’d taken a whole load of diazepam, lain down in a warm bath and drawn a knife across her femoral artery. Her body had been discovered by her four-year-old son, Barnaby.

  ‘He doesn’t remember anything?’ said Joesbury.

  ‘Apparently not, although …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What age do kids start remembering things?’

  Joesbury made a who knows? gesture. ‘Round about three, I would have thought. Huck says his first memory is going to feed the ducks one Sunday morning and falling in because I was talking to one of the mums, who was blonde and pretty. He was two and a half at the time. On the other hand, his mum’s told the story so often he probably just thinks he remembers it.’

  ‘I wonder if at some level he does remember it,’ said Lacey. ‘Barney, I’m talking about now. Remembers it, but just doesn’t want it to be true.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He’s a very switched-on kid. Very computer savvy, for one thing.’ She explained about his systematic search for his mother. ‘There was press coverage of Karen Roberts’s suicide. Not much, but reporters invariably attend coroners’ inquests and a kid finding his mother’s body would be a story they’d be bound to cover. I found the coverage with a quick Google search. I can’t believe he’s never done the same thing.’

  ‘You think he knows but he’s in denial?’

  ‘I think it’s quite possible. He also told me he has what he called episodes. Memory blackouts. I think he found out about his mum, wiped it from his head and now his brain is playing odd tricks on him. That would make him a pretty screwed-up kid, wouldn’t it? Acting out this elaborate charade of looking for his mum when all the time he knows she’s dead.’

  Joesbury said nothing. He didn’t need to.

  ‘What on earth do I do?’ she asked him.

  He shook his head. ‘This is a bloody minefield. You have to talk to his dad.’

  She’d known he was going to say that. She could have worked that one out for herself. ‘I think he’s scared of his dad.’

  ‘Seriously scared, or just a bit wary of an emotionally distant parent?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know either of them well enough to judge.’

  ‘Lacey, you can’t give a vulnerable, disturbed kid potentially harmful information without speaking to his father first. Setting aside for a moment the damage you’d do to him, think about the implications for you if the father makes an official complaint.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If you think the kid’s being abused at home, then you have to make it official. Otherwise, I tend to think families are best placed to sort their own problems out. Talk to his dad, take it from there.’

  He hadn’t told her anything she couldn’t have worked out for herself. So why, exactly, had she asked him round?

  ‘I will, thanks.’

  Joesbury looked at his watch. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Well, if I’m not staying, I’m going.’

  Ignore the stab of disappointment. ‘As obvious statements go, that had an elegant simplicity about it,’ she said.

  ‘Goodnight kiss out of the question?’

  Don’t smile at him. Don’t even let your eyes soften. ‘I appreciate your coming round, Sir.’

  Wrong, too flirtatious! He’d taken hold of her wrist, was pulling her … ouch!

  ‘What’s up?’ He’d seen the flicker of pain, was lifting her left wrist and loosening his fingers to reveal the plaster peeking out from beneath her sweater. A plaster that was bloodstained. She pulled away; he tightened his fingers, around her hand this time, so as not to hurt her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked her.

  Shit, shit, shit. This is what he did. He wormed his way in and dug out her secrets, one by one. He’d keep on going, if she let him, until there was nothing left for him to find, and that would be—

  ‘Lacey?’

  ‘It got infected,’ she said, looking him directly in the eye. ‘It’s a bit sore.’

  ‘That scar’s nearly five months old,’ he said. ‘No way did it get infected. Lacey, what did you do?’

  It was none of his business. How dare he ferret his way into her head like this? Her mobile was ringing. No, her phone was still in the custody of the forensics service contracted to the Metropolitan Police. It was his phone. She watched him pull it out of his jacket pocket, check the screen, then put it to his ear.

  ‘Want me to come?’ he said after a moment.

  He ended the call without saying anything more and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  ‘You know another kid went missing tonight?’ he asked her.

  Acutely conscious of the throbbing pain in her wrist and the sharp, twisting guilt in her chest, she nodded.

  ‘Apparently he’s now hanging by his ankles from Southwark Bridge.’

  Both hands covered her mouth, pain forgotten. ‘Dead?’ she managed.

  He shrugged. ‘Not clear yet, but probably.’

  ‘It doesn’t fit. He doesn’t kill them this quickly. And he doesn’t hang their bodies from bridges.’

  ‘If I ever meet him I’ll be sure to pass on your disappointment. In the meantime, the line-access team have been called out to bring him down.’

  She nodded. One of the specialisms of the Marine Unit was searching at heights and the line-access team was a group of trained climbers. They regularly checked the bridges of London and other high-profile buildings for explosive devices. Joesbury was by the door now. ‘Are you coming?’ he asked her.

  She shook her head.

  A sigh, quick and impatient. ‘I’m a simple soul, but it strikes me it wouldn’t hurt you or Dana to remind yourselves you both work on the same team.’

  ‘She doesn’t need me.’

  ‘Have you considered that maybe I do?’

  No, she could not be needed. Not by anyone and especially not by him. There was nothing in her to give. ‘I can’t.’

  He dropped his eyes to her wrist again. The pain had become sharp and intense, like tears she couldn’t let herself cry.

  ‘Lacey, please sort yourself out,’ he told her. She braced herself for the slam of the door, but it closed softly and sadly and he was gone.

  46

  ‘CHRIST, IT’S LIKE a fucking royal visit. Don’t these people sleep? Or are they all the ruddy undead?’

  Dana and Mark, in oilskins and lifejackets, were on the flybridge of the police launch as, a little over the speed limit, it emerged from the shadow of Tower Bridge and motored upstream towards Southwark. Directly in front of them, the turquoise and gold bridge had been cleared of traffic and pedestrians, but every square foot of pavement on the southern embankment seemed to have someone standing on it. Windows of the buildings that lined the river were awash with faces.

  In the forty-five minutes since Peter Sweep had posted on Facebook that Oliver Kennedy was dangling from Southwark Bridge, the news had spread round London like a contagious and particularly unpleasant rash.

  ‘It’s sodding mental,’ the chief press officer at New Scotland Yard had told Dana ten minutes earlier when she’d spoken to him on the phone. ‘I’ve counted three broadcast crews already and more will be on their way. Just do what you have to do and let us know when you have something to give us. We’ll try and keep the feeding frenzy off your back.’

  Mark had a baseba
ll cap pulled low over his face and a scarf tied high around his neck. He’d spent his career infiltrating criminal gangs. If his face became known, even appeared once on television, that would come to a sharp end. He was risking a great deal, just by being here. In the cabin below, his uncle, Sergeant Fred Wilson, was at the helm and Neil Anderson and Susan Richmond were standing in frosty silence. As they neared the bridge, a tall man in uniform joined Dana and Mark on the flybridge. Chief Inspector David Cook was the officer in charge of the Metropolitan Police’s Marine Unit. He’d known Mark since he was a child.

  ‘The lad’s on a ledge about twenty feet above river level,’ he told them. ‘He’s in some sort of black bag, possibly a heavy-duty bin-liner. It’s difficult to see in the dark, but my lads have been under there already with binoculars and lights, so we know it’s there.’

  ‘What happened to dangling by the ankles?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Poetic licence on our friend’s part, thank God,’ said Dana.

  ‘There,’ said Cook as the boat reached the shadowed water beneath the bridge and slowed. ‘Count along four of those vertical iron struts, starting at the pillar. About twenty feet above the water.’

  ‘OK,’ said Mark.

  ‘Go directly up for about three feet, and you should just be able to make out a dark shadow. That’s it.’

  The boat passed under the bridge and the three of them looked up. A dark, shapeless mass was all Dana could make out.

  ‘How the hell did he get it up there?’ asked Mark.

  Once on the other side, Fred turned the launch towards the south bank. From overhead came the sound of a helicopter.

  ‘I hope to God that’s one of ours,’ said Cook, glancing up.

  ‘I didn’t call one,’ said Dana. ‘I think we can assume it’s not.’

  ‘Friggin’ circus,’ said Cook.

  ‘I think the question is, how did it get down there?’ Dana said to Mark. ‘David thinks it was swung on a rope and dropped from above. There might be something attached to the bag to help it snag, but basically it was touch and go whether it would catch on something or just go tumbling down into the water.’