by Alex Lake
2
Martin sat on the couch, staring into space. The cup of tea in his hand was cold. The living room door opened.
‘Dad,’ James said. ‘I’m going out. With Andy.’
Martin swallowed. This was the second time James had gone out alone. It had been hard to let him, when, two days before, his friend Andy had knocked on the door. They had promised to stay together, and so Martin and Sandra – after giving him one of their mobile phones – had agreed.
Be back at six p.m. Promise.
He had promised, and then come home much earlier than six, pale and strained, and gone straight to his room. Martin had followed and found him curled up on his bed.
OK? he asked.
James nodded. He was crying, softly.
I miss her, he said. I miss her, Dad.
Martin hugged him. Me too, son.
And now he was going out again. Martin didn’t know how he could. He hated leaving the house. Outside, he saw her face in the windows of each bus or car or truck that passed him. Every girl of her age that he saw in a crowd was her. Twice, he had glimpsed someone, and, convinced it was Maggie with a different haircut and new clothes, had run after them.
Twice, he had tapped someone on the shoulder and, when they turned to look at him, seen only an expression of alarm on the face of a girl who was not Maggie.
Twice, he had mumbled an apology and shuffled away, pulse racing, breathless, his heart freshly broken.
Twice he had told himself she was not going to be on a bus or walking around the supermarket and he must not approach strangers. Still he saw her everywhere.
But it was never her.
‘Is Andy coming here?’
‘Yeah. Soon.’
‘What time will you be back?’
‘Seven. We’re seeing a film.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
There was a knock on the door.
‘That’s him,’ James said. ‘Bye, Dad.’
Martin handed him his mobile phone. ‘Call Mum’s number or the house phone if you need to. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Love you, Jimbo.’
‘Love you too, Dad.’
He kissed him on the forehead, and watched him leave the house, praying silently that he would be back safely.
3
Martin looked at the clock on the DVD player: 19:00.
He glanced at Sandra. The minute-counter changed: 19:01.
‘He’s late,’ Martin said.
Sandra looked at him. ‘It’s one minute past.’
‘I was expecting him early.’
Sandra nodded slowly. Her face was expressionless and he was half expecting her to tell him, Life goes on, don’t worry, it’s only a minute, but she covered her eyes and rubbed her temples. When she looked up, her cheeks were wet with tears.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting for him to come home ever since he left. I can’t bear the thought of him being away from us, not for even a second. But we can’t live like that. He can’t live like that, trapped in his house by his parents.’
She was right, but Martin couldn’t help thinking he’d quite like it if James was trapped in the house. The thought of anything happening to him was unbearable. He knew that he would take his own life if he lost his son; already daily life was a torture of desperation and grief, made all the worse by the hope, the tiny sliver of hope that she would walk in the door any day and apologize and they would hug and kiss her and be angry for a second but too relieved, too happy to really care where she’d been. It was that tiny hope that made it all so hard. He couldn’t move on, couldn’t give up on someday having her back.
From time to time he had wondered whether it would be better if she had died, if there had been a car crash and they had gone to identify her body. At least that would have been final.
But it wouldn’t have been. The hope may have made it all that much more torturous, but it was a price he would pay if it meant he got to see her again.
He tried not to think of the price she might be paying. If she was alive, the best possibility was that she was with a boyfriend, too high to call her parents, or living on the streets, suffering from some kind of amnesia. The other alternatives were far worse: kidnapped and sold as a sex slave, locked in a basement and chained to a bed somewhere.
The thought of that made him wince with a physical pain. She was his little girl. She should be here, where he could protect her.
And now James was late. He picked up Sandra’s phone and dialled the number of the phone he had given James.
It went to voicemail.
‘James,’ he said. ‘Phone when you get this.’
‘He didn’t answer?’
‘Voicemail.’ He tried to recall when he had last charged the phone he’d given to James. He was pretty sure it had been full when he handed it over, but maybe the battery was faulty. ‘Maybe no battery,’ he said.
Sandra shook her head. ‘Go and look for him,’ she said. ‘Drive to the cinema and see if he’s there. They sometimes play video games afterwards.’
He stood up. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll go.’
‘I’ll stay here. In case he comes home.’
Martin walked out of the living room. On the way past the phone in the hall he called Andy’s house. His mum answered.
‘Hi, it’s Martin Cooper. I was wondering whether James is with you?’
There was a long, awkward silence. He could almost hear her thinking, The poor man, worrying about his son. It’s no wonder, though.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I think Andy went to meet him. He said he’d be home soon. He’s normally quite punctual.’
‘OK. If he does show up, would you call?’
It was light outside, the summer sun still warm and high in the sky. He started the car and wound the window down, driving slowly so he could look at the pedestrians. He felt a sudden weakness in his legs at the memory of doing this three weeks ago, looking for Maggie.
He couldn’t believe it was happening again.
It was about a ten-minute drive to the cinema. By the time he got there he was in a full-on panic, heart racing, palms sweating. It was a struggle to stop himself coming to a dead stop in the middle of the road and screaming at the top of his voice. He parked directly outside – if he got a fine he’d just pay it, he didn’t care – and went inside.
There was a long queue for tickets. It snaked through a set of ropes; he ignored it and walked to the front, standing behind a middle-aged couple. He looked back at the people who were next in line.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Emergency.’
The man behind the counter tilted his head. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Have you seen two boys? About fourteen.’
‘It’s a cinema, mate. On a Saturday. It’s full of teenage kids.’
‘I know, but …’ His voice tailed off. ‘It’s important.’
The man sighed. ‘What do they look like?’
He realized he had not brought a photo. ‘One of them – James, my son – is tall. About five ten, skinny. Hair’s blond, short on the sides and kind of long on top. Lots of gel. He was wearing a Nirvana T-shirt. His friend is shorter, very blond hair. Bleached, almost.’
‘Blond eyebrows?’
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘Tall?’
Martin nodded. ‘Exactly.’
‘I think I did see them. A while back. Their film’s over now, though. Has been for a while.’
‘Do you have CCTV?’
The man frowned. ‘Yeah, but I can’t let you see it. You’d have to ask the manager. Is everything OK, mate?’
Martin pursed his lips.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
4
He called Sandra. ‘Is he home?’
‘No.’ She didn’t ask whether he had found James. She didn’t need to.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way back. And then we’re going to find him, one way or another.’
>
It was eight-thirty when he walked into the house. There had to be something wrong. There was no way James would have been so stupid – not to say insensitive – as to stay out late after what had happened to Maggie.
Sandra was standing in the kitchen, staring out of the window.
‘You didn’t find him,’ she said. ‘He’s gone.’
Martin’s chest constricted. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. I can’t believe this. This cannot be happening. Not again.’
‘Call DI Wynne,’ she said. ‘Let her know.’
Martin scrolled to her number. She picked up on the second ring. There was music playing in the background. Something classical Martin did not recognize.
‘This is Martin Cooper,’ he said. ‘Maggie’s dad.’
The music went off.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Is something the matter, Mr Cooper?’
‘James is missing,’ he said. ‘He went out earlier and hasn’t come back.’
There was a long silence. ‘How long has he been gone?’
‘He was due back a couple of hours ago.’
‘That’s not long for a teenage boy.’
‘I know. But with Maggie …’ Martin’s voice tailed off.
‘Yes,’ DI Wynne said. ‘I understand. I’ll come to your house. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
As he hung up the doorbell rang. He looked at Sandra. She walked out into the hall and he followed her. He watched as she opened the door.
Her shoulders straightened and her eyes widened, then she opened her arms and half-ran, half-jumped outside. Martin ran to the door.
She was standing on the step, hugging James.
Martin hugged him too. There was a sour smell coming off his son. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he said, his relief keeping his anger in check. ‘We were so worried.’
Before James could answer a man stepped into view. He was in his fifties, bald and wearing faded chinos and a white shirt.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I take it this is your son?’
‘Yes,’ Martin said. ‘Did you bring him home?’
‘I found him and he gave this address.’ He gave a tight smile. ‘I think he may have been drinking.’
He had. That was the sour smell. Martin would deal with that later. For now, he wanted to get James inside, then call Wynne to tell her not to come after all. Before he could thank the man, Sandra spoke.
‘Are you …’ she said. ‘Are you Mr Best?’
5
The man – Best – peered at her through his glasses. ‘Sandra?’ he said. ‘Is that Sandra Ferguson?’
‘Cooper, now,’ Sandra said. ‘But yes.’
‘Well, I never. How nice to see you. It’s been what? Twenty years?’
‘I guess,’ Sandra said. ‘Although it’s hard to believe it’s that long. How are you?’
‘Good. I’m retired now. How are you?’ He hesitated, and took a small step backwards. ‘Didn’t I hear …?’
‘Yes,’ Sandra said. ‘Our daughter – she – she went missing.’
‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘How very sad.’ He looked at Martin. ‘I’m very sorry for you both.’
‘Thank you,’ Martin said. There was something about the precise, polite formality of the man that he found almost intimidating. It was so practised, so impenetrable. ‘I take it you two know each other?’
‘We do,’ Best said. ‘I had the pleasure of teaching your wife. Although that was a long time ago. I was much younger then.’
‘We both were,’ Sandra said. ‘I was Maggie’s age. Mr Best taught Maths at St Joe’s.’
James was standing between Martin and Sandra. Without warning, he sat heavily on the step. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused.
‘OK,’ Martin said. ‘We need to get you inside.’ He knelt and held James’s face in his hands. It was hot and flushed. He kissed his son’s forehead. ‘Come on, Jimbo. Time for a cup of tea.’
James nodded. ‘I’m OK.’ His words were slurred and another wave of booze wafted off him.
‘I’m not sure about that,’ Martin said. He helped James to his feet. ‘Where did you find him?’
‘I was out for a walk,’ Best said. ‘And I saw him coming out of the park. He fell into a hedge and was sick. He was with a friend, but the other boy ran off when I came near. Your son was too incapacitated to follow him.’
‘And you brought him home?’ Martin asked.
‘I have some experience with boys of this age,’ Best said. ‘And they will do this kind of thing. I felt it was for the best that he was not left on the street.’
Sandra smiled at him. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘With what happened to Maggie – our daughter – we were going crazy with worry.’
‘I can imagine.’ Best took a deep breath. ‘Well, he’s home now. I didn’t know you still lived here. Perhaps I’ll see you around the village.’
‘Yes,’ Sandra said. ‘That would be lovely.’
‘And good luck. I hope your daughter is returned to you soon. I’m sure she will be.’
‘Thank you. Goodnight, Mr Best.’
Sandra closed the door. She turned to James and wrapped her arms around him.
‘James,’ she said. ‘I want to be angry at you, but I can’t. But don’t you ever do that again. I can’t go through it. Promise?’
James looked at her through bleary eyes. ‘Promise,’ he mumbled.
Martin slipped an arm around him.
‘I’ll put him to bed,’ he said. ‘We can deal with this in the morning.’
6
When James was upstairs – shoes off but still wearing the rest of his clothes – Martin went downstairs. Sandra was on her mobile. He sat next to her on the couch and called DI Wynne.
‘No need to come,’ Martin said. ‘He’s here.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Wynne said.
‘Sorry. For wasting your time.’
‘That’s fine. Totally understandable in the circumstances. Call any time you need.’
Sandra hung up. ‘That was Marcia. Andy’s mum. Apparently he got home and tried to sneak upstairs without anyone noticing. He was drunk too. She got the story out of him – some older boys bought them some cider or something and they went to drink it in the park.’
‘The cinema guy said they were at the film.’
‘Sounds like they had the bright idea to get drunk on the way home.’
‘I’ll talk to him in the morning,’ Martin said. ‘But honestly, for now I’m just glad he’s home.’
‘Me too,’ Sandra said. She moved closer to him and he put his arm around her. ‘What are we going to do?’ she said. ‘How are we going to get through this?’
Martin didn’t answer for a while.
‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually. ‘I really don’t know.’
Twelve Years Earlier, 30 July 2006
1
DI Wynne scrolled through her contacts. She hated making this kind of call, hated knowing that the recipient might think she had good news, and would be disappointed when she told them that no, there were no new leads.
But she had to call Maggie’s parents. She couldn’t leave them in the dark; even though she had nothing specific to share, people wanted to be kept in the loop – as far as she could – about the investigation.
And she had nothing. Maggie was either dead, or she had been abducted and was a prisoner somewhere – and it could be anywhere – or she had been trafficked, in which case she could be anywhere in the world, working most likely in the sex trade, watched day and night, with no documents and no money. She’d be given ready access to drugs and alcohol and, when she was no longer of value, she’d be killed and disposed of, dumped in a lake or river, buried in a forest or desert, or thrown into an incinerator. No one would miss her. No one would report her absence to the police, and even if they did, the police wouldn’t be able to do anything. They would have no idea who she was.
Martin Cooper answered on the second ring.
‘Yes,�
�� he said. ‘DI Wynne?’
She was stung by the hope in his voice.
‘Just a routine call, I’m afraid,’ Wynne said. ‘To let you know we are still pursuing all avenues as thoroughly as we can. And to answer any questions you might have.’
‘I don’t have any.’ His voice was flat. ‘But thank you for checking in.’
‘Not a problem,’ Wynne said. ‘By the way, is your son OK?’
‘More or less,’ Martin Cooper said. ‘Although I’m not sure OK is the best description. He was very drunk.’
‘Perhaps he needed to let off some steam,’ Wynne said. ‘He’s safe, at least.’
‘Exactly,’ Martin Cooper said. ‘And he would have been gone longer but someone found him and brought him home.’
‘That’s fortunate,’ Wynne said. ‘Better than having him stagger around the streets. He was lucky to run into someone so responsible. Not everyone is that civic-minded these days, especially when it comes to teenage boys.’
‘He was a teacher,’ Martin said. ‘So he wasn’t scared of fourteen-year-old boys. It was an odd coincidence, actually. I knew him. He was Sandra’s maths teacher in school. Mr Best.’
Wynne almost missed it. She had not been fully paying attention; she was going out that evening – a rare occurrence – with someone she had met at the gym. Wynne was having a coffee after a spinning class; the woman had been in the class and, afterwards, had sat at her table and pointed at the coffee.
That won’t re-hydrate you, she said.
It might give me some energy, Wynne replied, aware that she was still red-faced and sweating, whereas the woman – Nicky, it turned out – was showered and dressed and fully composed.
Try one of these. She had a bright green antioxidant fruit shake. It’s a great boost.
Wynne shook her head. Coffee, for me, she said.
Want to meet for one? the woman asked. Or a real drink?
And they were meeting tonight.
She paused.
‘Best?’ she said. ‘Late fifties? Balding? Metallic glasses?’