by Alex Walters
'If that’s what you think.'
'It’s what we think, Greg. Let’s call it a joint decision, shall we?' She was already turning away, but felt she needed to make one final effort. 'Do you want me to join you this afternoon?'
He hesitated, long enough for her to know what his answer would be. 'No, Kate. I can handle it.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
Now
By the time Murrain arrived back, the MIR was already emptying for the night. They were at the stage of the investigation when the opportunities of the initial golden hours had long passed. They were facing the long grind of interviews, intelligence-gathering, working through the responses to the public appeals, generally trying to make sense of what little information they had. The first wave of calls following the media conference had tailed off, though they were expecting a further deluge when the highlights were shown on the early evening news programmes. The incoming calls were being handled by the Force Control Room with additional staffing brought in as support, and any likely leads were forwarded to a small team of officers to follow up. They were still beavering away in the far corner, headphones clamped to their ears, fingers tapping at keyboards.
'Thought you must have gone straight home,' Wanstead said lugubriously, peering up from behind his computer terminal.
'You know me better than that, Paul.' Murrain slumped down at his desk. 'This is like a second home to me.'
Wanstead snorted. 'I'd be off like a shot if I had a warm Chief Super to go home to.'
'I'll have a word with the senior officers for you. See if there are any volunteers. If Helena doesn't object.' Helena being the long-suffering Mrs Wanstead. Murrain had often wondered what she saw in her husband, given she had to share him in a quasi-bigamous relationship with his job. It might well be she preferred him in smaller doses.
'Anything useful coming out of the media conference?'
'Not so's you'd notice so far,' Wanstead said. 'Usual mix of crazies and people misguidedly trying to be helpful. One or two claiming sightings of a van that might conceivably be the one we're looking for, but nothing that's looking very promising.' He glanced at the notes on the desk in front of him. 'A couple of supposed sightings of the boy on his own, in the window between his disappearance and the likely time of death.'
'Locally? In the village, I mean?'
Wanstead shook his head. 'One up here in the town. The other in Stockport. Think we can discount the second, probably, though we'll check it out. The other—who knows?'
'But one young schoolboy looks pretty much like another?'
'Quite.'
'Anything else?'
'Three reported instances of attempted child snatching. All in South Manchester over the last couple of months.'
'But not previously reported to us?'
'Apparently not. They're all pretty trivial instances in themselves. A van pulling up and the driver trying to talk to some kids on their way home from school. Another kid claiming some van driver tried to drag him into the back of a van but he managed to slip away. Another who said he'd been approached in the street, but the guy fled because the kid's mother turned up.'
'Do they sound convincing?'
Wanstead shrugged. 'Maybe. But you know how it is. Kids—and parents—can get hysterical when something like this happens. Start imagining all kinds of stuff. Anyway, we're following them up. Alongside revisiting the other cases we've had reported over the last few months.' They both knew these kinds of reports were relatively commonplace. Sometimes they were substantiated. More often, they were left unresolved, maybe no more than the product of some child's over-active imagination.
'How are we doing with local offenders?' They were checking, as a matter of course, any local residents on the sex offenders' register, as well as any other ex-offenders who might be conceivable suspects.
'Working through them. Nothing promising so far, though.'
The more time went by, the less likely they were to make a breakthrough. At the same time, this wasn't a case that anyone—other than the killer—wanted to leave unresolved. For the Chief and his colleagues, it was too high-profile, the type of failure no-one wanted blotting their reputational copybooks. For Murrain and his team, it was too close to home. Murrain could live with the professional failure—that was part of the job sometimes—but not with the idea the killer might go unpunished or, worse still, kill again. The family and the locals would want closure—to know what had happened, to be sure the person responsible had been dealt with, to be confident they and their children could walk the streets in safety.
'What about the interviews with the schoolkids?' he asked. 'Anything new from those?' They'd been interviewing the children in Ethan's year at the primary school, beginning with those on the bus. It was a delicate process, with the child's parents or the teacher sitting in. They had to be sensitive to the children's own anxieties and emotions, and take account of the youngsters' often unreliable memories. Some of them conjured up their own imagined monsters. Others were too eager to help or over-keen to be the centre of attention, and had provided embellished accounts that were simply not credible. It had taken several days so far to work through the numbers, with little to show for their efforts. Murrain wasn't hopeful that today would have proved any more fruitful.
'Nothing new,' Wanstead said. 'None of them on the bus saw anything. A couple remember Ethan getting off but nothing after that. There was a girl got off at the same stop, but she was met by her mother and didn't register what happened to Ethan. And the mother couldn't recall anything at all. Didn't even notice that anyone else had got off the bus. Incredible, isn't it?'
It wasn't really, in Murrain's experience. It was rare to find a good, reliable witness. Most people were remarkably unobservant, too preoccupied with their own concerns and activities to notice what anyone else might be doing. 'That's children for you,' he said. 'And parents, come to that. Tied up in their own worlds. But, yes, whoever did this was smart or lucky, or a bit of both probably. Kept out of the way of CCTV. Picked the right moment. Maybe just opportunist, if Ethan did wander off after he got off the bus.' He shook his head. 'All I know is we're getting nowhere.'
He knuckled his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted, and reached out to boot up his computer terminal. There'd be a string of e-mails from on high seeking an update. The prospect made him feel even wearier but he knew he'd have to deal with them before he left, along with whatever other correspondence had accumulated while he'd been out. Then he should head home for a break. He always felt the same awkwardness when an investigation had reached this point. The temptation was to work all hours to prove—to yourself as much as to anyone else—that you were giving it your best shot. But what the investigation needed now was rigour, attention to detail and, ideally, a dash of inspiration. At the moment, Murrain didn't feel equipped to provide any of those. 'I take it Joe's had the sense to bugger off home for the night?'
'Well, he's buggered off somewhere,' Wanstead responded enigmatically.
Murrain finished entering his password and waited for the network to traipse through its interminable routines. 'Go on, Paul. You're dying to tell me.'
Wanstead eased back in his chair, with the air of one about to launch into a lengthy anecdote. 'He went off with young Donovan. For a drink,' he added, as if this were the final confirmation of some long-held suspicion.
'Ah, for a drink,' Murrain echoed. 'Well, always good to see the team getting on.'
'I'd understood that Joe was spoken for,' Wanstead said, disapprovingly. 'Thought he was living with whatshername? Came to the Christmas do last year?'
'Gill,' Murrain confirmed. 'Yes, he is. Or was. I don't think that necessarily precludes him going for a drink with a colleague. Even I'm allowed to do that once in a blue moon, Eloise tells me.' He paused. 'Anyway, I think there might be complications with Gill.'
'That right?' Wanstead had abandoned any pretence of working on the papers he had lined up in front of him.
'None of ou
r business, Paul. But I believe Gill's working abroad. Reading between the lines, I'm not sure how much future that relationship has. I've been meaning to have a chat with Joe about—well, how he's doing. Not so well is my guess.'
Wanstead raised an eyebrow. 'Seems fine to me.'
'Well, he keeps up the front. But I think it's hit him harder than he lets on.' As he spoke, Murrain was mentally kicking himself for not having followed matters up with Milton. They'd had a brief conversation a few weeks earlier when Murrain had detected that Milton was less than his usual enthusiastic self. With some reluctance, Milton had acknowledged that all wasn't entirely well with his domestic life. 'Gill got this terrific job,' he'd said, clearly trying hard to sound pleased about the news. 'OECD in Paris. Too good an opportunity to turn down.'
'So she's moved over there?'
'Well, temporarily. We're not sure for how long. You know.'
Murrain didn't know, but he could guess. 'You thinking of going out to join her?' He'd no desire to lose the services of his trusty deputy, but he suspected that wasn't really the issue.
Milton had smiled. 'Don't see myself as a gendarme, do you? No, it's just a temporary thing.' But he hadn't sounded as if he really believed this, and Murrain had been left with the suspicion that the split was likely to be more permanent than Milton was prepared to acknowledge. He'd not pushed the point but he'd intended to have a follow-up chat with Milton. It wasn't his place to interfere, but Milton deserved any support Murrain could provide. As always though, life—or, more accurately, Ethan Dunn's tragic death—had intervened.
'Sorry to hear that,' Wanstead responded. 'He's a decent enough lad, Joe.' That was the highest level of praise Wanstead was likely to offer about any of his colleagues.
'Don't say a word, Paul,' Murrain warned. 'If I find you've been gossiping about any of this, I'll have you back on the beat.'
Wanstead looked genuinely shocked at the suggestion. 'You know me, boss. Silent as the grave. Silent as the bloody grave.'
***
'Look, you grab a table and I'll get the drinks. What are you having?'
It was only just after six, but the place was filling up. Marie Donovan guessed the place did a brisk early evening trade with commuters popping in for a quick one on their way from the railway station to home. Most of the other customers looked as if they were returning from work, briefly relaxing after a long day in the office. She spotted a table in the far corner and, turning back to Milton, began to head towards it. 'Just something soft for me. Lime and soda?'
'If you're sure,' he said. 'I'll risk a pint.' He turned to the bustle at the bar and began gently to ease his way to the front. By the time he returned with their drinks, Donovan had secured a small table in an alcove where they could talk without being overheard. They'd decided to risk visiting the riverside pub in the village, only a few hundred yards from the spot where Ethan Dunn had been taken. She'd been hesitant when Milton had made the suggestion. It was all too easy in a case like this to find yourselves castigated for slacking on the job. Milton had persuaded her the risk was low. They'd had only limited involvement in the house-to-house interviews in the village, and no-one was likely to have any idea who they were. 'I just want to get a feel for the place,' he'd added. 'People respond artificially when you turn up as a policeman. I'd like to see what sort of community this is.'
'You're getting like Kenny,' she'd said, jokingly. 'Feelings and atmosphere. Anyway, you'll only get a feel for that part of the community that visits the pub.'
He'd shrugged. 'People are usually more truthful after a few drinks.'
Maybe that was true, she thought, looking around her now. Certainly, people were talking very volubly, the volume growing louder even in the brief time she'd been sitting there. It was a mixed crowd—youngish besuited groups on their way home from work, a few older locals propping up the bar, a couple of families sampling the decent-looking pub food.
Milton slid into the seat opposite her and pushed the glass of lime and soda towards her. 'Busy old place.'
'Doesn't look as if people are locking themselves away in fear of our killer.'
'Don't suppose they feel personally threatened.' Milton glanced at a family seated at a nearby table—a pleasant-looking young mother and father, two primary-school aged children munching away at their burgers. 'Imagine they're keeping their kids close at hand, though. I hope we get this bastard soon.'
'If he's not already passed through on his way to somewhere else,' Donovan said. 'Assuming it is a he.'
'That's the nightmare thought, isn't it?' Milton agreed. 'That this is just some passing stranger. Someone we'll only catch years down the road. If at all.' He stared gloomily at his pint, then took a deep swallow. 'Christ.'
'Let's hope not.'
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Donovan was wondering whether this had been a good idea after all. Milton seemed lost in his own thoughts, oblivious to her and everything around them.
'You OK?' she asked, finally.
'Sorry. I'm being lousy company,' he said. 'Things on my mind.'
'Apart from the case?'
'Well, including the case. But yes.'
'Want to talk about any of them?'
He took a swallow of his beer. 'You don't want to listen to me boring on,' he said.
'I don't mind. If it'll help.'
'Shit. I don't know. It's just that everything at home—' He stopped and took a breath. 'I was living with my girlfriend. Gill. Well, maybe I still am. Living with her, I mean.' He trailed off, conscious how little sense he was making. 'We were doing OK, you know. I thought we were in it for the long haul. Then she applied for this job in Paris.'
'Ah.' Donovan sipped at her own drink. She'd been wondering where this was heading.
'She's an academic,' Milton went on. 'A labour economist. She'd completed her PhD and was lucky enough to find herself a job at Manchester Met. Junior lecturer. Even that's like gold-dust these days. Then this opportunity came up at the OECD.'
'In Paris?'
'In Paris. Initially just a six month contract so a bit of a risk because the uni wasn't likely to hold the job open for her. But, well, it was the OECD. Good for the CV, all that. Chance to live in Paris for a while. And the prospect of the contract being extended. So we both thought she should give it a go.'
'You as well?'
'I couldn't stand in her way, could I? Not with that kind of opportunity. But—well, I never really believed it was going to happen, I suppose. Then it did, and she'd gone and I was left stuck in our house in Sale by myself.'
'Only temporarily, though. She must be due back soon.'
'That's the thing. They extended the original contract, and then she found out last week they want to offer her a further extension. With the prospect of making it permanent, if she wants.'
'Right.' Donovan took another sip of her drink, wondering what was the right thing to say. Across the room, a heavily-built man was holding court among a diverse bunch of drinkers, regaling them with some extended anecdote as laughter rippled across the room. Life went on, whatever might be happening outside. 'What does she want?'
'She wants to stay on, obviously. But she's not quite saying it. Keeps asking me what I want. And, of course, I have to say I want what's best for her.'
'Is that what you want?'
'Oh, Christ knows. I mean, yes, of course it is. But if I'm honest—with myself, with her—I think we're finished.' He stopped abruptly, and took another large mouthful of beer.
'Have you been going out there to see her?'
'We had a plan to do it monthly. You know, alternating between us. But it starts to get expensive and she's got other things going on and I end up working all hours, so we've let it slip the last month or two. You know how it is.'
She knew only too well. She'd found herself drifting apart from her late partner, Liam, when she'd been working undercover. She'd come up with excuses not to make the trip home, even when she'd known Liam was ill and needed her
. She was only too aware how easily an apparently solid relationship could melt into nothing. Even now, with Liam long gone, she still sometimes woke in the night, the guilt gnawing at her.
'What about you moving out there? Is that an option?'
'What would I do? I've a good career here. I'd have nothing there.' He shook his head. 'Even if I did, I can't see our relationship surviving. We had something good, but I think it's already gone. She's got a new life.'
'You think there might be someone else?' The question sounded too blunt, but she couldn't unsay it.
'I don't know. She's got new friends. I don't think there's anyone serious. But it's only a matter of time.'
'You don't know that.'
'I don't know anything. But I'm beginning to think it's over.' He sat staring at his beer then looked up and laughed. 'You must wish you hadn't come. I'm not normally this gloomy. I know things will sort themselves out, one way or another.' He gestured towards the room in general. 'Then we've got this to deal with. Makes my domestic problems seem pretty trivial.'
'I know. I keep thinking about the parents,' Donovan said. 'I mean, they're not to blame. But how would you feel if you were the mother. The one day you didn't keep an eye out and something like that happens.'
'I think it's getting to Kenny as well,' Milton said.
'You reckon?' She didn't yet know Murrain well enough to guess what he might be thinking or feeling, but she knew enough about his past to understand that the loss of a child would be close to home.
'It's always difficult to tell with Kenny. He tries to keep it all under control, so people don't think he's completely away with the fairies. Everything neat and in its place, including his emotions. Especially his emotions.'