by N V Peacock
‘I knew I recognised your name. Okay, let’s take this from the beginning.’ DC Kimmings looks at me with a cocktail of concern and contempt.
‘I was eight when they arrested Dad. I changed my name at seventeen. I’ve now been Cherrie Forrester longer than I was Leigh-Ann Hendy.’
‘Does anyone else know about your past?’
‘There’s a podcast. It talked about my parents and told everyone my name; even hinted where I work. It was popular because of Thomas Doncaster’s disappearance. So some people knew.’
‘Okay, okay. Let me tell the gov. You should have told me from the start, Leigh-Ann. The more information we have, the sooner we’ll find your son.’
‘My name is Cherrie,’ I mutter and watch as he walks into our dining space to call it in.
I don’t wait for Leo to come back from the kitchen; instead, I put my boots back on, grab a coat and slip out of the front door.
The helicopter is still searching above me. On the road, I see a few uniformed police officers. I walk down every street Robin has ever walked; checking in bushes. I even knock on random doors. I find nothing. I don’t want to go home, so I carry on across the estate to Tracy’s house. I knock on the door. Her gran answers; she’s crying and hugs me straight away. Her surprisingly strong arms pull me into their home. Tracy is in the sitting room. I slip onto the sofa next to her.
‘Cherry Pie.’ Tracy puts an arm around my shoulders and I lean on her. ‘I just saw it on the news. I was about to call you.’
I can’t speak; I just sit next to my friend, feeling her warmth and unasked questions.
After Gran makes a phone call, DC Kimmings arrives. He ushers me out of their house, then, in silence, drives me home.
‘You have to be there, for when he comes back,’ he tells me at my door.
I nod my head like a tree branch in the wind.
When they’ve finished taking statements and searching the house, the police leave. Finally alone, Leo grunts that it’s late and he will sleep on the couch tonight. I don’t care; I can’t even open my mouth to acknowledge his mood, so just go to bed.
I sleep in my clothes. When I wake up, I have to remind myself Robin is missing and my sweet little boy might be, right now, in pain. Might be crying out to me to help him. Might be dead.
Morning comes. I hear a knock on my bedroom door. I get up and open it to see a strange woman standing in my home.
‘I’m your family liaison officer, Patricia Falmer. I’m here to keep you informed of the case and to help you with all this. We need to do the appeal quickly, so it’s happening in an hour. Can I help you prepare?’
I stare at her. She’s about my age with dyed blonde hair and dishwater eyes. Patricia is not in a uniform but wears a smart pinstripe suit. There’s a look on her face as if nothing I could do or say would faze her. Deep down, I don’t take this look as comfort but as a challenge.
I close the door in her face. If it’s in an hour, I have at least another fifty minutes of thinking time before I have to shuffle in front of the cameras and face the reporters.
After they arrested Dad, the press tried to interview Mum – Wendy Hendy, the steel-faced wife who never cried or commented about her husband’s dark deeds. We didn’t leave the house for a month. Every time we went outside, one of those parasites would shove a microphone or a camera in our faces and make up a news headline the next day: Wendy Hendy – serial killer sidekick, or Mrs Bones? Worse: Are there more skeletons in the Hendys’ closet? She stopped speaking to me too. I was just a little girl. I did not understand what was happening. Dad was gone, and my mum became a recluse, taking me with her. Consequently, reporters are not my favourite people, yet I have to do this appeal.
At fifteen minutes to the hour, I get up, lumber downstairs and say, ‘Morning,’ to Leo, DC Kimmings, DC Steadman, and Patricia.
‘At least brush your hair, Cherrie,’ Leo whispers.
‘Fuck off,’ I whisper back.
Now aware of my past, everyone is looking at me as if I am a World War II bomb, stuck in the middle of the house, which could detonate at any moment. They’ve forgotten I’ve been here all along – an explosion waiting to happen.
Patricia offers me a cup of tea. When I reach for it, the mug burns my hands. I let it fall onto the floor between us. The cup doesn’t smash, but the tea blasts out over the wooden floorboards.
‘I’ll clean it up,’ she says.
In an instant, Patricia is on her knees mopping the floor with my kitchen towels. She’s sponging off my socked feet, all the while making a soothing, cooing sound like I’m a tantrum-throwing toddler, not a mother who has lost her child. I want to kick her in the face. How dare she come in here thinking she can solve all my problems. How dare she make me tea without asking me how I take it, and hand it cup first to burn me. How dare she use up all my good kitchen towel. It’s the stuff that can be used again and again and she’s throwing it away. I lunge forward and begin unfurling the discarded sheets of sucked-up tea. I squeeze them out in the sink, then carefully place them on the radiator to dry.
Patricia, who has seen it all before, has apparently never seen this. Under normal circumstances, a small part of my soul would have lighted up with pride at this. But today is anything but normal.
Leo stares at his watch. ‘Time to go,’ he says, walking out of the front door without looking back.
The police drive us to our community centre. I imagined being escorted to a hi-tech room stuffed with computers and gadgets covered with people in sharp dark suits; instead, I find myself in the dull place where we vote on pointless politics and cookie-cutter council members. The main room holds one long plastic table with a gaggle of reporters and news cameras stretched out before it.
‘Bet you wished you’d brushed your hair,’ Leo says, as he grabs my hand, just like a good partner should. This mood is unlike anything I’ve seen from Leo before, but I deserve it, and he deserves to be mad, so I say nothing.
We’re ushered to the table. I look behind us and see there is a banner with Robin’s school photo along with a tip-line telephone number. He’ll be so embarrassed when he sees his photo blown up; I want to continue with the veiled hope that this is all a simple misunderstanding, nothing sinister. I want to be the person who thinks the best. Someone convinced her child will come home safe and sound. He could still be at any of his school friends’ houses. Maybe he found a new little friend while waiting to go on the ride, and followed them to their house for a sleepover, not realising he would cause all this trouble. Now, he’s too scared to come home. But I know better. Bad things happen. Eleven boys never made it home because of Mr Bones, and Thomas will not be sitting around the Doncasters’ Christmas tree this year.
Dropping my body onto an empty chair, I have a sudden realisation – today could be the start of a lifetime of these appeals. All those social media have-a-go investigators could forever parade Robin’s image as evidence. My son’s destiny could be a link in a chain of dead boys, my dark heritage the knot to tie it all together. How many kids do they find after an abduction? I need to ask someone. As I get up, Leo pulls me back down.
‘Don’t you dare move, Cherrie.’ His thumb presses into my wrist.
Patricia saunters up to us and sits on the table. She lounges as if she’s flirting with her boss at the office.
‘We need you to appeal to Robin at this stage. In most of these cases, the kids have simply run away. We need to tell him he won’t be in trouble when he comes back.’
‘He hasn’t run away. How many fucking times am I gonna have to tell you?’ I snap.
‘Cherrie,’ Leo says.
‘Someone took my son. Shouldn’t we appeal to them to let him go?’
‘Not yet. I realise that this is hard, but you both need to emphasise you want Robin home now and he won’t be in trouble. This is to gain trust. The trust of those watching the appeal to help us, and the trust of the press. Stick to the facts of what he was wearing, and where you saw him
last. Did you watch the Doncasters’ appeal? Mrs Doncaster was great. She spoke directly to Thomas. Even mentioned her other son Harry wanting his brother back in time for their football game at school. Very effective.’
‘Got it,’ Leo mumbles.
Did she just give me coaching tips on how to act during my missing child’s appeal? I roll my eyes so hard I feel like my eyeballs could, at any moment, pop out of my skull and tumble around the community centre like squishy marbles.
Patricia smiles at me. ‘Ms Forrester, you’re giving me a strange look. Are you quite all right?’
‘Sure,’ I reply, forcing my lips into the smallest smile in the world.
Leo thrusts a hand out of sight under the table. I feel the warmth of his palm hovering above my knee, as if he’s deciding whether to touch me.
‘Okay, let’s begin.’ Pulling herself up, Patricia gives us a patronising smile, then fades into the crowd, leaving Leo and me to quietly seethe together.
DCI Jeddick sits down next to me. She has a trusty iPad clutched to her chest like a bulletproof vest. Looking up, she says in a firm, clear voice to the press, ‘Please refrain from asking questions until after the appeal. Thank you.’
Leo looks over at me. Under the table, he squeezes my hand until it hurts. Does he want me to cry? Is this what today is about? Me, the wailing mother falling apart; him the strong father keeping his family together?
‘My son, Robin Duffill, is eight years old. He will be nine in January. You’re not in trouble, tiger. We just want you back home with us.’ Leo squeezes my hand again when he’s done.
‘Strictly Come Dancing is on Saturday, and it won’t be the same without you, Robin,’ I say, earning another hand crush.
Leo continues, ‘He was last seen at Crazy Clive’s Fair in Black Friars Park with his mother, Cherrie Forrester. He was wearing a red Puffa jacket and dark blue jeans. He’s a lovely boy, so friendly …’ My boyfriend glances at me, then falters. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend Robin has any choice about where he is and whether he can come home. This is bullshit.
‘If someone has my son,’ I blurt out, ‘you need to let him go unharmed before I find out who you are and come for you. Trust me, you will not like what I’ll do if I get my hands on you.’
The DCI lurches across me to snatch the microphone. She adds, ‘You’re not in trouble, Robin. Please come home. Your parents are distraught. They just want you back safe.’
‘Please come home, Robin. We miss you,’ Leo adds.
‘The police are seeking a child on the Ferris wheel who might have important information. He was wearing a red Puffa jacket and is about eight years of age. Mrs Duffill approached him last night at the fair. If this is your child, please contact the tip-line. Mr and Mrs Duffill need your help.’
I lean forward and say, ‘I’m not Mrs Duffill. I’m Ms Forrester.’
‘Questions?’ DCI Jeddick says.
The room erupts and someone points at the loudest voice. The reporter stands up; he’s a frail-looking young man, who seems as if he couldn’t possibly have the most prominent voice in the room.
‘You’re not really Ms Forrester, though, are you? Aren’t you Leigh-Ann Hendy, Little Bones?’
Silence. I have two choices. I can deny it and, when it comes out later, look like a liar. On the other hand, if I admit it I doom Robin to be forever chained to Mr Bones. What do I do?
DCI Jeddick coughs. ‘A young boy is missing; please keep your questions about his disappearance and how you can help get him back to his family.’
Fuck, I have to get this appeal back on track, humanise Robin. I snatch the microphone back and stare at the reporter. ‘I made a costume for Robin for Halloween. He is looking forward to wearing it. Please help me get him home in time to go trick or treating.’
‘There will be no more questions.’ The DCI moves around the table to block me from the cameras.
I get up and as I do, see a familiar face in the crowd: Jai Patel.
Chapter 19
Pushing through the reporters, I head straight for him.
‘If this has anything to do with your fucking podcast, I’m going to …’ Grabbing his jacket, I pull him back and forth on the spot.
He puts his hands up. ‘Whoa, please, Leigh-Ann!’ Jai yells as loud as he can, looking around to see if anyone is coming to his aid.
The reporter from before hears him call me Leigh-Ann. He pulls out his mobile phone to take a photo. DCI Jeddick deftly intercepts him.
DC Steadman appears, yanks Jai aside, and says something I don’t catch. Straightening his coat, Jai nods at the DC, he then steps back towards me. ‘I’m sorry, but I came to help. As soon as I heard your name, I came to help,’ he says.
I don’t believe him. People you barely know don’t help you. They’re just vultures feeding off your sorrow. Wait, in my criminology books it says criminals often put themselves into investigations; they do it to see how close they are to being caught, and for kicks.
‘If you have my son, I’ll kill you,’ I seethe at him, gripping his jacket again.
‘I don’t have your son.’
‘You do, that’s why you’re here inserting yourself into the investigation like the clichéd criminal you are.’
‘Snap, I’m no kiddie snatcher. Why would I?’
‘To get more subscribers for that pathetic podcast of yours.’
‘I took it down, remember? You told my mum on me.’
I let go of his jacket. The material rumpled by my fists gently expands back into its original shape, reminding me of Robin’s red Puffa coat.
‘Damn, salty really is your go-to flavour,’ Jai says.
‘Everything okay here?’ DC Kimmings asks coming up behind us.
‘He’s the bastard who created the podcast that outed me.’ I shove Jai in the chest.
‘Ouch.’ Jai stumbles backwards. ‘I’m here to help. Let me help you, Leigh-Ann.’
‘My name is Cherrie!’ I go to push him again, but DC Kimmings grabs me, jerking me backwards.
‘This isn’t the place, Ms Forrester,’ says the DC.
DC Steadman takes Jai by the elbow and leads him away. It was dumb to attack and accuse Jai; I realise this within seconds of seeing him look back at me, grinning. He’s an asshole, but not a suspect. Where would he even keep stolen boys for long periods of time? His mum would have noticed something, and she seems the type to do what’s right, rather than keep a secret.
Through the dispersing crowd, I catch sight of DCI Jeddick. She’s giving me a look I’ve seen several times stamped on Mrs Duffill’s face: disappointment. I’ve ruined Robin’s appeal. I threatened people and appeared crazy. Whoever has Robin will think they have done him a favour by taking him from me; who’d want to grow up with a psychotic mum?
The DCI makes her way to me.
‘Well, I’ve never seen that reaction before,’ she says. ‘I’ve seen breakdowns, tears and pleas, but never threats.’
‘So, I wasn’t as good as Mrs Doncaster?’
‘It’s not a competition.’
‘You still think Robin has run away, but someone has my son. A skeleton approached us in the Ghost Train. It can’t be a coincidence. What if there’s a Mr Bones copycat on the loose?’ As soon as I say it, I shiver.
Cocking her head, the DCI narrows her eyes at me. ‘A copycat is a serious theory, Cherrie. One we are looking into; however, there’s just not enough evidence to support it at the moment. Thomas Doncaster’s body was left where it would be found. The police only discovered your dad’s victims when they raided your house.’
‘It wasn’t about the kill, he just wanted the bones,’ I mutter.
‘Now, copycats, well, they copy. There are few similarities between the Doncaster boy, your son and the Mr Bones murders.’
This information sinks in, yet still doesn’t feel right. Serial killers have both signatures and modus operandi; they retain their signature, but can change their MOs. Only film and TV tell us they sti
ck to a rigid pattern. A dual-servicing lie to give their hero a clue, and the audience hope that these monsters can be caught in the real world. The truth is, most are never found or punished.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asks.
‘If there is no copycat, I’ve fucked up Robin’s appeal.’
‘That remains to be seen.’ The DCI takes off her jacket revealing a colourful sleeve of tattoos on her left arm. ‘You better get off home now. I’ll deal with the reporters.’ She leaves before I can study the images she deemed important enough to live on her skin forever.
Like a summoned genie, DC Steadman suddenly appears. ‘I’ll take you home.’
Patricia rushes over, Leo in tow.
‘This appeal is already going viral. Maybe the threat will help?’ she gushes.
‘Cherrie was aggressive rather than tearful. She’s probably killed my son.’ Leo stares at me; his lips so tight across his face I’m surprised any words made it past them at all.
DC Steadman and Patricia take us home. Leo doesn’t intend to stay. Instead, he packs a small bag of clothes. He then grabs a packet of crisps from the kitchen. As he goes to leave, I stop him at the door. I don’t want him with me, but equally I don’t want him to hear any news about Robin alone. He stares through me. The words I should say die in my throat.
‘I’ll be back in a day or two. I just can’t stay here with you right now. You ruined the appeal. Robin might go to my mum’s house. I should be there if he does.’
His mum lives a half-hour drive from us. Robin doesn’t know the way, nor could he walk that distance. ‘If you think Robin ran away then the appeal means nothing.’
He drops his bag. ‘You still ruined it.’
‘Thanks for the support.’
‘Why should I support you? You lied to me for years. And don’t forget, you told my mum not to go to the fair. If she had, Robin wouldn’t have been taken.’
‘If you hadn’t texted me!’
‘I’m not fucking psychic, Cherrie. I didn’t know you weren’t watching our son.’
Psychic. Mariah. I have an appointment with her tonight. She might see something; give me a clue. ‘Yeah, well, why don’t you go and piss off to Mummy’s house!’