by N V Peacock
‘At least I got the stalker’s name,’ I say.
‘Lawrence Edwards.’ Leo puts his head in his hands. ‘Is this all your fault? Some random stranger targeted Robin because you come from a serial killer dynasty?’
‘I don’t come from a family of serial killers. My mum did nothing wrong.’
‘Shit, Cherrie. She must have known what he was doing. You can’t live with someone and have no clue what they’re up to.’
‘I had no idea what you were doing in the extension.’
‘Well, that was different.’
‘Was it?’
‘I don’t need your lip now, Cherrie. Against my better judgement, I came back to check on you.’
‘Well, you can indulge your better judgement again and fuck off.’ Getting up, I walk towards the door.
Swearing under his breath, Leo follows me. ‘My subconscious has you all figured out. My dreams were right about you.’
‘Good, perhaps in your next dream I’ll be repeatedly kicking you in the balls.’
Flinging open the door, Leo stalks out into the night. He doesn’t look back, just gets in his car and drives.
After slamming the door shut, I sit back down at the table. I can’t bring myself to eat any more chips, so I get a big bowl of cereal instead. Leo says he trusts me, but he can’t help exposing his true doubts; they’re like a wound beneath a bandage destined to fester. Dad had those levels too, only his burrowed deeper. On the surface a loving father, yet dig deeper and there was evil. He destroyed memories of ice cream, late-night films and shopping trips with child abductions and grisly murders. He said today that why he killed wasn’t important, but it is. I put my cereal to one side and try to recall the memories I still have of my dad. It’s tough; imagination frays the edges of memories. It blurs them until what’s left could be a regurgitation of a film, or a twisted thought.
I have an idea. I grab my laptop and log in to my Amazon Prime account; I find a playlist crammed with Eighties hits and press play. Not every song will trigger a memory, yet maybe the music can somehow take me back, make me remember something important that could help Robin now. Mariah meant well, but her prediction of the guilty fair worker was a bust, so my suspect list is back down to Lawrence the stalker, Oscar Greer, and worst: the unknown copycat.
Eighties pop music fills the house as I ransack my mind for a useful memory. I remember dancing with Dad to one particular song, my mum looking at me with a green-eyed stare as he taught me how to twist and waltz. He was a good dancer … Wait, there was a cat. Trumpton. It belonged to the elderly couple next door. It was friendly, so I always played with it. Of course, I didn’t know Dad had taken him until after I’d helped the neighbours search the entire estate for the wayward feline.
Days later, Dad called me into his art studio and showed me what he was doing. By the time I got there, Trumpton was dead. He looked like one of my cuddly toys, all fluffy and still. I thought that he must have been hit by a car, we lived on a busy street, but there was no blood. Later, Dad admitted to poisoning him. Death was just the beginning; it took hours to skin Trumpton. All the while, I watched Dad work in silence, never daring to ask the obvious question. Carefully, he placed Trumpton’s skinned body into a vat of peroxide and covered it up. We then watched a cartoon together: Tom & Jerry.
When he took Trumpton’s body out of the vat, it wasn’t clean. There was no helpful bone-cleaning information on the internet back then; so, next morning, he visited the library to check out a book about hunting. We found out that you have to leave the body outside for a while first, let it decompose. After, you use the peroxide. That afternoon, he buried the cat, and unearthed it a few months later; like some bizarre reverse funeral. Dad then dumped Trumpton back into the vat.
I remember when he pulled off the lid. The smell was like pale hands reaching down my little throat, choking my senses. Once clean, he finished the cat bones off with a dip in the biological washing powder we used on our clothes. He dried the carcass off with a bathroom towel. The cat suddenly smelled like us. Its skeleton was beautiful; bleached indestructible bones that would last forever. He showed me each white piece of Trumpton, all the while he sang that old song, Dem Bones, but the words were warped and disjointed, the wrong bone connected to the wrong bone. The song is now so vivid in my mind that I sing the last line aloud: ‘Now hear the word of the Lord.’
He is an evil man, but he’s still my dad, and part of him is in me whether I want it there or not.
Just because a copycat hasn’t contacted Dad, it doesn’t mean one isn’t out there. In prison, Mr Bones said someone checks his correspondence, perhaps this new killer’s letters didn’t make it beyond the prison guards. And as I thought before, surely the police would have those letters already. Perhaps they’re holding the copycat’s existence back from the public to ensure they don’t cause a panic. Surely, they’d tell me though, if there were any real leads.
It took Dad the dry run with Trumpton to perfect his method, maybe Thomas Doncaster was this killer’s dry run. Was there any real damage to that poor boy’s body other than the head wound? Perhaps there are things the police are not telling me about how Thomas died. Killers always have a vision of their murders; a reality to live up to their fantasy. If this killer is the same, his routine takes a while, so I still have time to find Robin. Maybe I need to look deeper into the Doncaster murder. If Thomas was this killer’s Trumpton, I should look into the little boy’s life – find out who was around him.
I stop the playlist. Who knew music could be such a Pied Piper to the past. I guess it’s easier to resurrect something still lurking just below your facade. Bad memories are like tea bags; they taint the water around them, then defiantly bob to the surface.
Dad killed Trumpton because of his proximity to our house, which could mean Thomas lived near his killer on the Rosemount Estate. Wait a minute, wasn’t the blog highlighting Greer’s name called Concerned in Rosemount? I log on to check it. There’s no author name on the blog, and I’m not technical enough to trace ownership, although it doesn’t stop me poring over all the whining posts about missing garden ornaments, and neighbours who play their music past eleven at night. There are even some photos with each post, ones taken by the blogger, but nothing jumps out. I’m useless; the only thing I notice is the same annoying expression of exasperation: shine a light. I’ve never heard that before, not around here anyway.
It’s also odd there’s still no post about Thomas’s murder on the blog. He went missing from the Rosemount Estate. I should speak to Mrs Doncaster. Would she even see me? Thanks to Jai, she probably thinks I killed her son as well as mine.
I give up, flop down in front of the TV and switch on Grey’s Anatomy to clear my mind. I finish the gloopy bowl of warm cereal while watching the overly good-looking doctors argue and have inappropriate hospital sex. However, the whole thing feels frivolous. My head is full and my heart is empty. I turn it off, then curl up on the couch in silence.
A weak guilt washes across me. I hurt someone today. I left him writhing in pain on the tracks of a Ghost Train. He was awful and deserved it, but it still shocks me I am capable of such violence. Guess it’s not surprising the cruel songs sung in the playground about Little Bones would turn out to be true.
It’s night now, and I want to sleep. My body is crying out for it, yet every time I close my eyes, I see Robin’s face and any meaningful rest eludes me. Time is running out. I’m guessing Thomas Doncaster’s mum did nothing when her son went missing. I can’t do nothing in case my son ends up like her boy, used and discarded, shoeless and lifeless on the roadside. His soul sinking into the asphalt, his lips never to form the word ‘Mum’ again. That will not happen to Robin. I keep saying I’ll kill whoever took my baby, but today I found out I’m capable of delivering on my threat.
My dad took the lives of young boys for his own sense of self. His art was always a passion for him; one more attractive than his family. I will take whatever seed of murder
ous evil he passed on to me and forge it in the fires of my anger. I’ll use it as a weapon to protect my family.
Just as I start to drift off to sleep, my phone rings. Looking at the clock, I see it’s 7 a.m. If this is that laughing asshole from before, he’ll wish he had never been born.
‘What?’
‘It’s Patricia. I’m just checking in with you. Mr Duffill said to give you an update.’
‘What is it?’
‘We traced the harassing phone call you received. It’s nothing, just some teenagers who watched the appeal and thought it would be funny.’
Teenagers don’t cackle down the phone, hell they don’t even call anymore.
‘You’re wrong,’ I say. ‘I mean, how’d they even get my number? Why would they bother?’
‘Not sure how they got your number. Teenage boys can be oddly resourceful.’
‘I want to speak with them.’ It’s the only way I can be sure the police are right and the call was not connected to Robin.
Patricia sighs. ‘Cherrie, we can’t do that. Don’t worry, we’ve just interviewed them.’
‘Are you with them now? Are they at the station?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Then I’m coming down there.’ I go to hang up.
‘No!’ Patricia yells.
‘Then you tell me what they said.’
‘They listened to that podcast, okay. They were subscribers from the start. Thought they’d investigate you, which for lazy teens meant they got your number and called you to see your reaction.’
‘So, the call is a dead end? Nothing to do with Robin?’
‘I’m afraid so. We’ve cautioned them. They won’t do it again. Do you want to press charges?’
Do I want to make this a legal thing? There’s already so much on my plate. ‘No. What about Lawrence Edwards?’
‘We have looked into him. He lives locally on the Rosemount Estate. We’ve sent a car to pick him up for questioning. This is a good thing, Cherrie. I feel like we’re close …’
I stop listening to her. The Rosemount Estate? Could Lawrence Edwards be the copycat rather than a son-for-a-son kidnapper? Could he have murdered Thomas Doncaster? You hear stories about victims becoming predators – is it so far-fetched? I could be wrong about what I saw in him. Sad eyes easily hide rage. He could have taken Thomas as a dry run for Robin, as Dad did with Trumpton.
‘Cherrie? Are you still there?’
I look at my phone.
‘Cherrie?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘As I was saying, we are looking for Lawrence Edwards, and when we find him, I’ll call you.’
‘Wait, Patricia. I’d like to speak with Mrs Doncaster. Can you arrange it?’
‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea. She’s grieving right now.’
I hear a knock at my front door.
‘Hold on,’ I tell her.
Once again, I answer my door without latching the security chain. Silently, I stare at my visitor.
‘Cherrie?’ Patricia’s voice is distant.
I put the phone slowly back up to my ear and say, ‘I know where Lawrence Edwards is right now. Here, standing on my doorstep.’
Chapter 32
The faint voice of Patricia tells me she’s sending a car to my house. Slowly, I hang up on her; my eyes never leaving Lawrence.
After at least a minute ticks by with us locked in a staring contest I ask, ‘Where’s my son?’
‘Can I come in, please?’
‘Where’s my son? Is he with you?’
‘I don’t have your son, Cherrie.’ He puts his arms up and steps forward. I move aside to let him into my home.
‘Why should I believe you?’ I say. ‘Did you take Thomas Doncaster? Are you some crazy Mr Bones copycat?’
‘Christ, no! I’ve felt your pain. I’d never do that to someone else. I’m sorry about your son, but I didn’t take him or Thomas Doncaster.’
I firm up my stare. Narrowing my eyes, I watch as his shoulders sag and his fingers dance by his sides. He looks like a little lost boy; Peter Pan grown up. His pain is easy to see; it’s carved into his bones. He lets me stare at him. Not defending himself. God help me, I believe him. I mean, why else would he be here, standing before me? What would be the point? But, if I think that, it takes my suspects back down to the monster Greer and random copycat who I might never be able to track down.
‘Why are you here?’ I ask him.
‘I knew I’d be a suspect, so I wanted to clear myself. That way, the police could concentrate on who really did take your boy. I have an alibi. On the night Robin went missing, I was in Wales on a work thing.’ Lawrence reaches for my hand. ‘I’ve been stupid in pursuing answers to my son’s murder. I shouldn’t have followed you like that. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry.’
I look past him. The police will be here any moment. Our time together is limited.
‘I’m sorry about what happened to your son, Lawrence.’
I put my hand out to shake his in a hopeful act of solidarity. Instead of taking it, he hugs me.
‘Find Robin, and soon. I’ve studied a lot of missing child cases over the years. The longer they go on, the lower the odds of seeing those kids again.’
I look up at him. ‘I had a suspect, but the police cleared him.’
‘The police were useless with your dad. Did you know they interviewed him after he took my son?’
‘What?’ Mr Bones could have been caught? How many young lives would have been spared? It could have even spared me.
‘A group of boys spotted his car in the area that night. As they’d seen him before, they reported it to the police. Even gave them a number plate.’
‘I had no idea that happened. I don’t even remember him going to the station.’
‘You are brought up to believe the police are above human, that they can do things ordinary people can’t. That’s bullshit; they’re as human as the rest of us.’
‘It’s why I’m trying to find Robin myself.’
‘You’ve called the police, right? You were on the phone when you opened the door to me?’
‘Yes. When they get here, I’ll tell them you’re not the one.’
‘That won’t matter. Don’t worry, I’ll co-operate. The police will rule me out quickly. Who is your suspect?’
‘A sex offender called Greer.’
‘Yes, Oscar Greer. I still check the court listings. He lives up by Hallow’s Gate.’
‘I went to his house, but he wouldn’t let me in.’
‘Like you wouldn’t let me in.’
‘Sorry.’
Lawrence claps his hands together. ‘We need to get into Greer’s house. He’s on the sex offender register, and just like your dad, he’s a local. He knows the area. He has to have Robin. Are you with me?’
Technically, I was there before him, but I nod yes.
‘I’ll meet you there at seven tonight. We’ll find your son. I don’t want him to end up like mine.’
Sirens wail and DC Kimmings is suddenly lumbering up my drive. ‘Stay where you are, Mr Edwards.’
Lawrence puts his hands up.
‘He’s okay,’ I say. ‘It’s not him.’
‘We need to take him in. Will you come quietly, sir?’
‘Sure.’ Lawrence moves to follow DC Kimmings outside. Abruptly, he stops and turns to me with a wistful look. ‘I wish I had been there at the fair that night. You never know, I might have been able to save Robin.’
That strange thought of a stalker stopping an abduction makes me smile. I nod as the DC shoves him into the back of a waiting police car.
Leo would come to Greer’s house with me. He’d do anything for Robin, but then we’d both be in trouble. Trusting a stalker seems like one of those silly things Patricia warned me against; however, I’m pretty sure it’s sillier to break into a paedophile’s house and confront him alone. Maybe it’s time that I trusted more people around me. Mariah has been trying to help
, and if I’d trusted her sooner, then maybe … No, I can’t keep thinking like that. The past is behind me; the present is what I need to deal with now, and if Robin is to have a future, I’ll need all the help I can get. Lawrence said it himself; he has felt my pain. When this is all over, I’ll make sure Mr Bones speaks to him. Dad said he’d help with whatever he could, and Lawrence will have earnt it. He will get the answers he needs.
When the sirens fade into the distance, I close my front door and wander into the dining room to look at Robin’s robot costume. It feels like a million years ago when he asked to wear it to the fair. Now it sits there, a collection of poorly painted cardboard boxes waiting for a child to bring them to life.
I need to straighten everything out in my head, focus on what I believe. Is Mariah right? Is Robin still alive? If there is a spirit world, I haven’t felt my baby ripped from my chest, so he must be. I have to believe it, but Mariah has been wrong about so much. She’s been using health and safety forms as cheat sheets. Maybe even telling every mother who visits that her child is in danger. After all, she’ll be right at some point, and when she is right, she’ll look like a rock star, and that’s when she milks money from the family. But, she hasn’t asked me for more money; Jon even gave me my £25 back. Wait, isn’t it what all good con artists do? Reel you in slowly, like a fat fish?
My mobile goes off. I don’t recognise the number. My stomach rolls over. I answer without saying ‘hello’ and find it’s just the clerk at the prison. He checks my identity and asks if I’m willing to receive calls from William Hendy in the future. He knows who my father is. The disdain in his voice is palpable. Nevertheless, he goes through the motions of data protection and other legal issues. It’s mindless bureaucracy I could have done without right now. Once I agree with everything, he unceremoniously hangs up.
I collapse in front of the TV and put on the news. It’s something I haven’t done this whole time for fear of what people are saying. I learnt early on in my life as Little Bones that it was easier not to hear the rumours. Ignorance is bliss, but it only gives you half the picture.