by Gwyn GB
That night, Jack went straight home in a sweat and questioned if he’d done the right thing by becoming a police officer. He and Marie were already living together then, and on seeing his face when he returned, she thought he’d been attacked or seen a murder. It was her who’d brought him back to himself and reminded him how much joining the force meant to him. By the morning, he was fine again, but he avoided the Crime Museum after that and told no one why.
Jack had to walk past the door to the Black Museum to reach the office of Dr Harrison Lane, another place that gave him the creeps. He’d only been there once before, briefly, but it had stuck in his mind.
He was searching for him so they could go together to see the Fullers. Initial statements had been done, but they needed to conduct a more in-depth interview. It annoyed him that he needed to hunt him down. Every minute was precious in this investigation and he was wasting his time. What did Harrison even need to be there for, anyway?
When he reached Harrison’s office, he wasn’t at his desk. Jack stepped into the room, trying not to take any notice of the decor, but it made the hairs on his neck bristle with anxiety. He liked to think he was pretty grounded, but down here, surrounded by all this stuff, it got to him.
The only saving grace was that he wasn’t alone. On the opposite side of the room from Harrison’s desk was his technical assistant, Ryan Chapman. His desk was evidence that they were very much in the modern world. It was buried under three computer screens and a mound of empty crisp packets, cans, bottles of fizzy drinks, chocolate wrappers, and sweets.
When Jack arrived, he could only just see Ryan behind his wall of screens and junk food. An overweight twenty-something with thick glasses and the palest skin he’d ever seen, Ryan was the classic computer nerd. As with his boss, social skills weren’t his forte, and trying to engage him in conversation was like attempting to get a group of cats to do the can-can.
Jack went and sat on top of Harrison’s spotless desk. ‘Where is he? I need him to come out with me urgently.’
‘Dunno.’
‘No idea at all?’
Ryan shrugged. ‘He got a call from someone in Child Protection and had to go see them. Said he wouldn’t be long.’
Jack figured Ryan wouldn’t tell him even if he knew. He was as loyal as an old hound to Harrison. He stood back up and looked at Harrison’s desk. On top was a mug, half filled. It didn’t contain tea or coffee. Jack picked it up and sniffed it.
‘Christ, what is this stuff? It’s weird. Have you smelt it? Oi, Ryan, does he mix his own potions and drink them?’
The only reply he got was a daggered look from around the computer screens.
‘Come on. You must lift your nose out of those computers at some point to see what he’s up to. This isn’t normal.’ Jack sniffed at the mug again just as Harrison walked in.
‘Ah, the man himself. So, Dr Lane, what is this stuff? Is it legal?’
Harrison said nothing. He walked past Jack to where the kettle sat and picked up a box. He chucked it onto his desk right next to Jack. It was a packet of Waitrose camomile, limeflower, and lavender tea bags.
‘Help yourself.’
Jack looked slightly embarrassed but brushed it off by going on the attack. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. You weren’t answering your phone. We have to interview the family of Alex Fuller as soon as possible. See if we can avoid another dead boy.’
He didn’t wait for Harrison to reply or explain. He stomped out the office and back up to street level and the fading daylight.
12
Harrison looked at the dirty breakfast bowls stacked at the side of the sink and thought about how different the Fullers’ day had started. Sally and Edward Fuller sat at the kitchen table. She wore a glazed, shocked look, her eyes clouded. Harrison doubted she’d retain much information they told her, and she probably couldn’t offer too much either. Edward was pumped with adrenaline, like an angry wasp trapped inside a jam jar. Guilt was almost certainly one of the driving forces—that and the desperate need to do something despite feeling completely impotent. He was doing his best to comfort his wife, but Harrison could see they were travelling at two different speeds in their emotional journeys.
DS Salter led the interview. ‘Anything you can tell us at this stage will help us find Alex. We’re exploring several lines of enquiry,’ he said.
Sally looked up at him as though suddenly remembering something. ‘What about that other little boy, Darren. He was kidnapped. Could it be…’ Her throat strangled the rest of her question.
‘One of our lines of enquiry is to consider if there’s a connection between Alex’s kidnapping and the recent abduction of Darren Phillips.’
Sally’s hand shot to her mouth as though pulled there by the gasp that escaped her lips. ‘My God, that poor boy’s just been found dead, hasn’t he? Oh, my baby, my little baby boy.’
Edward took her hand away from her face and rubbed it, but he said nothing. The battle to keep the tears and emotional tidal wave back took up all his capabilities. Harrison noted he had calloused hands which, combined with his physique, suggested he did a manual job—but not the building trade. His skin was white; he clearly rarely spent time outside. Harrison was grateful their alibis and the CCTV from the time Alex disappeared meant neither parent was a suspect. They didn’t need to establish whether either of them was lying.
‘Mrs Fuller, it’s only one possibility,’ Jack said. ‘We don’t know if the two cases are connected. I know this is an upsetting time, but we have to explore if there are any possible links between your son and Darren.’ His voice was quieter and calmer than his usual tone. Harrison saw a different side of him when he was working like this. He’d always trusted DCI Barker’s instincts, and now he could see for himself that underneath all the rugby bar buffoonery, Jack was probably a decent detective. He also was a man under stress, and that wasn’t just the job. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles beneath them. Add to that the fact it had been a very long day for all of them, and it was surprising either of them were functioning at their best.
Both parents shook their heads in response to DS Salter’s question.
‘No, Alex didn’t know him,’ Edward said. ‘Definitely not. We were all watching the news the other day when the story came on.’
‘There’s no possibility they were at any clubs together? Scouts or a sports club? Anything like that?’
DS Salter knew to keep pushing the point. Witnesses were unreliable at the best of times, but especially when in shock.
They both shook their heads again.
‘Do you have connections with any churches?’ Harrison asked.
‘No, we’re not churchgoers. Alex doesn’t do anything like that. He’d have said if he knew the other boy.’
‘Does he have access to a computer?’ Jack questioned.
‘He’s allowed to use mine,’ Edward said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘It’s supervised and for schoolwork. He doesn’t have an email account or a mobile phone.’
The questions continued, one after another. Each one a dead end for the investigation. They were getting nowhere. It was just like it had been with Darren. Their boy had been there one moment and gone the next. No apparent reason or motive. No answers.
When they’d first arrived, Harrison had looked around the house and kitchen. They were a family of four. Most of the photos showed a pretty little girl beaming at the camera next to Alex. The Fullers looked tired and frustrated, so he changed the subject to ease the pressure.
‘How old’s your daughter?’ Harrison asked.
‘Three,’ Sally answered, looking up at him.
‘Pretty little thing.’ Harrison smiled back. ‘Is she upstairs asleep?’
‘No, my mum came and fetched her,’ Sally replied. ‘She was getting too upset because she saw we were. She doesn’t understand where her brother is. I’m hoping if she stays with my mum for a couple of nights, by the time she’s home he’ll be back too.’
; Her words, so ripe and full of desperate hope, hung between them. Pears on an autumn tree, ready to drop to the hard ground beneath.
Sally looked up at them both. ‘Darren was missing for about a week, wasn’t he, before being… found? What happened to him during that time? Where was he?’
‘We’re still investigating,’ DS Salter replied, shifting slightly in his chair.
Sally looked even more upset at his answer.
‘Darren appeared to have been looked after. There was no sexual assault,’ Harrison’s voice broke through the emotional tension. Jack looked at him angrily, but it was clear what he’d said brought some relief to Sally and Edward.
‘Thank you,’ Sally replied in a whisper.
With little more to be gleaned from the Fullers, Harrison and Jack looked in Alex’s bedroom, then called it a night. They’d found nothing that could give them any clues as to who had taken the boys and why.
They’d just said their goodbyes to his parents, Harrison was the last to leave the kitchen, when Sally tugged his arm. She pulled a photograph off the fridge door. It was the four of them, all laughing at the camera with Alex centre stage.
‘Please. When it seems impossible, look at this picture and remember Alex should be here with us. That he’s loved. That he’ll be terrified. Please, please bring him home safely to us.’ She shoved the photograph into Harrison’s hand and turned back to her tears.
As Jack and Harrison walked down the path from the house, Salter rounded on him.
‘You shouldn’t tell people information about an ongoing case,’ Jack said.
‘It was nothing that could jeopardise a conviction. They’re parents whose son has been taken. It gave them some relief. You’re a father, aren’t you?’
For once, DS Salter didn’t reply.
Harrison and Jack drove home, both of them with dry, tired eyes. They were spent. Behind them they’d left a couple who wouldn’t sleep that night except for the odd fitful hour, jerking from broken dreams that ranged from happy reunions to shallow graves. Just a mile away, in another home, another mother was grieving with the knowledge her son would never be returning home to her.
13
Jack pulled up outside a semi-detached house in a neat, modern close of family homes on the outskirts of London. It was a TV-soap representation of suburbia. Fake hanging baskets gave some colour to the white walls, and in front was a neatly manicured garden, designed for easy maintenance. The windows gleamed with cleanliness, and the front door looked newly painted. A perfect exterior. The neighbouring houses looked similar. Nice cars parked on the garage ramps. This was a place where professional people lived. People with good jobs and enough money to afford a reasonable mortgage and nice standard of living. The kind of neighbourhood that Deliveroo and supermarket drivers visited regularly with takeaways and food deliveries for busy occupants. Neighbourhood Watch stickers could be seen on various windows, and apart from the blanket of general traffic hum, which shrouded the entire area, it was quiet. But Jack didn’t see any of that; his mind was elsewhere.
He got out of his car, walked up to the door, and hesitated. Listening. There was the sound of a television inside. As he looked at the key in his hand, his eyes glazed over as though he didn’t recognise what it was for. He realised he’d forgotten to stop off for flowers like Sandra had suggested. Too late now. A moment later he snapped out of it, plunged the key into the lock, and opened his front door.
As soon as he did, a crescendo of noise hit him. The TV was on full volume and somewhere was the sound of a baby crying. The kind of distressed cry where the pitch had reached its peak, and the sound was strangled frustration. He threw the keys onto the hallway table, shoved the front door shut, and rushed into the sitting room. On the sofa was his wife, Marie, curled up fetal-like, her arms hugged around herself. She was staring at the television in a trance. Next to her was a monitor through which they could hear the sounds of a hysterical, crying baby.
‘Marie? Marie?’ Jack shouted, but he got no response. He left and ran up the stairs at break-neck speed towards the room where he knew he would find Daniel.
He pushed open the door. There in the cot, purple faced, and croaky from exertion, was their son. Jack rushed across to him and picked him up tenderly. The baby felt hot and damp in his hands, his body rigid. It took a few minutes for the sobbing to subside, but finally, at the sight of his father and the feel of his arms around him, the baby gradually stopped and reduced his noise to gulping sniffles and whimpers.
‘I’m here. Daddy’s here, little man,’ Jack told him. He held his son against his chest, rocking back and forth, kissing his head gently, taking in the scent of him. It brought tears to his eyes. The fear and guilt he’d carried around with him all day. He hadn’t been here when his son had needed him. And Marie?
‘Let’s go get you something to eat, shall we?’ he whispered to Daniel.
The baby looked up at him with his puffy, tear-filled eyes as they headed downstairs, where the TV was still at full volume.
‘Marie, Marie…’ Jack called to her as he walked in and switched off the TV. She wasn’t watching it. She sat, tears pouring down her face, unable to look up at him.
He stood in front of her, holding their son. Behind her, on the wall, was a photograph from their wedding. Six years ago he’d married his beautiful, vibrant fiancée. The camera captured the sheer joy of the day on their faces. They were mid-jump, like two kids. He remembered the moment as if it was yesterday. The photographer had stolen them away from the reception to take shots in the gardens, and they’d had fun. The stress of wedding planning had eased now that the ceremony was over, and they were Mr and Mrs Salter. Marie was stunning. Her eyes alight with love and happiness, cheeks flushed, skin perfect. Her long black hair expertly pinned up to showcase the face Jack loved so much. They were best friends.
Then, a year ago, they’d decided to add to their happiness and have a child—only it didn’t work out like they’d planned. The pregnancy hadn’t been plain sailing, and the birth was traumatic. Marie endured nearly forty-eight hours of labour before the doctors announced they’d have to intervene and drag their son from her. She lost a significant amount of blood when she’d haemorrhaged. Jack found the whole thing traumatising, and he’d just been a witness.
Marie spent three days in hospital before being sent home to carry on her recovery. They’d encouraged her to breastfeed, but she’d been too exhausted, so Daniel had gone onto a bottle straight away. It meant Jack was able to help with the feeds, but the whole situation seemed to decrease the opportunity for Marie to bond with her son. Even when she was stronger and able to nurse him, she’d done so as little as possible. Then the depression set in. She refused help. Wouldn’t let Jack call on their mothers or friends. Refused to go to the doctor. He had no idea what to do.
Slowly Marie looked up at Jack and Daniel. The dark circles under her eyes accentuated her pale skin, and her hair hung limply onto her shoulders. There was no vibrancy, no joy on her face.
‘Please, Marie, help me,’ Jack said to her.
She stared back at him as tears poured down her cheeks.
‘Marie, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help you. Please talk to me.’
An hour later, Jack had fed and changed Daniel, who was asleep, exhausted in his arms. He carried him back upstairs and gently placed him in the cot. He’d dreamt of these moments, imagined the bond of love that he felt now when he looked at his sleeping son. He’d never dreamt it could turn out like this. Their reality was nothing like the movies or TV ads. Jack had no idea how to make it right.
He closed the baby’s door and crept across the hallway. In their bedroom he could just make out the head of his sleeping wife on the pillow, the bottle of sleeping pills silhouetted by her bedside. He made a mental note to put those away later when he went to bed—somewhere she wouldn’t think to look.
It was already past nine pm, but Jack hadn’t had the chance to change yet, and he wa
s hungry. He went downstairs to the kitchen and looked in the fridge. It was virtually empty, just a few eggs, some cheese, and milk, and a half-empty bottle of wine. He grabbed the wine and some eggs, poured himself a glass and downed it in one before finding the frying pan, a bowl, and putting together an omelette. He hadn’t managed to pour the mix from the bowl into the hot frying pan before the baby monitor lurched into life behind him. Jack closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Then he turned off the hob and took the empty pan from the hot ring before he headed back upstairs to Daniel.
14
The incident room was empty, apart from one detective who was putting his jacket on to leave. The main lights had already been turned off. A couple of the computer screens were left on, soft white rectangles glowing in the gloom. A beam of light shone from the open door of DCI Barker’s office. The detective walked towards it. Inside she was still working, frowning at the screen in front of her, writing notes on the pad of paper on her desk.
‘Good night, ma’am,’ he called to her.
‘Good night.’
‘Not got a home to go to, ma’am?’ he asked jovially.
‘Good night,’ is all he got back with a firm voice. He got the message and left.
DCI Barker was filling in the day’s decision log. It gave her the chance to go over what they’d done that day and reflect on why she’d made the choices in the enquiry that she had. It was one of those paperwork tasks that could so easily just be a chore, an audit trail that had to be completed just in case their enquiry came under review. But for her, it was more than that. After a busy day on this investigation, followed by catching up with what was happening in their other cases, it gave her mind a chance to focus and look at the bigger picture in peace. More often than not, it prompted notes on her to-do list for the next day as she saw potential gaps or directions the enquiry hadn’t travelled. Tonight her to-do list looked decidedly sparse. They needed a break. She couldn’t believe that nothing had been picked up on CCTV. The killer was out there somewhere, and she intended to find him.