Authors: Janice Frost
Ava wasn’t expecting to hear from Becci Jones any time soon. They left her visibly upset, being comforted by a more than willing Gary.
Outside, Neal asked Ava, “What did you make of that, Sergeant?”
“I was desperate to ask Becci if she thought Amy was having sex with this ‘older boyfriend,’ but I think we can take that as a given. Why else would he shower her with expensive gifts?”
Neal agreed, “I reckon there’s something that pair aren’t telling us, but I’m damned if I know what it is. Bloody kids; wasting police time.” He sighed, “We’ll need to check out their fucking backgrounds, which’ll no doubt tell us nothing.”
“Are you okay?” Ava asked. She’d seldom heard Neal swear, “Archie okay?”
“Archie’s fine. Where were you this morning? I know you weren’t at the dentist.”
How did he know that, Ava wondered? Sometimes, she thought Jim Neal was psychic. She murmured an apology, saying she had some personal business to attend to, hoping he wouldn’t ask her what it was.
“Don’t lie to me next time, that’s all,” Neal said.
“There won’t be a next time, sir,” Ava assured him. She did not tell him about her meeting with Christopher Taylor, or about her plans to see the professor again. Nor did it occur to her that omitting to tell him might be another form of deceit.
“Your mobile’s ringing, Dad.”
Jim Neal looked up from his crouched position on the garage floor, removing his hands from the bucket of water through which he had been passing the inner tube of his ten-year-old son’s front bicycle wheel, searching for the tell-tale bubbles that would lead him to the elusive puncture.
Wiping his hands on his jeans, he took the phone from his son and put it to his ear. Archie knelt down and took over the search. Neal took a few steps outside the garage, removing himself from Archie’s earshot. When he stepped back inside, he saw his son looking up at him, clearly trying to hide his disappointment.
“Sorry, pal, I’ve got to go out,” Neal said, apologetically. It went without saying that he didn’t know how long he would be. Archie gave him a cheerful grin, “It’s okay, Dad, I can fix the puncture myself.”
Sometimes Neal wished Archie were less understanding; perhaps then he would feel less guilty every time he let his son down.
Maggie poked her head round the door leading from the garage to the kitchen.
“Going out?” Maggie was Neal’s younger sister. She had taken up residence with them following the breakup of her romance with a much older, married man, something Neal had predicted from the start. To his credit, he had refrained from pronouncing, ‘I told you so,’ when she turned up on his doorstep with all her worldly goods. Maggie didn’t take kindly to advice from her older sibling. What was his advice worth anyway, with his own failed relationship, and no long-term relationships to speak of since?
From the start, Neal had insisted that he would not treat Maggie as a convenient live-in child minder, but she was family and Neal wasn’t charging her rent, and she was more than happy to spend time with the nephew she had doted on since the day he was born. Their arrangement had been in place for six months now, and benefited all concerned. Neal didn’t have to worry about childcare; Maggie had a roof over her head and Archie adored being with his Auntie Maggie. It was an unconventional household, but it worked, and how many ‘normal’ families were there nowadays, anyway? Of course it was a temporary arrangement. Maggie wouldn’t stick around forever, but Neal had learned not to look too far ahead, and he was pretty sure his sister wouldn’t be in a rush to move in with the next man she fell in love with.
“It’s Anna Foster,” he said. “She says she has something she wants to tell me.”
“On a Sunday?” Maggie asked.
“She may have information about her son’s whereabouts,” Neal answered.
“Better go then. Archie and I will be alright, won’t we?” she said, smiling at her nephew, who had just found the puncture and was holding the bicycle tube aloft in triumph.
* * *
Even though it was a Sunday morning, Anna Foster’s bookstore was open for business, a fact that seemed to have escaped the attention of the shoppers in the Long Hill area, most of whom walked past with hardly a glance at her window display. The allure of the many tearooms and cafes in the area might have been partly to blame, but Neal knew that in these days of Internet shopping, anyone opening a bookshop had to be an optimist. Across the street from Anna’s doorway, a young, rosy-cheeked woman with a round, pretty face, dressed in a long black peasant skirt, a cheerful headscarf tied around her hair was calling, “Beeg Eessue!” in some indeterminate Eastern European accent, most probably Romanian.
“Beeg Eessue,” she called out to Neal, holding up a copy of the magazine, optimistically. He had already bought one earlier in the week from the homeless man who stood in the draughty alcove outside Smith’s, and so he shook his head.
Despite the apparent lack of trade, Anna Foster had help in her shop, a teenage Goth, who introduced herself as Maya. Neal wondered if the girl’s slightly scary appearance frightened the customers away — she had glossy blue-black waist-length hair and looked like she bought her jewellery and accessories in a pet shop, judging by her leather collar and assorted, spiky wrist bands. Neal didn’t judge her. In his profession, you judged no-one at first sight.
“Anna’s taking a break. She’s upstairs. She’s expecting you.”
Neal let himself through the gate leading to the stairs. Anna Foster was waiting for him at the top.
“I’ve just made coffee. Would you like some?”
Normally, he would have declined the offer, but he could tell that Anna was nervous; she needed an icebreaker, and fixing coffee would do the job.
He followed her into a small kitchen, where she busied herself for a few minutes looking for mugs and pouring their drinks. Then they proceeded into the living room, which had two slender windows overlooking the Long Hill.
“Interesting view,” Neal commented, looking down at the quiet street below. Anna was hovering near him, clutching her coffee cup, also looking out of the window, but her eyes kept flitting to a piece of paper weighted down by a squat tortoise ornament on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “There was something you wanted to tell me,” Neal said.
“I found this yesterday morning when I was about to close up,” Anna said, crossing to the table and picking up the folded piece of paper, “it’s from Simon.” She handed it to him and Neal unfolded it carefully, noting the contents. The note was brief, telling Anna not to worry, that he was safe, but he was worried that if she thought he had something to do with Amy’s death, perhaps the police would too. He was going away for a while to give them an opportunity to catch the real killer.
“I know running makes him look guilty,” Anna began, “he’s scared and he’s not thinking straight.”
“Ms Foster, do you have any idea where Simon might be? Any idea at all?” Anna Foster shook her head, “I’ve already told you I don’t. That’s why I called you. I thought you might be able to find out from his note. I know your forensics people can look for things we’d miss with our eyes. Inspector, I want him found more than you. I need to know he’s alright.”
“I know,” Neal said gently, thinking of Archie.
“Simon’s special,” Anna said, turning back to the window. At first Neal dismissed her comment. Archie was special too. All children were special to their parents. Then — curious — he asked, “How so?” Anna had already told them that her son was adopted. What else did she have to say?
“My husband and I couldn’t have children of our own. Not long after we were married, I was diagnosed with cancer. The treatment left me infertile. When a potentially fatal disease threatens your life Inspector, you learn to appreciate what you have. I had been granted my life; it seemed greedy to want more and so I accepted that I would never be a mother. And, for a time, it was enough simply to be alive, recovering my strength, simply existing. It was a long time before I started thinking beyond the present moment. I can’t say precisely when I started wanting more. Maybe it was when I was finally given the all clear. Bit by bit I began making plans again, daring to have hopes for the future.” She paused and sat down, inviting Neal to sit as well.
“You must understand; I hadn’t longed for a child before my illness, hadn’t particularly cared about becoming a mother. Why would I long for one now? Martin kept on and on about it, telling me to go for counselling, or consider adoption. So like a man to think a woman couldn’t be complete without a child, I thought. Do you know, I was so wrapped up in myself, that it wasn’t until much later that I realised that Martin was grieving as well, that he too had lost the chance of completeness?”
“Simon made your lives complete?” Neal asked, quietly, Archie’s face flashing in his mind. “That’s why he was special?”
“No,” Anna said, “that’s not it at all.” She began to tell Neal about her early days with her son. The truth was, Simon had not made her life complete; he had made it hell. She had not been entirely honest with Inspector Neal on their first meeting when she had dismissed his questions about Simon’s troubled childhood so lightly. It was true that he had been a remarkable child, replete with intelligence and a buoyant resilience that belied the terrible trauma in his young life, but there had been another side to his behaviour.
Anna closed her eyes and pressed her fists to her eyelids, as she recounted the tantrums, the nightmares, the bed-wetting, the mood swings and rages, the tears.
An army of professionals had been on hand to proffer advice. Social workers and health visitors, child psychologists, behavioural therapists and teachers. But it was not Simon’s behavioural anomalies that distressed Anna. It was his almost total rejection of any demonstration of love on her part; his isolation and aloofness. The total detachment. After his mother’s murder and his sister’s disappearance he regressed. For almost a year, he hardly spoke, and his behaviour was challenging in the extreme.
“He doesn’t have any concept of how to behave with other people.”
“He needs to learn that he can trust you first. Trust first. Love later.”
“He’s learning to re-evaluate everything he’s learnt about adults.”
“There’s never been any consistency in his life.”
“He’s afraid you’re suddenly going to turn into his father.”
This last piece of advice, directed at Martin, had ricocheted round in Anna’s exhausted brain with the barrage of other gems of wisdom proffered by various professionals.
In the end it had been Simon himself who built the first bridge. Anna had been rushing down the stairs to answer the telephone one morning when she’d missed the last step and landed awkwardly, twisting her ankle. The sudden sharp pain caused her to cry out, and brought tears to her eyes.
She had raised her arm to wipe her face with her sleeve and when she lowered it, Simon was standing before her, staring at her with a confused expression on his face. Instead of smiling to reassure him, Anna had sniffed and pretended to cry even more, curious to see what effect her distress might have on him.
“Does it hurt?” he had asked, looking at her ankle, which she was cradling in her hands. Swallowing her astonishment at hearing his voice, Anna nodded and to her disappointment Simon had merely turned away and returned to the lounge where he had been playing with his animals. Then, a moment later he had returned holding Buddy, his favourite teddy bear, the one he always turned to for comfort.
“Would you like to hug Buddy?” How Anna had resented that bear, which Simon had seemed to prefer to the comfort of her arms. Now she nodded as though only Buddy could comfort her, too. Hugging Buddy, suddenly inspired, she had whispered, “You know what? Buddy’s not helping.”
Simon had stared at her in puzzlement. Buddy had never failed him after all.
“Do you know what might do the trick?” she asked and when Simon shook his head, she said, “It might help if you give me a cuddle.”
He hesitated for just a moment. Suddenly, they were holding tightly to each other, Anna fighting back tears of joy. She was a mother at last.
“That’s why he’s special,” Anna said, wiping away a tear, “he came back to me, the little boy I used to read to in the library; he came back.”
Neal felt a lump in his throat, remembering the loving toddler Archie had been. Their love had been reciprocal; he could not imagine how he would have felt if his son had transferred his love to a cuddly toy, or rejected his embraces.
“We’ll do what we can to find your son, Ms Foster,” he said, tucking the note carefully in an evidence bag in his inside pocket.
“In the meantime, please contact me if he reaches out to you again.”
“Thank you, Inspector.” She didn’t say the words but he saw them in her eyes,
my son is innocent.
He wished he could reassure her, but he had seen too many mothers come to grief over their sons to offer what might turn out to be hollow comfort.
On his way home, Neal dropped the note off for analysis, though he didn’t hold out much hope that such a slight lead would lead to finding Anna’s son. Simon’s words had been written on a sheet of lined A4 paper torn from a ring-bound notebook, a type often used by students. He had probably just torn a page out of one of his notebooks, scribbled a few words to Anna and stuck it through the letterbox in the night. He might even have given it to someone else to post. Anna had let a couple of days go by before contacting him — time enough for Simon to disappear.
Neal thought suddenly of the Romanian woman selling the Big Issue, and made a mental note to have her questioned to see if she’d seen Simon posting the note, not that that would tell them much more than they already knew. He sighed. The case was progressing too slowly.
Neal parked his car in the drive. It was still early enough to take Archie somewhere for a treat. He found his sister and his son so engaged in a game of Wii tennis that they obviously hadn’t heard the car pull into the drive, or the door close.
Then Archie looked over at the door and caught sight of his father. Neal’s heart lurched with emotion as he witnessed the joy on his son’s face. It was moments like these that made parenthood worthwhile. Small wonder that Anna Foster had thought Simon special for sharing his love with her.
“Thank goodness you’re back,” Maggie said, “I’m really rubbish at this. Want to take over?” Neal smiled. There were plenty of other things he could be doing, but they could wait.
“Want to go for pizza later?” he asked Archie, ruffling his son’s hair and smiling at Archie’s enthusiastic response.
* * *
At around the time when she was arranging her blonde hair in a French pleat, Ava Merry started to have second thoughts about her date with Christopher Taylor. It was seven thirty — too late to cancel. In fact, if she didn’t get a wiggle on there was a good chance she’d be late at the restaurant she’d picked out, a popular Italian at the top end of the Long Hill.