They spoke about currents. They said it might look calm but down below, at this time of year, and shook their heads. Someone glanced over at Leo, not having realised he was standing so close. Leo, shivering, turned his gaze towards the sea.
The fingerprints surrounding the letter box belonged to the postman. The footprints around the window were barely footprints at all. There was a thumbprint on one of the notes but a thumbprint, without a thumb, was about as much use as . . . well . . .
The sentence hung.
On day five, in the kitchen, he broke the mugs. Every one of them, starting with the one in his hand that was full of tea. He did not ask for it. He did not want it. So he carried it into the kitchen and looked for somewhere to put it down but he did not want to put it down, he wanted to throw it.
He hurled it at the hearth. He opened the cupboard and reached past the saucers and one by one hurled the other mugs too.
Every.
Last.
One.
The noise was exhilarating. The action of it, too. When the mugs were done he considered the saucers but by that point there were people in the room.
What happened? What’s going on? Are you all right, Mr Curtice? The moment passed. The madness. Leo breathed and almost laughed. He said it’s fine, everything’s fine, and then crunched across the china to fetch the broom.
They decided, in the end, to release the sketch.
Leo watched his wife consider the picture and could tell she did not think it right. But this was, what? The fifth version? It looked like the first, which in turn looked nothing like the man Leo had imagined. Not that it should. It was Megan who had seen the face at their window: the man, they assumed, who had kidnapped their daughter. In spite of Leo’s instincts, they had no choice but to trust Megan’s.
‘The beard is right,’ Megan said, exactly as she had said the previous five times. ‘But the rest . . .’ She closed her eyes, as though to summon the face. She opened them, glowered at the sketch. ‘Maybe the first version,’ she said. ‘Or . . .’ She glanced at the policemen, seated side by side at the kitchen table. They in turn shared a look.
‘Take your time, Mrs Curtice.’
Again she stared. ‘No,’ she said at last. She slid the sheet of paper towards them. ‘This is the one. I . . . It’s as close as I can get.’
The policemen, once more, caught each other’s eye. DS Bromley, the more senior, blinked a nod.
‘It’s two eyes and a beard,’ Leo overheard the junior detective whispering later. ‘Take away the beard and we’d be looking for an egg.’
Whomever he was talking to laughed. ‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t shave.’
Megan’s brother had the couch. Her mother took the spare room. Megan slept, if that was the word, in Ellie’s room. She would have anyway, Leo told himself.
A week passed.
There were phone calls but none that counted. There were letters but none like before. It was baseless but today, somehow, was the day they had been working towards. It was the day, more accurately, they had been working against.
It felt no different. It felt like yesterday, like tomorrow. It felt like it would always feel like this and Leo wondered, as he rose in the still-dark and fumbled for the bed sheets he had tossed onto the floor in the night, whether that were true. What would change, and when. How long it would be until Annie stopped coming, until Peter returned home, until Megan’s mother left and took Megan with her. What he would do when Megan went. Whether he even deserved to care.
He wondered, most of all, about Ellie – about how long he would be able to keep wondering. Because beyond the press of some arbitrary deadline, Leo sensed the imminence of something greater. It was like a beast, stalking him, that he knew would not be kept at bay forever. He could not yet see it but he could smell it and imagine its grip around his throat. It was acceptance. It was certainty. It was knowing, not just suspecting, that his daughter was already dead.
The room, when Leo entered,
fell silent. He hesitated at the threshold and considered, briefly, turning around. There were people in their seats but none of them – not John, nor Alan, nor Stacie – seemed able to hold Leo’s eye. There was a temp, though – Amy, Leo thought her name was – and when Leo noticed her she smiled, just barely, and it was enough to draw Leo in. He nodded and smiled back and ventured, through a snag in his throat, a good morning. He dropped his chin and aimed himself towards his desk.
John twitched a greeting as Leo passed. Alan, likewise, dipped his head and even managed Leo’s name. Leo uttered Alan’s back. He set down his briefcase beside his desk and fumbled frozen-fingered with the buttons of his overcoat and managed, after a struggle, to free his arms. He shook the coat straight and held it up as he turned, meaning to arrange it on the back of his chair. His chair, though, was gone. In its place was something older, limbless, with a wound deep into the sponge of the seat. The upright segment appeared flimsy and Leo was unsure whether it would withstand the weight of his coat.
‘Um.’
Leo turned.
‘I think, um,’ said Alan, on his feet now and standing close by. ‘I think maybe Terry . . . er . . . borrowed your chair.’
Leo looked across the aisle towards Terry’s desk. Leo’s chair, unoccupied, was alongside it, set low and adorned with matching coccyx cushion and lumbar roll.
‘Oh.’ Leo considered the chair he had been allotted in exchange. He sat, gingerly, and placed his coat in a bundle on the floor. The chair squawked as he moved.
‘I’m sure he was only . . . That he wouldn’t mind if . . . I’ll wheel it across for you, shall I?’
‘Sorry?’ Leo looked up from his desk, which had become home in his absence to nothing he recognised. ‘No, really. It’s fine.’ He lifted a ream of copy paper from his mouse pad.
‘Here. Let me take that at least. And these.’ Alan used the block of paper as a tray, stacking it with junk mail and discarded folders and uncovering, as he cleared the surface, a picture of Ellie.
They both saw it. They both stared. Alan made a noise like something in his throat had slipped sideways.
The external line rang and Alan turned but John was quicker.
‘Corker and Copeland,’ he chimed, hunching as he spoke as though the atmosphere in the office were a squall. Leo, involuntarily, tensed. He watched for John to turn, to say, Leo, you need to take this, and for a smile to displace his discomfort. But, instead, ‘He’s in a meeting,’ John said, not even looking Leo’s way, and he offered, quite cheerfully, to take a message.
Leo swallowed. He faced his monitor. For no other reason than to escape his reflection, he turned the computer on. Something clicked, whirred, and Leo was content while he waited just to sit. He felt his focus begin to smear and that was fine too because it meant the world, temporarily, softened.
The machine chimed. It was waiting for his password. Leo allowed himself to be entranced for a moment by the blinking cursor, then reached one finger to the letter e.
‘Excuse me. Alan?’
‘Leo. What’s up, buddy?’
‘I was just . . .’ Leo pointed to his workstation. ‘I was looking for some files. From the Daniel Blake case. I thought I’d left them on my desk but . . . Would someone have moved them, do you know?’
‘The Blake case?’ Alan made a face as though Leo had lost his mind. ‘Is that why you’re . . . I mean . . .’ He recovered himself. ‘Howard might have them. Or, um, Terry.’ He twisted away as he said the name, perhaps hoping that Leo would not quite catch it. He tipped his head towards Howard’s office. ‘Howard’s in with Jenny, running through some paperwork, but Terry – ’ he leant to see the clock on the office wall ‘ – Terry should be back any—’
‘Leo?’
‘Ah!’ said Alan, gesturing. He beamed at Leo and then sank into his chair, immediately busying himself with something – anything – from his in-tray.
Terry was hauling at his scarf as he drew close. His head was set at an angle, in part because the scarf seemed to be forcing it that way but as though he were wary, too, that Leo might be an apparition. He offered his hand, cautiously, and Leo took it.
‘Leo? What are you doing here? We thought you’d be . . . well . . .’ Terry’s eyes caught on something at Leo’s shoulder. Leo’s chair? ‘How are you though?’ Terry said. ‘And . . . er . . . Mandy? Your wife. How are you both coping? Have you heard any—’
‘We’re fine. Thank you, Terry.’
Terry took a moment to consider Leo’s response. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s . . . er . . .’
‘I was just asking Alan,’ Leo said. ‘About the Blake files. I wondered whether you might know where I could find them.’
Terry was halfway out of his jacket. ‘The Blake files?’ He glanced at Alan but Alan’s eyes leapt for safety. ‘They’re on my desk, Leo.’ Terry smoothed his jacket over his arm. ‘Most of them, anyway. The rest are with Howard.’ His tone was kind but overly so.
‘I see,’ Leo said. ‘May I have them back?’
It was a joke, Terry seemed to think, with a punchline that had gone over his head. ‘Have them back?’ He turned to Alan, half laughed. ‘Why would you want them back?’
Leo did not return Terry’s smile. ‘They’re my files. It’s my case.’
‘But you’re . . . You’ve been . . .’
‘I’ve been gone a fortnight. Not even that. And the arraignment’s not until Friday.’
‘Yes. But. Leo, I—’
‘There’s no reason for me to relinquish my responsibilities. I know the case; I’m up to speed. Unless there have been any developments I should be aware of?’
‘Well,’ said Terry, ‘actually . . .’ and then he shook his head as though to clear it. ‘Why are you here, Leo? I thought . . . I mean, this thing with your daughter . . . Shouldn’t you be . . .’
‘What?’ said Leo. ‘Shouldn’t I be . . . What?’
Again Terry shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ He gestured towards the door to the street, turned back with an upraised palm.
‘You think I should be out there?’ Leo said. ‘You think I should be checking the dustbins maybe? The gutters? You think perhaps I’ve been sitting on my arse for two weeks, catching up on daytime television?’
‘No. Of course not. I didn’t mean—’
‘I haven’t forgotten about my daughter, Terry. I’m not here because I woke up this morning and thought, wow, actually, it’ll probably all turn out fine. I might as well just head into the office.’
‘Leo. Look, I—’
‘I don’t need to be reminded. That’s all. Not every second. Not in every conversation I have.’
‘Please. Leo. If you’ll just—’
‘I’d like the files please, Terry.
My
files. Daniel is my client, my responsibility. I’m not just going to forget about him. Not now. Especially now. I mean, Ellie, she . . .’ Leo’s voice faltered. Whatever he had intended to say, he could not bring himself to say it.
The telephone rang. No one answered it.
Someone coughed and Leo focused.
‘Terry. May I have the files. Please.’
Terry ran his tongue beneath his upper lip. ‘I’m sorry, Leo. I can’t give them to you.’ He folded his arms – slowly, as though to temper the hostility of the gesture.
Everyone in the office, Leo knew, was watching to see how he would respond. He tapped his fingertips against his thigh. ‘They’re on your desk. Is that what you said?’ He began to turn. ‘In that case, maybe I’ll just—’
Terry seized Leo’s arm. His hands were in proportion to the rest of him but his stubby fingers had a strangler’s grip.
‘Leo. Stop. Talk to Howard. Okay? Let’s both of us go and talk this through with Howard.’
Leo looked at Terry’s hand on his arm. He gave a jerk and recovered his shirtsleeve.
He led the way.
‘Listen, Howard. Before Leo says anything, I think I should tell you—’
Their boss was seated at his desk. Jenny was standing at his shoulder, studying the same sheet of paper he was. Terry had blundered in without knocking but Howard’s surprise, on seeing Leo, cut him short.
‘Leonard,’ said Howard, raising his head.
‘Howard, listen I—’
Howard held off Terry with a finger. ‘What are you doing here? What about your . . . Shouldn’t you be . . .’
‘Have they found her, Leo?’ said Jenny. ‘Did they catch him?’
Leo, from the doorway, looked at Jenny and his eyes, unexpectedly, stuck. He had never before noticed the resemblance. She was fair, like his daughter, and just as freckled. She was taller, slightly, and older, obviously, but she might have been an image of Ellie as, say, an undergraduate. The Ellie he would never get to see.
He reached for something to hold on to.
‘Leonard? Are you okay?’ Howard rounded his desk.
‘Howard, listen. It’s ridiculous. He can’t possibly expect to walk in here and just demand—’
‘Terence! Please! Can’t you see the man is unwell?’
Howard drew closer. Jenny, as though startled by Leo’s reaction, wilted into the corner.
‘I’m fine,’ Leo said. He steadied himself. ‘I’m just . . . just tired, that’s all. I’m fine, really.’ He held off Howard’s outstretched hand. He stood straighter.