She chattered on at full volume and I glanced around, hoping that no one was being disturbed. The other library users seemed to be able to tune her out. I was glad that I’d been a bit cagey about what I was looking for; I could just imagine the details being broadcast to the entire room.
‘Just give me a shout if you need any help,’ she said, before barrelling off to her desk again. On the basis of her own approach to voice-projection, I thought she might mean it literally.
I sat down and clicked through introductory screens and lists of files. The date of Charlie’s disappearance – the second of July – is engraved on my heart. I clicked on the files for that day in 1992 and felt somehow jolted as the screen filled with the front page of the
Elmview Examiner
. The lead story was about the council’s plans to replace sewer pipes on the high street and the traffic chaos that would result. There was nothing to hint that anything out of the ordinary would happen that day. The paper had only been published weekly then; I clicked on the following
week
with a feeling of intense foreboding. Charlie made the headlines.
Concerns are growing for the safety of the missing Elmview schoolboy, Charlie Barnes. It is a week since the last confirmed sighting of the 12-year-old and police are very keen to trace him. Charlie (pictured below) went missing from his home in the Wilmington Estate on Thursday 2 July. Anyone who may have seen Charlie since, or who knows his current whereabouts, is advised to contact their local police station immediately. Charlie’s father, Alan Barnes, said yesterday: ‘We are very anxious about our son and dearly want him to come home. All we want to do is see him and tell him how much we love him.’
I flicked through the newspapers, local and national, following the story as the days and weeks passed. The headlines jumped out at me from the facsimile pages.
Sunday Times
, 5 July 1992: S
EARCH FOR
M
ISSING
B
OY
C
ONTINUES
.
Daily Mail
, 7 July 1992: W
HO
T
OOK
C
HARLIE
?
Sun
, 9 July 1992: G
IVE
U
S
B
ACK
O
UR
B
OY
.
I stopped to look at the pictures. One had a large image of Mum looking away from the camera, her face thin and lined with tension and worry. Her hand was up at her throat, her other arm wrapped around her body. She looked quite beautiful – distraught, certainly, but still lovely. Smaller images of Charlie and me by the Christmas tree,
from
a couple of years before, clutching presents; Charlie on his bike; Charlie in school uniform, grinning madly, his shirt open at the neck to show off his stupid necklace, a leather thong with three beads on it. He had insisted on wearing it all the time; he could be stubborn when he wanted to be.
Scraps of articles caught my attention, describing the horrible, futile process by which they failed to find my brother, or the person who took him.
Surrey police have discounted eyewitness accounts of a middle-aged man behaving suspiciously in the Wilmington Estate around the time of Charlie Barnes’ disappearance. Extensive investigations have failed to provide the police with any leads in the search for the missing schoolboy. Detective Chief Inspector Charles Gregg, who is leading the investigation, said, ‘We know that the public are anxious to help in any way with tracing Charlie. We appreciate the information that we have already received, but unfortunately it hasn’t panned out. If anyone remembers anything that may help in the search for Charlie, they shouldn’t hesitate to get in touch.’
Surrey Assistant Chief Constable Harold Spark reacted angrily at a press conference yesterday when asked if the police had run out of ideas in the search for Charlie Barnes. A five-mile search area surrounding the schoolboy’s home has been extensively canvassed over the past few weeks, but the rewards have been
disappointing
. No credible sightings have been reported since Charlie’s disappearance ten days ago …
Police have denied that they are investigating Charlie Barnes’ father, Alan, in relation to his son’s disappearance. However, locals suggest that the focus of the investigation has shifted to the family, pointing out that Alan Barnes has been re-interviewed recently and asked to account for his movements on the day in question.
I shivered again. As the days had passed with no sign of Charlie, sympathy began to be replaced with suspicion. Statistically, as Blake had said, those most likely to be responsible for harming a child are not strangers but family members. Without a credible suspect, the attention had turned back to us. The tone of the reports started to change as the journalists speculated on the state of my parents’ marriage. They began to say what had previously been unprintable.
Laura and Alan Barnes are, they say, the victims of a whispering campaign that is stirring up rumours against them. Almost a month since Charlie was last seen, suspicion is growing that his parents may know something about what happened to him. A neighbour, who didn’t want to be named, said, ‘You’ve got to wonder about it. No one knows where this child has gone, and they’re there on telly and in the paper, giving interviews as if they’re celebrities. You’d almost
think
they were enjoying the attention.’ Another local told me, ‘Their story doesn’t hang together. This is such a busy area. If someone had come here looking to kidnap a child, I don’t see how they wouldn’t have been spotted.’ The Barnes angrily deny that they are enjoying the media spotlight, claiming instead that they are using the media to try to keep Charlie in the public eye, so that people will recognise him if he is seen. However, the questions are unlikely to die down.
My family was fair game, entertainment for the masses.
Almost against my will, I searched again for my parents’ names, swapping discs to see what was reported in 1996. There it was, four years after Charlie’s disappearance, a sidebar article with a headline that jumped out at me. C
HARLIE
P
ARENTS
S
PLIT
. It was another passage of veiled innuendo and recycled quotes. The article included a bland comment from a relationship counsellor about the effect that stress could have on a marriage, and some dry statistics about marriage breakups in the wake of traumatic events. It didn’t begin to convey the horror of it.
I was beginning to feel tired and my eyes were burning from gazing at the screen. I stretched and looked around, realising that I had been reading for longer than I thought. Selina was chatting animatedly on the phone and the library had emptied out. It was coming up to lunchtime, but I wasn’t remotely hungry. I changed tack, going back to the discs for the early nineties. Sliding the first one in, I clicked
in
the search box and typed in ‘Wilmington Estate’, scanning the results: local events, petty crimes, an increase in burglary rates and car thefts in the area. I was looking for abduction attempts or convictions for paedophilia. I hesitated over a report of child neglect on the other side of the estate, but there was surely no possible connection between a malnourished baby and what had happened to my brother.
I soon found myself on 1992 again. Charlie came up in the first set of results. On the second page, there was: ‘… fundraising effort for Laura and Alan Barnes by residents on the Wilmington Estate …’ That had been early on, before the community had changed their mind about us. I switched discs, looking at 1993, then 1994. Same old, same old – small crimes, graffiti epidemics, vandalism and some attempted arson. The same stories repeated over and over again. I persevered, scrolling through the results doggedly, feeling the first cold stabs of disappointment. The 1996 results were briefly exciting, with a series of reports about a local man who had been convicted of child abuse, but he had only moved to the estate in 1993. Besides, he seemed to be interested in very young girls.
I was sitting with my chin on my hand, mindlessly scrolling through the files as months and years passed by when the name jumped out at me. ‘… Derek Keane (41) of 7, Curzon Close appeared in court to be charged with the manslaughter …’ I knew that name. Derek Keane was Danny’s father. I hit the link quickly.
Derek Keane (41) of 7, Curzon Close appeared in court to be charged with the manslaughter of his wife, Ada (40). Keane spoke only to give his name and address, and to enter his plea of not guilty. Ada Keane died on Saturday last after falling downstairs at her home on the Wilmington Estate. She leaves two sons, Daniel (18) and Paul (2). Neighbours reported hearing an argument before the incident and police arrested Keane on Monday. The trial was set for October.
In 1998, I was fourteen and completely wrapped up in my own misery. I had also been in Manchester with Aunt Lucy and Uncle Harry for most of that year while Mum was in hospital. It was no wonder that I didn’t remember Ada’s death. At some stage, I must have been told something though, because I had known she was gone, but not how. I hit print, then went back to the search screen and typed in ‘Derek Keane’.
The week-long trial of Derek Keane at Kingston Crown Court concluded yesterday with a unanimous verdict of guilty. The court had listened to evidence from forensic experts suggesting that Ada Keane had been involved in a struggle immediately before the fall that killed her. Keane (41) admitted to arguing
with
his wife but denied hitting her in the course of the argument.
The prosecution alleged that Keane had slapped his 40-year-old wife, leaving a bruise on the side of her face that experts agreed corresponded closely to the size and shape of Derek Keane’s hand. Edward Long QC, prosecuting, told the jury, ‘You must convict Mr Keane if you believe that his actions led directly to the tragic death of his wife, even though you may not believe that this was his intention.’ Keane claimed that his wife’s fall was an accident, but the jury believed the prosecution’s version of what occurred on the night of 20 June this year. Keane was sentenced to five years in prison.
The picture accompanying the article showed a thickset man with greying hair, his cuffed hands held up to hide his face from the cameras outside court. I squinted, trying to see if there was any resemblance to Danny, but it was hard to see much of his face. I printed it anyway. I barely remembered Mr Keane. Charlie and Danny always played at our house or in the street, never at Danny’s house. And Danny’s mum – she had been a thin woman, with short hair and a cigarette on the go almost constantly, trembling ash as it balanced on her lower lip. I had thought her much older than forty.
So Danny had been left at eighteen with no mother, a father in prison and a two-year-old brother to look after. Ours wasn’t the only tragedy in Curzon Close. It seemed 1998 had been a bad year all round. I went back to the
search
screen and typed in ‘Alan Barnes’, knowing what was going to come up, hating to see it there on the screen in black and white. T
RAGIC
D
EATH OF
M
ISSING
C
HARLIE’S
F
ATHER
. My throat closed up and I swallowed, cursor hovering over the link.
I didn’t have the first inkling that anyone was looking over my shoulder until a hand came down on top of mine and clicked the mouse for me. As the screen went blank and the disc whirred, I quit the program, hoping to override the instruction to open the file on my father’s death. I had recognised the plump, pale hand on top of mine. Ace reporter Carol Shapley, on the trail of a big story.
‘I’m finished,’ I said, gathering up discs and printouts.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m not in any rush. And you can leave those discs.’ There was a humourless smile on her face. ‘It looks as if we’re interested in the same subject, doesn’t it?’
‘I have no idea,’ I said stiffly, hugging the CDs to my chest. ‘I’m afraid the librarian asked me to return the discs to her, though. There’s a system.’
Carol shot a look at the librarian’s desk. ‘Selina? She won’t mind if you hand them over to me. She knows I’ll look after them.’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry. I just don’t feel comfortable with that.’ I was not going to be bullied by Carol Shapley. I stared straight at her, my face carefully neutral, while she gave me a hard, pebbly look.
Seeing I wasn’t going to back down, she gave a little yawn. ‘Fine, then. Return them. But it’s going to take Selina a while to file those discs. Maybe you can help me in the meantime.’
‘I really don’t think so.’ I picked up my bag, hooking it over my good shoulder, and limped towards the librarian’s desk. My hands were shaking, I noted, as I flipped through the pile of printouts to count up how much I owed her.
‘Five pages?’ Selina said brightly. ‘That’ll be twenty-five pence, then. Gosh, you didn’t print much, did you? You were on there for a while. I thought you’d have tons and tons of stuff.’
‘She’s very selective,’ Carol said, leaning in from behind me before I could say anything. ‘She knew what she wanted.’
‘Good for you,’ Selina said brightly, vacant as ever. I squirmed.
It took forever for Selina to find change for my fifty-pence piece, and then I had to reassure her that I didn’t want a reinforced envelope to protect the pages.
‘Did you manage to find everything that you were looking for?’ She blinked up at me earnestly.
I assured her that I had and thanked her for her help, tucked the folded-over pages into my bag and headed for the door as quickly as I could. Carol was hot on my heels.
‘I’ve been wanting to have a chat with you for a couple of days, actually, Sarah, and I think you know why,’ she said, getting to the door first. ‘You told me a little white lie the first time we spoke, didn’t you?’