Ruth laughs. Simon could always be funny, she remembers now. It’s a bigger shock to know that her mother’s actually proud of her, actually shows off about her to other people. She’s so used to thinking of herself as a disappointment to her parents that this new perspective will take some adjustment. To give herself time she asks Simon if he’d like another cup of tea.
‘I’ve made a pot,’ he says. ‘It should still be hot.’
A pot? Ruth didn’t know that she actually owned a teapot.
‘Mum always makes a pot,’ says Simon now, half-laughing and half-defensive.
‘God, Simon. It’s true what you said last night. You really do live on the edge.’
Ruth pours her tea, thinking that this is easier than she thought, sharing the little cottage with Simon and
the boys. Still, it probably helps that they’re sleeping in the garden and that it’s only for a few days. This reminds her of something. She goes back into the sitting room.
‘Do you think you’d be able to look after Kate tonight, Simon? I’ve got to go out. It’s to do with work.’
Simon looks pleased. ‘Of course. I’m glad to be able to help. What are you doing?’
‘Well, there’s this TV programme, you see …’
When she woke up, Ruth had found a text message. Not from Cathbad but from Frank.
Looking forward to seeing you tonight
. Of course, the night filming at the castle. Ruth had looked down at her phone, feeling both pleased and slightly shocked that Frank could send such a message at such a time. But of course Frank doesn’t know about her link with Judy even if he has heard about the abduction on the news.
Looking forward to seeing you tonight
. What an inappropriately cheery sentiment. And what does he mean by it anyway?
Simon, though, is impressed. ‘So we’re going to see you on TV? Wow. Wait till I tell Mum.’
‘I’ll probably only be on screen for half a second,’ warns Ruth, but she too is rather pleased at the thought of more maternal approval.
‘I’ll tape it and play it back on a loop,’ says Simon.
Ruth is about to say something – something about mothers and families and how nice it is, despite everything, to have the prospect of a day together – but Kate calls her and the moment is lost. Just as well, thinks Ruth, as she climbs the stairs. One of the few things she
and Simon have in common is an extremely low embarrassment threshold.
*
Clough never thought that he’d feel guilty about being in a pub but he does. He can just see how it would look:
Callous copper in boozer while his colleagues hunt for missing baby
. And it’s so early, barely eleven o’clock. Even Clough, who holds the station’s record for downing pints, doesn’t feel like a drink at this hour. But Ted, who requested the meeting place, orders a pint of Guinness and a chicken and ham pie.
‘Are you sure? They do good beer here.’
‘No, you’re all right. I might have a pie though.’ However bad things are, Clough can always eat.
The pub is almost empty although the two old men in the corner look as if they’ve been there for several days. Clough wonders if he should check them for signs of life. Ted, on the other hand, looks around him with every appearance of pleasure.
‘Great place, this. Hasn’t been dolled up too much.’
‘You can say that again.’
Ted takes a long draught of beer. Despite himself, Clough feels his throat contracting. Maybe a half wouldn’t hurt.
‘So, what did you want to ask me?’
‘I’m looking for a pub called the Tower or Towers. Do you know anywhere like that?’
Ted leans back, thinking. He’s a big man, bald and burly with tattooed forearms. Clough has to admit that
he doesn’t look like an academic. If he had to place Ted he’d say builder or farm worker. Or a criminal.
‘I don’t think so,’ Ted says at last. ‘It’s not a very common pub name. There’s the Rook near Downham Market. I think that refers to the chess piece.’ He sees Clough’s blank expression and explains. ‘The castle in chess is sometimes called a rook.’
‘What about other towers? Church towers, water towers. That sort of thing.’
Ted looks at him curiously. ‘Is this about the little boy that’s missing?’
‘I can’t tell you any more,’ says Clough. ‘But it’s important.’
‘There are a few towers around the city walls, the remains of the old fortifications. Cow Tower’s one of those. Then you’ve got the church towers like St Giles in Norwich. Cromer Church has a famous tower too.’
‘We’ve thought of all those,’ says Clough. ‘I just wondered if you could think of anything … unusual.’
‘Well, there’s The Devil’s Tower, of course.’
‘What?’
‘Out Carrow way, by the bridge. There’s a famous painting of it. You must have seen it.’
‘Don’t go much on paintings myself.’
‘No-one knows why it’s called The Devil’s Tower. It may be one of those devil-crossing-the-bridge stories. You know, the devil demands a forfeit for crossing the bridge. Sometimes it’s gold, sometimes it’s your immortal soul, sometimes it’s your first-born child.’
Michael is Judy’s first-born, thinks Clough. Somehow he doesn’t fancy his pie any more.
*
‘It looks bad, Harry. Surely you can see that.’
Nelson counts to ten, and when that’s not nearly enough starts again. It’s bad enough that he has to waste valuable time having a meeting with his boss but now Whitcliffe seems to be implying that the loss of Judy’s child is a public relations disaster for the force.
‘It is bad,’ agrees Nelson. ‘Especially for Judy.’
‘Indeed.’ Whitcliffe puts on his caring face. He is tanned and handsome from the Tuscan sun and Nelson is hating him more than ever.
‘But the fact is,’ Whitcliffe is already moving on, ‘we’ve had two child abductions in a week and we’re no nearer to finding the perpetrator.’
‘We got some leads,’ says Nelson. ‘A description, the car, the babygro.’ They have traced the pink babygro worn by Poppy to a smart shop in Thetford. This is as far as their luck goes, the owner of the shop was unable to add much to their identikit. ‘I think she was youngish. I think she had short hair.’
‘Not enough, Harry,’ says Whitcliffe. ‘What are your guys doing out there? I heard that Sergeant Clough had consulted a psychic.’
Cursing Clough, Nelson says, ‘That was a favour for Judy. We’re not placing any reliance on anything the woman said.’ He prays that Whitcliffe doesn’t look up
and see the words ‘tower, red heart, white lady’ on the whiteboard.
‘I’m glad to hear it. What if the press got wind of it?’
‘They won’t.’ He crosses his fingers behind his back.
‘Well, we need to get out there and reassure the public that we’re doing our best.’
‘I’ll make another statement.’
‘No,’ Whitcliffe starts fiddling with the silver paper-knife on his desk, always a sign that he’s feeling uncomfortable. ‘I think Tim should do it. You always look as if you’re about to head-butt someone.’
‘Fine by me.’
‘No offence, Harry, but you’re not exactly a TV natural.’
‘None taken.’ Nelson doesn’t give a toss about TV. He knows that he doesn’t come across well and that Tim does. All that matters is that someone may be watching, someone who knows something about Michael. And if that person is influenced by hearing an appeal from a handsome policeman, let’s get Tim into make-up at once.
‘We haven’t had much reaction to the parents’ TV appeal. We need to get them to do another one. The trouble was, Judy looked too calm.’
Nelson grinds his teeth. ‘She was trying to hold it together, for God’s sake. Can’t you see that?’
Whitcliffe smiles understandingly. ‘You’re very closely involved, Harry. I respect that. But if Judy could just show a little more emotion for the cameras …’
‘If she cracks up altogether, will people prefer that?’
‘Of course not,’ says Whitcliffe. ‘But people need to feel
involved. They need to feel that they have a personal stake in finding Michael.’
‘We’ve had lots of volunteers for the search.’ Bloody rubberneckers, he adds to himself.
‘That’s good,’ says Whitcliffe. ‘But we need a breakthrough. Time’s running out.’
Does Whitcliffe think Nelson doesn’t know this? ‘If it’s the same person that took Poppy Granger,’ he says, ‘there’s a good chance that they’ll be looking after him.’
‘But crimes escalate, Harry. You know that. This person abducted a child and got away with it. Next time they take it further. I think we have to prepare ourselves for some bad news management.’
Nelson looks longingly at the paper-knife.
*
Ruth and Simon have taken the kids to Yarmouth. The boys expressed a desire for ‘amusements’ and Ruth felt that this was the nearest place that provided anything close to Thorpe Park or Alton Towers (two venues mentioned with enthusiasm). She was right in one way. Jack and George made approving noises as soon as the pier and rollercoaster came in sight. Kate, though, is another matter. As soon as she sees the flashing signs exhorting her to try the Silver Falls and the Wacky Racers and the Ride of Death, she starts to cry. Ruth had forgotten how much the place modelled itself on Blackpool.
‘It’s OK, Kate,’ says George. ‘You’re too little to go on anything really scary.’
But Kate just stands in the middle of the Golden
Mile and howls. Fellow holiday-makers regard her with mingled sympathy and irritation. The boys fidget with embarrassment. Jack puts on his dark glasses.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ asks Simon.
‘We went to Blackpool last year,’ says Ruth. ‘She was frightened by something that happened on the Pleasure Beach.’ This doesn’t really do justice to the horror of that day but Ruth can’t bring herself to tell the whole story to Simon.
The word ‘beach’ gives her an idea. Beyond the iron monsters of the roller coaster and the Waltzer and the bumper cars is the sea, miles of flat grey sand filled with more traditional seaside entertainments.
‘Come on sweetheart,’ says Ruth, ‘Let’s go and find some lovely donkeys.’
Leaving Simon and the boys queuing up for the roller-coaster, Ruth and Kate go in search of donkeys. Soon Kate is swaying happily on a dun-coloured steed called Kevin and Ruth is running along behind, trying not to lose her shoes in the sand.
‘Look at me, Mum!’
‘I am looking,’ pants Ruth. She ought to take a photo. Oh hell, where’s her phone?
When they get to the pier the donkeys turn round and Ruth gets her picture: Kate grinning happily, all tears forgotten, sun hat over one eye. The sky is the kind of blue that you associate with Italy, not Norfolk. Suddenly Ruth feels like crying. It’s not fair that she has Kate in her Little Miss Sunshine top and pink sun hat. Judy should
have Michael. They should all be here together – Nelson, Cathbad and Darren too – in a happy dysfunctional family.
‘Keep looking, Mum!’
‘I can see you,’ shouts Ruth, wiping away tears and falling over a sandcastle.
*
Judy is lying down. People keep telling her to lie down, try to get some sleep, so it seems less trouble just to do what they want. It’s odd how people think that being horizontal will somehow take away the pain of losing her only child. And she has lost him, she’s sure of that. If a missing child isn’t found in the first few hours, the prospect is always bleak. Poppy was a miracle and miracles don’t happen twice. It’s funny, she feels completely calm now. She has faced the worst that can possibly happen and honestly doesn’t care whether she lives or dies. In a strange way it makes her feel strong, invincible. She could jump out of the window and maybe she would fall to her death and maybe she would fly. It doesn’t really matter which.
She can hear Cathbad and Darren talking downstairs. It doesn’t even feel odd any more to have them both in the house. In a strange way, it seems right that they should both be here. She’s dimly aware of feelings drifting under the surface. She knows that though no-one can actually comfort her, being with Cathbad makes things marginally less terrible. She knows that guilt about Darren is adding to her guilt about Michael. She knows that Cathbad knows this. She doesn’t worry about the future because, without Michael, there will be no future.
She shuts her eyes and actually falls into an uneasy, fluttering sleep. She dreams of Michael, and even in her dream she knows this is a privilege – to see and hear him, she even imagines that she can feel him, the firm softness of his cheek, the feathery warmth of his hair. She is in the park, pushing Michael on the swings, higher and higher. A seagull is hovering overhead, crying and calling. Then the seagull turns into a man with huge, white wings. He swoops down on Michael and they fly away together. Michael is calling ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ Judy wakes with a start.
There’s someone at the door. She hears the words ‘found something’ and she forgets that she is resigned to the worst, that nothing bad or good can ever happen again, and she runs downstairs, her heart beating a timpani of hope and fear.
‘Have you found him?’
It’s Nelson. He makes a gesture as if warding something off.
‘I need you to be calm, Judy. This might not mean anything bad.’
Judy is aware that Cathbad and Darren are standing on either side of her.
‘Have you found him?’ she asks again, her voice completely steady.
‘No but …’ Nelson takes a step nearer and holds up a plastic bag. Inside is a blue-and-white-striped t-shirt. Darren lets out a strangled sound.
‘It was found in the river,’ says Nelson. ‘It had floated downstream to Keeper’s Wood. It’s his then?’
In answer, Judy reaches out to snatch the bag. She holds it to her chest.
‘We’ll need to take it to the lab,’ Nelson says gently. ‘Just to do a few tests. Then you can have it back, I promise. And, remember, the abductor changed Poppy’s clothes. Ten to one they’ll have done the same with Michael.’
Darren clears his throat. ‘Did you … did you find anything else?’
Nelson shakes his head. ‘But we’re still looking. We’ve got a full description of what he was wearing.’
Judy says, ‘She’s got his bag too. It had a change of clothing in it. Debbie gave it to her.’ She tries not to blame Debbie but this is particularly hard, imagining the childminder happily handing over Michael and his precious day-bag.