They all watched the late news. Den and Mum sat on the sofa together, but Dad wouldn’t stop pacing. In the end, he perched on the arm of an armchair, looking like he might take off again at any minute. There was coverage from the vigil including footage of their confrontation with Marlon and Kath remonstrating with him.
‘I know him from somewhere,’ Mum said. ‘That big bully. I can’t quite place him.’
‘He comes into the café,’ Den said.
‘Mm, it’s not that, though. I’ve seen him somewhere else.’
After they had shown Sandy and others gathered round the candles, and there was a long interview with Kath.
‘She’s coming across well, isn’t she?’ Mum said. ‘Good on her.’
Kath and the interviewer seemed to be getting along famously. Den could see that she was a gift for a roving reporter – happy to talk, likeable, a bit of a character. He shuddered to think of his own appearance the night before, his face shiny with sweat, looking shifty and ill at ease. Why on earth had he spoken to them at all? For a moment he was back there again, a rabbit trapped in the headlights, then Dad brought him back into the room.
‘Why did she have to mention the café?’ he exploded. ‘That’s all we need! We might as well close the doors for good – we’re finished as a business.’
‘Shush, I can’t hear,’ said Mum.
‘Miss Marple, though?’ Dad snorted. ‘Where do they get this shit from?’
‘Tony! It’s harmless, isn’t it? It’s the only good side to this story. Neighbours getting involved. People seeing that this estate isn’t all bad.’
Dad huffed and puffed a bit more but didn’t say anything as they continued to watch.
‘You must have seen some changes around here, Kath,’ said the interviewer.
‘Here we go,’ said Dad. ‘This is when we find out that the nice little old lady with her shopping trolley is ever so slightly BNP.’
Den wished he’d shut up, but he knew his posturing and cynicism were his reaction to the evening’s events. He himself could still feel the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. Fight or flight. They’d chosen flight, but that left all those feelings still in your system with nowhere to go.
‘There are comings and goings. That’s London, isn’t it? That’s part of what makes this city what it is. You want me to say it’s gone down the toilet; well, I’m not going to. There is crime round here, but that doesn’t mean we like it or accept it. We’re a community here. Being a neighbour means something. Always has done.’
Mum looked at Dad and raised her eyebrows. ‘Just a nice little old lady after all. Good on her.’
‘Hah. And maybe our very own Miss Marple will find little Mina and we’ll all live happily ever after.’
She rounded on him now. ‘Tony, what’s wrong with you?’
‘I just don’t like being in the middle of this. This is our business. This is our home.’
‘I know, but like you said earlier, it will all blow over.’
‘Will it, though?’
Den couldn’t stand any more. He stood up. ‘I’m sorry,’ he shouted. ‘I get it! It’s all my fault and I’m sorry, okay?’
‘Den—’
He stormed off into his bedroom and slammed the door firmly shut, but it didn’t help. It was more like a prison cell than a sanctuary, and now he’d shut himself in. Four walls confining him, the sound of the TV and his parents bickering coming under the door. He went over to the window. The curtains were still open and he gazed out at the array of light-studded tower blocks. Surrounded by people – so many people – and yet he felt so lonely. What was it about him that marked him out? Why couldn’t he connect? What was wrong with him?
He closed the curtains and lay down on the bed, but his head was full of an uncomfortable kaleidoscope of images, noises, memories and feelings. The interview room, his interrogators’ faces, the blood-red graffiti, Marlon’s hostility and endless cameras clicking, flashing, recording every move. Hot bile was moving up his oesophagus. He had a phobia of being sick, could feel panic gripping him as the pressure increased inside. He sat upright and swallowed hard, switched the bedside light on and tried to slow his breathing.
He sat there for a long time, until the TV was turned off and his parents went about their bedtime routine – switching off lights, visiting the bathroom in turn. The water pipes gurgled in the wall behind him. Sirens wailed in the distance, while overhead another plane started its rumbling approach to Heathrow.
For a moment he saw himself, like he was in a film – a young guy, already balding, sitting on the edge of a single bed in his parents’ flat. The camera panned out, taking in the café downstairs, the graffiti on the shutters: ‘Pedo scum’. Twenty-two years here and this was what people thought of him.
His family’s business was wrecked. He didn’t want to spend his life serving in the café, certainly didn’t want to take the business on from Dad when the time came, but this was home, too. He wanted, needed, to feel safe here. That couldn’t happen while Mina was still missing.
He padded through the darkened flat and down into the café. Soft yellow light filtered through the shutters. In the office, he didn’t bother flicking on the light, just sat down in the office chair and fired up the computer. No wonder everyone suspected him – he’d been the last person to see Mina, plus there was the scrunchie and the umbrella. He needed to fight back, find some proof that it wasn’t him. He had to move the spotlight somewhere else.