He looked up as he ran towards entrance to the stairwell. Someone was sprinting along the third-floor walkway, really fast. He dived in through the door and started taking the steps in great leaps. Above him he could hear someone clattering down the stairs.
Halfway up, Sandy came swinging round a corner, almost colliding with him.
‘Hey, Sandy. Do you know where—?’
‘It was her! It was Kath!’ she shouted.
She didn’t stop, just barged past and carried on bombing down the stairs.
‘But where—?’
She didn’t answer. Den turned and plunged down after her. When he emerged out of the door, he could see her running off to the right, deeper into the estate. He followed her blindly, cursing the way he’d let his fitness lapse.
They ran between the blocks, along the network of concrete paths that dissected tired, grassy patches.
Eventually Sandy stopped and Den was able to catch up. She was leaning forward, hands on knees, breathing heavily and crying at the same time. ‘I let her go. God, I let her go.’
‘Mrs C? Kath?’ said Den, barely able to speak himself.
‘Yes! I know you said to watch her, but I was talking to that cop and she slipped out. I saw her heading off this way.’
‘On her own?’
‘Yeah. She had her trolley with her.’ They looked at each other. Den remembered the weight of it when he’d trundled it back to Mrs C’s flat an hour or so ago. Small for her age, that’s what all the police appeals kept saying.
‘Oh God, Sandy. The trolley. You don’t think—?’
Sandy’s hands flew up to her mouth. She stared around wildly.
‘It’s okay,’ said Den. ‘She can’t have gone far. There’s two of us and one of her. Have you got your phone? Give me your number.’
She handed him her phone and he rang his. Then she took it back.
‘Have you told the police?’
‘I told Naz. He was getting on his radio.’
‘Okay. Let’s split up.’ They went their separate ways. Den tried to think his way into Mrs C’s head. She’d been so tired earlier – had that all been an act? He didn’t think so. If she’d been walking for ten minutes or so, she’d be exhausted now, needing to rest.
A couple of women were walking towards him. He jogged up to them.
‘Excuse me, have you seen an old woman with a shopping trolley, a bag on wheels?’ They looked startled and he realised he was frightening them, puffing and panting, wild-eyed and standing too close. He backed off. ‘If you see her, call the police!’
Ahead of him he saw the metal gates of Fincham park, still open. Plenty of places to sit there. He jogged through the gates. The park was mostly dark with paths picked out by streetlamps. The kids’ play area was on the right in a fenced-off area. There were seats and swings to sit on and benches round the edge, but it was eerily empty. Where the hell could she be?
He jogged on further. The path sloped gently down the hill. He knew it led to a round pond with a little island and a duck house in the middle. Mum and Dad would bring him here when he was little and they’d feed the ducks with stale bread from the café. They were quite bold – he remembered tipping a bread bag up and emptying the contents and shrieking and running away from them as the hungry birds chased him.
There was only one light working on this section of path, sending out an eerie glow that melted into darkness towards the middle of the pond. As he got closer, he could just make out that the bench nearest the light was occupied. She had her back to him, but there was no mistaking the broad shoulders and padded coat.
He stopped for a moment. Mrs C was sitting dead still. No need to startle her. He quickly texted Sandy. Found her. By the pond in the park.
Then he walked towards the bench.