‘The small English cathedral town of Lafferton is in shock today after the disappearance of nine-year-old schoolboy, David Angus … This is a blow to a place which has still not recovered from last year’s murders. David Angus, son of a consultant neurosurgeon and a solicitor was last seen …’
‘Bloody hell, kids ain’t safe at their own flaming front gate now …’
‘Heard it on the one o’clock news. They haven’t found him then?’
Michelle Tait scissored open a packet of frozen pizzas and turned on the gas oven. ‘Turn up in a ditch somewhere, won’t he, like that little girl down in Kent.’
‘He might have gone off on his own. Gone to a mate’s.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Sort of thing I did all the time.’
‘Yeah, well. This kid isn’t like that. Nice family, private school, posh house … they don’t, do they?’
‘Why does having all that make him less of a nine-year-old kid?’
‘Use your cells. You want a pizza?’
The offer sounded grudging.
‘No, I’ll get something down the Ox later.’
‘Afford to drink all right, can’t you?’
‘What, two halves?’
‘You been to the jobcentre again?’
‘Yes. And I’m looking in the paper.’
‘Plenty of jobs … look, rows of jobs there …’
‘Right.’
‘You got no room to be picky, you know.’
‘I’m trained. I’m not stacking supermarket shelves.’
‘Trained. Right.’
‘Yeah, trained, which is more than most people round here can say.’
‘OOOOHH. Bloody good job you got me and Pete “round here” though, ain’t it?’
‘You want me out? OK. I’ll get out.’
‘Where?’
‘Someone I know.’
‘Pigs might fly.’
‘You remember Lee Carter?’
Michelle sat down at the kitchen table opposite him and lit a cigarette. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Walked into him in the street. Drives a BMW convertible.’
‘I bet he does. You went down for four and a half years for the likes of Lee Carter. Are you off your head?’
‘He’s straight. Making a fortune.’
‘Oh sure.’
‘I could work for him, no sweat.’
‘Planting cabbages?’
‘He’s got a business … like this sort of executive club.’
Michelle gave him a look that could have stripped paint.
‘Not what you think.’ Andy heard his own voice, talking up Lee Carter, sounding defensive. His sister was right of course. What the hell was he thinking about?
Only it was something. He’d gone over it a lot since Lee had driven him out to his house, shown off, told him where it was all coming from, thought about it and asked around. He was gradually picking up some of the old threads – the right ones. He was being careful. He knew what he wanted. If he had money or if he found someone with it, he could start a proper market-gardening business, supply the best shops and hotels, good stuff, what they wanted now, organic, and not just cabbages and spuds. He had the training, he had the sense, he could do it. ‘Start-up capital’ it was called.
He stared down at the newsprint. ‘Media Sales Executive.’ ‘Marketing Consultant.’ ‘Group analyst.’ All the proper jobs seemed to have vanished. ‘Youth outreach coordinator.’ He folded the page over.
‘You put a foot wrong, Pete’ll have you out that door.’
‘He wants me out of it any road.’
‘Yeah, well, if I say you stay, you stay, only you want to watch it.’
The missing Lafferton boy had made Sky News. There was a picture. A mousy little kid with a small snub nose and a serious expression. School blazer. Tie. All neat.
Andy looked into the soft nine-year-old face. He remembered men inside. What they would do to a kid like that. What they had done to plenty, and if they were behind lock and key, enough others weren’t.
He sat down.
Lee Carter. He saw the house. The car. The fountain starting up. The thick pile carpet. The gilded bar in the corner of the room.
Only he’d gone past that when he was a kid, wanting, wanting, doing anything to get, not bothered how. He could go and work for Lee Carter, but then what? Besides, he wasn’t interested in horse racing or the people who were.
There had to be another way.
A posse of men in Stetsons galloped across the screen kicking up a dust storm. Andy got up. Westerns were just one of the things he couldn’t stand.
There was still bedlam. From the kitchen came the crash of a dish into the sink.
‘See you,’ he shouted. No one answered.
He pulled his donkey jacket off the peg and went down the cold, ugly street towards the lights of the Ox.
It was full and they were all talking about the boy. Andy got a pint and ordered a plate of pie, peas and chips.
‘Poor little sod.’
‘They’ll find him.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I didn’t say they’d find him alive.’
‘Right.’
‘Poor bloody parents. Anyway, what’s Lafferton done? After all that stuff last year it don’t deserve another lot.’
‘It won’t be local.’
‘Why not? Who says?’
On and on. The boy’s face was in his head now, he couldn’t get rid of it. He wanted to do something and there was nothing he could do, unless they asked for people to start searching Starly or Hylam Peak or the Hill … He’d be up there with them if so. What it was, he realised suddenly, he was restless. He was in prison at Michelle’s almost as bad as before and in a way it was worse because he hadn’t anything to do. There, he’d been outside in the market garden eight till five. He’d had a purpose to his day. He had to do something. Starting tomorrow.
His plate of food came steaming hot, mounds of it, the pie oozing thick brown gravy. A yell went up from the darts board. When he’d finished, he’d take his drink over there, have a game. Michelle wouldn’t want to see him before eleven.
He cut the pie and watched the pastry sink softly down into itself.