Matthew Levin scuffed along the beach, holding his daughter’s hand. He felt irritated at the whole pace of this holiday, the child, the wife. He felt overwhelmed with frustrated energy and annoyed with himself for coming on this doomed holiday. He’d known he would be stifled by them both but he had never guessed to such an extent. His powerful shoulders dropped with guilt and unhappiness. He felt swamped by fripperies, constant dress changes and the endless shopping expeditions to which he had submitted. He ran his fingers through his short, blond hair. He had tried. God, he really had tried. But it was no use. With his family he had absolutely nothing in common. The feminine in them was too strong. Perhaps the masculine in him was also too dominant.
Even the sailing had had to be toned down for Jane who was a nervous sailor, a poor swimmer and hated boats. She feared them – felt insecure on the heaving deck. So the only possible exhilaration – an afternoon’s sailing in stormy weather - would have to be forfeited. Instead they would have to wait for another calm day when the sea would reflect like a millpond and they would sit and bake underneath the hot, Greek sun.
Matthew Levin stared out across the swaying sea. God, what he would give to be out there, battling against the wind – reining it in to take him where he would go. And it would have been heaven to have had Joanna there with him, at his side, both of them working together. A swift vision of strong brown legs, smooth and firm, and that quick laugh she would give, triumphantly, at the challenge of pitting their skills together against the elements.
But here he was ... on a golden beach, standing on hot sand, beneath a cloudless blue sky, watching the waves slap against the boat. And he knew. He could not possibly feel more miserable. And now Eloise had lost her bracelet somewhere on this beach and Jane expected him to spend all afternoon searching for it.
‘I know it’s here somewhere.’ Eloise pouted a little and watched her father through her eyelashes. She tugged his arm. ‘Please look for it, Daddy. Please.
Matthew was exasperated. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. We’ll never find it.’ He glanced along the expanse of sand. ‘It’ll be buried by now. You’ll never find it. We’ll just have to claim off the insurance.’
Eloise began to howl, flicked one pale plait back over her shoulder and stuck her thumb in her mouth, noisily sucking it.
Jane intervened. ‘Don’t be hard on her, Matthew,’ she said. ‘Don’t be angry. It was carelessness - that’s all. Nothing more.’ She looked at her daughter. ‘Wasn’t it, darling? Don’t suck your thumb.’
Eloise ignored the censure but took the proffered excuse and seized it eagerly. ‘That’s right, Mummy,’ she said. ‘Carelessness.’ She slipped her arm through her father’s. ‘Just carelessness. I wasn’t being purposely bad, Daddy. I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t being quite careful enough.’ She frowned, looking anxiously from her father to her mother and back to her father again. ‘And Granny would be so upset if I had lost it. Daddy ...’ she said firmly, ‘we must find it.’ She screwed her face up. ‘Come on,’ she said, dropping to her knees on the hot sand. ‘Help me look.’
Matthew gave her a glance of exasperation. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s a waste of time.’
The child attacked his Achilles’ heel and began to howl again.
‘Someone else will find it.’ Tears splashed down her cheeks. ‘What’ll Granny say when she knows I’ve lost it? She’ll be furious and horrible,’ she wailed. ‘She’ll say I’ve been careless.’ She sniffed loudly, ignoring the blob of mucus that bubbled from her nose.
Matthew stood by helplessly.
‘I’ll never see it again and it’s worth ever such a lot of money.’ Her tears were accompanied by spasmodic sobs.
‘Darling, don’t cry,’ Matthew pleaded uncomfortably. ‘Please don’t cry.’
The child sobbed louder.
Matthew glanced at her anxiously. Her tears had always moved him to a feeling of helpless frustration. It made him feel sick and responsible. He simply wanted her to stop crying. ‘Darling ...’ he said, ‘darling
Eloise only howled louder. ‘Granny will hate me.’
‘No she won’t.’ Jane put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and drew her towards her, kissing the top of her head as though calming a baby. ‘She’s inconsolable,’ she said accusingly. Then she clutched Matthew’s arm. ‘Help us look,’ she hissed. Her face was hard and unforgiving and still pale. ‘Or do you mean you can simply sit here on the beach and watch your own daughter break her heart. But yes,’ she added softly, ‘I can believe that.’
Eloise looked out from beneath her mother’s shoulder and glimpsed her father’s face, pink with anger, flushed and sweating – for all the cool breeze that was blowing hard in from the sea.
Her mother’s voice was shrill. ‘Is that how little you really care about us?’
Matthew struggled to gain control, to explain, but he was now so furious he had lost his powers of reasoned argument. The other couples sitting on the beach heard only him shouting, saw him furiously arguing with his wife and daughter. They nudged one another.
Matthew was breathing hard now. Temper and reason tussled.
Jane squeezed his arm. ‘Look at me,’ she said. ‘Look at me.’
He could barely prevent his lip from curling with dislike.
Her eyes were hard as ice as she spoke. ‘Don’t think I’ll ever let you go to her.’
Police Constable Phil Scott was allocated to the search of the moors, combing the area in a straight line between the lay-by on the main road and the spot where the child’s body had been found. A preliminary search had been made of a narrow ‘corridor’ which was clear of forensic evidence and taped off. But the person who had dropped the boy’s body into the small hollow might not have taken the direct route. So the police were combing the area directly to the right and left of the forensic corridor. However, by lunch-time nothing had been found – at least nothing of importance -just an eclectic assortment of chewing-gum wrappers and crisp packets, some old, used toilet paper, a couple of deflated Durexes. All were put in a black plastic bin liner. But none of the police officers religiously picking up everything that was not the strong, coarse, moorlands grass believed this garbage of the human race would lead to a murderer.
Farthing looked at Scottie gloomily. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘this whole thing’s a bleedin’ waste of time. There’s bugger all up here.’ He scanned the wide sweep of moorland, topped with fierce-looking storm clouds. ‘And it’s going to soddin’ well rain.’
Someone had had the consideration to fetch fish and chips from the local shop and they sat on the ridge, near the police van. After a hearty meal, washed down with flasks of tea, they were ready to begin the afternoon. But Scottie held back. He found Mike Korpanski sitting in the front of the van and rapped on the window.
‘Excuse me, sir. Can I have a word?’
Mike wound the window down, still chewing chips.
‘I think I’ve seen that ring before. The one that was on the boy. I’ve been thinking about it, sir.’
‘Where?’ Mike was excited – this was how investigations began, one tiny droplet of knowledge, then a succession, dripping quickly. And then a trickle which eventually gushed with information that led to a conviction. But it all started like this – one person saying they ‘thought’ ... they ‘might’ ...
‘I’m not absolutely certain,’ Scottie said, ‘but I think it was one of the pieces reported stolen from a house break-in a year or two ago.’
‘In Leek?’
PC Phil Scott nodded.
Mike grinned. ‘Jump in, Scottie,’ he said. ‘And if you’re right there’s a pint for you later at the local.’
Joanna was spending the morning on the telephone and writing reports. At lunch-time she rang the lab and asked to speak to Cathy Parker.
After a pause, Cathy came on the line. She read out the results of the other forensic tests carried out on the body. ‘The boy had eaten about two hours before he died. Some chips and a meat pie.’
Joanna nodded. ‘The chip shops are open till midnight. He could have got them from there. I suppose it’s another avenue to explore. What about the results of the semen tests?’
‘Negative. As I thought,’ Cathy said. ‘The motive was not sexual – or if it was, the boy’s sudden death killed the urge. Of course the lack of semen proves no penetration but it might be present on the clothes.’ She paused for a minute. ‘How long before you get the tests on the clothing?’
‘A day or two. Shouldn’t be longer. The Press interest in a child murder means that we get priority at the lab. The outcry is always deafening.’
Joanna put a few of the uniformed men on to cover the fish and chip shops which were just opening to serve lunch. Mike arrived as she was wondering about her own lunch, toying with the idea of some sandwiches and a yoghurt, but she could tell from the excitement in his eyes that something had surfaced and suddenly lunch didn’t seem quite so important. Behind him trailed the young, blond rookie she had noticed scribbling furiously throughout the briefing.
‘Come in.’ She smiled. ‘PC Scott, isn’t it?’
‘I hope I’m not wasting your time,’ he said awkwardly.
‘Don’t worry,’ she reassured him. ‘Much better to waste a few minutes now than perhaps days while you decide whether to speak or not.’
He felt heartened. ‘May I have another look at the ring?’
She stared at him for a moment and he opened his notebook and tilted the page towards her to show her a drawing he had made. He noticed she studied it for a very long time without saying a word, frowned, held the notebook herself. She scrutinized the crude pencil drawing then looked up.
‘It does look the same,’ she agreed. ‘What was it made of?’
‘Solid gold,’ he said.
She stood up. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’
It was bagged up in the interview room and they went together. Joanna picked out the ring and handed it to him.
‘Is this it?’ she asked.
Phil Scott was learning from her methods. He too said nothing until he had studied the ring carefully and then he handed it back to her, ‘I thought it was the same one,’ he said. ‘It was stolen ... house break-in, about a year ago. It was on the list of things stolen and there was a photograph of it.’
She looked at him. ‘Which house break-in?’ she said. ‘Where?’
‘Rock house,’ he said. ‘The big house on the moorland road. The big grey place.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. It was my first day in the force. About a year ago.’
She was impressed. ‘And you remembered it all this time?’
He nodded, clear blue eyes fixing on hers. ‘I’m a bit slow,’ he said, ‘often have to write everything down – otherwise I forget things.’ He grimaced. ‘Spend all my time making notes. That’s why I was fairly sure. Had to check – but I’d drawn a diagram in my notebook.’
‘And whose house was it?’
‘Ashford Leech,’ he said. ‘He’s the MP for Staffs Moorlands – or he was. He died a few months ago.’
‘A car accident?’
‘No. He was ill. He died in hospital.’
Joanna stared at him. ‘And the ring was amongst the items stolen? You’re sure.’
The young constable nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Did we get the burglar?’
He shook his head. ‘No. We thought it might be kids.’ He looked uneasy, shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. ‘There was something funny about it. Something not quite right.’
‘Get me the file. Bring it to my office.’ She smiled. ‘Then you can go back on the moors.’
She turned the lamp on over her desk, sat back and began reading the file. From the first page it was interesting. Not only because it was one of the many thousands of unsolved burglaries that filled their lists. But there were things here that were not quite right – anomalies. As she read the list of items taken she was puzzled. ‘No,’ she muttered. ‘No – not like this. Mike,’ she said, ‘what do you think of this? First of all they decided to break in on a Monday lunch-time when the cleaner was there and her old jalopy parked right out the front to announce the fact. Then they were supposed to have climbed a glass roof to get in through a bedroom window when the conservatory door was open all the time.’
‘So where was the cleaner?’
‘According to this ...’ she glanced down at the file, ‘she was, quite by chance, in the back doing some ironing. They took such funny things too – a photograph album which had been in a cupboard in the sitting room, forced a lock to get it. But they left the television and the video, a pretty little clock – even money lying around.’
He sat up. ‘Strange burglars,’ he said.
‘Also they took the ring from a bedroom where it was hidden in a box in a drawerful of lingerie, but left other more valuable and less distinctive pieces.’ She glanced at Mike. ‘So what do you make of that?’ She slammed the file shut.
‘Well ...’ he thought for a minute, ‘they’re either very clever burglars or extremely stupid burglars.’
‘Or else,’ she prompted.
‘Or else the Leeches were lying.’
‘Exactly. But why would a respected MP lie and claim his house was broken into? Why call the police at all? And just where does the dead boy fit into all this?’
She picked up the telephone directory, thumbed down the list of L’s until she came to A. Leech, Rock House ... But she was greeted only with a curt telephone message in a female voice to say that Gilly Leech was not in, at present, but would return the call as soon as was convenient.
Joanna made a face at Mike. ‘Answerphone,’ she said, then glanced at her watch. ‘Now for the bit I hate. Press conference.’
But it went better than she had hoped. The questions were predictable and easy. She found herself relieved that Caroline Penn was safely in London, working for a national newspaper. When she had worked locally she had always had an uncomfortable knack of asking the most awkward questions – the type of penetrating missiles that were the most difficult to evade. Without her the assembled Press were well behaved and contained their questions to the more acceptable. Who was the boy? How had he died? Did they have a description – of the boy, of the assailant? What did they know so far?
And it was very little. But, as Joanna said to Mike later, twenty-four hours ago that boy was still alive.
She asked the two detective constables to question the owners of the eight fish and chip shops in Leek. If he had eaten here last night it implied he had been in Leek, probably came from Leek. She would find him soon. The lunch-time edition of the Evening Sentinel reached Leek just after two. She had arranged for a photo-fit picture of the dead boy to fill the front page.
Why had no one reported him missing yet?
The Evening Sentinel was delivered to her office just before three and Joanna looked at it eagerly. This had to bring someone forward who had known the boy. She scoured the front page. The artist’s impression was excellent. This was how the boy must have looked when he was alive. There was a detailed description of his clothes. She ran her finger down the list. Yes, it was all there. She blessed the local reporters. This would find an identity. She grinned at Mike. ‘Are we betting?’ she asked. ‘Twenty-four hours and we have a name.’
He shook his head. ‘You’ll find no takers. We’ll have his name.’ His face clouded. ‘Trouble is,’ he said, ‘we’ll have people who knew him – relatives.’
She glanced back at the artist’s impression. ‘If he was loved,’ she said slowly, ‘why hasn’t anyone come forward? It’s struck me this case is all the wrong way round. Usually with children we are informed they are missing. We hunt and find a body – or not. It’s rare to find a child’s body without hunting for it.’
Mike agreed.
‘So where are his parents?’
‘I suppose you think it’s funny – or clever.’ Mark Riversdale was confronting Jason and Kirsty in the kitchen of The Nest. ‘Not telling me he’d gone – again,’ he said in disgust. ‘How infantile can you get.’
Neither of the teenagers said a word but glanced at each other. After a pause Mark carried on. ‘I suppose he’s gone off again.’ He wagged an index finger at them. ‘Where does he get to when he sets off like this?’
Again, neither of them spoke.
Mark sighed. ‘Well, at least tell me this – and I expect the truth. When did you last see him?’
Jason heaved a long sigh. Wherever he was Dean would be safe now. He, Jason, had bought him twenty-four hours to get where he was going. Covering for him wouldn’t help. He gave a quick glance at Mark Riversdale, and saw the warden was furious. ‘Yesterday morning, sir,’ he said.
‘So he could have been gone a day and a half. Thirty-six bloody hours. Where?’
‘I don’t know.’
The warden looked sceptical. ‘You know,’ he growled. ‘You’re just not telling. Where is he?’
The boy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don’t know, sir,’ he repeated mechanically.
Mark gave a loud sigh and a groan. ‘More damned paperwork,’ he said. ‘I really thought he’d stop absconding. I gave him a talking to last week. I thought we’d connected. He’s disappeared less in the last year. I was a fool to imagine he’d settle down. Kirsty,’ he appealed, ‘where is he?’
As the girl stared at the floor he coaxed her.
‘Come on, love — you can tell me.’ Then his patience snapped. ‘Kirsty, when did you last see Dean?’
‘Yesterday morning,’ the girl said. ‘Early. I think he left early – before I was up anyway.’ She shrugged her shoulders and blinked. ‘I didn’t actually see him go.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? You know Dean has been in trouble for absconding.’ He bit his lip. ‘And I suppose he wasn’t at school today?’
Both teenagers shook their heads. There was no point trying to cover for him. Rivers would soon ring the school and find out he had skipped it.
Mark Riversdale paused before leaving the kitchen. ‘What I’d like to know is where does he get to on these jaunts? Who looks after him? Someone does ... someone gives him things. They can’t all be nicked ...’
As the door closed after him Jason looked at Kirsty. ‘Sue Whalley told me they found a body on the moors early this morning. It was a boy. Her dad told her. He’s a copper.’ His eyes grew round and frightened. ‘What if it’s Dean?’
‘Hah.’ Kirsty gave an explosive, disdainful sound. ‘It won’t be ’im. It won’t be the nipper. I never knew a kid what could look after ’imself better Dean –’e always lands on ’is feet. Bloody clever -for a little un.’
Kirsty had a small, heart-shaped face, pale with freckles, but her prettiness was marred by a thin, mean mouth with an ugly twist to it. It twisted even more now. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘lands on ’is feet – every time. Lucky little bleeder.’
Jason kicked the leg of the table thoughtfully. ‘Do you know what I fancy doin’?’ he asked.
‘What?’ The girl looked only mildly interested.
‘Tattoin’ little Timmy.’
‘Old Man Rivers’ll kill you.’
The boy kicked the leg of the table even harder. ‘Two more bloody years in this dump,’ he muttered. ‘Treat us like kids they do.’
‘And then what?’ the girl asked scornfully. ‘Two years – then what?’
‘A place of my own ... somewhere where no one’ll interfere.’
It was the list of objects stolen that intrigued her. Why take a photograph album? Easily traced, valueless ... It was the same with the ring. She stared at it, the looped ‘A’ that ran into an equally flourishing ‘L’, watched by an almost Masonic eye. Why leave money and the easily sold things – television, video, cameras ... a clock. Damn, she thought. It didn’t make sense. But if the house had not been burgled why would a family call the police and report a burglary? Could they have been mistaken? Forgotten? She leafed through the report again. Then there was the broken glass.
And now the ring had turned up on a murdered boy...
She rolled her pen between her fingers.
Mike wandered in and perched on the desk and she looked up at him. ‘There’s something funny about this.’ She indicated the report. ‘I can’t quite see the connection but I bet a pie and a pint that there is one.’
He picked up the folder and nodded, then asked in a casual voice that didn’t fool her for a minute, ‘Where is Levin anyway?’
‘Cephalonia,’ she said sharply. ‘And he’s probably having a wonderful time.’ She met his eyes. ‘So can we drop the subject now?’