Chapter 6

Sally Meagan couldn’t sleep. In the years since her only child had been missing, she had reached the very pits of despair, drowned herself in alcohol, contemplated ending her own life, anything to end the pain she was feeling that she’d failed her son in the one task a mother has – to protect her child at all costs.

She’d written a book about her experience of a missing persons investigation and the anxiety of not knowing where her child was or what had happened to him. She’d hoped it would be cathartic, to release all the pent-up emotions she was going through. It hadn’t worked. The book had sold well in England, and around the world. Carl’s picture was everywhere; surely someone knew where he was. All the book seemed to do was bring out the attention seekers, the so-called psychics, and the weirdos. Once again, Sally had hit rock bottom.

Earlier this year, she had received a series of phone calls from a child saying he was Carl and wanted to come home. They had, briefly, given her a glimmer of hope, but they stopped as soon as they had started. Were they really from Carl? At the time she’d thought so, but, looking back, the voice hadn’t been at all like Carl’s. Once again, it was some sicko looking for a laugh. As much as she relied on the public to help her find her son, with each passing day she loathed them more and more.

Help had come from an unlikely source. Matilda Darke. The very woman who had screwed up the ransom drop and allowed her son to disappear from the face of the earth had offered words of comfort, and an ally in the form of retired detective Pat Campbell. Between the three of them, they spent their spare time formulating ideas, plans, features, anything to keep Carl in people’s minds in the hope of finding him and bringing him home.

There had been many reported sightings of him in Sweden. Sally wanted to fly out there, scour the country for him, but Pat and Matilda, and her husband Philip, were against the idea. Carl was a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy. He fitted the Swedish make-up. It would be a futile journey and would do nothing for Sally’s already fragile mental health.

Philip was the stronger of the two. He always had been. He coped with the loss of his son by diving into work. Philip was always behind the scenes, creating menus with the chefs, keeping the books in order and making sure they had the best suppliers, while Sally was front of house. She kept the staff in line, ensured the restaurants were clean and tidy and the customers happy. After Carl’s disappearance, she lost interest and stayed at home, waiting for the phone call that would tell her Carl had been found, or an email with a clear image of her son, a few years older, but perfectly healthy and in the hands of officials who were bringing him home. Days went by, then months, then years, and the call didn’t come. Sally realised she would have to move on. She could not spend the rest of her life looking for one child in a world of seven billion.

She flung back the duvet and swung her legs out of bed. It was a little after two o’clock and she hadn’t been to sleep yet. She’d finished reading the David Nicholls book she’d enjoyed but wasn’t in the mood to start another. She put on her dressing gown in the dark and headed out of the room. There was no need to tip-toe; after a long day at work Philip could be in the paddock of a Formula One track and he’d still nod off.

The bedroom door was always ajar. Woody, their golden Labrador, bought for Carl as a birthday present, slept on the floor in their bedroom. However, the next morning, they’d find him outside Carl’s room, curled up. He missed him immensely and hadn’t barked once since his best friend had gone.

As Sally left her room and headed for the stairs, there he was on the floor, keeping guard.

He opened his eyes and lifted his head at the sound of movement.

‘Hello Woody, can’t you sleep either?’ Sally said in a loud whisper. She bent down and scratched behind his ear. ‘I’m going for a cup of tea. Would you like a Bonio?’

He seemed to understand the B-word as he jumped up and trotted downstairs, tail wagging.

In the kitchen, Sally turned the light on above the oven to give the room a warm glow and flicked on the kettle. From the small cupboard next to the fridge, she took out a Bonio. Woody sat, gave her a paw without having to be asked, took it gently from her, and ran to his bed in the corner of the room. The sound of his teeth demolishing the biscuit filled the silence.

Sally had left her phone plugged in to charge in the kitchen. She unplugged it and began to scroll through the news stories on the BBC News app. There was nothing of great interest. She logged on to Facebook. Her heart sank at the lack of notifications. This was the third day in a row without some form of communication about a sighting of Carl, or even a well-wisher saying she was in their prayers. People were forgetting all about him. She opened the Twitter app and saw that Sheffield was trending. That rarely happened.

The kettle boiled. Sally ignored it. It was happening again. Another child had been kidnapped in Sheffield. She had no idea what this meant, but suddenly, the hope of finding Carl grew a little stronger.

‘Philip,’ she said. She looked up, remembered it was dark and the middle of the night. ‘Philip!’ she shouted and ran out of the room. She took the stairs two at a time, almost falling over Woody who was following, and ploughed into the bedroom.

She turned on the main light and jumped on the bed.

‘Philip. Philip.’ She shook him hard. ‘Wake up.’

He mumbled under the duvet and eventually scrambled his way out of his comfortable cocoon. He opened his eyes and squinted at the brightness.

‘What’s up? What time is it?’

‘It doesn’t matter what time is it. Look at this,’ she showed him the phone.

‘Hang on. I can’t see a thing.’ He took his time sitting up and picked up his glasses from the bedside table. He noticed the time on the alarm clock. ‘Sally, it’s not even half two yet.’

‘I know.’

‘Have you even been to sleep?’

‘No. Look, Philip, please, just look at this,’ she said, annoyed.

He scrolled through the phone, reading the postings on Twitter while Sally provided him with a running commentary.

‘A nine-year-old girl has been kidnapped in Stannington. Her sister has been posting on Twitter asking if anyone’s seen her. She’s put up pictures of her too. The family have been asked for a ransom. She hasn’t said how much, though.’

‘So?’ Philip said, looking up at his wife.

‘Don’t you see what this means?’

‘No.’

‘Philip, how many people get kidnapped for ransom in this country?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Not very many. Yet here we are, in Sheffield, and we have the second kidnap for ransom in four years. That’s not a coincidence.’

‘You don’t seriously think that the same people who took Carl have taken this … what’s she called …?’

‘Keeley. Keeley Armitage, and yes, I do.’ Her face had lit up.

‘But … why?’

‘I don’t know. But don’t you see, this is fresh evidence. If the police find Keeley, they’ll find Carl.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘I do.’

‘Sally, please, don’t get your hopes up.’

‘It’s too late for that,’ she said, jumping down off the bed.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To phone Matilda. She’s bound to be working on this.’

‘You’re not phoning her at this time of night.’

‘Oh. No, you’re right. She’ll need her sleep so she’s fully alert. I’ll wait until morning.’

‘No,’ he said firmly.

‘What?’

‘Matilda is going to have her hands full. If you have to call anyone, ring Pat. Let her deal with this.’

Sally thought about this for a moment. ‘Fine. You’re right. Pat will be able to get to Matilda much sooner than I can.’

‘Good. Now, come on, get back to bed.’

Reluctantly, Sally placed her phone on the bedside table and got into bed.

‘Philip, just think, we could have Carl home in a few days.’