The sun was bright as DCI Porter walked across the rugby pitch, the crowds gathering for the club’s end-of-season fundraiser, always held on the May Day holiday. Despite the onset of summer, he carried the shadow of William’s death with him. Not the discovery, even though that was bad enough, with visions of his small body coming back to him whenever he was alone. Memories of his own children growing up gave the visions an extra sting.
No, it was the lack of progress since that plagued him. It had been five weeks and they’d unearthed no evidence that had led to any suspects. No child’s death should go unpunished.
They’d done the usual stuff, knocking on the doors of known paedophiles, and the town had enough of those, the family fun of the seaside acting like a magnet, the molesters hovering around the arcade machines, offering cigarettes and drink. It had never been about the scenery.
He’d visited the ones they knew about, and most had been on the clifftop that day. None had cracked though, even when they’d been taken on one of those long drives that used to work in the old days, two large officers crowding him in the back, their hands gripping his knees, just a threat of pain, enough to make most of them start talking. These people hunted in packs, Porter knew that, sharing stories and pictures, but no one knew anything. It was as if the town was moving on, leaving William behind as the skies got bluer and the days got warmer.
This was the town’s first major event since then, the three rugby pitches in a large park in the middle of town given over to bouncy castles and small rides, a way for the club to make some money for the next season. There’d been talk of cancelling it because of William’s murder, but Porter had promised a stronger police presence, particularly as the focus was on the children. There was a maypole in the centre of the main pitch, local children skipping with the ribbons, the girls in pretty yellow dresses, the boys in black trousers and white shirts, music distorted by a loudspeaker. Morris dancers gathered at one end of the field, some banging their sticks together, pints in their hand, some with their faces painted, bright blue above long beards.
The crowd wasn’t as large as for the bonfire, and it didn’t attract the drunks. There was the rugby team, of course, but they were in the bar, happy to spend the afternoon singing songs and doing whatever men do when left alone for a few hours. Outdoors, it was mainly families with small children who’d spotted a cheap afternoon, but Porter was still conscious of the crowd. Vigilant, wary.
The post-mortem on William had confirmed that his death was a crime, not an accident. There were cuts on William’s body, hints of torture, small regular slice marks on his chest and neck. His head had been bashed in with a piece of loose concrete, dust and shards embedded in his skull. There’d been no sign of any sexual assault, which had surprised him the most. If there was no sexual motive, what was the reason behind it?
They’d looked at William’s father at first, wondering whether his despair was all a ruse and he’d attacked his own son to get back at his mother, but there was no evidence of blood on his clothes or hands.
Revenge was another possibility, because William’s father was a petty crook, getting by on scams and dodges, like fiddling benefits and doing bad repairs on pensioners’ chimney stacks and overcharging them. That gave him enemies.
Porter didn’t go with that theory. He’d upset a few people, but they’d go for the father, not the son. What sort of person would target a six-year-old boy for something like that?
Porter’s own theory was a sexual motive, and, for whatever reason, the attacker couldn’t finish the job. Was William struggling too much? Was he about to escape, a quick bolt up the steps and into the crowds, showing his cuts and crying and jabbing his finger down the steps, drawing the attention of the mob? It was dark on the beach, and the steady crash of the tide would have obliterated the sounds of someone escaping along the pebbles.
It was the only theory that made sense, but it hadn’t got beyond a theory. No one had seen William go off with a stranger. No reports of a reluctant child trying to get away from an adult. No tips from anyone who’d heard rumours. The forensic trail hadn’t revealed anything apart from some white fibres underneath William’s fingernails. From a shirt was Porter’s guess, which at least narrowed any search down to someone dressed in smart clothes.
Porter meandered through the crowds, past small children with dripping ice creams and to the background noise of roundabouts and those small cars that rock backwards and forwards when a coin is inserted. It was wholesome summer fun.
Or so it seemed. As he looked, he thought the parents were staying closer to their children than the year before, their eyes focused, always looking out for the stranger amongst them.
Perhaps the town hadn’t moved on after all. The local weekly paper updates had dwindled to mentions of nothing to report, but people in the town knew the threat was still there. There were officers patrolling the perimeter, keeping an eye on everyone who left, discreet, not wanting to alarm anyone.
A scream broke the peace. Porter whirled round, trying to place it, his heart racing, butit was followed by laughter. Just teenagers messing around, throwing water at each other. He thought about going over and asking them to stop, but it was the kind of behaviour he needed to hear. Unrestrained fun. Kids being kids.
Then he spotted her.
A woman was rushing around, shouting into the bushes that edged the park, other people joining her. Murmurs spread through the crowd.
He started to run, the panic in the woman’s expression telling him what was happening before he got there. As he got close, someone grabbed his arm.
‘She can’t find her girl.’
Porter brushed her off and carried on to the woman, who was looking around, her hands clasped to her head, her fingers in her hair.
‘Madam, what’s happening?’ Porter tried to keep his voice calm, but he knew the answer.
‘I can’t find her. She’s gone.’
‘Who’s gone?’
‘My daughter, Ruby. She’s only seven. She was just here with me, but she wanted to go on the bouncy castle. I watched her go and then I was talking, and when I looked round, she was gone.’ She burst into tears. ‘Please find her. Please.’
Porter got on his radio. Every nerve in his body told him what was happening, but that didn’t stop him praying, no, please not again.