Ten Years Later
Solomon Gray dug around in the pouch at his waist and grabbed hold of two cartridges. He slotted them into the cracked open barrel, snapped the weapon shut. He stood with one foot forward and the shotgun only half raised, held away from his chest.
“Pull!”
Gray sighted the clay before he nestled the weapon. It had to be firmly in place, otherwise the kick of the recoil could do serious damage, possibly even dislocate his shoulder. A circle the size of a saucer was fired across Gray, heading from left to right. He tracked the clay and fired, two rapid blasts, one after the other. The clay carried on into the trees, untouched.
“Looks like the drinks are on me tonight,” said Gray.
“You’re just rusty,” said Jeff Carslake.
“It’s been a while, right enough.”
If Gray remembered correctly, at least six years. He’d sold his gun back then too. He couldn’t be bothered with the rigours of maintaining a licence for something he didn’t see himself using again, so he was borrowing Carslake’s spare. It was heavy, unfamiliar. At first his aim had been surprisingly decent, though the initial targets were the easy ones, fired at a shallow, rising angle. Gray had plenty of time to zero-in on the clay. However, since then the difficulty had increased and Carslake’s more trained eye meant Gray’s score had fallen further and further behind his friend’s.
“Try again. Think in terms of shooting down a plane.”
Gray reloaded. “Pull!” He tracked the gun slightly ahead of the clay and fired. The pellets clipped the edge. It was a hit and therefore a point, but Gray was disappointed. The next he blew apart.
“You’re getting the hang of it,” said Carslake. He took Gray’s position on the shooting platform, nestled the shotgun tight into his shoulder and stared down at the sight. “Pull!”
His shot blasted the circle into smithereens. Gray sighed.
Half an hour later, the course completed, Carslake and Gray were in the bar. Gray carried the drinks over to the corner table where Carslake was seated.
Gray raised his glass in salute to the winner.
Carslake bowed. “It’s good doing this again, Sol.”
“Yes,” agreed Gray. And it was. In fact, Gray felt great. He and Carslake used to come here regularly after work, rather than taking a day off as they had on this occasion. They’d been fiercely competitive, Gray the slightly better of the pair back then. Spending time together outside work socially. Gray with other people. It seemed familiar, yet odd.
“Same time next week? One evening, maybe?”
“Definitely.”
“Won’t be long before you’ll be giving me a run for my money.”
“Who knows, I may practise when I’m off-shift.”
Carslake laughed. Gray fidgeted; he had a question burning in his mind.
“Did you hear any more from your contact?” asked Gray. “About Tom?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” Carslake put his glass down. “Today, actually.”
Gray leaned forward. “Was it him? Was it Tom at the ferry port?”
“Maybe.”
“How can it be a ‘maybe’? Either it was Tom or it wasn’t?”
“A decade’s a long time for someone’s memory to falter. Christ, a witness can be unreliable within minutes, never mind years! You know that.”
Gray rubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry, it’s just bloody frustrating.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Why has all this only just come to light?”
“It seems some case material was lost.”
“What material?” Gray went cold, he’d possessed every piece of documentation relating to his son’s disappearance and now it appeared the collection had been incomplete. Ten years of searching knocked off track because of a missing piece of paper. Ten years during which Gray’s family fell apart. Estranged from Kate, his wife, and his daughter, Hope, who’d gone to live with his in-laws and not come home again.
“A witness statement. The man my contact spoke to is retired now but still lives in Dover. He definitely recalled seeing a boy, possibly matching Tom’s description, in the back of a car as it was driving onto the ferry. He remembered it because the boy had looked petrified. I drove there myself and showed him Tom’s photograph. He’s pretty sure it was him. It seems Tom was being taken to France.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Jeff?” Gray was stunned by the revelation. “I could have spoken to him myself. He may have given me something vital!” Gray was almost shouting. People in the bar were turning to stare.
“For God’s sake, Sol. Keep your voice down.”
“I don’t give a shit what anyone else here thinks,” said Gray, but lowered his tone. “This is my son we’re talking about.”
“Your response is exactly why I kept this from you, Sol. If the lead had come to nothing how would you have felt then?”
Numb, thought Gray. Like always. He said, “Where does the witness live? I want to meet him.”
“Just outside Dover, in St. Margaret’s — and I’ll arrange it, of course.”
“As soon as you can.”
“Of course. Look, Sol. This is a really good development. You should be pleased. It’s more than you’ve had for years.”
“Sorry, Jeff. I’m delighted.”
“I haven’t stopped pursuing this either. The search continues in France. The trouble is, from there he could have been moved anywhere. The haystack just got a lot, lot bigger.”
“Thanks, Jeff.” He felt guilty now for going off at Carslake.
“No need to thank me. That’s what friends are for.”
Gray’s mobile rang. His hands were shaking with emotion as he pressed the green key. He listened briefly to the caller before disconnecting.
“What?” asked Carslake.
“There’s a body on the beach.”
Gray’s day off was over.