DELAHAYE SAT AT HIS DESK, staring at the photograph of Bryan his family had given the police and the press. Delahaye had noticed that many of the police officers had become fond of the Shelton family, especially young Constable Daryl Morgan. The Sheltons now kept strange, sleepless hours so, at midnight, Delahaye took them up Beacon Hill to spend time unhindered by press and well-wishers; to sit and stare out across a glittering Birmingham sprawled out beneath. One night, they’d been on the hill playing night footie when they heard a chorus of mournful howls carried on the wind. The boys and policemen had stopped playing, but not Alan Shelton.
‘It’s just them massive scrapyard dogs,’ Alan had said.
Alan insisted the police arrest the Old Nonce, Bob Aster, or at least bring him in for questioning. Aster, having the worst track record of sexual offences against boys, was always highest on the list of suspects. His fingerprints hadn’t been found at either Banlock Farm or the Sheltons’ house. They couldn’t prove he was the culprit – although he would know enough about forensics to wear gloves this time.
The police had visited Aster’s family, but they had disowned him a long time ago. His elderly mother had died during his incarceration. When Bryan went missing, police called around but there had been no answer then or since. His recent inexplicable absence from the area was proof enough of guilt for Alan, who was feeling helpless and demanded action. This was the general feeling across Rubery.
Rubery: from the old English word rowbery, meaning ‘rough hill’. Where combustion engines roared in rivalry with birdsong. Delahaye loved Rubery and its confusion of ancient and modern landmarks, perched on the outskirts of the once soot-blackened city. Lines, on the other hand, didn’t think much of it. ‘There were nice streets, sure,’ he would say to Delahaye, but he described the estates in the green belt ‘like gunshot wounds on a pretty face’.
Brummies bore grudges more eternal than Mafia Dons, but their community spirit was genuine. Locals reached out to the Sheltons, leaving letters and cards on the doormat, in the garden, on the windscreen of Alan’s van. Mickey Grant’s mother supplied casseroles and stews, handing them to PC Morgan to give to the family, unable to confront her own agony in another mother’s eyes.
‘Sarge?’
Delahaye snapped out of his reverie and Lines added, ‘A member of the public has just rung in to say they think they’ve found something on their property, Sarge. Something of Bryan’s.’