Stop it. Stop it. It’s not over.
She looked at the clock. Saturday-morning surgery ran from ten a.m. to twelve noon. John Warrington was the GP on duty today. The press conference started at ten and would probably run for around forty minutes. It would be tight, but do-able. There was time. It wasn’t over.
So why couldn’t she bloody well stop crying?
The church hadn’t been empty since before dawn. Within half an hour of Evi’s departure, Harry had been fed bacon sandwiches and strong coffee and was holding an impromptu service for the search party. Someone had cleared away his makeshift bed of the night before. Someone else had told him not to bother with robes; in the circumstances, jeans and a sweater would do just fine.
Five minutes after he started, the building was nearly full. Most people had just remained standing at the back and down the sides, as though they could spare the time to pray, but not the time it would take them to sit down. After eight minutes, the police arrived, filing in silently at the back.
Sinclair and Christiana Renshaw entered through the vestry door and took their usual pew. Gillian slipped in behind the police and stood, shivering, at the back. He could see people starting to get fidgety. A movement in the gallery caught his eye. Gareth and Tom Fletcher were standing there. A second later, Alice joined them, with Millie in a rucksack on her back. The family was due to make a television appeal for Joe’s safe return later in the morning. Until then, they weren’t wasting any time. Harry closed his book.
‘Let’s go and find Joe,’ he said. He was the first to leave the building.
81
AGRIM DETERMINATION SEEMED TO HAVE GRIPPED THE people of the moor. ‘We’ll find him,’ Harry had heard muttered more than once. ‘We’re not losing another one.’
He certainly couldn’t fault the efficiency of the police. DC Andy Jeffries had taken thirty of the more able-bodied men and older boys to the highest point above the town. Once on the top road, they’d spread out and begun making their way down the moor. They were looking for anything unusual, they’d been told: clothes, toys, a shoe, anything that might suggest Joe Fletcher had passed this way. When they reached the bottom of the field they turned west and did the same thing again, heading upwards this time.
The sky had been thick with cloud. Harry didn’t want to think it could be holding snow, but every time he looked up the lump in his chest seemed to harden. Just before eight o’clock a yellow glow in the east told him the sun was trying to make an impact on the day. He couldn’t even give it points for effort. The wind, mercifully, was light, but the day seemed to be getting colder with every half-hour that passed.
So far the search had been fruitless. Thirty heartbeats had gone into overdrive when one of the Pickup collies had started barking at a clump of rocks. The decomposing hind-quarters of a sheep had been pulled out.
When they’d been on the moor for nearly two hours and the cold was creeping in through even the thickest coat, they heard the steady, insistent humming of a helicopter. None of the searchers could see it above the cloud, but the rise and fall of the engine volume told them when it was coming close, when it was circling away again. After five minutes, Harry wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to cope with the steady assault on his ears. After ten, it felt as if he’d always had the noise in his head. Fifteen minutes after the helicopter arrived, DC Jeffries blew his whistle.
‘The boss is calling us all down.’ He had to shout to be heard above the drone of the chopper. ‘There’s too many people on the moor.’ He pointed upwards to demonstrate his point. ‘The thermal-imaging equipment hasn’t got a hope,’ he went on. ‘We have to evacuate.’
The party turned and headed down to the town.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Alice was saying. ‘I can’t think of a single thing to say.’
‘Just say whatever’s on your mind,’ said the press officer, a woman in civilian clothing who had been looking after the family since they’d arrived at the constabulary’s headquarters. ‘People will know what you’re going through. This is about letting as many people as possible know that Joe is missing. We want everyone out there looking for him. How are you doing, Tom?’
Tom looked back at her. ‘Fine,’ he said automatically.
She was bending down to him. She smelled of oranges and toothpaste and her green suit was too tight. ‘If anything occurs to you, Tom, feel free to say it,’ she went on. ‘If you have a message for Joe, for example. He may be watching.’
‘Will he?’ Tom turned to his mother. ‘Will he, Mum?’
His mother nodded and Tom felt his throat start to ache.
‘Is it time yet?’ asked Gareth as Tom began taking deep breaths. He couldn’t cry, not on television, not when Jake Knowles might be watching. Except Jake was on the moor, wasn’t he, with his dad and his brothers? Tom had seen them in the church, he’d watched them set off up the road. Jake Knowles was out there right now, looking for his brother.
‘There’s Evi,’ said Alice.
Tom turned round to see Evi wheeling her chair towards them. Funny, he’d always thought of Evi as being pretty. Nearly as pretty as his mum. She didn’t look pretty any more.
‘Vee vee,’ said Millie, from her father’s arms.
‘Evi, thank you for coming,’ said Alice. ‘Do you think you could have Millie? She’ll probably stay with you.’
Evi held up her arms and Gareth put his daughter down gently on to Evi’s lap. Millie grabbed Evi’s hair and started bouncing.
‘It’s time,’ said Detective Chief Superintendent Rushton. Where had he come from? He’d been on the moor with the other police. Tom watched him put a hand on Alice’s shoulder. ‘Are you ready, lass?’
Tom’s parents followed the detective through a door and into a large room. There were lots of people sitting on chairs, facing a long table at the front. Lights began to flash as the family took their seats.
The vestry had become a cafeteria. Minnie Hawthorn and her gang of cron- -sweet, good ladies who were desperate to do anything they could to help – had transformed it. Half a dozen kettles were permanently on the boil. Sandwiches were being made and consumed constantly. They were too old to trawl the moors, the women had told him, as though embarrassed by their own frailty, but they could feed those who did; and they could pray for the little lad.
If Harry stayed near them any longer, he’d scream.
In front of the altar, DI Neasden was explaining why they’d had to temporarily abandon the search. When Neasden finished speaking, he’d be expected to lead more prayers. Harry knew he couldn’t stay in the building.
Outside, the helicopter was still circling. Towards the front of the church, standing a little apart, DCS Rushton was talking to Sinclair and Tobias Renshaw. Since Rushton was back, the press conference must have finished. Spotting Harry, Rushton left the Renshaws and made his way over. Suddenly exhausted, Harry sank on to the stone-table grave behind him. Rushton approached and sat beside him. He had a lit cigarette in one hand.
Harry turned to look at Rushton properly. The police officer wore a thick overcoat over his suit, heavy gloves and a green wool scarf. He’d possibly had even less sleep than Harry.
‘Anything?’ asked Harry, knowing what the answer would be but unable to stop himself asking.
Rushton inhaled deeply on his cigarette. ‘Not so far,’ he said, as smoke billowed around his face. ‘Press conference went well. Young Tom was a bit of a star, had the whole room in tears telling his brother he’d tidied his box of soldiers for him.’
Harry dropped his head into his hands.
‘It was exactly what we needed,’ said Rushton. ‘We’ve got the whole of Lancashire talking about Joe Fletcher.’