“Julian, when you saw John walk off towards Mill Lane, did you see anything else? Did anyone speak to him?”
The boy shook his head, “He just went off.”
“And then what did he do? Did he stand under the trees or go down the lane?”
“Don’t know.” Julian fidgeted and looked down. “I was on the swings.”
“Did you look over towards the lane? Didn’t you look to see where he was?”
“He’d gone,” said Julian. “Gary said he’d gone and a jolly good thing because we didn’t want babies.”
“I see.”
“Honestly, he doesn’t know,” said the sister. “We’ve been on and on at him but he really doesn’t know.”
Burden gave up and went to the Deans at 63.
"I'm not having Gary hounded,” said Mrs. Dean, a hard-looking young woman with an aggressive manner. “Children quarrel all the time. Gary’s not to be blamed because John Lawrence is so sensitive that a bit of teasing makes him run off. The child’s disturbed. That’s what’s at the root of the trouble. He comes from a broken home, so what can you expect?”
These were Burden’s own sentiments. “I’m not blaming Gary,” be said. “I just want to ask him some questions.”
“I’m not having him bullied.”
These days the least bit of opposition was liable to set him off.
“You’re at liberty,” he said sharply, “to report me to the Chief Constable, madam, if I bully him.”
The boy was in bed but not asleep. He came down in his dressing-gown, his eyes sulky and his lip stuck out.
“Now, Gary, I’m not angry with you. No one’s angry. We just want to find John. You understand that, don’t you?”
The boy didn’t answer.
“He’s tired,” said his mother. “He’s told you he didn’t see anyone and that ought to be enough.”
Burden ignored her. He leant towards the boy. “Look at me, Gary.” The eyes which met his were full of tears. “Don’t cry. You could help us, Gary. Wouldn’t you like everyone to think of you as the boy who helped the police to find John? All I want you to tell me is if you saw anyone at all, any grown-up, by the lane when John went away.”
“I didn’t see them today,” said Gary. He screamed and threw himself on his mother. “I didn’t see them, I didn’t!”
“I hope you’re satisfied,” said Mrs. Dean. “I’m warning you, I shall take this further.”
“I didn’t see that person,” Gary sobbed.
“Well, Mike?” said Wexford.
“It looks as if a man’s been hanging about that playing field. I thought I might have a go at the people in the end houses overlooking the swings field.”
“All right, and I’ll try the two end ones in Wincanton.”
Did Wexford remember that be and Jean had once lived there? Burden wondered if he was attributing an excess of sensitivity to the chief inspector. Probably. A policeman has no private life when on a case. He made his way to the bottom of Fontaine Road. The fields were dark now but occasionally in the far distance, he could make out the gleam from a torch.
The last two houses faced each other. One was a detached bungalow, vintage 1935, the other a tall narrow Victorian place. Both had side windows facing the field. Burden knocked at the bungalow and a girl came to the door.
“I’m out at work all day,” she said. “I’ve only just got in and my husband isn’t home yet. What’s happened? Has something awful happened?”
Burden told her.
“You can see the field from my window,” she said, “but I’m never here.”
“I won’t waste your time, then.”
“I hope you find him,” the girl said.
The door of the Victorian house was opened before he reached it. As soon as he saw the face of the woman who was waiting for him he knew she had something to tell him. She was elderly, sharp-eyed and spry.
“It wasn’t that man, was it? I’ll never forgive myself if it was him and I . . .”
“Perhaps I could come in a minute? And may I have your name?’
“Mrs. Mitchell.” She took him into a neat, newly decorated room. “I ought to have gone to the police before but you know how it is. He never did anything, he never even spoke to any of the children. I did mention it to young Mrs. Rushworth because her Andrew plays there, but she’s always so busy, out at work all day, and I expect she forgot to tell the other mothers. And then when he didn’t come back and the children went back to school . . .”
“Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we, Mrs. Mitchell? You saw a man hanging about the swings field. When did you first see him?”
Mrs. Mitchell sat down and took a deep breath. “It was in August, during the school holidays. I always clean my upstairs windows on a Wednesday afternoon and one Wednesday I was doing the landing window and I saw this man.”
“Where did you see him?”
“Over by the Forby road, Mill Lane, under the trees. He was standing there, looking at the children. Let me see, there was Julian Crantock and Gary Dean and poor little John Lawrence and Andrew Rushworth and the McDowell twins, and they were all playing on the swings and this man was looking at them. Oh, I should have gone to the police!”
“You spoke to one of the mothers, Mrs. Mitchell. You mustn’t reproach yourself. I take it you saw this man again?”
“Oh, yes, the next Wednesday, and I made a point of looking the next day, the Thursday, and he was there again, and it was then I spoke to Mrs. Rushworth.”
“So, in fact, you saw him often throughout the August holiday?”
“We had a spell of bad weather after that and the children couldn’t go into the field, and then it was time to go back to school. I forgot all about the man after that. Until yesterday.”
“You saw him yesterday?”
Mrs. Mitchell nodded. “It was Wednesday and I was doing the landing window. I saw the children come into the field and then this man appeared. It gave me a shock, seeing him again after two months. I thought to myself, I’m going to stand at this window and watch you and see what you do. But be didn’t do anything. He walked around the field and he picked some leaves, branches of autumn leaves, you know, and then he stood still for a bit, looking at the boys. He was there for about half an hour and when I was just thinking, I’ll have to get a chair because my legs won’t hold me up, be went down over the bank.”
“Had he a car?” Burden asked quickly. “In the lane?
“I couldn’t see. I think I heard a car start up, but it mightn’t have been his, might it?”
“Did you see him today, Mrs. Mitchell?”
“I should have looked, I know that. But I had told Mrs. Rushworth and it was her responsibility. Besides, I’d never seen this man do anything.” She sighed. “I went out at two today,” she said. “I went to see my married daughter in Kingsmarkham.”
“Describe this man to me, Mrs. Mitchell.”
“I can do that,” she said, pleased. “He was young, hardly more than a boy himself. Very slim, you know, and sort of slight. Not as tall as you, not nearly. About five feet six. He always wore the same clothes, one of those - what d’you call them? - duffel coats, black or very dark grey, and those jeans they all wear. Dark hair, not long for these days, but a lot longer than yours. I couldn’t see his face, not from this distance, but he had very little hands. And he limps.”
“Limps?”