‘Can you remember anything which might help?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice normal, unflurried.
He shook his head and began to cry.
Until now Emma had been able to believe that this was one of the regular scares she inflicted on herself. If she lost sight of Owen for a moment in a supermarket or he was the last to come out of playgroup she convinced herself that some harm had come to him. It had become an automatic anxiety, a superstitious way of warding off danger. Now she knew that the danger was real. When Claire appeared back at the kitchen door Emma looked up at her without hope.
‘You didn’t see him?’
‘No,’ Claire said. ‘No one’s seen him.’
‘I’ll phone the police, then.’ It was a relief to have something to do. She dialled 999. Later she phoned Brian at the office but there was no reply.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The police set up a roadblock just beyond the level crossing. Brian Coulthard saw it on his way home but nobody stopped him. The two officers standing in the sun weren’t interested in cars coming on to the Headland, only those on their way off.
Ramsay sent Sally Wedderburn to wait with Emma Coulthard at the Coastguard House. At first she’d objected.
‘I’ve had nothing to do with the child abductions since I joined the murder team.’
‘Don’t you think this is connected with the murder?’ he asked, as if he were surprised she’d not worked it out for herself. She hadn’t liked to ask what he meant.
Still she’d been reluctant to go. She and Emma Coulthard hadn’t exactly hit it off when they first met and this support role wasn’t really her thing. She wasn’t much good at comforting conversation and endless cups of tea, letting the kids play with her radio and climb all over her lap. All the same she supposed it was an opportunity of a sort.
When she got there Emma Coulthard hardly seemed to recognize her. The woman was sitting on a stool in the kitchen. She was very upright and her face had a hard, sculpted look caused by all the muscles tensing through an effort of will. Sally realized she was afraid that if she relaxed for a minute she’d break down. She had the other children to think of. Sally admired that.
‘Is there any news?’ Her voice was controlled too.
Sally shook her head. ‘Not yet. They’ve put a road block down by the level crossing. They’re stopping all the cars.’
‘It’s too late. He’d been gone twenty minutes when I phoned you.’
‘Not necessarily. There’s been a convoy of trains to the power station this afternoon. The crossing’s been down for a lot of that time. Besides, it’s not certain yet that David’s been abducted, is it? You said he was the sort to run away. We’ve a team searching the shore. There are plenty of places he could be playing. And the roadblock’s there as much to ask for witnesses as anything else. People visiting the Headland might have seen him.’
‘Yes.’ The logic of the reply seemed to reassure her. ‘Yes, I see.’
‘Where’s your nanny? We’ll need to talk to her.’
‘I sent her home. I know it’s not really her fault but I was afraid I’d have a go at her. Say something I might regret later. We need someone to blame, don’t we, at a time like this? Besides ourselves, of course.’
Then she did seem about to break down, but the door opened and Brian Coulthard came in. He ran across the floor towards his wife. His black shoes were very shiny and Sally thought he moved like one of the ballroom dancers who take part in Latin American competitions on the television late at night. He took Emma up in his arms, and held her while she sobbed out the story.
Sally mumbled something about having to call the office and wandered through to the living room where a small body sat forlornly on the floor. She let him press the buttons on her radio and talk for a moment to Inspector Ramsay, who was waiting for news at the police station.
Hunter stopped at the roadblock on his way through to the Headland. It didn’t hurt to give the lads a bit of support, and whenever he saw his mates in uniform doing a routine task like that it made him feel good he still wasn’t one of them.
A blue estate was coming down the road from the direction of the club and he pulled his car into the verge and got out to watch a PC flag it down.
The driver was dark, unshaven. He looked like Hunter felt after twelve pints of lager and a couple of hours’ kip on a strange sofa.
‘Could you give us your name please, sir?’
‘Hooper. Paul Hooper.’
‘Any identification to confirm that, sir?’
He pulled out a wallet and handed over a credit card.
‘Are you the registered keeper of this vehicle?’
‘No. It belongs to the company I work for. Otterbridge Motors.’
‘That’s the one with the big showroom at the retail park off the bypass.’
‘Aye.’
Later Hunter was to have nightmares about that scene. He ran it over and over in his head. Because he almost stood aside and let the man drive away. He watched the PC look in the boot and ask his questions about a small lad wandering the Headland on his own and he almost failed to make the connection. But not quite. At the last moment he stepped forward, almost shoving the constable out of the way as he stuck his head through the driver’s window.
‘Mr Hooper,’ he said. ‘What was your business on the Headland?’
Then, when there was no immediate reply.
‘Been to visit Kim Houghton again, have you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
He wouldn’t be a bad-looking chap, Hunter thought, if he had a shower and a shave. He knew how to dress. The leather jacket was folded up on the seat next to him.
‘Kim Houghton’s got a friend named Paul. A guy just like you. And he was on the Headland the night before a woman was murdered. We’ve been asking him to come forward, but he never did. Strange that, isn’t it? In a case when an innocent woman’s been killed you’d think he’d be only too pleased to help the police. And now a little boy’s gone missing too. So tell me, Mr Paul Hooper, what is it exactly that you’ve got to hide?’
The man leant forward so his head touched the steering wheel. Then, to Hunter’s disgust, he began to cry.
They wasted no time in interviewing Hooper. The boy was still missing. Ramsay was aware throughout of the clock on the wall, the minutes ticking away.
‘Where is he, Paul? Where’s David?’ The question, like a refrain, punctuating the other questions.
At first it was impossible to work out what was going on. It wasn’t that he was unco-operative. He seemed only too eager to answer their questions. Except the important one, which he seemed not to hear.
‘Where is he? Where’s David?’
He said he wanted to explain. He needed help. So did Marie, though she’d never admit it. That’s why he’d spent the night on the Headland. Because he wanted to think. At first Ramsay left the questions to Hunter, who found it hard to get a word in.
‘I didn’t mean them any harm,’ Hooper said. He leant right across the table. It seemed he was going to grab Hunter by the shoulder to make him understand. ‘You do believe me about that, don’t you? I wouldn’t have hurt them for the world.’
‘Who are we talking about here?’ Hunter demanded. ‘Mrs Howe or the little laddie? And what, exactly, did you do with the little laddie, Paul?’
‘I put him back!’ Hooper sat back. He was surprised, indignant. ‘I put them all back. You know I did. I bought them sweets, played with them, and then I put them back. On a busy street with lots of people so I knew they’d be safe.’
‘Who did you put back, Paul?’
‘You know! Stop playing games!’ He hit the table with the palm of his hand. Mad as a snake, Hunter thought. He hated interviewing loonies. You never knew where you were with them. Hooper continued, counting on his fingers as he listed the names.