‘I’ll tell you what you could do,’ he said. ‘Put the kettle on. I’d love a cup of tea.’
‘All right.’
She returned to the house. Ramsay shut the kitchen door firmly behind her and gave the shed his full attention. He gripped the door close to the hook through which the padlock had been fastened and lifted it, pulling it towards him at the same time. Sunlight flooded in. Now the stain on the floor, rusty coloured, looked more like blood than oil. The corners were still in shadow.
The shed was split into two compartments. One, presumably, had housed the privy. In the other coal was stored. The spaces were separated by a chest-high brick wall and looked like animal stalls. There were no tools – Bernard Howe obviously had no interest in DIY – except a small trowel which had been newly purchased, Ramsay thought, to plant up the tub in the yard. A defunct vacuum cleaner lay on its side. In one corner was a pile of threadbare clothes destined for a charity shop. A plastic sack with AGE CONCERN written on it had been folded over the partition wall. And on top of the pile of clothes lay a small child. His head was thrown back uncomfortably. His arms, palms upwards, were outstretched.
The boy was alive but sleeping. His face was dirty and stained with tears. He opened his eyes and began to whimper.
Sally crouched beside him, making reassuring noises, but she seemed afraid to touch him and it was Ramsay in the end who picked him up. He was still half asleep and he didn’t struggle. He’d wet his pants and Ramsay felt the damp seep through David’s quilted trousers and on to his shirt. He was holding the boy so close that he could feel his heart beating.
‘Give Grace a call,’ he said. ‘Tell her to put the Coulthards out of their misery. But tell her not to give any details. Just that he’s alive and well. She can come and fetch him. I don’t want the Coulthard’s turning up on the doorstep. We’ll have discretion all round. I want no lynch mobs here.’
‘How did Claire hope to get away with it?’ Sally demanded. ‘She didn’t even stop us coming out here to look.’
‘I don’t think there was any intention of getting away with it. It was a gesture.’
If it was Claire, he thought, still unsettled by the coincidence of Mark Taverner’s failure to keep his appointment with Emma. Remembering the padlock key lying on a shelf close to the kitchen door which was always kept open. So obvious. Brass like the padlock and shiny. Hunter would tell him that he was making things too complicated and that for once in his life he should accept that the obvious answer was probably the true one.
‘I know she was daft about babies. But did she really think she could keep him here, like some sort of doll?’
Sally had worked herself into a rage. Just because she didn’t fancy motherhood herself didn’t mean she couldn’t get upset when kids were ill treated. The thought of the kid locked in the dark shed, scared out of his wits, made her want to vomit.
The kitchen door had a glass panel and through it Ramsay could see that the room was empty. The kettle had switched itself off but there was no sign of Marilyn. He supposed she’d wandered through to chat to Claire and had her attention caught by something on the television. Unless she’d been watching from the kitchen, had seen them retrieve the little boy and had gone to warn Claire.
‘Go in,’ he said sharply to Sally. ‘Don’t tell them anything. Just make sure neither of them do a runner.’
Then he stood in the yard, still holding the silent three-year-old, waiting for Grace to arrive to take him away. He hoped the high walls would protect him from the prying eyes of neighbours. He supposed, considering it for the first time, that Prue would think herself too old to have another child.
Grace turned up in the back alley, driving Emma’s car with the baby seat in the back. David allowed himself to be strapped in without any fuss.
‘You’ll arrange for medical checks,’ Ramsay said.
‘The GP’s a friend of the family. He’s already on his way.’ She leant back against the car. ‘What do I tell the family?’
‘Nothing. Say you don’t know how he came to be found.’
‘That’s true enough, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know much myself yet. Tell them I’ll be up later this evening. I’ll talk to them then.’
She drove away. After the disruption of the search in the Row, Ramsay had expected the car to draw attention. A nosy neighbour in an upstairs window seeing the child would be enough to start a crowd. But the street was unnaturally quiet. Then he realized there was a Cup game. A five o’clock start to suit the television. The first time Newcastle had reached the semi-finals for years. They’d all be in their front rooms, draped in their black and white scarves.
In the back room the women were sitting in silence. Marilyn was reading a book. Lord of the Flies.
‘I’m sorry about the tea,’ she said. ‘ I started reading when the kettle was boiling. And I got engrossed. I’m doing if for my GCSE wider reading course.’
Absent-minded, he thought. Like her father.
‘When do you expect Bernard home?’ he asked.
‘Marilyn looked up from her book to the clock which stood on the mantelpiece. ‘Any time now.’
Claire stirred. ‘Have you finished? Are you going to leave us in peace? I’ve a meal to cook.’
‘I thought you’d like to know,’ Ramsay said. ‘David Coulthard’s been found.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Oh, brilliant.’ But her attention was held by the television. ‘I thought I’d go down in the records as the nanny from hell.’
She didn’t ask where he’d been discovered. ‘I suppose he did wander away, get hidden somewhere?’
‘Something like that,’ Ramsay said. Then: ‘I wonder if you’d both mind going to the station with Sally to make a statement. For our records. To clear the matter up. I’ll be along later.’
‘Now?’ Claire said. ‘ Bernie’ll be in any minute wanting his tea.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind. We’ll drop you back later.’
He could see that Sally was working up a head of steam, imagined her exploding with, ‘What sort of games do you think you’re playing, lady? I suppose you want us to believe that the kid shut himself in your shed.’
‘If I could just have a word, Constable, please.’
Shocked by the formality she followed him into the hall. There he said, ‘Take her through her statement again. Don’t give anything away. Hang on to her until I get back. And while you’re there get someone to trace the taxi driver who dropped Bernie Howe in Gosforth. I want the exact time he was picked up. And find out where Mark Taverner’s hiding.
‘What about the girl?’
‘Take a statement from her too. I don’t want her here on her own when her dad gets back.’
When they had all gone and he had the place to himself he went to the kitchen, switched the kettle back on and made himself a mug of instant coffee. Newcastle must just have scored because through the wall he heard a concerto of yells and cheers. He took his mug into the back yard and knelt to look at the stain on the shed floor. He was quite certain it was blood. But it was not, as he had feared, the child’s blood. David had not received even a scratch. Ramsay knew the rules. If he suspected that this was a scene of crime he should seal it off, call in the experts, make every effort to reduce contamination of the forensic evidence.
But if this was the scene of the crime he believed, it had happened weeks ago and contamination would have already occurred. And he was curious.
He started with the shed. In the compartment half filled with coal there was a tin bucket and a shovel. He moved the coal from one corner to another until he was satisfied that nothing had been hidden beneath it. He rummaged through the pile of discarded clothes. There was nothing but a short piece of bamboo which had fallen from the kite David had been flying. He must have held on to it while he was carried away.