On the top bunk, Keiron stirred, blinking towards the landing light. “Dad?”
Fingers and thumbs, Rebecca helped them into their clothes, Keiron with a school sweatshirt pulled down over his Forest top, Billie snapped into her blue dungarees.
“Where we going, Mum?” Keiron asked.
“I’m not sure, love.”
“An adventure,” his father said, coming through the door. “We’re going on an adventure.”
“Really?”
“You bet!” He tousled the boy’s hair.
“You mean like camping?”
“Yes, a bit like that.”
“Like you in the army.”
“Yes. Like that.”
“Some of the year-sixes go camping overnight. Cook their own food and everything. Can we do that?”
“Prob’ly. We’ll see.”
“And take a pack-up? Can we take a pack-up?”
“No need, son. I’ve got all the stuff we need.”
“But they do, carry it with them. Can’t we?”
“Yes, all right, then. Why not? Becca, how about it? Like the boy says. Fix us something quick. Sandwich, anything. Go on, I’ll finish up here.”
When he got down to the kitchen, a few minutes later, there was bread, a pot of jam, and some cheese but no Rebecca; he found her in the front room, texting on her mobile phone.
“The hell!”
Before he could reach her, she’d pressed Delete. Swinging her hard towards him, he snatched the phone from her hand. “Who was that going to be to? The police?” He hurled the phone against the wall and, pushing her aside, crushed it with the heel of his boot. “Now get in that kitchen and get finished. Five minutes and we’re leaving. Five.”
Keiron was standing, open mouthed, at the living-room door and behind him somewhere Billie had started to cry.
It was early evening and they were sitting in Resnick’s office, a light rain blurring the window, the intermittent snarl and hum of traffic from the street.
“Here’s what we’ve got so far,” Resnick said. “Two sets of adult prints in the house, one we’re assuming are Terry Anderson’s. Looks as if he forced the lock on the back door. Not difficult. Explains why it was only bolted across. There was a mobile phone, Rebecca’s, in the front room. Beneath the settee. Broken. Smashed on purpose.”
“Used recently?” Kiley asked.
“One call earlier that evening, to a friend. We’ve already spoken to her, nothing there.”
“No mention of going away, taking a trip?”
“Nothing.”
“And the husband? She didn’t say anything about him? Being worried at all?”
Resnick shook his head. “We’ve checked with the school and the nursery where she takes the little girl. Both were surprised when the kids didn’t turn up this morning. Nursery phoned but got no answer, assumed she’d been taken sick. School, the same.”
Kiley shifted uncomfortably on his chair.
“More luck with the neighbours,” Resnick said. “Old lady next-door, bit of a light sleeper, reckons she heard a child scream. A little after two. Either that or a fox, she couldn’t be sure. Person from across the street, sleeps with the window open, thinks he might have heard a vehicle driving away, that would be later, around two-thirty. There’s not a lot more. A couple of people mentioned seeing a van parked in Exchange Road, just around the corner. Not usually there. Small, white, maybe a black stripe down the side. Could have been a Citroen, according to one. We’re following that up, checking CCTV. That time of night, roads shouldn’t be too busy. Might spot something.” He leaned back. “Not a lot else to go on.”
“You’ve sent out descriptions?” Kiley said.
“As best we can. Local airports. Birmingham.”
“They could have gone with him willingly,” Kiley said.
“Is that what you think?”
“What I’d like to think,” Kiley said. “Not the same thing.”
Keiron helped him put up the tent. The trees in that part of the forest had mostly lost their leaves, but the undergrowth was thick enough to shield them from sight. None of the regular paths came near. Tent up, they foraged for fallen branches and dragged them to the site, arranging them over the bracken. Several times, Keiron cut himself on thorns and briars, but he just sucked at the blood and bit back the tears. Big boy, trying not to be afraid.
“How long?” Rebecca wanted to ask. “How long are we going to be here?” Reading the look on Anderson ’s face, she said nothing.
The sandwiches were finished quickly. Amongst the supplies he had provided were tins of corned beef and baked beans, peach slices in syrup. Biscuits. Bottles of water. Tea bags and a jar of instant coffee, though he didn’t want the risk of lighting a fire. They had driven the van some way along the main track, then gone the rest of the way on foot, making two journeys to carry everything. Still dark. Just the light of a single torch. Taking Keiron with him, Anderson had gone back to move the van.
Before leaving, he had taken Rebecca to one side. “You’ll be here when we get back, you and Billie. Right here. Okay?”
“Yes.” A whisper.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, yes. Yes, all right.” Not able to look him in the eye.
“It better be.”
By the time they had returned, Keiron was exhausted, out on his feet, and his father had had to carry him the last half-mile. Billie was asleep, stretched across her mother’s lap. While he had been away, she had tried walking a little way in each direction, taking Billie with her, careful never to wander too far and lose her way back. She had seen nobody, heard nothing. She felt stupid for not doing anything more, without knowing what, safely, she could have done.
“You look knackered,” Anderson said. “Tired out. Why don’t you get your head down? Get a bit of sleep while you can.”
When she opened her eyes, not so many minutes later, he was sitting cross-legged at the far side of the tent, rifle close beside him, painstakingly cleaning his knife.
Not wanting to stand around like a spare part, waiting, Kiley had walked into the city, found a halfway-decent place for breakfast, and settled down to a bacon cob with brown sauce and a mug of serious tea and tried to concentrate on his book. No such luck. Jennie had rung him earlier on his mobile and he’d hesitated before giving her a truncated version of what little they knew, what they surmised.
“Don’t say anything to his mother,” he said. “Not yet, anyway.”
“What d’you take me for?”
“I’ll call you if I know anything more definite.”
“You promise?”
Kiley promised. Breakfast over, he wandered around the city centre. The square in front of the council building was going through some kind of makeover; maybe they were turning it into a car park. The pavements were busy with early shoppers, people hurrying, late, to work, the occasional drinker with his can of cider clutched tight. He walked up the hill towards the Theatre Royal. Duncan Preston in To Kill a Mockingbird. All next week, The Rocky Horror Show. Big-Time American Wrestling at the Royal Concert Hall. He was halfway down King Street, heading back towards the square, when his mobile rang. It was Resnick. They’d found something.
There was an OS map open on the table when Kiley arrived, the blurred image of a van frozen on the computer screen. Nighttime. Overhead lights reflected in the road surface. There were several other officers in the room.
“Two sightings of the possible van,” Resnick said.
One of the officers, dark hair, dandruff on his shoulders, set the CCTV footage in motion.
“The first here, junction 27 of the M1, leaving the motorway and heading east towards the A608. And then here-see the time code-not so many minutes later, at the roundabout where it joins the 611. Turning south.”