anything that Rebecca particularly liked doing. Shrugging, Fletcher reached for another can, opened it and tossed the ring-pull on the table.
“Karen?” Billy said.
“She’s always on at us to take her to the zoo,” Karen said, “but we can’t afford it, can we.” She sent a wary, hunted look in Fletcher’s direction, which he affected not to notice, then she lit a cigarette.
From the back of the house came the sound of glass shattering. Fletcher jerked upright in his chair. “Dwight?” he shouted. “Come here!” Billy looked at the doorway, but the boy didn’t appear.
Ash from the end of Karen’s cigarette landed on the carpet. Fletcher sank back, scowling, and lifted his can towards his mouth. “Little fucker,” he muttered, and then drank.
Back at the station that evening, the phone rang. It was Karen Williams, calling to tell him that she had spoken to Rebecca.
“So, you know,” Karen said in her sloppy, distant voice, “no need to do anything.”
“Where was she?” Billy asked.
“At her cousin’s—I think…”
Leafing through his report again, Billy checked that he had ticked the
High Risk
box. A few moments later, he took the piece of jet from around his neck and placed it on the photo of Rebecca, just below the V-neck of her school jersey.
It will protect you.
After work on Sunday he had driven straight home, needing company, distraction, but he had forgotten that Sue was going to the cinema with friends, and that he had agreed to babysit. When he walked in through the front door, she was facing him across the hall, one arm already in her coat, the other bent behind her and searching blindly for the opening.
“Don’t forget that Emma needs a bath,” she said, “and I haven’t given her any supper yet.”
That night, when he had sung Emma to sleep, he poured himself a large vodka and sat down at the table in the kitchen. He kept returning to the section on the form that said
Other unlisted factors the officer believes should influence the level at which this assessment is weighted.
Rebecca had been missing for most of Saturday, but Karen hadn’t bothered to call the police until late on Sunday morning. She said she thought Rebecca was in her room. She hadn’t checked, though. If a girl Rebecca’s age went missing, and she had wild friends or a history of truancy, the police would start worrying only when she had been gone for two days, but with a quiet girl like Rebecca, you’d start worrying much sooner. In the end, he wasn’t sure he believed what Fletcher and Karen had told him. Who was to say that the abuse they’d described hadn’t taken place at home? Fletcher unemployed, frustrated, drinking; Karen on drugs, or in denial…They could easily have made up that story about the two boys and the aerial. It would be interesting to find out if there was any record of their visit to the school.
The following day, the Monday, when the phone-call turned out to be for him, Billy thought it might be the community officer—he had left a message for her outlining his concerns—but it was Phil Shaw, about another job entirely…
Though Billy had put the report away, the look Rebecca had in the photograph still haunted him.
I’ve tried,
her face seemed to be saying,
I really have, but it’s no use.
He let his mind wander in the hope that it might offer him a strategy, a course of action that would guarantee her safety. It depressed him to think that he might already have done everything he could, just as it had depressed him on Sunday night. When Sue got back from the cinema, she found him sitting in the kitchen with his head in his hands, the vodka bottle nearly empty.
18
“I was planning to look in earlier,” Phil said when Billy opened the door, “but things kept coming up.”
Stepping into the mortuary, he seemed to scour the air with his nose, as if he relied on his sense of smell for a reading of the situation. There was a distinctly feral aspect to the sergeant,
“Karen?” Billy said.
“She’s always on at us to take her to the zoo,” Karen said, “but we can’t afford it, can we.” She sent a wary, hunted look in Fletcher’s direction, which he affected not to notice, then she lit a cigarette.
From the back of the house came the sound of glass shattering. Fletcher jerked upright in his chair. “Dwight?” he shouted. “Come here!” Billy looked at the doorway, but the boy didn’t appear.
Ash from the end of Karen’s cigarette landed on the carpet. Fletcher sank back, scowling, and lifted his can towards his mouth. “Little fucker,” he muttered, and then drank.
Back at the station that evening, the phone rang. It was Karen Williams, calling to tell him that she had spoken to Rebecca.
“So, you know,” Karen said in her sloppy, distant voice, “no need to do anything.”
“Where was she?” Billy asked.
“At her cousin’s—I think…”
Leafing through his report again, Billy checked that he had ticked the
High Risk
box. A few moments later, he took the piece of jet from around his neck and placed it on the photo of Rebecca, just below the V-neck of her school jersey.
It will protect you.
After work on Sunday he had driven straight home, needing company, distraction, but he had forgotten that Sue was going to the cinema with friends, and that he had agreed to babysit. When he walked in through the front door, she was facing him across the hall, one arm already in her coat, the other bent behind her and searching blindly for the opening.
“Don’t forget that Emma needs a bath,” she said, “and I haven’t given her any supper yet.”
That night, when he had sung Emma to sleep, he poured himself a large vodka and sat down at the table in the kitchen. He kept returning to the section on the form that said
Other unlisted factors the officer believes should influence the level at which this assessment is weighted.
Rebecca had been missing for most of Saturday, but Karen hadn’t bothered to call the police until late on Sunday morning. She said she thought Rebecca was in her room. She hadn’t checked, though. If a girl Rebecca’s age went missing, and she had wild friends or a history of truancy, the police would start worrying only when she had been gone for two days, but with a quiet girl like Rebecca, you’d start worrying much sooner. In the end, he wasn’t sure he believed what Fletcher and Karen had told him. Who was to say that the abuse they’d described hadn’t taken place at home? Fletcher unemployed, frustrated, drinking; Karen on drugs, or in denial…They could easily have made up that story about the two boys and the aerial. It would be interesting to find out if there was any record of their visit to the school.
The following day, the Monday, when the phone-call turned out to be for him, Billy thought it might be the community officer—he had left a message for her outlining his concerns—but it was Phil Shaw, about another job entirely…
Though Billy had put the report away, the look Rebecca had in the photograph still haunted him.
I’ve tried,
her face seemed to be saying,
I really have, but it’s no use.
He let his mind wander in the hope that it might offer him a strategy, a course of action that would guarantee her safety. It depressed him to think that he might already have done everything he could, just as it had depressed him on Sunday night. When Sue got back from the cinema, she found him sitting in the kitchen with his head in his hands, the vodka bottle nearly empty.
18
“I was planning to look in earlier,” Phil said when Billy opened the door, “but things kept coming up.”
Stepping into the mortuary, he seemed to scour the air with his nose, as if he relied on his sense of smell for a reading of the situation. There was a distinctly feral aspect to the sergeant,
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