And a few other things. What the hell had Tania got herself into?
He leaned down and nuzzled Kit’s neck. A sleepy sigh was his son’s only reaction as he slid into sleep.
Breck straightened up and went over to his desk. He made notes. Marty’s brother. His own grandparents. Number plate AC2431. A woman named Angela. For a moment he sat and stared into space, thinking. Then he opened up his laptop and went hunting.
****
He lost track of time and was startled when he stood up to stretch and glanced at his watch. Well after midnight. Shit. He needed to sleep. And he needed to digest what he’d learned tonight. He should have done this several days ago. Marty’s brother was a very interesting character. He managed a martial arts studio near Cornwall Park. Breck found no photo of Billy Kerr on the internet, but Breck was willing to bet that Billy was balding, built like a brick shithouse and owned a blue pick-up truck.
He’d get someone in Car Registrations to look up AC2431. He wasn’t able to access those records from home.
He had delved into his mother’s background but could turn up nothing useful. There might possibly be something in her university records. He’d search there tomorrow.
Chapter Twelve
“I got you, Dad!” Kit popped up from behind the sofa as Breck jogged past. Their games of tag were curtailed by the smallness of their apartment, but Kit reveled in them. Breck had come to realize that like himself, Kit did not have a lot of experience playing the simple games other kids took for granted. Knowing he was unwanted by the Kerrs had forced him into the background, and at preschool he’d been too withdrawn to participate. But now he was eager to join life. Amused, Breck realized he’d graduated—or been demoted—from “Daddy” to “Dad.”
As he took another turn at being the seeker, his mind churned with the details of whether he should divulge his visit to the Kerr house to the arrogant Moffat. He’d learned that AC2431 did not belong to any pickup truck. It belonged to a very old mini owned by a Miss Albertine Reynolds. Miss Reynolds had no criminal record. The only thing Breck could find on the police computer was Miss Reynolds’ birth date. Miss Reynolds was closer to ninety than eighty. She sure hadn’t been driving the blue pickup.
“Rrright, where is Captain Kit, I wonder?” he muttered as he poked through the kitchen cupboards. “Not here. Hmm. Perhaps in the bedroom.”
A muffled squeal sounded, which meant his son was hiding in the wardrobe.
Breck grinned. “Now let me see—” The doorbell pealed. Damn. He hoped it wasn’t old Mrs. Raynor from downstairs complaining about the noise.
He flung open the door. “Sorry—”
The last two people he expected to see stood on his doorstep. His heart jolted. Clenching his hands, he stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him. No way were they coming inside.
“Mother. Father. Hullo.”
“Come, come, boy. Is that all you’ve got to say? It’s been ages since we’ve seen you!” boomed his father. Jeremy Marchant was, as usual, wearing a tweed suit with leather elbow inserts. Very much the university professor. He looked lean and tanned. Must have had another skiing holiday at Granada. Definitely not Whistler. “Too many damned kids there,” Jeremy had once complained.
His mother had aged since he’d seen her last. The sculptured waves were no longer tinted a strawberry blonde but had been allowed to go grey. She wore another of her interminable two-piece suits with a trailing scarf but she no longer looked as vital and spry as she had a few years ago. She looked—faded. Living with his father was not easy, Breck could attest to that, but it was hard to feel sorry for her. For her the sun rose and set on Jeremy Marchant. She’d always taken his father’s side in any disagreement, dismissing their son as if his opinions were worth nothing.
“We’ve come to check up on young Christopher. Aren’t you going to invite us
He leaned down and nuzzled Kit’s neck. A sleepy sigh was his son’s only reaction as he slid into sleep.
Breck straightened up and went over to his desk. He made notes. Marty’s brother. His own grandparents. Number plate AC2431. A woman named Angela. For a moment he sat and stared into space, thinking. Then he opened up his laptop and went hunting.
****
He lost track of time and was startled when he stood up to stretch and glanced at his watch. Well after midnight. Shit. He needed to sleep. And he needed to digest what he’d learned tonight. He should have done this several days ago. Marty’s brother was a very interesting character. He managed a martial arts studio near Cornwall Park. Breck found no photo of Billy Kerr on the internet, but Breck was willing to bet that Billy was balding, built like a brick shithouse and owned a blue pick-up truck.
He’d get someone in Car Registrations to look up AC2431. He wasn’t able to access those records from home.
He had delved into his mother’s background but could turn up nothing useful. There might possibly be something in her university records. He’d search there tomorrow.
Chapter Twelve
“I got you, Dad!” Kit popped up from behind the sofa as Breck jogged past. Their games of tag were curtailed by the smallness of their apartment, but Kit reveled in them. Breck had come to realize that like himself, Kit did not have a lot of experience playing the simple games other kids took for granted. Knowing he was unwanted by the Kerrs had forced him into the background, and at preschool he’d been too withdrawn to participate. But now he was eager to join life. Amused, Breck realized he’d graduated—or been demoted—from “Daddy” to “Dad.”
As he took another turn at being the seeker, his mind churned with the details of whether he should divulge his visit to the Kerr house to the arrogant Moffat. He’d learned that AC2431 did not belong to any pickup truck. It belonged to a very old mini owned by a Miss Albertine Reynolds. Miss Reynolds had no criminal record. The only thing Breck could find on the police computer was Miss Reynolds’ birth date. Miss Reynolds was closer to ninety than eighty. She sure hadn’t been driving the blue pickup.
“Rrright, where is Captain Kit, I wonder?” he muttered as he poked through the kitchen cupboards. “Not here. Hmm. Perhaps in the bedroom.”
A muffled squeal sounded, which meant his son was hiding in the wardrobe.
Breck grinned. “Now let me see—” The doorbell pealed. Damn. He hoped it wasn’t old Mrs. Raynor from downstairs complaining about the noise.
He flung open the door. “Sorry—”
The last two people he expected to see stood on his doorstep. His heart jolted. Clenching his hands, he stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him. No way were they coming inside.
“Mother. Father. Hullo.”
“Come, come, boy. Is that all you’ve got to say? It’s been ages since we’ve seen you!” boomed his father. Jeremy Marchant was, as usual, wearing a tweed suit with leather elbow inserts. Very much the university professor. He looked lean and tanned. Must have had another skiing holiday at Granada. Definitely not Whistler. “Too many damned kids there,” Jeremy had once complained.
His mother had aged since he’d seen her last. The sculptured waves were no longer tinted a strawberry blonde but had been allowed to go grey. She wore another of her interminable two-piece suits with a trailing scarf but she no longer looked as vital and spry as she had a few years ago. She looked—faded. Living with his father was not easy, Breck could attest to that, but it was hard to feel sorry for her. For her the sun rose and set on Jeremy Marchant. She’d always taken his father’s side in any disagreement, dismissing their son as if his opinions were worth nothing.
“We’ve come to check up on young Christopher. Aren’t you going to invite us
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