moment before the doors were locked.
‘A train? What train?’ Aunt Gloria said.
‘An inter-city between London and Manchester.’
‘Manchester? But that’s where we’d just come from. Why would Salim go back there?’
‘The boy – if it was Salim – was on his own. Unfortunately that’s where we lose sight of him. The guard on the train has no memory of him. He could have got off at any of the stops in between. But the Manchester police are checking to see if Salim is perhaps in Manchester—’
‘With his dad!’ Aunt Gloria said.
‘He is not with his father, I’m afraid. It was the first place we looked.’ The inspector produced Salim’s address book. ‘We’ve spoken to everybody you told us he was close to. His cousins Ramesh and Yasmin. Your neighbours, the Tysons. His school friend, Marcus Flood. And his old friend from primary school, Paul Burridge.’
‘And?’
‘None of them say they’ve heard from him since you left the day before yesterday.’
‘Hrumm,’ I said. ‘That’s—’
‘Hush, Ted,’ said Mum.
‘If Salim did go to Manchester,’ Detective Inspector Pearce said to Aunt Gloria, ‘where do you think he’d be most likely to go?’
Aunt Gloria stared into the space in front of her and then sighed. ‘I don’t think,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘I think the boy on the train is like the boy last night, the boy in the morgue. The boy you thought was Salim and wasn’t.’
Detective Inspector Pearce reached over and touched Aunt Gloria’s hand. ‘I’m sincerely sorry about that, Gloria. We didn’t have a proper photo ID then. We do now.’ From a brown envelope she’d been holding she took out a photo of Salim and showed it to us. ‘Your ex-husband gave us this. Would you say it’s a good likeness?’
Salim was in a school blazer, with a sweatshirt underneath, and a faint line of a moustache over his lips. He was not looking either happy or sad in the photograph because his lips were straight, neither up nor down.
‘That’s him,’ Aunt Gloria whispered. ‘I bought two copies so that Salim could give one to his father. To Rashid. I do it every year. I don’t know why. I don’t even know if Rashid has them framed. I don’t—’
The doorbell rang. Dad went out into the hall to see who it was and I heard voices and then in walked a tall Indian man in jeans and a green shirt.
‘Speak of the devil,’ Aunt Gloria hissed. I only heard her say this because I was standing next to her. I didn’t see anything particularly satanic about the strange man. I thought he must be another plainclothes police officer. My hand flapped.
‘What’s this?’ the man said. ‘Have you found my son?’ He looked at Aunt Gloria.
She looked at him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m looking for my son. What else? Trust you to lose him!’
Maybe Satan had entered the room after all because everybody started talking very loudly. I put my hands over my ears but I could still hear them. I counted the people in the room. Seven. I tried to guess the ages of those I didn’t know. Then I added up the ages, actual or approximate, of all present. When I arrived at the figure of 233, and worked out the average age was 33.3 recurring, everyone was still shouting their heads off. The difference between laughing your head off and shouting your head off is that with one you are happy and with the other you are angry. I like it much better when people are laughing their heads off.
Detective Inspector Pearce got up from her chair.
‘I’d better go,’ she said, but I’m not sure that anyone listened except for me and Dad, who had not joined in the shouting either. Dad showed her out to the hallway and I followed. You could still hear the raised voices in the living room.
‘Goodbye, Mr Spark,’ Detective Inspector Pearce said. ‘I’m sorry again about last night.’
I felt Dad’s arm on my shoulder tighten. ‘Will you find out who that poor boy was?’
‘We’re
‘A train? What train?’ Aunt Gloria said.
‘An inter-city between London and Manchester.’
‘Manchester? But that’s where we’d just come from. Why would Salim go back there?’
‘The boy – if it was Salim – was on his own. Unfortunately that’s where we lose sight of him. The guard on the train has no memory of him. He could have got off at any of the stops in between. But the Manchester police are checking to see if Salim is perhaps in Manchester—’
‘With his dad!’ Aunt Gloria said.
‘He is not with his father, I’m afraid. It was the first place we looked.’ The inspector produced Salim’s address book. ‘We’ve spoken to everybody you told us he was close to. His cousins Ramesh and Yasmin. Your neighbours, the Tysons. His school friend, Marcus Flood. And his old friend from primary school, Paul Burridge.’
‘And?’
‘None of them say they’ve heard from him since you left the day before yesterday.’
‘Hrumm,’ I said. ‘That’s—’
‘Hush, Ted,’ said Mum.
‘If Salim did go to Manchester,’ Detective Inspector Pearce said to Aunt Gloria, ‘where do you think he’d be most likely to go?’
Aunt Gloria stared into the space in front of her and then sighed. ‘I don’t think,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘I think the boy on the train is like the boy last night, the boy in the morgue. The boy you thought was Salim and wasn’t.’
Detective Inspector Pearce reached over and touched Aunt Gloria’s hand. ‘I’m sincerely sorry about that, Gloria. We didn’t have a proper photo ID then. We do now.’ From a brown envelope she’d been holding she took out a photo of Salim and showed it to us. ‘Your ex-husband gave us this. Would you say it’s a good likeness?’
Salim was in a school blazer, with a sweatshirt underneath, and a faint line of a moustache over his lips. He was not looking either happy or sad in the photograph because his lips were straight, neither up nor down.
‘That’s him,’ Aunt Gloria whispered. ‘I bought two copies so that Salim could give one to his father. To Rashid. I do it every year. I don’t know why. I don’t even know if Rashid has them framed. I don’t—’
The doorbell rang. Dad went out into the hall to see who it was and I heard voices and then in walked a tall Indian man in jeans and a green shirt.
‘Speak of the devil,’ Aunt Gloria hissed. I only heard her say this because I was standing next to her. I didn’t see anything particularly satanic about the strange man. I thought he must be another plainclothes police officer. My hand flapped.
‘What’s this?’ the man said. ‘Have you found my son?’ He looked at Aunt Gloria.
She looked at him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m looking for my son. What else? Trust you to lose him!’
Maybe Satan had entered the room after all because everybody started talking very loudly. I put my hands over my ears but I could still hear them. I counted the people in the room. Seven. I tried to guess the ages of those I didn’t know. Then I added up the ages, actual or approximate, of all present. When I arrived at the figure of 233, and worked out the average age was 33.3 recurring, everyone was still shouting their heads off. The difference between laughing your head off and shouting your head off is that with one you are happy and with the other you are angry. I like it much better when people are laughing their heads off.
Detective Inspector Pearce got up from her chair.
‘I’d better go,’ she said, but I’m not sure that anyone listened except for me and Dad, who had not joined in the shouting either. Dad showed her out to the hallway and I followed. You could still hear the raised voices in the living room.
‘Goodbye, Mr Spark,’ Detective Inspector Pearce said. ‘I’m sorry again about last night.’
I felt Dad’s arm on my shoulder tighten. ‘Will you find out who that poor boy was?’
‘We’re
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