The Pure in Heart (18 page)

‘How long was you thinking of stopping? Been here a bit now. Feels like years. I was going to tell you it was time you got a job, only funnily enough, I got one for you. Warehouse down Culvert Street. They want a loader. I put in a word. Foreman’s a mate of mine.’

‘I got a job.’

Andy walked away from his brother-in-law
and into the living room where the television blethered away to itself. Andy stood looking at it. A man was standing in a garden waving his arms about.

‘I don’t believe you. You just made that up.’

‘Nope.’

‘Doing what? What sort of job?’

‘Cars.’

‘What do you mean, cars? You ain’t no mechanic.’

‘Export.’

‘Talk English.’

‘Top-of-the-range motors, sorting them for export.’

The man stopped
waving his hands and started to walk slowly down the grassy garden avenue between mixed flower borders fifteen feet wide. Roses and clematis climbed up old brick walls.

Pete stood, fumbling about for words. Andy ignored him.

‘Where’d you get this job then? You don’t get jobs like that down the jobcentre and who’d give you one, with your record?’

‘Thought you said you’d got me one – with my
record.’

‘Never mentioned it.’

‘Right.’

‘What they paying you?’

‘Enough. Can I get a cup of tea?’

The man was leaning on a lead statue of a naked woman. A bee was zizzing about his head.

‘You got a job then, you’ll be looking for somewhere to live?’

Andy turned and faced Pete.

‘Too right.’

The back door opened and slammed shut behind Michelle.

‘Bloody soaked I am. Pete, ain’t you got
the kettle on?’

Pete turned from the doorway. ‘He’s got a bloody job,’ he said. ‘Exporting bloody cars. What’s he know about cars? Who’d give him that sort of a job?’

Michelle came out of the kitchen.

He couldn’t tell her who, Andy knew that. He could never mention Lee Carter’s name in this house, he’d be flat on his back on the path and the door locked behind him.

Michelle went on looking.

‘That right?’

Andy headed for the stairs. ‘That’s right.’

He pulled off his wet shirt and trousers and changed into dry. There was hardly room for him to turn round in the room he had to share with his nephew.

He ought not to have rung Carter, he ought not to have listened to him. Carter was trouble. He’d ruined his life once. Why give him a second chance?

This was why. Andy looked round the
frowsty, overcrowded room, with Matt’s soccer poster and heavy metal stars all over the walls and his wardrobe spilling out with clothes and gear, the top of it unsteady with piles of old toys. Under his bed were half a dozen pairs of manky trainers and the trainers smelled. This was why, this and his piggy-faced brother-in-law.

Besides, who was to say the car business wasn’t perfectly kosher?
Probably was. He’d do it for a
year, maybe eighteen months, until he’d saved the money he needed. It’d be OK.

He went back down, carrying his wet clothes. At the doorway of the sitting room he glanced through to see if the man was still wandering about the garden but the screen was manic with a cartoon.

In the kitchen, Michelle was pouring water on to tea bags in two mugs.

‘We seen the bugger
off,’ she said as Andy came in. ‘Police took him away half an hour ago.’

‘Where to?’

She shrugged. ‘Don’t care so long as it’s a long way from here. We don’t want him.’

‘Trouble is, he’s got to live somewhere.’ Andy put his trousers over the oven rail.

‘I don’t see why. Have my way they’d hang the lot of them.’

‘Nah, you’re going too far there, darling, castration’d do the trick.’

Michelle
laughed.

Andy sat down at the kitchen table and put his hands round the tea mug.

‘You see Nathan Coates again?’

‘Yeah, he was up twice. Snooty little bugger he is now, just cos he’s a copper. Don’t know what he’s got to be like that for, his brother’s never up to any good.’

‘They found that kid yet, did he say?’

‘Never asked. They won’t have though. Poor little bugger’ll be dead in a ditch
somewhere and it’ll be down to a paed. Like that Brent Parker. What else?’
She lit a cigarette from the gas sparker. ‘It don’t stop things happening,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘People like them, you know … posh family, live on Sorrel Drive … all of that don’t make any difference. It don’t save you from anything. You’re just as well off being like us when push comes to shove. Now get your
backsides out of here, the both of you, I got things to do.’

The two men wandered into the living room, where the television had gone black and white and calm with an old romantic comedy.

Andy went to the window. The Dulcie estate looked down at heel and deserted in the rain. Grass sprouted up between the paving stones and in the corners of the guttering. Runnels of water ran down from the drainpipes
on the block of flats opposite, making dark stains. It wasn’t that he’d be as well off in prison. He wouldn’t. He hadn’t been. But if he’d come out to nothing better than this for the rest of his life he would be suicidal. All the same, Michelle had a point. He knew that. They had what he wanted, those people – big house in a nice area, smart cars, good jobs, everything you’d envy if you
were living here on the Dulcie estate, everything you’d want. He wanted.

But when it came to losing their kid one Tuesday morning, to God knew who or what, none of it had made the slightest bloody difference at all.

‘Aw look, darling, look … so pretty!’

Shirley propped Martha over her arm expertly, plumped up the backrest and pillows with the other, and set her comfortably in place again. It was like moving a giant doll, Simon thought.

His scarlet, orange and yellow flowers were a slash across the pastel room.

‘Your brother’s lovely to you. I wish I’d got a handsome man bringing me bouquets.
I’ll pop them in a vase, Mr Serrailler, all right?’

‘Thanks, Shirley. Has anyone else been to see her?’

‘Oh, we’ve had a proper little party in here this afternoon. We had been going to have her down in the lounge only she had a bit of a runny nose this morning and you know how she is if she gets a cold … and there’s some nasty ones about. So she stayed up here and we had the party, tea and
a cake and candles and some ice cream and we sang. Look, Rosa brought her that sparkly balloon … she loves it. You should’ve seen her face when she saw it, she waved her hands and her eyes were that
bright … and she loved the ice cream and we opened her cards.’

His sister’s room was festive with the balloons and flowers and some red ribbons they had tied to her bed and dressing table. They do
love her, he thought, they care for her and look after her, which they’re paid to do, but they love her too.

Martha was dressed in a yellow knitted shawl over her nightdress and her hair had been freshly washed and tied back in an orange ribbon. Colour registered with her, so did music. Simon had brought her a new CD of brass-band music. He had often watched her face when music started up and
seen the flicker of life and recognition which surely must be pleasure.

‘She seems well, Shirley.’

The nurse had come back with the flowers in a huge fan-shaped vase which had a pearlised sheen to its surface.

‘Yes, maybe it wasn’t anything, only we just always have to be careful with our little Martha, you know?’

‘She’s twenty-six today.’

‘She’s little to me … well, all of us. You know how
it is.’

‘I know.’

Simon took Martha’s hand between his own. She moved her head slightly.

‘Happy birthday, sweetheart.’

‘Dr Chris came in this morning, brought her this … look.’ Shirley picked up a bright pink stuffed
octopus with huge eyes that rolled about. ‘We put it on her lap all afternoon. She kept reaching out for it.’

Soft toys. Balloons. Bright objects. Colours. Baby things.

He remembered
when she had been born and he had peered into the cot. She had seemed like a lump of putty to him, dough-coloured and inert. Only her hair was beautiful. ‘Many Happy Returns’ one of the cards said in glitter, a vast heart in pink and purple. Is that what they ought to wish her? More of this? Year after year of next to nothing. He stroked the soft, silken skin of her hand as it lay floppy
and motionless in his.

‘I hope you find that little boy, Mr Serrailler, I can’t sleep for thinking about him, you know? I wondered if you’d get in today with all of that.’

‘I shall have to go in a minute. I wasn’t going to miss her birthday but I don’t have long.’

‘Any news?’

‘Not really.’

‘I suppose you can’t say …’

‘I keep telling people, Shirley, if I had anything to say I would. It’s
a cold trail at the moment.’

‘I saw you were going to do one of them reconstruction plays … maybe someone will remember seeing him.’

‘Maybe. It works occasionally.’

‘Poor little kid. The Lord Jesus bless and keep him. Praise be to the Lord.’ Shirley had closed her eyes and put her hands together and her voice was
fervent. ‘And may those that have taken him know that the Lord will avenge His
little ones and the flames of hell await the wicked and the ungodly. Amen.’

Simon went quickly out of the room, startled by the passion in the otherwise gentle nurse’s voice. He glanced back at his sister, lying among the brightness and the balloons and the sight cheered him through the rest of the day.

As he walked into the station ten minutes later his heart stopped for a split second. On
the bench in the front office sat a boy, aged about nine and wearing the uniform of St Francis school. He had David Angus’s hair, pale slightly freckled face, protruding ears, serious expression. At his feet was a school bag identical to the one they knew he had been carrying when he left his mother.

The boy was not David Angus.

‘Hugo Pears, guv … couldn’t believe our luck. Kid’s an identikit.’

‘Is he OK with it all?’

‘Great – wants to be an actor. Wants to star in films about the Roman Army.’

‘Dear God – I suppose he thinks this will be good training?’

‘Mother’s a bit wary. Only she says your brother-in-law’s been so good to her she couldn’t refuse your family anything.’

‘Oh right, one of Chris’s patients? Yes, they’ll do anything for him. Even this.’

‘Everything is set up for
seven forty-five tomorrow morning.’

‘Good work, Nathan. What about Brent Parker?’

‘He’s in a hostel at Bevham. We’ve nothing on him, guv. It wasn’t him. He doesn’t even have a car.’

‘Who said he had to have a car?’

‘You mean the boy just walked off holding the hand of someone he didn’t know?’

‘Don’t make assumptions. No one has reported seeing him getting into a car and we have no idea whether
he went alone, with someone, with someone he knew, or did not know. Keep an open mind – wide open.’

‘Guv.’

‘Any reports from outside?’

‘Not a whisper.’

‘Bugger.’

‘Well, no other reports has to be good news, don’t it?’

‘I don’t mean I want to hear a report about another child who’s disappeared on the way to school. But this silence is getting on my nerves.’

‘He’s clever then.’

‘No, just
lucky.’ Simon banged the desk hard. ‘What about the number-crunchers in there?’

‘Nothing yet.’

‘Get me a coffee from the Cypriot, will you? Double espresso and one of their toasted sandwiches … I haven’t eaten since seven. I’ve just been to see my sister.’

‘Dr Deerbon had her baby then, guv?’

‘Not that sister. Martha. It’s her birthday.’

Nathan looked embarrassed. He felt embarrassed. He
never knew how to react on the few occasions the DCI mentioned his handicapped sister so he changed the subject instead. As they always do, Simon thought.

‘Couple of cars nicked last night … same story, top of the range, one Jag, one Range Rover … one from a garage, one outside a house in the drive. No one heard or saw anything … clean as a whistle.’

‘Cars don’t even make it on to my list right
now. Let uniform deal. I want some more digging; any cases in the last three years of children reporting someone hanging about, strangers speaking to them in the street … anything. And we’ll have another check round the rest of the country. I’m looking for unsolved cases … child abduction, or maybe children missing for a short time and found safe but no convictions. Remember the Black case? He
travelled the country by van, the children he murdered were taken long distances, he picked them up at random, wherever he happened to be. Is someone else doing the same?’

‘There’s a lot of that sort of checking already going on, guv.’

‘Then I want a whole lot more, right? What about that poster up on Parker’s wall, by the way?’

‘Do you believe this? He suddenly remembered he’d stuck it up
there – it reminded him, he said. What can happen. Said he needed a bit of reminding.’

‘You believe him?’

Nathan paused. Then said, as if to challenge Serrailler, ‘Yes, guv. Funny that. But I do.’

‘OK. Then so do I. Now get out of here.’

Nathan went. The DCI almost never raised his voice. When he did it was more a sign of frustration with himself than rage at anyone else but it was still best
to keep out of his way. Serrailler had always struck the DS as a man who, for the most part relaxed and easygoing, had a simmering cauldron deep inside him which might one day boil over spectacularly.

‘Sex,’ Emma had said when he had mentioned it one time.

‘I don’t think he’s got any.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘You going to tell me he needs the love of a good woman?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I painted her fingernails, did you see? That pink polish with all glittery bits in … they looked ever so pretty.’

Shirley handed Rosa the umbrella while she put her keys into the lock. The wind drove rain at their backs.

‘I don’t know why you bother, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t notice anything.’