– I stopped at Mo’s.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Milk. And eggs. Nan, you know the bungalows behind Mo’s?’
‘Armstrong Crescent?’
‘I don’t know. Nice gardens –’
‘Armstrong Crescent,’ Mary said again.
‘Do you know anybody who lives there?’
Mary hesitated. ‘It’s where they re-housed Bobby Deane. After he started drinking.’ She hesitated again, as if about to add something to this, but in the end changed her mind.
Chapter 5
Bobby Deane, whose face had been all over the Strike of 1984 – 85, was sitting in one of the few pieces of furniture in the bungalow’s lounge – an armchair that smelt of urine. The entire bungalow, in fact, smelt of urine, but it was strongest in the immediate vicinity of the armchair, which led Inspector Laviolette to the assumption that the armchair was the source, and if not the armchair then the man sat in it. Either way, the Inspector wasn’t visibly bothered.
Bobby Deane watched Laviolette with moist, alert eyes, brightly sunk into a swollen, purple face. He had no idea who Laviolette was, and couldn’t remember whether or not he’d spoken yet or how long he’d been in the house for – he only knew he was police. Bobby had no recollection of Laviolette’s arrival either – he could have been there for years – and not knowing what else to do, simply stared at the man in the green coat making his way slowly round the room, sometimes smiling to himself sometimes not.
Laviolette was smiling as he sat down on the microwave against the wall opposite Bobby Deane’s armchair – the only other available seating in the room – that no longer worked, but was still plugged in. ‘Off out somewhere, Mr Deane?’
The tone was pleasant, but Bobby knew what police ‘pleasant’ meant.
He stared blankly at Laviolette then down at himself. He was wearing a padded blue Texaco jacket, shiny with neglect. His eyes ran over his legs then down to the floor where they picked out something purplish among the carpet’s pile – his feet. Those were his feet down there, bare and without shoes.
He became aware of Laviolette’s eyes on his feet as well. ‘Sorry to interrupt – this won’t take more than a couple of minutes.’
Where had he been going?
‘Have you seen Bryan at all recently, Mr Deane?’
‘Bryan,’ Bobby echoed, thinking about this.
‘Your son, Bryan?’
Bobby looked down again at the anorak he was wearing, and remembered – briefly. He’d put the anorak on because of Bryan, but when was that? It could have been years ago – he hadn’t seen Bryan in years. All he remembered was sitting in the chair when he’d heard a car pull up outside. He’d gone to the window, lifted the yellow net and seen Bryan. He’d gone out into the hallway, slipping over something and bruising his left knee badly – he remembered the pain and the way he’d shouted out, ‘Just coming!’ as though Bryan was already in the house, speaking to him. Then he’d put the anorak on, and was about to open the front door when he’d looked down and realised that he didn’t have any shoes or socks on.
So he’d gone into the bedroom to look for some socks – checking out the window to see that Bryan was still there.
The sun had been bright – he had a vague memory of brightness – and the bedroom windows even more filthy than the ones in the lounge, but he’d been able to see Bryan’s big silver car parked on the road still and made out Bryan inside it. Only Bryan’s posture was odd – his arms holding the steering wheel and his head resting on it – and Bobby had known instinctively then that Bryan was trying to decide whether to ring on the door or not.
Then Bobby had sat down on the mattress in the bedroom and fallen into one of the black holes he was more often in than out of these days, and forgotten what it was he was doing. He’d forgotten all about Bryan outside as well. At some point he’d got up again and gone to the window, without knowing why. His subconscious had taken him to the window to check and see whether Bryan was still parked there. Consciously, however, he had no idea what he was doing standing at the window or what it was he was looking out for because there was nothing out there as far as he could see – apart from a large girl in a pink tracksuit, smoking a cigarette on the green just behind the shops, staring at his house. When was that? Only yesterday? Had he been barefoot in his anorak since yesterday?
But Bobby didn’t mention any of this, partly out of habit – because the man sitting opposite was police and it was his policy not to answer any questions put to him by police – and partly because he was already in the process of forgetting.
‘What’s that? Did you just say something?’
‘Have you seen Bryan recently?’ Laviolette asked again, aware that Bobby Deane’s vulnerability was making him uncomfortable.
‘Bryan’s my youngest son,’ Bobby said slowly, uncertain.
‘That’s right,’ Laviolette agreed. ‘Have you seen him lately?’
‘He’s got a little girl of his own,’ Bobby carried on, ignoring the question. ‘What’s her name?’ he appealed, half-heartedly to the Inspector.
Laviolette smiled patiently. ‘Martha.’
This time, the smile seemed to relax Bobby. ‘Martha. He brought her here once. It was a Saturday – he takes her to the stables at Keenley’s, Saturdays.’ There was spittle on his chin; the recollection was making him reckless – despite the fact that his audience was police – because he might lose it at any moment. There couldn’t be anything wrong in this recollection – surely grandchildren were allowed to go horse riding if they chose, and sons were allowed to visit their fathers without breaking any laws.
‘Did Bryan come yesterday?’
‘I haven’t seen Bryan in years. What was yesterday?’
‘Saturday,’ Laviolette responded, debating whether to be more specific or not. ‘Easter Saturday,’ he said after a while.
‘It’s Easter?’ At first Bobby looked surprised – then resigned.
‘Yesterday was Saturday. Did you see Bryan yesterday, Mr Deane?’
Bobby shook his head, running his left hand down the greasy chair arm and starting to pick at the foam. ‘No. He never came in.’
‘He never came in,’ Laviolette repeated gently. ‘So he was – where? – outside?’
‘I don’t remember,’ Bobby said, suddenly deflated. ‘I don’t remember anything.’
‘Mr Deane, your son’s wife reported him missing yesterday – Easter Saturday – and we’re trying to find him, that’s all. We’d like to find Bryan so that he can go home.’
‘You don’t know where Bryan is?’
The Inspector got up, sighing. ‘Well, if you do see Bryan – if you even think you
