represented in local petty-crime statistics, phoned the main police station from a call-box – to do this he had to run a quarter of a mile, all the Parkfield kiosks being, as usual, vandalized and out of action – to report the fact that his brother Jason, a child of four, had not come home since leaving the house at two in the afternoon to play with other children on the estate.
Mrs Cooney had not become seriously alarmed until the early evening. She had then sent her daughter, a girl of eight, chasing and calling round the estate, knocking on doors, asking if anyone had seen Jason. All without success. At about seven o’clock Graham had returned home and joined in the search. When he could discover no trace of the missing child it was he who had taken the decision to ring the police.
This was a routine matter for the uniformed branch. The usual drill went into operation, with some added drive because of the sharp frost forecast: patrol cars asked to keep a look-out, detailed tours of the area, broadcasts from the local radio station, asking householders to search cellars and outhouses. None of it produced any result.
At first light a more thorough and urgent search began. A troop of Scouts undertook a yard-by-yard sweep of neighbouring woodland, police cadets examined the area around the railway line and along the banks of the river. Another sharp frost was forecast for Saturday night. It was thought unlikely that a child of that age, in the clothes he was wearing when he left home, would survive a second night of hunger in the open.
By nightfall, again with no result, the Parkfield estate was alive with rumours: strange cars had been observed cruising about the streets earlier in the week; a lorry that had broken down on the main road near the entrance to the estate, on the afternoon of Good Friday, had remained stranded there until five or six in the evening. There was by now a general belief on the part of the estate dwellers – if not yet of the police – that the child had been abducted. Shortly after nine p.m. the CID were called in.
The light-bulb centred above the table in Mrs Cooney’s kitchen shone down white and harsh, without the benefit of any softening shade. An ancient alarm clock on the mantelshelf showed ten-fifteen. The house was very cold and smelled of damp and mould, with an overlay of soot. Through the party-wall came the sound of a radio, a brass band playing a rousing regimental march.
Mrs Cooney stood by the stove, making yet another pot of tea. She upturned the tea-caddy, shaking the last few leaves into the pot. She was a widow, a big, fleshy woman a year or two past forty, with a weary, resigned face, muddy skin, lifeless hair taken back anyhow, looks gone long ago from work, worry and hard times, the summit of her endeavours now, as far as personal appearances went, being merely to keep herself and her four children reasonably clean, not to drop so far down the scale of clothing as to be taken for gipsies.
‘Run next door,’ she instructed Graham, who was sitting hunched over the table, doing his best to keep awake, digging his knuckles into his eyes. ‘Ask them if they can spare me a packet of tea. I’ll let them have it back for sure on Wednesday.’ Her two other children, girls of eight and two, were upstairs in bed – the same bed, for warmth. Her husband had died six months before the youngest child was born; a strongly built, jovial man, struck suddenly down by virus pneumonia. He had been a plasterer, unemployed during the recession, finally taking the plunge and setting up on his own. He was just beginning to find his feet when he fell ill. With his death there had been an abrupt descent into poverty.
Graham pushed back his chair and went yawning out through the back door. A sturdy boy, tall for his age, with a sensible, serious air.
‘He’s a good lad,’ Mrs Cooney observed to Sergeant Lambert who stood leaning against the dresser. ‘He’d do anything for anyone. You couldn’t wish for a better son.’ She showed no sign of hysteria. She hadn’t collapsed into tears or exhaustion, she went soldiering on through this crisis as she’d soldiered on through all the others. It seemed to Lambert that already she more than half accepted the possibility that Jason might not be found alive. She seemed to have armoured herself with a stoical, fatalistic view of life. as if she had long ago concluded that beyond a certain point struggle was useless.
She took Lambert’s mug and poured in a little milk made from powdered skim; it had grown progressively more diluted as the day advanced. She poured out the tea. Just as well he didn’t take sugar, her supply of that had run out some time ago.
Lambert drank his tea. ‘Not a lot more we can do tonight,’ he told her. ‘We’ll be back first thing in the morning.’
‘Thank God I don’t have to go to work tomorrow,’ she said with fervour. Missing child or not, the loss of a few hours’ wages would have been disastrous. She worked five mornings a week, five o’clock till seven, cleaning in a factory on the industrial estate. She left the two older children in charge of the little ones. She was always back by half past seven, had taught herself not to worry about them while she was away. She couldn’t take a regular daytime job, not with Jason and the baby.
Graham came back with the packet of tea and set it down by the stove; he could scarcely keep his eyes open. ‘You’re sure you didn’t see anything of Jason yesterday afternoon?’ Lambert suddenly asked him. He’d already questioned the boy. He seemed a decent enough lad, cooperative and observant, but Lambert hadn’t been one hundred per cent satisfied with his answers. Nothing he could put a finger on but some doubt registered with him all the same.
Graham shook his head in silence. A gigantic yawn rose in his throat. He closed his eyes and let the yawn swell to its full gaping conclusion. ‘Where were you until seven o’clock yesterday evening?’ Lambert asked him.
Mrs Cooney put a hand on Graham’s arm. ‘You’d better get off to bed. You’re asleep on your feet.’ She steered him towards the door leading into the hall. She flicked a remonstrative glance at Lambert. ‘He was out playing with his mates. He’s told you that twice already, I don’t know why you keep on asking. They were over in the woods, the other side of the railway line.’
‘On a cold dark evening like that?’
‘Lads don’t mind a bit of weather.’ She stood in the doorway, watching Graham stumble up the stairs. She came back into the kitchen, walking slowly and heavily. Her bare feet were thrust into battered old shoes; the skin of her legs, shiny, bluish white, was knotted and corded with varicose veins.
Lambert finished his tea and set down his mug. ‘If there’s any of them out there wanting tea,’ she told him, ‘send them in. I won’t be going to bed just yet.’
‘Try not to worry,’ Lambert advised her. ‘Try to get some sleep. We’ll be bringing the troops in in the morning. They’ll be able to cover a much wider area.’ As he turned to the door a picture on the wall caught his eye: a country garden, romantically pretty, beds of hyacinths and tulips, a cat curled up asleep on the cottage window-sill. A snapshot was stuck in the side of the frame: Mrs Cooney and her husband, taken years ago on a summer holiday, Mrs Cooney tall and slim, her husband’s arm around her shoulders, her head thrown back in laughter, the sea breeze blowing the skirts of her cotton dress against her beautiful, long, shapely legs.
Easter Sunday dawned bitterly cold but by seven the mists had vanished from along the river and a brilliant sun had broken through. Already the first holiday traffic was on the move. In a field beside the motorway, six miles to the south-west of Cannonbridge, a small party of troops was searching a derelict house, Stoneleigh, the property of an old man who had died years ago, leaving everything to his only living relative, a cousin in South America, who had himself died shortly afterwards.
There had been endless legal wrangles about the ownership of the property. A local farmer had made fruitless attempts to buy the land but eventually, with the coming of the motorway, he had lost interest. Once in a way someone asked a question on the
