There will be a case number. Officers at the beach. It feels as if I’ve been swimming away from the shore, being pulled unknowingly by a current, and now that I’ve turned to look back, I can see how very far away I am.
DAY TWO, 7.15 A.M.
I sleep fitfully, listening for the sound of the beach hut doors opening, Jacob’s feet moving across the floor – but the footsteps never arrive. I wake unrested, my heart heavy.
Nick is already out of bed, looping a beach towel around his neck and slipping outside, disappearing into a shaft of light. He’ll swim out to the yellow buoy and back, then rinse the salt from his skin at the shower block. Usually he’d catch the first ferry to the quay at eight, and be in the office before the rest of his employees. Today, though, he won’t be going into the office. He’ll return to the hut and wait for the police to arrive.
I climb out of bed and set the kettle on the hob, in need of a hit of coffee. When I pull up the blinds, dust motes dance in the spill of sunlight. Outside, I can see the wind is up, the sea choppy. The patch of blue sky hovering above us will soon be swallowed by the thickening clouds.
I fold the sofa bed away, going through the motions of plumping the cushions and positioning them the way I like them. When Nick puts the bed away, the cushions are slung on to the sofa in any order – his silent protest that there are too many. Cushions. Did I really care about the positioning of cushions?
I hook back the beach hut doors so that the breeze can wash in and out. The sandbank is slowly yawning awake; two young girls from a few huts away are already playing by the rocks in their pyjamas, hair tangled over their shoulders. I try not to envy their parents: Your children are there. Right there!
Once I’ve made myself a coffee, I set the steaming mug beside the notebook I’ve dug out. The police will be here soon and I want to use the time I have productively. I fetch a pen and begin writing a list of all the people who could have seen Jacob on the day he disappeared.
Disappeared. Is that even the right word?
I start by listing the people who were at the family barbecue. There were only six of us: Me, Nick, Jacob, Isla, and Nick’s parents, David and Stella.
Next, I think about his friends at the party at Luke’s hut. I sip at the scalding coffee, realizing I only know the names of four or five of them, so I add a note to speak to both Luke and Caz again today. There are now eleven names on my sheet of paper, and I like looking at the neat structure of it – it gives me something practical I can work through. I want to speak to each of these people and find out if they noticed anything unusual about Jacob’s behaviour that evening, whether he gave any clue as to where he was going.
I will need to spread the net wider than the sandbank, as he could have hidden out for the night, then taken the first ferry off the sandbank in the morning. I must ask the ferryman, Ross Wayman, if he remembers seeing Jacob, I think as an aside, adding his name to the list.
It’s also possible that Jacob left the sandbank in the middle of the night without using the ferry; if you know the route through the wooded path, you can walk across the headland, which takes just over an hour on foot.
If Jacob has left – who would he choose to visit, and why? His closest friends are here on the beach. There’s family, I suppose. Jacob gets on well with his aunties and uncles – but both Nick’s brothers live in America with their families; east coast for Ted and Linda, west coast for Brian, Sally and their twins. The only family member who lives nearby is my mother and, although she’s very fond of Jacob, I don’t think she’d have been his first choice of refuge. Apart from our visits on her birthday and at Christmas, we see very little of her.
I glance down guiltily, picturing my mother sitting at the large mahogany dining table, with a crystal water jug on the table and the best silver cutlery laid out ready for a breakfast for one. The house is far too big for her now. I imagine the clink of her spoon against her china bowl, the sound ringing out in all that deafening silence. I don’t know how she can bear it.
I suddenly want to call her – to tell her about Jacob.
I take out my mobile, not caring that it’s early.
When she answers, the sound of her voice causes a lump of emotion to rise in my throat. ‘Oh Mum,’ I begin …
The police said they’d arrive on the first ferry, but they don’t. It’s ten o’clock when they finally trudge across the beach, their dark uniforms looking incongruous against the backdrop of the sea.
‘Sarah Symonds?’ the male officer asks, approaching our hut.
‘Yes, that’s me.’
Next door, Diane pauses from sweeping the deck to watch, eyes narrowing with interest.
I glare at her, irritated.
‘I’m Police Constable Steven Evans.’ A thin man with delicate, almost effeminate features, and a round nub of a chin, steps on to the deck, stretching out a pale hand, which I shake. ‘And this is PC Jacqui Roam,’ he says, introducing the woman at his side. She is about ten years younger than me, with thin brown hair in a plain bob, and pencilled-in eyebrows. There are dark circles beneath her eyes and the purple traces of acne scars around her chin and mouth. Her cheeks are flushed from the walk and, when she smiles, her eyes show warmth.
‘Come in.’ I usher them inside and point to the sofa. I imagine Diane will be lingering on her deck still. I want to pull our beach hut doors shut so that there’s nothing to overhear, but it’s already too warm inside.
PC Jacqui Roam whistles through her teeth. ‘Beautiful beach hut. I didn’t realize they were so spacious inside. And there’s an upstairs, too?’ She glances up at the wooden stepladder leading to the mezzanine.
It’s what always surprises people the first time they step inside the huts. From the outside, the beach huts look little more than colourful sheds, but inside they are like miniature homes. Usually I would chat easily about the layout of the beach hut, or show them the view from the porthole window upstairs – but the only thing I want to talk about right now is Jacob.
Sensing this, PC Evans takes out his notebook and a black biro. ‘Let’s start with the details.’
‘My husband will be in shortly. He’s just finishing up a call,’ I say glancing towards the shoreline, where Nick is pacing. He’s on the phone to his office and looks tense, preoccupied. He stares at the ground as he moves, his right hand gesturing blindly at his side. Occasionally his hand travels to his hairline, which he half-heartedly rubs. He should be in this beach hut with me, his hand holding mine. I try to catch his eye to let him know the police are here, but he doesn’t glance up.
PC Evans begins by running through a long list of questions about Jacob – most of which Nick covered when he rang the station last night. He makes notes about Jacob’s eye colour, whether he’s right or left handed, the details of his social media accounts, his mobile telephone number, his access to funds. The list goes on and on.
PC Roam then takes over, asking, ‘Sarah, why don’t you tell us everything you can about the day of your son’s disappearance?’
I sit up
