I smile, but not unkindly. This is coming from conscience, and that’s something worth nourishing in this job. ‘I don’t think that means anything, Everett. She could have found a copy, bought a copy. It could even have been in the skip already. These cases always have loose ends – they’ll drive you mad, if you let them. So don’t let it worry you. We got the right person. And in any case, who else could it have been?’
She looks at me for a moment, then drops her eyes. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
We sit in silence a while and then she gets to her feet and smiles down at me, says ‘Thanks, boss,’ before making her way back to the station. Slowly at first, but as I watch, her pace quickens. By the time she’s going up the steps she is herself again, brisk and poised and objective.
As for me, I get stiffly to my feet and make my way to the car and head out towards the ring road. Five miles the other side, I take a right off Kidlington High Street and pull up outside a small yellow pebble-dashed bungalow. There are tubs of snowdrops either side of the door and brightly coloured dog toys strewn over the front garden. The woman who answers my ring is in her forties. She’s wearing a big Aran jumper and a pair of sweatpants, and she has a tea towel in one hand. I can hear an old eighties pop song on the radio in the background. When she sees me she smiles broadly. ‘Inspector – how nice. I had no idea you were coming.’
‘I’m sorry, Jean, I was just passing and I thought – ’
But she’s already waving me in. ‘Don’t stand out there in the cold. Have you come to see Gary?’
‘It’s not official – I just wanted to see how he’s doing. And please, call me Adam.’
She smiles again. ‘It’s nice you still take an interest, Adam. He’s gone down to the park to play football with Phil. Though I suspect the dog thinks it’s all for his benefit.’
She wipes her hands on the towel. ‘Give me a sec and I’ll put the kettle on. They’ll be back any minute and Phil will be gasping.’ She smiles again. ‘We’ve done up Gary’s room since you were last here – you can have a look if you like.’
She disappears into the kitchen and I stand there a moment, then take a few steps forward and push open the door. There are posters of football players on the walls, odd socks rolled up under the bed, a Chelsea FC duvet cover, an Xbox and a stack of games. A muddle. A happy, ordinary, everyday muddle.
The door bangs then, as Jean kicks it open. She has two mugs of tea with her.
‘What do you think?’ she says as she hands me one.
‘I think you’ve done a fabulous job,’ I say. ‘And I don’t mean the decorating. All this – it’s exactly what he needs. Normality. Stability.’
She sits down on the bed and smoothes the cover with her hand. ‘It’s not hard, Adam. He just needed to be loved.’
‘How’s the new school?’
‘Good. Dr Donnelly and I spent a long time with his form teacher before he started, talking it all through. He’s still settling in, but fingers crossed, I think it’s going to be OK.’
‘And he was happy going back to his original name?’
She grins. ‘I think it helps that there’s a Gary in the Chelsea team. But yes, I think leaving “Leo” behind is the best thing that could have happened to him. In every sense. It’s a new start.’
She blows on her tea and I walk over to the window and look out over the back garden. There’s a goal at the far end and a couple of footballs on the muddy grass. And on the windowsill, a little blue china dish. The sort you put keys in, or change. But there’s only one thing in this one. Something silver that catches the light. It looks like some sort of amulet – something you’d wear on a chain or a bracelet. Hardly what you’d expect a boy to have. I pick it up and look quizzically at Jean.
‘Oh, his sister gave that to him,’ she says. ‘And that reminds me. Gary wants to send an email to that nice DC of yours, Everett, is it? To say sorry about causing all that trouble at the BB. That thing you’re holding – that’s what he was looking for when it happened. That’s what he thought he’d lost.’
‘Really?’ I look at it again, turning it over in my hand. It’s shaped like a bunch of flowers, or leaves, but hanging upside down. Like mistletoe, at Christmas. ‘It must mean a lot to him.’
She nods. ‘It’s some sort of charm. To keep bad things away. Daisy’s teacher gave it to her, then she gave it to Gary. It’s odd, though, all the same.’
‘Why do you say that?’
She takes a sip of her tea. ‘Gary doesn’t really want to talk about it and I haven’t pushed him, but I got the impression Daisy gave it to him that day – the day she disappeared. It sends a shiver down my spine every time I think of it. I know it sounds crazy when you say it out loud, but it’s almost as if she knew. But how could she, poor little lamb.’
Then there’s the sound of keys in the door and the little house is suddenly filled with a clamour of voices and a chaos of mucky dog.
‘Jean, Jean, I got three penalties!’ he cries as he clatters through the bedroom door, with a leaping golden retriever half under his feet. ‘One after the other – bang – bang – bang!’
He stops then, because he’s realized Jean’s not alone. His cheeks are pink with cold and his hair is shorter than when I last saw him. He has no fringe to hide behind now, but he doesn’t need it: he looks me straight in the eye. I can see he’s surprised, because he wasn’t expecting to see me, but that’s all. He’s not scared; not any more.
‘Hello, Gary,’ I say. ‘I just popped round to see how you are. Jean says you’re doing great. I’m really glad to hear that.’
He bends briefly to rub the grinning dog behind the ears. ‘It’s good here,’ he says, looking up at me again. And I can’t think of any three words that could say more. Not just about the past, but about the future too.
‘Three penalties?’ I continue. ‘That’s not bad. Keep it up and you’ll be as good as that player you like – what’s his name – he takes penalties, doesn’t he?’
He smiles then and I realize, with a ghost of self-reproach, that it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him do it.
‘Hazard,’ he says.
—
When I get back into the car, I sit there for a moment, thinking. About Gary, who’s been given a second chance, and Daisy, who wasn’t. And about the second chance I never got, and I’d trade everything I’ve ever owned to receive.
—
Tomorrow it will be exactly a year. To the day. That day.
It had been raining for what seemed like weeks – the clouds never lifted. I got home early, because we wanted to talk to Jake and I didn’t want to rush it. I didn’t want him going to bed with it on his mind. We had an appointment with the child psychologist the following day. Alex had been dead against it, insisting our GP knew what she was doing, and Jake hadn’t hurt himself for weeks. That our son wasn’t a ‘case’ I could solve with my brain, and escalating things now might only make it worse. But I forced it.
I forced it.
I remember I brought the bins in, cursing the dustmen for leaving them strewn across the drive. I remember chucking my keys on the kitchen table and picking up the post, asking where Jake was.
‘Upstairs,’ Alex said, stacking the dishwasher. ‘Playing music. Tell him supper in half an hour.’
‘And then we’ll talk to him?’
‘And then we’ll talk to him.’
On bad nights, I crawl those steps on my hands and knees, aware there is some terrible catastrophe only speed can save me from, but unable to move faster than leadweight in water. The door, standing half open. The darkening sky. The glow of the computer screen. The empty chair. Those terrible, exquisite seconds when I stand there, not knowing. For the last time, not knowing. And then turning, assuming he must be in the loo, in my study –