‘Or he could have got hold of a pay-as-you-go,’ Molly suggested.
‘But he didn’t have enough money with him,’ said Joyce. ‘And he couldn’t be doing this on his own. He’s only eleven.’
Joyce gulped as she thought about the vulnerability of her young son.
‘What makes you so sure the text is from Fred? It could be a hoax. A cruel one, I know, but I’ve heard that this sort of thing does happen when somebody disapp—’
‘It’s him, I know it is,’ Molly interrupted.
‘How?’
‘He wants to meet us where we saw the big buck. Only Fred would know to say that. Remember when you and Gran went shopping in London, and Dad took us to Exmoor, where Granny and Gramps Mildmay used to take him when he was a boy? We saw this huge stag at this place we’d walked to from the car park by Landacre Bridge. Dad made a big thing about it and said we must protect it by not ever telling anyone about it. Fred loved the idea that it would be our secret for ever. It was he who called it the big buck.’
‘And you can remember the place?’
‘Oh yes, I’ll never forget it.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Fred said not to tell you until we were on our way,’ she said. ‘But I already have.’
‘And we’re already on our way. More or less. In any case he just didn’t want anyone else to know where we were going. Not that I could imagine anyone would be able to find where you saw the big buck without your help.’
Molly smiled wanly.
‘Look, before we do anything or go anywhere, let’s call that number, see if we can speak to Fred. You do it, Molly. It’s you he’s tried to contact.’
Molly did so. The phone rang for a minute and then cut out. No reply, and no message service.
‘Try again,’ urged Joyce.
Molly did so, with the same result.
‘All right, text him,’ instructed her mother. ‘Tell him you understand the message. Ask him when he wants to meet.’
Molly began tapping her phone. Joyce leaned across the car, watching her daughter’s screen as she composed her text:
Fred, we have all been so worried. It is you, isn’t it? I understand your message. I know where you mean. When do you want to meet us there?
The reply came straight away.
It’s me, all right, Muggins. I want to meet soon as you can. When can you be there?
Molly looked at her mother. Joyce thought for a second.
‘It’ll take us the best part of two and a half hours from here,’ she said, checking her watch. ‘Tell him we’ll be there between two and two thirty.’
Molly did so. Again the reply came straight away.
See you then. Remember, don’t tell anyone, and don’t answer your phones, or you could put us all in danger.
Molly looked at her mother, aghast. ‘What does he mean by that?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Joyce. ‘But tell me something, do these messages sound like your brother to you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Molly said hesitantly. ‘It’s kind of like Fred. But it’s a bit grown-up, isn’t it? Like someone’s telling him what to say.’
‘That’s what I think too,’ replied Joyce, her voice shaking. At last she had been given hope that Fred was safe and well, yet she was full of fear. ‘The language doesn’t sound right to me. God, bloody texts — we’ve no way of telling whether it’s genuine or not.’
‘Only Fred would know about the big buck,’ repeated Molly.
‘Maybe.’ Joyce wasn’t convinced. ‘How about you text him a question, something else only he would know about. C’mon, Molly, you’re good at this sort of thing. What can we ask?’
Molly thought for a moment, then began tapping out a new message. Joyce continued to read over her daughter’s shoulder.
What did you discover last week that I made you swear on your iPhone not to tell Mum?
The reply came quick as a flash.
That you and Janie Mitchell had both had butterfly tattoos done, like Harry Styles.
Despite the strain she was under, Joyce couldn’t help her initial response.
‘Oh, you haven’t, Molly? Where?’
‘On my left shoulder. Why do you think I’ve been keeping myself covered up in front of you?’ She looked back at the screen, grinning triumphantly. ‘That’s it, Mum. It’s Fred. It has to be!’
Joyce found herself smiling too. Molly was right: it had to be Fred. She remained anxious and fearful, but at least he was alive.
‘Tell him we’re on our way,’ she instructed her daughter, at the same time restarting the Range Rover and swinging it around in a reckless pavement-mounting U-turn. Then she turned back on to the main drag, heading towards the M5 west and a hidden glen in the Exmoor Hills where, and she could still hardly dare to believe it, her younger son would hopefully be waiting for her and his big sister.
Still smiling, Joyce glanced sideways at her daughter.
‘We’ll discuss that tattoo later,’ she said.
Molly didn’t look like she gave a damn. And neither, in fact, did Joyce.
They stopped for petrol before turning off the M5 at the Tiverton junction to join the A38 heading for North Devon and Exmoor. Joyce didn’t want to. She was fired up with impatience. But she had no choice, not if she wanted to reach their destination in the heart of the moors.
Both her and Molly’s phones had been ringing repeatedly. Felicity was the persistent caller. Mother and daughter both ignored the calls. They agreed that they would continue to abide by Fred’s wishes. What choice did they have? In any case what could they say to Felicity?
The sky was ominously grey as they began to climb to the higher altitudes of moorland, but no rain fell. Not at first. It was two thirty by the time they arrived at Landacre, where a medieval bridge spans the River Barle. Joyce parked the Range Rover and locked it.
It was cold and the air felt damp, but to Joyce’s surprise the rain held off. A strong easterly wind was beginning to blow, though.
Molly led the way along a series of paths, some little more than sheep tracks, which ran through thick undergrowth. Joyce was wearing unsuitably light leather-soled shoes. At least Molly was wearing trainers. After twenty minutes they came to a clearing where the river formed a deep and still pond.
‘This is it, Mum,’ said Molly, gesturing with one hand. ‘Dad spotted the stag over there, by the blackthorn bush at the water’s edge. He signalled for us to be quiet and we crouched here in the bracken and watched. He had huge antlers. He was having a drink, so it took him a while to notice us. Then he suddenly raised his head, looked all around him sniffing the air, waded off through the river and trotted up the hill over there.’
She waved a hand again.
‘We saw him silhouetted against the sky up at the top. It was wonderful.’
‘And you didn’t even tell me. Did you not tell anyone?’
Molly shook her head. ‘It was our secret.’
Secrets again, thought Joyce. This may have been a magical secret, but it was somehow typical of her family that even special moments were cloaked in secrecy.
Joyce told herself off for being small-minded. She led the way out into the clearing. Molly followed. There was nobody else about, no one visible. Certainly no Fred.
‘He’s not here, Mum,’ said Molly, stating the obvious. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
Her mother took her hand. ‘Perhaps he’s making sure we are alone, that we haven’t brought the police or anyone else with us.
‘Or somebody is,’ she muttered, adding the remark under her breath.
But Molly heard her.
‘What do you mean by that, Mum?’
Joyce squeezed the hand she was holding.
‘Darling, Fred can’t be on his own,’ she told her daughter. ‘There’s no way he could have got hold of a phone, let alone come all the way out here by himself. And we still don’t know where he’s been since Wednesday night.’