Finders Keepers (17 page)

Reassuring the old folk.

That had worked well, hadn’t it? Keeping the killer at bay armed with cheap biscuits and empty promises. But the killer had paid a visit anyway – forcing a knife against the window latch, and leaving a bloody trail of tragedy through the home before disappearing into the night. No, he didn’t have the barefaced cheek to go into Sunset Lodge again. The Reverend
Chard
may be bound by his faith to forgive, but Jonas expected no such thing from anyone else.

A few houses up he saw Steven Lamb watching him from the front window of his home – one in a long line of gaily painted terraced cottages that opened straight on to the narrow slate pavement. He raised a hand in greeting, but the boy merely stepped slowly back into the dark interior.

He sighed. It would take him years to rebuild the trust he’d once taken for granted in the village.

He got out of the Land Rover and locked it, and went into the pub.

Reynolds took a sip of white Merlot and scanned Jos Reeves’s lab report. Working in the Red Lion was so much more pleasant than being stuck in that glorified shoebox in the car park – especially after hours.

‘The white residue on the glass from the broken windows is PVC tape—’

‘Like insulation tape?’ Rice emptied a third of her glass of cider and sighed in enjoyment.

Reynolds nodded. ‘And the green threads are a poor-quality synthetic wool mix, dyed using Malachite green, most commonly used during manufacturing processes in China.’

‘So we’re looking for a Chinese electrician in cheap green mittens.’

Reynolds looked at her over his Merlot like a disapproving schoolmaster over half-moon spectacles.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Could be gloves. Could be a blanket he throws over them. A scarf he was wearing …’ He shrugged, then continued, ‘Here’s the thing. The green fibres at the Pete Knox and Charlie Peach scenes were impregnated with butane while the fibres at the Jess Took scene were not.’

‘Weird,’ she said. ‘Maybe she put up more of a struggle than he liked. Forced him to change his tactics.’

‘Anything’s possible.’ Reynolds sighed.

It was true, thought Rice. They knew so little about anything connected with the kidnapper that right now anything
was
possible.

Jonas found Reynolds and Rice in the bar, poring over what looked like lab reports.

She smiled; he didn’t.

‘Hi Jonas, have a seat,’ said Rice, and Reynolds shifted a little way around the table to make space for him. Jonas perched uncomfortably on a low chair.

‘The cars that were vandalized at the show,’ he started hesitantly. ‘Nothing was reported stolen from them, right?’

‘No,’ said Reynolds.

‘Why?’ asked Rice.

But Jonas didn’t really have a theory to satisfy that question. Instead he asked another.

‘I think you said windows were also broken at Tarr Steps.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Was anything stolen there?’

‘Apart from Pete Knox?’ said Reynolds sarcastically.

‘Nothing was stolen,’ Rice supplied, giving Reynolds a slightly disapproving look.

Reynolds sighed. ‘We’re busy trying to find three missing children here. We’re not so big on petty vandalism right now.’

‘Yeah, sorry. Of course,’ said Jonas. ‘I just thought that maybe if nothing was taken, then the windows being broken were about something else. Some kind of message, maybe. I mean, who kidnaps a child and then hangs around to break windows? It must mean
something
. Maybe.’

Rice looked at Reynolds, who shrugged and said, ‘Except that there were no windows broken at the Jess Took scene.’

‘Oh.’ Jonas hadn’t known that. It was a dent in his theory. He wondered how big that dent was.

‘Have a drink, Jonas?’ asked Rice, then looked him up and down. ‘Or something to eat?’

‘No, thanks.’

He stood up, and Reynolds turned away to pick up a map. Jonas noticed that his brown hair sprouted from his scalp in doll-like tufts. He knew the conversation was at an end. But if he walked away now, he wouldn’t be able to bring it up again.

‘Do we have the names of the owners of the damaged cars at Tarr Steps?’ He hated saying ‘we’ when he knew he was barely included. It was a poorly disguised attempt to remind Reynolds that he was also a policeman.

Reynolds looked up at him again. ‘Of course.’

‘Maybe I could ask them a few questions.’

‘Such as?’

‘I’m not really sure yet.’

Reynolds pursed his lips and Jonas could see him trying to think of a reason to say no. But eventually he said, ‘Of course. Do you mind, Elizabeth?’ and turned back to the papers.

Rice got up and motioned Jonas to follow her, which he did, through the creaking passages and stairways of the old pub to her room.

‘’Scuse the mess,’ she said, although the only thing he could see out of place was a pair of black lacy panties over the back of the armchair.

She took a box file from the wardrobe and put it on the bed. Jonas stood silently just inside the door while she rummaged through it, until she smiled and held up a clear A4 folder.

‘Here it is. I’ll write the names and contact details down for you.’

‘Thanks.’

She turned her back on him and sat at the small scratched desk in the chair that didn’t match – or stand square on the floor.

When Rice turned round and held out a sheet of paper for him, she asked, ‘How are you, Jonas?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ he said automatically, as he took the paper.

‘How is it being back at work? Must be strange.’

‘A bit.’ He shrugged.

He didn’t know why Elizabeth Rice was taking an interest in his wellbeing. Didn’t know if it was genuine concern or keeping tabs on him.

‘Take it slowly, won’t you?’

Jonas wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic, so he didn’t answer her. Instead he looked at the notes she’d made. ‘Thanks for these.’

‘Sure. Let us know what you find.’

‘Will do.’

He put a hand on the door knob; he couldn’t wait to leave.

‘Jonas?’

He turned in the doorway and she walked over to him.

‘If you need someone to talk to, make it me.’

He looked at her, a little bemused, then mumbled ‘thank you’ or something like it, and left.

Rice watched the door close behind Jonas and squirmed with embarrassment.

Make it me
. She had no idea where she’d come up with the B-movie dialogue. She might as well have invited Jonas Holly to come up and see her some time.

Mind you, she thought, it would be nice if
some
bastard came up to see her some time. She’d broken up with Eric six months before and missed a man in her life. Of course, she worked with men every day, but that wasn’t the same thing. They were cops, and the last thing Elizabeth Rice wanted was to work with cops all day and sleep with one at night, too. And now she’d gone all Mae West on poor Jonas Holly – who’d surely suffered enough already – when all she’d meant to do was let him know she was someone he could talk to if he needed it.

Not that he was unattractive, she thought suddenly. He was too thin, of course, but he was at least symmetrical, which she’d
started
to value around here. He had nice eyes and short, dark hair. Plus he had that solemn, guarded air about him that she found appealing. Still, she didn’t know why she’d said something so suggestive. Rice prided herself on being professional – not the
oldest
professional …

She sighed. What the hell. She was probably worrying needlessly. Eric had never taken a hint unless it was dropped on his head like an anvil. Men were like that. Jonas Holly probably hadn’t even noticed her accidental come-on.

She turned to put the file back in the wardrobe.

Oh
bollocks
!

She’d left yesterday’s knickers on the back of the chair.

IT WAS SHANE’S
idea to ask Steven for help in getting their money back.

‘
Steven?
’ said Davey in astonishment. ‘My
brother
Steven?’

‘Yeah,’ said Shane. ‘He’s taller than Mark bloody Trumbull.’

‘Only a bit. And he can’t fight.’

‘Maybe he wouldn’t have to fight. Maybe being taller and older would be enough. Maybe all he’d have to do is ask and he’d give him our money back.’

Davey shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t do it. He’s a right chicken.’

‘Aw, c’
mon
, Davey! If I had a brother, you know I’d ask him. But I don’t.’ Shane only had a big sister, Davina, and she cried at chick-flicks, so there was no way they could set her on Mark Trumbull with any expectation of success.

‘He’s probably spent the money already,’ said Davey gloomily, which, in fact, was very nearly true. Mark Trumbull had got Ronnie Trewell to buy four cans of Dry Blackthorn from Mr Jacoby’s shop, then vomited near the swings. He’d done the same thing four days running until Mr Jacoby got suspicious and
Ronnie
stopped playing ball. That was twenty quid gone. After that, he’d bought a skateboard from Lalo Bryant for £12, and two porn mags –
Big Jugs
and
Beaver Patrol
. Thirty-eight quid’s worth of ill-gotten bliss.

‘Yeah, but maybe he hasn’t,’ wheedled Shane. ‘Can’t hurt to ask!’

It can
always
hurt to ask
.

Shane is an idiot
.

Those were the two truths that crystallized instantly in Davey’s brain the very second he explained to his older brother that they needed his help in getting their stolen money back from Mark Trumbull.

Instead of just saying ‘No’ or simply carrying out the task as requested, Steven immediately asked questions. Awkward questions that Davey had not foreseen, but which – now they were being asked – seemed blindingly obvious.

How much money?

Where did you get it?

Davey was a pretty good liar, but even as he spun a web woven from Shane’s birthday, Shane’s rich uncle, and Shane’s unprecedented generosity in deciding to split the windfall, he could tell it was full of holes. And Steven saw all those holes instantly, and repeated his questions with a quiet persistence until finally Davey felt the unaccustomed taste of truth on his tongue.

One hundred pounds in twenties, found in the hedge near the old witch’s house halfway up the hill
.

Davey rolled that truth around his mouth and found it was not so unpalatable after all. He should try it more often. He also noticed that the moment he
told
the truth, it was obvious that Steven believed it. How did he know? Davey was perplexed, but also pleased that they had got the truth out of the way and could now move on to the question of Mark Trumbull.

But Steven’s idea of moving on was very different from his.

Instead of leaping immediately off his bed and into action, Steven went very quiet. So quiet that Davey could hear the alarm clock ticking on his bedside table, even though it ran on batteries.

Davey let him think. In the meantime he looked around Steven’s bedroom. It was smaller than the one they used to share, and darker, too. He wondered why Steven preferred it when he could almost certainly have pulled rank and demanded the big room. This one had blue curtains and a new carpet. For years – when they were not allowed in here because of Uncle Billy being dead and all – there was an ugly brown carpet on the floor, but a while back Nan had bought this one. It was pale blue and so cheap and thin that in places Davey could make out the shape of the uneven floorboards underneath, but it was still better.

Uncle Billy’s stuff was no longer here. There used to be a Lego thing gathering dust on the floor, a few tattered paperbacks on the shelf, and a photo of Billy on the bedside table. Only the photo was still there, but up high on the bookshelf, almost hidden behind some Batman action figures that Davey used to covet. Now Steven’s things filled the room: socks balled up behind the door; his iPod on the bedside table; his skateboard leaning against the wardrobe.

Davey wasn’t allowed to touch Steven’s stuff generally, but he’d had a go on the skateboard when Steven had first bought it. He’d thought he’d be great on it – it looked pretty simple and Steven was encouraging – but in fact he’d been hopeless. Steven had persevered despite falls, but Davey had quickly lost patience with pain, and rejected the skateboard, the ramp and Steven himself as a big waste of time. As time had gone on and Steven had got better and better – and further and further beyond him – Davey’s animosity towards the skateboard had grown. He’d infected Shane and a few other uncoordinated classmates with his disdain, and ‘bloody skater’ had become a stock insult, whether their target partook or not.

‘What were you doing up the hill? You’re not allowed to go to Springer Farm.’

It wasn’t what Davey had been expecting and he had no pat answer for his brother, so he said he hadn’t been to Springer Farm.