The Missing: The gripping psychological thriller that’s got everyone talking... (16 page)

The mobile vibrates with a new text from Liz.

Have you told him about the blackout?

No.

So many things have been whirling around in my mind this evening but what happened to me isn’t one of them.

Liz sends another text.

Do you want me to come to the police station with you tomorrow?

Thank you, I’d appreciate that. I’ll knock for you at 9 if that’s OK? Xx

I tap the phone’s back button and look at the list of text messages I’ve been sent recently. Stephen’s name is near the top. He’d be so unbearably smug if he knew about the photo album.

‘I’m going to the pub,’ Mark announces as he eases himself out of the armchair. He picks up his plate and then reaches for mine. He raises his eyebrows at my untouched food. ‘You all right?’

All right? Isn’t he the slightest bit worried about what I might do with the photo album? How can he have no idea what’s going on in my mind?

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘About me going to the pub, I mean. Shouldn’t Jake and Kira be back by now?’

Oh God. Kira. I’d completely forgotten I’d asked her to go out so I could talk to Mark. I need to text her and tell her it’s okay to come back.

‘Jake’s working late and Kira has gone to a friend’s house. You go to the pub.’

His gaze flits towards the photo album, still propped up on the sofa beside me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘What for?’

‘Laughing. When you asked me in the kitchen if I knew anything about it. After everything we’ve been through in the last few weeks I didn’t think anything else could go wrong. And then when I saw the album and the look on your face, I thought, here we bloody go again. I’m going to get accused of something I didn’t do. And I laughed. Not because it was funny but because it seemed like a sick joke. I’m sorry, Claire. I shouldn’t have laughed. It freaked you out.’

‘I’m too tired to talk about this any more.’

‘I know. That’s why I’m going to the pub. Give us both some space.’

I nod. ‘Yeah.’

‘Okay then.’ His gaze lingers on my face. ‘I’ll be back by ten. I’ve got an early start in the morning and—’

He’s interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing.

I move to stand up but Mark shakes his head.

‘It’s okay. I’ll get it.’

As he disappears into the hallway the chat-show host on the TV skips across the set as though the soles of his feet are on fire. I hear the clatter of plates in the sink and the low rumble of my husband’s voice as he answers the door.

Seconds later a man appears in the doorway to the living room.

‘Hi, Claire,’ says DS Forbes, ‘sorry to call round so late. Mind if I sit down?’

DS Forbes knows what I did. I can see it in the grave look in his eyes and the tight set of his mouth. He’s come to arrest me for assaulting the cyclist. They reported me, him or the woman in the car that stopped. I need to tell him about the blackout, the one I haven’t told Mark about yet. I’ll tell DS Forbes to talk to Dr Evans. And Liz. She knows what happened. She saw the state I was in when she picked me up. She’ll testify that I wasn’t in my normal state of mind.

‘I didn’t mean to hurt him.’ The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

‘Hurt who?’ DS Forbes takes a step towards me. Mark follows behind him.

‘The cyclist. I didn’t mean to knock him off his bike when I opened my car door. I genuinely didn’t see him.’

‘Claire.’ Mark darts past DS Forbes and joins me on the sofa. He wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me in to his side. ‘DS Forbes is here to talk about Billy. He’s got news.’

‘Billy! Oh my God.’ My hands fly to my mouth.

A cold chill runs through me and a thousand goosebumps prickle on the surface of my skin. It’s bad news. I can tell by the look on DS Forbes’s face. In his eyes.

‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ He lowers himself into Mark’s armchair without waiting for a reply.

‘Claire. Mark.’ He glances at the TV, still flickering in the corner of the room. I can’t remember him using our first names before. ‘Do you mind turning that off?’

I hear the sound of Mark’s voice but it’s lost in the white noise that fills my head.

The TV goes black. DS Forbes clears his throat and then licks his lips, the pink tip of his tongue peeping out of his mouth as it moistens his upper lip. Each gesture, each tiny gesture he makes seems huge. I feel as though I’m looking at him through a TV camera that’s zoomed in on his face. I want to press ‘stop’ and rewind him out of the room. Then I want to rewind my life back to the night that Billy left and skip past me storming out of the house, past the argument, past the visit to the police station to pick him up, past his first day of school and back to the moment he was born. When he was in my arms. When I wouldn’t let him out of my sight, not even for a second. When he was safe.

‘Claire. Mark. There’s been a development in Billy’s case and I’m afraid it’s not good news.’

The image of Billy, safe in my arms, becomes grey and distorted as the white noise in my head closes around him and he vanishes. A voice in my head screams through the white noise. Stop! Stop that man from speaking. I don’t want to hear what he’s about to say.

‘Does the name Jason Davies mean anything to either of you?’

Jason Davies? I close my eyes and search my memory for someone, anyone, I may have met with that name but all I can see are the faces of my friends and family, whirling around in the darkness.

‘No,’ Mark says. He nudges me. ‘Claire?’

I feel paralysed but somehow I manage to open my eyes and shake my head.

‘Should it mean something to us?’ Mark asks.

‘I’ve got a photo.’ DS Forbes reaches down by his feet and retrieves a black attaché case. Did he have it in his hand when he walked in? I can’t remember. I can’t remember anything apart from the sombre expression on his face when he appeared in the doorway.

‘Do you know this man?’ He holds out an A4 sheet of paper.

The photograph quivers as Mark takes it from DS Forbes and then returns with it to the sofa, holding it tentatively by the edges as though it’s a bomb, primed to go off. He rests it on his thighs. A man in his mid- to late forties gazes up at us. He has a long face with deep hollows under his cheekbones, heavily lidded eyes and wide, thin lips. His greying hair is thinning at the front and neatly cropped. His face is unremarkable. He looks like someone who might live next door, or work behind the counter at the garden centre, or play guitar in the pub on a Friday night. But it’s his eyes I focus in on. They are blank, expressionless: cold grey pools with pinprick pupils. I want to look away before his face imprints in my mind but I can’t stop staring.

‘No.’ Mark snatches up the photograph and hands it back to DS Forbes. I inhale, snatching air into my lungs. How long have I been holding my breath?

‘Claire?’ DS Forbes looks at me. ‘Do you know him?’

‘I’ve never seen him before. Who is he?’

He rubs a hand across his jawline, dark with stubble, and Mark reaches for my hand. I press my face into his shoulder and squeeze my eyes shut. Oh please, God. Please don’t let him say—

‘He has confessed to killing Billy. And while we don’t yet have any evidence that he was responsible we have begun an investigation—’

A gasp catches in my throat followed by a wail of anguish that begins in my guts and works its way up through my body and out of my mouth.

No.

No.

No.

NO.

A roar fills the room – primal and terrifying. I clutch Mark instinctively but the sound is coming from him.

‘Claire. Mark.’ I feel a hand on my shoulder and DS Forbes’s voice in my ear. Mark falls silent but I feel myself tense. I want the policeman out. I want him out of our house so I can drop to the floor and smack my head against the floor until I pass out.

‘Mark.’ The hand remains on my shoulder but the voice fades, ever so slightly. ‘Mark, listen to me. At the moment it’s just a confession. Jason Davies is in prison. He confessed to his cellmate that he was involved in Billy’s disappearance and the cellmate was overheard discussing it with another inmate and—’

‘So he might be lying?’

‘That’s a possibility, Mark. But we have to take confessions of this nature very seriously.’

‘Has he done it before?’ I can hear the fear and anger in my husband’s voice. ‘Is that why he’s in prison? Has he hurt kids before?’

‘I can’t share that information with you, Mark, I’m sorry.’

‘But you can tell me he confessed to killing our child!’

‘Mark, I know this is difficult—’

‘Difficult? You just told me someone has confessed to killing my son, our son, and you think it’s difficult. I—’

‘There’s no easy way of doing this, Mark. I had to tell you about this development. We needed to know if you or Billy knew this man.’

I peel my face from Mark’s shoulder. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘It’s a line of inquiry, Claire,’ he says softly, ‘and we need to follow it up.’

‘Is he a paedophile, this Jason Davies?’

‘Billy wasn’t the only child he has confessed to abducting and killing. He mentioned some other names too.’

‘Oh my God.’ I press my hands to my face. My cheeks are wet beneath my fingertips.

Mark says nothing. He is staring at DS Forbes, his lips parted, his eyes flooded with fear.

DS Forbes rocks back onto his heels and looks from Mark to me. ‘It’s very important that you keep this development to yourselves and I’d urge you not to reveal it to anyone beyond your immediate family, particularly not the media, as it could hinder our investigation. You must not attempt to seek retribution or carry out your own inquiries as it could prejudice any future case we might file against this man. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’ Mark’s voice is little more than a whisper.

‘Claire?’ DS Forbes looks at me. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ll keep you informed about any developments and you should bear in mind that it may take some time. A few weeks at least.’ He looks at Mark again. ‘Have you got any questions? Bearing in mind what I said earlier about information I can’t divulge.’

Mark shakes his head. He looks numb.

‘Claire?’

‘No.’

‘Okay.’ He eases himself up from the chair, groaning as he straightens his legs. ‘I’ll give you both some space now. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to bring you more positive news. Don’t get up,’ he adds, even though both Mark and I are still rooted to the sofa. ‘I’ll let myself out.’

He crosses the living room in six large strides and disappears into the hallway. I grit my teeth and dig my nails into the palms of my hands but there’s no holding back the tidal wave of grief building inside me and I howl with pain.

Jake and Kira stumble through the back door at 11.12 p.m., giggling and shushing each other. There’s a low thump, then a squeak of wood on tiles as though one of them has knocked against the kitchen table.

‘Shit,’ Jake shouts. ‘I dropped my kebab.’

‘It’ll probably taste nicer.’

Their voices are dialled up to eleven and they bounce off the walls, joyful and drunken, as Mark and I sit side by side in the half-lit living room, holding hands. They must have met up in the pub after Jake finished work. My palm is tacky with sweat and my fingers are aching but there’s no way I can let go of Mark’s hand. A few hours ago I asked him to turn off the overhead light and put on a lamp instead. I feel like an exposed nerve. The noises in the kitchen are making my ears hurt. My throat is dry and my tongue feels too large for my mouth. I can’t remember the last time I had something to drink.

‘God, that thing stinks,’ Kira says, her voice growing closer. ‘The bedroom’s going to smell like an abattoir.’

‘Yeah, yeah. You love a bit of meat.’

‘Jake!’

He laughs.

‘Okay, fine,’ he says. ‘I’ll eat it in the living room then. We can watch—’

He steps into the living room. Then stops.

‘Ooph.’ Kira charges into him. Her laughter catches in her throat as she peers round his shoulder. Her eyes catch mine.

‘What is it?’ Jake says. ‘Mum, what’s happened?’

‘Sit down, kids.’

Jake doesn’t move a muscle. A piece of wilted lettuce tumbles out of the box he’s holding loosely in his right hand. It lands on the carpet.

‘Mum?’ Jake says again. ‘What’s happened?’ He’s still in his work gear, his jeans frayed at the bottom, his trainers dusty around the edges. His jaw is dotted with stubble, his fair hair swept back from his eyes. Behind him Kira’s bottom lip is stained red with drink or the remains of her lipstick.

‘Sit down,’ Mark says again but there’s no power left in his voice and no one moves. ‘Jake. Kira. DS Forbes came round earlier this evening. He had some news about Billy.’

Jake sways on the spot and a thick slab of kebab meat tumbles to the floor. For a second I think he’s going to faint but then he regains his composure.

‘Some nonce …’ Mark says. ‘Some piece of scum in jail told his cellmate that he abducted and killed Billy. He’s confessed to killing other kids too.’

Kira is the first to react. She gasps and runs from the room, her bag bouncing against her shoulder as she sprints up the stairs.

Jake makes no move to go after her. Shock is etched into every line on his face.

‘Mum?’

I want to tell him that it’s not true, that it’s the sickest of sick jokes. That Billy is in his room, in the hospital, at the police station. I want to tell him anything but the truth.

‘Mum?’ The word is loaded with fear.

‘It’s true, sweetheart.’

‘The police are investigating,’ Mark says. ‘They said it might be a few weeks until we hear any more. We’re not to share the news with anyone outside the family and you mustn’t breathe a word on Facebook.’

The clock tick ticks in the corner of the room like a clockwork mechanism being wound inside my son. I brace myself, waiting for an explosion of rage and fury to burst from him.

None comes.

He bends at the knees and I feel sure that he’s going to collapse but then he plucks the slice of meat and the shred of lettuce from the carpet and tucks them back into the polystyrene container. He closes it, his large hands fumbling the squeaky plastic lip back into the box, then he turns and walks up the stairs, taking them one at a time.