Belinda Bauer - Finders Keepers

‘I think that maybe he breaks the windows because the dogs are left in hot cars.’

Reynolds grunted, his arms crossed on his chest, and leaned on the door of the unmarked Peugeot.

‘I don’t know, Jonas,’ said Rice doubtfully. ‘Why would he bother doing that if he’s there to kidnap a child? If he’s that concerned, why not take the dogs instead? Or as well? Or just smash the whole window and let them out to run about?’

‘I don’t know. All I know is that when I saw that dog in the car at the show, even my first instinct was to pull open the door and get it some air.’

‘But breaking the windows only increases his chances of being caught,’ Reynolds pointed out. ‘There must be more to it than that. And what about Dunkery Beacon?’

‘No dogs there,’ said Jonas. ‘Only the hounds and maybe a few terriers, but they would all have been working. None would have been left in cars or horseboxes.’

Reynolds made another sour mouth. ‘Even if it’s true – even if the kidnapper has a sideline in… dog paramedics… how does that help us catch him?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Jonas. ‘But it’s something , isn’t it?’

‘At least it means he cares,’ said Rice.

‘Cares about dogs ,’ said Reynolds. He was a cat person himself.

‘Caring is caring,’ she retorted. ‘If he has empathy then it shows he’s not a total psychopath.’

‘Myra Hindley had a poodle,’ said Reynolds. ‘Look, if he cared about those children he wouldn’t have taken them from their parents at all.’

Jonas shrugged. ‘You mean the parents who weren’t doing such a great job of looking after them in the first place?’

Reynolds and Rice both stared at him.

‘I’m just saying,’ said Jonas, showing his palms defensively, ‘maybe it’s not only about him and his desires. Maybe all he sees is kids left alone in cars and he thinks he could do a better job of protecting them. That’s what the notes imply, isn’t it?’

‘You just want to believe that they’re still alive,’ said Reynolds.

‘Yes, I do,’ Jonas shot back.

‘Me too,’ said Rice quietly.

‘So where’s he keeping them?’ demanded Reynolds. ‘Tell me that, if you know so much about him.’

Jones spread his arms in a hopeless gesture. ‘I don’t know. I suppose somewhere isolated. Somewhere on the moor—’

‘Somewhere like all the places a hundred people and a helicopter spent three days searching?’

Jonas chewed his lip by way of an answer. Reynolds sighed and said more gently, ‘Look, we’d all love to think that Jess and Pete and Charlie are all alive and happy and being well cared for, but we have to face facts, and that’s not likely to be the case.’

Jonas felt defeated. ‘I’m just trying to think about things from his point of view.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Reynolds briskly. ‘Let’s just try to keep it realistic.’

He pulled open the passenger door.

‘Good thinking though, Jonas,’ Rice said, and got behind the wheel.

Jonas watched them drive away.

‘You were a bit hard on him, weren’t you?’ said Rice, not taking her eyes off the road.

Reynolds looked at her in surprise. ‘I thought I was very tolerant, considering.’

‘Considering what?’

‘Considering all that rubbish about dogs.’

‘I thought it was interesting.’

‘Hmm.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing.’

She looked at him. ‘What does hmm mean?’

He shrugged and she clicked at him and stared at the road.

‘Look,’ he said at last, ‘I spoke to Kate Gulliver about Holly.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘She wanted to know how he was.’

Rice nodded and pretended she hadn’t known that. ‘What did you tell her?’

‘That he seems OK to me. Doesn’t he to you?’

‘I suppose so. Is she worried about him?’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘But when she heard what we were working on, she did say that she thought he had issues with children.’

‘Issues with children? What does that mean?’

Reynolds wasn’t sure because he hadn’t asked – so he told Rice that Gulliver wasn’t sure. ‘Just said she thought he had unresolved issues about children.’

‘But what does that mean ?’ said Rice in exasperation.

‘Look, I don’t want to go into this too deeply. Obviously it’s confidential stuff. All I’m saying is that Holly’s been through a tough time, and he may not be the most objective or reliable person to have on this case or any case. I think we should treat anything he comes up with with a certain degree of caution.’

This is better. Much better. One was good and served a purpose, but it weren’t enough. Now it’s like I’m back in the swing of things. I missed the work, see? I missed the work; the routine; I missed the love . Now it’s starting to feel like I’m doing something useful again.

Three is good.

Four would be better.

THE BUS BUMPED into a pothole, and Ken Beard nearly wet his pants. He squeezed down hard and gritted his teeth.

That was close .

Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Ken felt sweat break out on his temples as the word pulsed in his head.

He had a lump.

Down there .

He hadn’t felt it – hadn’t had the guts to do that. The balls , if you will. But he knew the lump was there, somewhere, swelling in his prostate or jostling his bladder. At night he got up three or four times to pass a stinging trickle. By day he went before and immediately after starting the school run, but there were still times – like right now – when the need to pee became desperate. The nearest public convenience was at Tarr Steps, and that was two miles away and not on his route. The children would be late home and he might be reported to the school board.

Ken looked in his mirror. There were only two children left on the bus – Kylie Martin and Maisie Cook, both from Withypool. They were about eight, he guessed. They sat facing each other across the aisle, swinging their bare legs and sandals, and giggling about God knew what. They were nice kids. Most of them were, he’d found – contrary to popular myth.

As he looked at the girls, the bus hit another rut, almost making him groan with the need to pee. His bladder was going to burst, he knew it – whatever experience had taught him about straining and waiting over the toilet bowl in the small hours.

He had to go. He couldn’t hold on any more.

As soon as he thought it, Ken steered the bus into a shallow layby at the top of a hill and stopped.

In the mirror, Maisie and Kylie looked up at him questioningly.

‘You girls wait here, OK? Don’t get off the bus. I just need to check something out.’

‘’K,’ said Maisie.

‘Promise me you won’t get off the bus, all right?’

‘Promise,’ said Kylie.

‘Promise, Mr Beard,’ said Maisie.

‘Good girls.’

Ken hurried down the steps, crossed the narrow strip of tarmac and set off down the hill towards a stand of gorse. The going was steep and uneven and his bladder almost let go twice more before he made it to the cover.

Ken Beard unzipped, then stood with his back to the road and enjoyed one of the most glorious views in Britain as he tried to pee.

Nothing.

His bladder felt like a beach ball and his penis tingled with anticipation, but it wasn’t happening. Now that it had permission to piss up a storm, his urinary tract had stalled like Middle Eastern peace talks.

The pain. The humiliation. The embarrassment. The edges of Ken’s own personal Exmoor blurred as tears sprung to his eyes. When had something as simple as pissing become so traumatic? Every time he couldn’t go, he imagined a doctor’s finger up his arse, probing his prostate. Probably with a crowd of medical students watching.