James Craig - Never Apologise, Never Explain

‘Cutler?’

‘Yeah. A copper in search of a freebie, if I ever saw one.’

‘I spoke to him about the case the other evening.’

She looked doubtful. ‘And?’

‘And they are on top of everything,’ said Carlyle, parrying the query as best he could.

‘Right.’ Amelia looked as if she wanted to give him a slap. He couldn’t blame her.

‘I’m sure that they,’ Carlyle corrected himself, ‘that we will find him.’ The reality was that he wasn’t sure at all.

Amelia Jacobs balled her fists, her face locked into a brittle stare. ‘Someone has got to show some interest in this little boy.’

Giving up on the eye contact, Carlyle stared at his shoes.

‘Otherwise, it’s like the poor little sod never even existed.’

‘Yes.’

‘That bastard can’t have just vanished.’

‘No.’

‘It’s been weeks now…’ Her voice trailed off.

Carlyle stared harder at the floor. ‘I know.’ He did know. He could shut his eyes and paint a very clear picture in his head. But that didn’t mean he could do anything about it.

Waking the next morning, Carlyle watched Helen pad out of the bedroom to make a cup of green tea. Declining her offer of coffee, he got up, stretched and headed into the bathroom. After getting dressed, he decided on one last effort at conciliation. The TV was still playing, but Alice’s fifteen minutes were up and it was time for school. He wandered into the kitchen, where Helen stood gazing aimlessly out of the window at the London skyline, sipping her tea.

‘Why don’t I take Alice to school this morning?’ Carlyle suggested.

Helen turned to face him. ‘No need.’ She reached for the kettle and poured more hot water in her mug.

He looked at her carefully. This had to be a test. He needed to show more willing. ‘I don’t mind,’ he continued carefully. ‘It’ll give you a bit of extra time before work.’

Helen sipped her tea demurely. ‘Actually, I spoke to Alice about it yesterday, while you were out making your enquiries.’ A small smirk crossed her mouth. ‘She’s going on her own.’

‘What?’ A sense of panic flashed through Carlyle’s brain. How could his daughter be travelling across London on her own at her age? There were so many dangers; all those nutters and perverts, watching and waiting for an opportunity to prey on the innocent. Not to mention all the crazy white-van men itching to knock down any careless pedestrians. What the hell was Helen thinking about?

His wife watched these emotions flash across his face and fought to stop her grin getting wider. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.’

‘Fine?’

‘Yes. Alice, as if you hadn’t noticed, is a very sensible child. Anyway, she has to do it.’

Carlyle frowned. ‘She does?’

‘Yes. The term is almost finished. After the summer she’ll have to go on her own.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says the school. We got a letter about it, remember?’

Carlyle grunted. He remembered various letters, but none in particular.

‘The school,’ Helen dropped her mug in the sink, ‘insists that all kids Alice’s age have to be able to go to school on their own. The Headmaster says it’s part of the process of becoming more independent as they grow up.’

‘Becoming more independent?’ Carlyle sniffed, not liking the sound of that one little bit.

‘Exactly.’ Helen put a hand on his arm. ‘You can’t remain a paranoid parent forever.’

Oh can’t I? Carlyle wondered. Just watch me.

Helen squeezed his arm gently. ‘She’s got to start sometime.’

‘I know, I know.’ Carlyle pressed his thumbs to his temples. He could feel a headache coming on. He really needed something to eat. Breakfast, however, would not solve his problem. Far worse than the dangers of the big, bad city (most of which, he knew, were just down to media hype and invention) was the realisation that the golden years were coming to an end. His daughter was leaving him behind.

Almost on cue, there was a call from the hall. ‘I’m off!’

Helen skipped out of the kitchen and gave Alice a hug. Carlyle sheepishly followed. He smiled at his daughter and tried to ignore the spasm of discomfort in his guts. ‘Go carefully.’

‘Yes, Dad!’

He looked her up and down. She looked younger in her uniform than she did in jeans and a T-shirt. He bit down on his fear once more. ‘Will you get the bus?’

Alice pulled on her jacket. ‘I’ve got plenty of time, so I might walk. I could pick up Sarah on the way.’

Carlyle looked at Helen.

‘One of her classmates,’ his wife explained. ‘She lives in Hatton Garden.’

Carlyle turned back to his daughter. ‘But you’ve got your Oyster card with you?’ he asked.

She sighed theatrically. ‘ Yes. ’

‘And your mobile?’

Another sigh, even more dramatic this time. ‘Yes. And I’ll text Mum when I get there.’

Carlyle glanced again at Helen, who nodded in confirmation.

‘And you’ll text me?’ he asked his wife.

‘Yes, on your work mobile. That way, you might just manage to pick up my message.’ Helen had never been overly impressed by her husband’s insistence on having two phones. In addition to his work-issue handset, Carlyle always carried his own cheap, pay-as-you-go mobile. Currently, it was a Sony Ericsson J132, which had cost him just a fiver at the Carphone Warehouse on Long Acre. He had bought it a couple of weeks earlier and would change it again in a couple of months. Meanwhile, very few people had the number to his personal phone, or even knew that he had one. Carlyle saw this as an attempt to keep at least some of his communications private in an increasingly trackable world. It was so private, in fact, that he had been known to go for days, even weeks, without remembering to check it.

‘Okay.’ He grabbed his daughter and gave her a tight hug, before she squirmed away. ‘Have a great day at school.’

‘I will.’ Alice kissed her mum on the cheek and bounced through the front door. ‘See you later.’ Ignoring the lift, she disappeared round the corner towards the stairs.

Carlyle listened to her footsteps on the stairs until they faded to nothing. He turned and noticed Helen’s eyes welling up. ‘I know,’ he said, putting his arm around her and pulling her close. ‘I know, fucking hell.’

Sitting in the front seat of the BMW, Rosanna Snowdon cursed the late-night traffic. She was hoping that the congestion would ease, so she could manage to make it home before she had to throw up. The bottle of supermarket Rioja after taping the latest edition of London Crime — on top of the two double vodkas she had taken to relax before recording her show — had not been a good idea. She had vowed to go easy on the booze, but that plan had gone out the window after her boss’s boss had started hitting on her for the umpteenth time. Alcohol was a key part of her coping strategy when it came to fighting off the unwanted attentions of fat, menopausal television executives, something of which Rosanna had plenty of previous experience.

There was a long BBC tradition of management ‘mentoring’ the talent. It was something that she had always robustly resisted, even if sometimes her would-be suitors put up quite a struggle. Ian Dale, the Managing Editor of Factual Programming (London), had been chasing his ‘little star’ for almost a year now. If Rosanna was not really in a position to tell him to get lost, she did nothing to give him any encouragement either. Now he had offered to drive her home. That should have been a major red flag, but she was pissed and tired and couldn’t be bothered to wait for a taxi, which could take ages at this time of night. It was already almost midnight and she had to be back in the studio by 8 a.m. tomorrow morning. Anyway, pissed or not, she was confident that she could handle Dale. If all else failed, she had her ace card, his wife Erica’s mobile number, prudently acquired from Dale’s secretary when it became apparent that he was going to be an ongoing nuisance. The number was programmed into her own phone. If he got out of order, she could just call up Mrs Dale, hand her husband the phone and invite him to explain himself.