James Craig - Time of Death

Two minutes after arriving at Phoenix House, he found himself back on the same orange leather sofa that he had sat on during his last visit. This time it was dirtier, with even more stains and a new collection of cigarette burns on one arm. Sam Laidlaw sat in an armchair opposite him, staring doggedly at the carpet. Carlyle looked for improved signs of life but Laidlaw still looked like a zombie. Aside from the odd sniffle, she made no sound.

Amelia Jacobs was considerably more presentable. Dressed in black jeans and a grey, long-sleeved T-shirt, she paced the floor between them. Carlyle said nothing while Amelia gave him a hard stare, looking him up and down as if he was some John who couldn’t get it up. Finally she asked: ‘Did you ever talk to Michael?’

‘I did try.’ Carlyle leaned forward and gave her some proper eye contact. ‘I couldn’t find him.’ Not that I tried very hard, he thought. ‘Did you know a guy called Jerome Sullivan?’

Laidlaw made no sign of even hearing his question.

Jacobs frowned. ‘No. Why? Has he got something to do with this?’

‘I don’t know,’ Carlyle replied, ‘but I know Michael has been hanging out with him recently.’

‘He must be a right scumbag then,’ Amelia snapped. ‘Have you spoken to him yet?’

‘He’s dead,’ Carlyle said casually.

‘Great! So what are you going to do about it now ?’ Amelia’s question was a reasonable one. If nothing else, he admired her determination. She seemed to be the only person who really cared about the kid. Even if Jake came back, he would go straight into the care of Camden Children’s Social Services. His mother had blown her last chance. It would be a miracle – or, rather, a scandal – if she ever got her kid back. Amelia knew all this already, but she would still not give up.

Carlyle shrugged. ‘It’s not my case.’

‘The other guy,’ Amelia snorted, ‘doesn’t give a toss.’

‘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.