Sharon Bolton - Like This, for Ever

Barney agreed that he was and followed Huck and his dad across the yard.

‘So we’ll spend an hour at the public library, then drop by the salad bar on the way home,’ Huck’s dad was saying. His right arm was slung around his son’s shoulders, his left was carrying Huck’s school bag, overnight bag and guitar case.

‘Rec, then movie, then Trev’s,’ replied Huck.

Barney dropped back. Obvious affection between parents and children always made him feel uncomfortable. At the gate, Huck’s dad turned round.

‘Is someone meeting you, mate?’ he asked Barney, before glancing up and down the street.

Barney shook his head. ‘I’m going to a friend’s house,’ he said. ‘It’s only five minutes away.’ He stopped and let his skates drop to the ground.

‘Barney’s the best blader in the school,’ said Huck. ‘He’s faster than everyone.’

‘All the same, it’ll be dark soon,’ said Mr Joesbury. ‘Can we drop you off, Barney?’

Barney smiled and said he was fine, thank you, it really was just around the corner. Even then, Huck’s dad seemed reluctant to let him go. Barney pulled his skates on, hoisted his bag on to his shoulders and set off. Just before he turned the corner he looked back. Huck and his dad were getting into a green Audi convertible. Barney recognized the registration number immediately. Huck Joesbury’s dad was the bloke who knocked on Lacey’s door late at night, and who sat in the car for ages waiting for her to come home.

Barney watched as Huck and his dad drove away, Huck waving at Barney as the car disappeared. Most boring job in the world? Lacey had told him she and the man in the green Audi worked together and that would make him a police officer. Somebody was lying. Barney didn’t like lies. There was something untidy about them.

‘Barney, great. Catch this. Oh, nice catch.’

In the doorway of the Soar family kitchen, Barney looked down at the plastic sword he’d just caught. Jorge, striding towards him, was holding a matching weapon. There was a thin film of moisture on his fair skin and his cheeks were bright pink. The green dye had been washed from his hair. ‘I just need to practise a couple of moves,’ he said, taking a defensive, swordsman’s pose directly in front of Barney. ‘Harvey was helping me but he’s not much good at fencing.’

On a stool at the counter sat Harvey, holding a freezer bag of ice to his forehead. Like his brother, he was pink in the face. He was also a little red around the eyes and his bottom lip looked swollen, the way it did when he was cross or upset. The boys’ mother, Abbie, was stirring a casserole dish on the worktop.

‘Your brother was doing fine till you stabbed him in the eye,’ she said. ‘Can you put the swords down now, please?’

Jorge barely acknowledged her. ‘Five minutes. I just need to get this move right. OK, Barney, I come at you like this, you lift your sword up to meet mine and then we hold them together while we—’

‘Jorge, there is no room in here.’

Barney had a choice: defend himself against the sword sweeping down towards him or be slashed across the face. With an apologetic look at Abbie, he blocked Jorge’s move. Jorge danced back, feinted left, then struck at him hard from the right.

‘There’s as much room in here as on the stage – oh, nice. How did you know I was going to do that?’

‘Saw it in your eyes,’ said Barney.

Jorge froze, the sword hovering just in front of Barney’s chest. ‘Straight up?’ he asked, his blue eyes looking searchingly into Barney’s. Over Jorge’s shoulder, Barney could see both Abbie and Harvey watching them.

Barney shrugged. ‘Probably just a lucky guess,’ he said.

Abbie left the counter. With an effort, she wrenched Jorge’s sword off him. ‘Before someone gets hurt,’ she said, holding her hand out for Barney’s sword but continuing to talk to her oldest son. ‘Now I’m going to check on Nan. Tea in ten minutes.’

The boys waited until the door was closed. Then, without looking, Jorge gave a massive leap backwards and landed on the kitchen counter. ‘So what’s the plan tomorrow night then, Barney?’ he asked.

Since when had it been his plan?

‘It’s not my plan,’ he said. ‘I’m not even sure I can get the key to the boat.’

Jorge shrugged. ‘So we break a window. Send Hatty in to open it up. She’s tiny.’

‘We can’t do that,’ said Harvey. Barney gave him a grateful smile. If they broke a window, he’d have to pay for the replacement, sneaking the money into his dad’s wallet somehow. Anything else just wouldn’t be fair.

‘Harvey says you’ve been studying the murders since the first boy went missing,’ said Jorge. ‘That you’ve got all sorts of theories about who the killer is and how he gets them.’

‘A few,’ Barney admitted.

‘So what we should do is visit all the murder sites,’ said Jorge. ‘See what they have in common, work out why he’s choosing them.’

The kitchen door opened and the boys’ grandmother appeared. She was easily the tallest of the family, a giant of a woman with bobbed white hair and big blue eyes. Her make-up always looked like she’d put it on in a dark room with a very shaky hand. As a young woman she’d been a dancer, Barney had seen photographs of her in costumes that seemed nothing but feathers and sparkles. She nodded at Barney and patted Jorge on the head, but her eyes didn’t quite meet those of any of the boys. She made for the sink and rinsed out the glass she’d been carrying. In her wake, she left the same stale, sweet smell that always seemed to follow her around.

‘We don’t know where the murder sites are,’ said Barney, keeping his voice low, although he knew the old lady didn’t hear too well. ‘Just where the bodies are being left.’

Jorge smiled. ‘True. Still, be fun to look though.’

18

RIGHT, PHOTOGRAPHS OF Mum, where would they be? Barney was in his dad’s study, knowing he had an hour at most. The room was lined with bookshelves. His dad taught eighteenth- and nineteenth-century literature at King’s College and sometimes Barney thought every book printed in those two hundred years was right here in this very room. Still, finding things was what he was good at. The first set of bookshelves housed textbooks. Books about books.

He moved on around the room, wondering how his dad ever managed to find anything. Before Barney could spend one day in here he’d have to organize the shelves so that they were in alphabetic order at least. And probably by date of publication. In a locked case under the window were first editions.

Not a single photograph album in the room. If they weren’t here, they could only be in the attic. On the back of the door hung the jacket his dad had been wearing the previous evening. Barney remembered how odd his dad had seemed, how he’d been holding something in his hand that he obviously didn’t want Barney to see. Something that he’d tucked into his jacket pocket.

From downstairs came the sound of a key being turned in the front door. Barney reached out, pulled the small, soft ball of something woollen from his father’s pocket and looked at it. A child’s glove. Black, with bumps on the palm side to help the wearer grip a tennis racket or something. Not his. For one thing, it was too small. It was like a little kid’s glove. He shoved it back into the jacket pocket.

‘You home, Barney?’ called his dad from the hallway, as he always did.

‘Yeah,’ called back Barney as he slipped out on to the landing and up the next flight of stairs. First mission aborted. On to the next.

In his den, he took down the solar-system poster and swivelled his chair round to face the missing boys’ wall. When he’d first started following the investigation, he’d used both official news and social media sites to find out where the bodies of the abducted boys were being dumped.