‘My dad had some of your silos.’
‘Everyone has.’ But he wasn’t going to waste time on small talk. ‘Someone stolen somethin’?’
‘No…no.’ He took out the envelope and showed him. ‘One of yours?’
Stow looked carefully. ‘Ten years since we used them.’
‘It was found in the pub a couple of years back. Full of photographs…kids.’
Stow understood. ‘Fuck.’
‘At the time, apparently, nothing much was done. Not that you could do much.’
‘Someone at the pub mighta seen.’
‘Too late now. Don’t s’pose you’d know anything that might help?’
‘No.’ Wondering if this was really a stationery issue, or something deeper. ‘So, you’re saying someone here…’
‘No, Mr Stow. Just, there’s so little to go on with these sorta things.’
‘Right.’ But he kept looking at him. ‘Why you asking now?’
‘Well, it’s complex, but we’ve found an unclaimed kid.’
‘What, someone’s bringing them into town?’
Moy knew he’d said too much. Could see the front page of the Argus in the morning.
‘No one’s bringing kids to Guilderton or…anything like that. I just came on the off-chance.’
Stow stood, approached a filing cabinet and pulled out a drawer. ‘A to F,’ he said. ‘These go back forty years, but out back there’s a dozen boxes with all our old orders.’
Moy understood. You couldn’t solve a crime with an envelope.
‘I don’t know what I can say, Detective. Unless you want to take everyone’s number and ring them. Might take you a couple of months. Then you gotta think what to say, eh?’
Excellent. Another prick trying to do his job for him. ‘Anything you can think of, Mr Stow. Wouldn’t like to think there’s someone in town who’d hang out in change rooms.’
‘Every town’s got one of them.’
‘Have they?’
Stow stopped, refusing to be drawn. ‘This unclaimed kid prob’ly just needs a belt around the ears. Someone’s looking for him.’
Him, Moy thought. ‘Yes, she’ll probably be claimed soon.’
Stow sat down. He looked at the envelope. ‘You could check it for fingerprints.’
‘We could.’
‘But it’s prob’ly seen a few hands.’ He waited with an anything else? expression.
‘Keep your eyes open,’ Moy said, reclaiming the envelope. ‘You’re well connected, eh? Speak to a lot of people?’
‘It’s not a question you ask, is it?’
Moy walked out through a cathedral-sized shed where two men were welding. Silos. He guessed that’s what you could do with a body. He remembered the story, years ago, of the kid who’d climbed a ladder, looked in, fallen in. And drowned, wheat and its dust filling his lungs as he choked down the grain. Less than a minute, then silence. And it took them weeks to work out where he was.
He looked back towards the office and Stow was watching him. He raised his head in a final farewell. He was convinced the man was no photographer, but he wasn’t sure he had no idea.
21
MOY BRIEFED GARY, who told him he was wasting his time. The kid had run away. The parents didn’t want to report it. They were scared of what he’d say about them. The boy was still deciding if he should turn on them.
After he was gone, Moy stood at his kitchen window watching the boy hanging their freshly washed clothes on the line. He noticed how he took a shirt from the basket, climbed a chair and pegged it out. Guessed he’d been taught well; could almost see someone standing beside him, telling him what to do.
For those few minutes there was nothing but the washing—vomit-free pants and shorts, socks and undies—all from the little piles Moy had left sitting around his house for weeks, until, when he was out, the boy had gathered them in a basket. ‘He’s quite a little worker,’ he said to Deidre, clutching his phone.
‘He is,’ the carer replied. ‘So…you’re sure about this?’
‘Yes,’ Moy said, watching the boy drop a sock, climb down to retrieve it and return to the job. ‘We seem to get along…I think. I’m not saying you didn’t—’
‘No, no,’ she said, coughing. ‘But I’m quite happy to have him back.’
‘Give us a few days. Not sure what the rules are but…it’s not like anyone’s gonna say anything.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’
‘Guilderton? Headquarters don’t know we exist. I used to fill in all the forms, but now…’