One Boy Missing(37)

‘All under control,’ Moy called.

She didn’t respond. She knew he was reliable.

Moy wrapped his arm around the boy, lifted him and carried him from the yard. ‘Sorry,’ he said, as he went. ‘We’ll get them replaced.’

The boy fought to get free. Moy took him in, put him on his bed, pointed a finger in his face and said, ‘Not an inch.’

The boy just glared at him.

‘Got it?’ He knew there’d need to be tough love first. Car washes weren’t going to do it.

Then he went to the shed, found a hammer and nails, and stood on the outside securing the window. As he did he looked at the boy, but he didn’t look back. He said, ‘I can remove these, any time.’

He looked across the road. Mrs Flamsteed was still on her porch, watching.

‘All tidied up?’ she called.





22

THE PROBLEM WAS solved with pizza. Moy ordered three. Garlic bread. Coke. A conversation at the door with the delivery boy. ‘Looks like I’ll have to eat them all myself,’ he said, turning towards the door of the spare room. ‘My son, he’s too sick to eat.’

He sat in the lounge room, feasting. A few minutes later he heard the boy’s door opening, then saw a shadow in the doorway. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘I got tropical. You like pineapple?’

The boy came in and knelt down in front of the boxes on the coffee table. He took a slice and started to eat.

‘I poured you a Coke,’ Moy said.

The boy chewed a few times, waited and swallowed.

‘Thank you, Detective,’ Moy said. ‘That’s okay.’

‘Thanks,’ the boy managed.

‘That’s okay.’

After they’d eaten and drained nearly a litre of Coke, Moy said, ‘Do I owe you an apology?’

The boy looked at him. ‘Was the lady angry?’

‘No. She’s got plenty of plants. Said she understood. Still…’

‘What?’

Moy fetched pen and paper, and helped him compose the note. ‘Dear Mrs Flamsteed…’

‘I can write it by myself. I’m not five years old.’

‘You never told me how old you were.’

‘Nine.’

When he was finished he crossed the road, by himself, and placed it in her letterbox.

He returned and Moy said, ‘She’ll be over with one of her saints.’

The boy had seen them on the fridge. ‘For me?’

‘Yeah. But I’ll keep her at the front door. I’ll tell her you went down the street for some milk. Unless, of course…’

The boy grinned. ‘My uncle was into Jesus.’

Moy knew better than to try again. Instead, ‘I suppose I should go do some work.’

‘What about me?’

‘You can come with me.’

‘To work?’

Moy shrugged. ‘I don’t think you’re ready to start school just yet, are you?’

‘No.’

They both got changed. When Moy emerged from his room the boy was putting the pizza boxes in the bin.

They backed out of the driveway in the lemon-scented car, cruised along Gawler Street behind a truck full of pigs, its tray dribbling shit, and past Civic Park on the way to the station. ‘What’s your favourite music?’ Moy asked, tuning from station to station. Eighties double-plays…Bing Crosby.

‘Don’t know.’

They settled on the squawk and mumble of the police radio.

Then the boy looked at Moy and said, ‘Patrick.’

Moy kept his eyes on the road. ‘Patrick?’ He stretched his right hand across his body. ‘I’m Bart…nice to meet you.’

Patrick lifted his hand from his lap. Slipped his fingers and palm into Moy’s. Then Moy closed his hand and they shook.

‘Do you have a surname, Patrick?’

The boy looked back at the road.

‘That’s okay. One step at a time. It’s a nice name, Patrick. Very Irish. But you’re not Irish, are you? I mean, what would an Irish person be doing in Guilderton? No, that’s quite a start. I feel like I know you now.’

They pulled up in front of the station. Patrick sat back in his seat, his hands sliding down, and squeezing his legs. His teeth closed on his bottom lip and he looked at Moy strangely.

‘Let’s go,’ Moy said, climbing from the car.

Patrick sat motionless, staring down into the black comms screen.

‘You coming?’

They went in through the double glass doors, postered with an ad for a Blue Light disco and a man named Sidney Barrett, wanted for the murder of his wife and mother-in-law. Patrick walked slowly, looking around—at the fan clunking above the waiting area; the aquarium, full of murky water and plastic seaweed; a coffee table with magazines and a Rubik’s cube with most of its coloured stickers peeled off. Moy approached the desk where Jason Laing was busy counting the number of fines in an infringement pad.