One Boy Missing(38)

‘This is Patrick,’ Moy said, his voice filling the empty room. ‘Patrick, this is Constable Jason Laing.’

Patrick lifted his head and looked at the policeman. Laing studied the boy’s face. ‘Hello, Patrick.’

No reply. Patrick looked down at the lino and the black marks at the bottom of the counter where thousands of boots had scuffed the wood.

‘Patrick’s staying with me,’ Moy said.

Laing leaned forward, although he was no closer to the boy. ‘Are you sure that’s something you want to do, Patrick? This man hasn’t cooked a meal since 1986.’

‘Thanks very much. At least we don’t have cats sleeping with us.’

‘That’s not my fault,’ Laing replied, attempting to meet the boy’s eyes. ‘It’s my wife, she loves cats.’ He leaned across the desk. ‘That’s what happens when you get married, Patrick…be warned.’

Moy looked at him, the kindergarten teacher with the bobbed hair on the tip of his tongue; Laing shot back a glare. Patrick (if that was his name) watched them with a blank expression.

‘Well, you look after yourself,’ Laing said. ‘Detective Moy will find your parents in no time. He’s very good, despite what everyone says.’ The phone rang and he answered it.

‘Come on,’ Moy said, taking Patrick around the shoulder and leading him towards his office. As he went Laing covered the mouthpiece and said, ‘Oh, Superintendent Graves rang. He was wondering why he hasn’t got a report on—’ he indicated the boy. ‘And the fire.’

‘Thanks, Constable.’

‘Thank you, Detective.’

Moy took Patrick through into the hallway. ‘You find this place a bit…intimidating?’

‘No.’

‘Any of these fellas would help you, you know. All you gotta do is ask.’

They got to a room with a steel door. Moy produced a fistful of keys he used to open a seam of locks. ‘This is the armory.’ He walked inside and switched on the lights. Patrick followed him in, his eyes lighting up at the sight of three shotguns, two pistols and a rifle locked in a cradle. There was a silver cage, itself locked up, full of old pistols, rifles and shotguns. ‘These are the ones we’ve confiscated,’ Moy said, shaking the cage. ‘They have to be sent to town, to be destroyed.’

The boy had seemed fascinated with Moy’s revolver, snuggled into a holster on his belt. He’d studied it, his mouth open with anticipation, plainly resisting the temptation to ask if he could hold it.

Now he looked at the cradle with the guns and said, ‘Have you ever had to use them?’

‘Not these, but back in town, there were times…’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, there was this dad, and he’d locked himself in his house with his wife and kids…’ He stopped.

‘And what happened?’

‘What happened? Nothing, he gave up.’

‘You didn’t have to shoot him?’

‘No.’

‘You should’ve.’

Moy looked at the boy, looking at the guns. ‘Why’s that?’

‘If he was threatening them.’

Moy could hear Laing whistling from the front desk. ‘But he gave up. Everything was okay.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Of course, we don’t put up with violent people. If we can just work out who they are.’

‘Sometimes you know,’ Patrick said, looking at him.

‘What do you mean?’

But the boy’s head just dropped.

‘So there’s a violent person?’

No reply.

‘But it’s not someone you know, is it? Someone from Guilderton, for instance? Someone you’ve met today?’

Nothing.

‘The thing is, if you told me, I’d have him in here like that.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Or if it was someone close, we could go and have a talk.’

The boy worked at a hole in the lino with the tip of his shoe.

‘Someone you know, someone in your family?’

Silence.

Moy switched off the lights and locked the door, and they continued down the hall. He entered a code on a keypad and another door opened. They walked into a room made up of three small cells. The cells were clean, with tiled floors and fold-down beds that had been made up with fresh linen and rugs. Each had its own stainless steel toilet, a single roll of paper and a hand basin.

‘This is where we put the bad guys,’ Moy said. ‘Or sometimes, on nights, we have a sleep here.’

‘You do?’

‘The beds are quite comfy. Try one.’

Patrick stood staring at the closest cell, its door wide open.

‘Air conditioning, heating, everything. We have meals sent over from the Wombat Inn. If this was a motel it’d be two hundred a night. What do you think?’