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One Boy Missing(70)



‘If it goes to court, don’t rely on me,’ she was saying.

‘What do you think happened?’ He could see her face, set hard, and her arms crossed.

He went into his room to pack a few clothes and she followed him.

‘So?’ she asked.

‘Tomorrow morning I’m going to split the savings and put half in my credit union   account, and then I’m going to check into a motel.’

‘You need both signatures.’

He’d stopped. ‘Wrong. Check.’

He sat back in his chair now, staring at the soccer ball, remembering his wife standing at the door as he took his keys, wallet and pistol, and left.

His phone rang. ‘Yes?’

It was Superintendent Graves wanting more information. The days and weeks are passing, he explained.

‘Sir.’ Thinking, pompous old timeserver. Irritated by the drone, the formal clunk of words. ‘I’ve read the reports, and I’ve followed everything up. I’ve talked to everyone on Creek Street but no one seems to remember them. The house itself is a long way out.’ He wanted to tell the superintendent not to bother him in his own space, his own time. Brave words and sentences were forming in his head. I’m solving it in my own way, and if you don’t like that…

‘So, it’s probably time to get this boy seen to,’ Graves said. ‘There’s probably a psychologist, or someone?’

Seen to. ‘Yes sir. I don’t think that’s going to achieve anything.’ You complete fucking prick.

‘What about this brother?’ Graves asked.

‘I assume he’s being…kept somewhere.’

There was a long silence from the other end. ‘Why would someone want to keep him?’

‘The boy’s seen whoever it was attacked the mother. Maybe he’s got away, too. Maybe he’s hiding somewhere.’

‘Lot of maybes, Bart.’

Moy noticed Patrick standing in the doorway. ‘Well, Superintendent, I’ve done my best with limited means. I don’t think—’

‘Detective Sergeant, the normal—’

‘I need to call you back…tomorrow perhaps. I have to go.’ He hung up, placing the phone on his desk. ‘Patrick?’

Patrick opened the door and stepped inside the room, pulling his T-shirt down over his underpants.

‘What’s up?’ Moy asked.

The boy shrugged.

‘Were you listening?’

‘You were talking about Tom?’

‘Tom, and Mum, and the fire. They think I’m taking too long.’

No response.

‘They’re saying it’s about time someone else had a go. I said no.’ He waited. ‘Do you think I’m taking too long?’

Patrick shrugged.

Moy made no attempt to make the boy feel comfortable. ‘If I agree, they’ll send three major crime investigators. They’ll start from scratch. Evidence. Witnesses. They’ll get you to tell them exactly what happened. From the beginning. Would you like that?’

Patrick shrugged again.

‘They might find things I’ve missed. What do you think?’

‘You’re doing fine.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yes.’

‘Maybe I should’ve found Tom already?’

Patrick was trembling. ‘If you don’t want to…’

Moy sat up. ‘Shall I tell you what I think?’

No reply.

‘I think you think I’ve missed something.’

‘No.’

‘And that you’d like these other detectives, but you’re too nice to say.’

‘No.’

‘You think if I was fair, I’d step away from the case.’

Patrick looked at him with red eyes. ‘No, I want you.’

‘You don’t.’

‘Please, Bart.’

Moy could see the boy’s hands shaking. He wondered whether he should put his arm around him. He wanted to; knew he couldn’t. It was his own fault that things had dragged, that Tom was still lost. A man who spent his waking hours indulging his own grief. ‘You can say it, Patrick.’

‘What?’

‘That I’ve fucked up.’

AT ONE A.M. Moy was standing outside, hitting golf balls. He’d strung up a bed-sheet between two old trees. He’d got up and started smashing Q Stars with his five-iron. They pouched the sheet, but never tore it.

He looked up and Patrick was watching him, his head low above his window.

George called from his room. ‘Shut up!’

So Moy kept swinging.





38

MOY WOKE UP, opened his eyes, sat up. His digital clock was glowing: 2.43 a.m. He wondered if he’d heard a woman’s voice.

‘Bartholomew…it’s George.’

He stood up and walked a few paces, listening. ‘Hello?’