smashed-up cars and soon my lane of traffic was back to its normal speed. Less than a mile later I pulled off the motorway and onto the road that would lead me to the restaurant where I was meeting Mr McDonald. I came to a halt at a set of lights and stared out at the row of houses to my left. One of the houses, a tidy pebble-dashed semi, had a large TO LET board in the front garden, advertising its rental potential to passing traffic.
Worry knotted my stomach.
I planned to go back for a photo of the boy again soon, but what was to say he’d even still be there? Whatever Tommy had said to the contrary, the estate agent I’d seen showing that couple around seemed to mean business. What if, the next time I managed to make it over, I discovered the bloke running the off-licence and the boy had moved on? By passing up Tommy’s invitation to come and have a drink I was missing out on what might be my only chance to find out more about Keith and the true identity of the child. The pub would be a chance to chat to him direct. He might say something to allay all my fears, something to reassure me that the child was not Barney. On the other hand, he might give away some detail, some scrap of information that would give me the confidence to override Jason’s wishes and get the police involved.
My table with Mr McDonald was booked for five minutes’ time. I’d already missed one meeting with him; to be late tonight would be bad form, but not the end of the world. He was an amenable fellow. Maybe I could stall?
A petrol station appeared on my left and I swerved into it at the last second, leaving the drivers behind me beeping their horns. I pulled up next to the cash machine, turned off the engine and sat there with my eyes closed. Listening to the radio, I tried to concentrate on the way the air felt as it went in through my nostrils and down into my lungs.
I got out my phone and dialled. He picked up on the first ring.
‘Mr McDonald, Heidi Thursby. From Bullingdon’s.’
‘Heidi, my dear.’ There was a murmur in the background. I heard the clink of glasses and the rattle of cutlery. He was already there.
‘I took the liberty of choosing the wine. Do you like Montepulciano?’
‘My favourite,’ I said. This was good. If he started ploughing into the vino he might be more forgiving.
‘I’m terribly sorry but I’m stuck in traffic. I’m going to be late.’
I screwed up my face, braced for his reaction.
‘How late?’
‘There’s an accident on the A19 and the cars are backed up for miles.’
I hoped that, by telling him a half-lie, I’d sound more convincing.
‘I suppose it can’t be helped.’
‘It can’t,’ I jumped in. ‘Again, my apologies. You know how grateful I am that you’ve made time to see me. Especially after we missed each other last week. Stay where you are. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
I checked my watch. I should have just enough time to get to the pub, have a quick drink and be back at the restaurant within the hour. I looped my way round the outskirts of the forecourt and set off back in the direction from which I had come.
Chapter Seventeen
Red paint flaked off the pub’s doorframe and curtains hung brasserie-style from gold hoops over the windows. The curtains’ lining faced out onto the street, revealing old condensation stains. Zig-zagging up and down the inside of the fabric they looked like a series of complicated brown graphs. Smoothing down my suit, I steeled myself ready and pushed on the door.
Inside, groups of men sat at small round tables and leant against the bar, their shoulders hunched and eyes glassy from an afternoon on the beer. Trying to ignore the fact I was being given a predatory once-over, I scanned the room. I couldn’t see Keith and Tommy anywhere. My nerve began to wobble. Maybe coming here had been a mistake?
I was about to leave when I saw a little wooden arrow next to the toilets with the words BEER GARDEN burnt onto it in clumsy block capitals. I told myself I’d check out there and then, if there was no sign of them, I’d be on my way back to Mr McDonald and his Montepulciano.
The beer garden turned out to