taking a sip. ‘Yvonne said they might come in useful.’
‘Thank you.’ I pretended to study my computer screen. I needed to organise my thoughts and to do that I needed to be alone, but when I looked up a minute later I saw he was still there.
‘Is there something else?’
He didn’t respond. I followed his gaze to the framed picture of Lauren on my desk. Taken by my dad, it showed her in a yellow mac and red wellington boots. Standing slap bang in the middle of a muddy puddle, she was sticking out her tongue and waggling her hands by her ears. Every time I looked at it I remembered how, when we’d got home, she’d peeled off her sodden socks and jeans and snuggled under a blanket on the sofa. Mum had the gas fire on full and the living room was warm, dusk just starting to settle. Lauren had accepted a mug of hot chocolate, burrowed a little further under the blanket and taken a long, loud slurp of the warm drink. Then she’d turned to me and, with all the world-weariness of a little old lady, had said, ‘That’s better.’
‘Nick,’ I said again, louder this time, ‘I asked if there was anything else?’
‘What? Yes, actually.’ I realised he was blushing. ‘I wanted to say how much I admire your husband. For never giving up hope.’
It felt like something had caught in my throat. Like Yvonne, my colleagues never mentioned Lauren or Barney. In fact, most of them seemed to find it confusing I was even at work. This wasn’t unusual. Many people find it odd that Jason and I have to earn money; that we still have to do things like pay the mortgage and council tax. This simple fact embarrasses them. They actually go red in the face when they realise. It’s as though, when they imagine some awful tragedy befalling them, they also assume someone somewhere will make sure they don’t ever have to go back to the real world, to grubbing around for overtime to cover that month’s electricity bill. They seem to think they’ll be able to retire from life and all its obligations to grieve in peace.
‘We have to keep looking,’ I said, repeating Jason’s mantra. ‘No stone unturned. Barney is out there somewhere.’
Nick nodded, his brow furrowed in empathy.
I realised I was nodding along with him. I got to my feet and Nick took a step back, confused.
‘I’ve left my USB stick at home,’ I said, putting on my jacket. This was a lie. The USB was in my bag, under my desk. ‘I need it for the presentation this afternoon.’
I had to talk to Tommy. I was sure I could get more out of him than the police. Maybe I could get him to let slip where Keith and his sister had taken Mikey and the kids. It was still early. I could go and make it back in time for the pitch with hours to spare.
‘If Yvonne asks, will you make sure to tell her I won’t be long?’ I said, heading for the door.
‘Don’t worry,’ smiled Nick. ‘You can count on me.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I turned onto the high street and studied the horizon. Even from this distance I could see the shop’s metal shutters were down. I parked, went over to the door and peered through the letterbox. At the back of the shop, behind the cage, I could see empty shelves: dirty marks on the wall where the confectionery display used to be. I drew my gaze forward and saw that a pile of unopened post had started to collect, take-away menus and free newspapers splaying out across the floor.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek. Soon I could taste blood. I should have acted sooner. I should have trusted my instincts.
I turned towards the café, its fried-food reek clashing with the clean morning air. Keith and Tommy. They might enjoy a pint together from time to time, but how close were they really?
I set off down the street, the rat-tat-tat of my metal stilettos loud on the empty concrete. As I got closer I started to imagine what it would be like to see Tommy again and my pace slowed. Eventually, I came to a complete halt.
The last time we’d spoken I’d hung up, and as for when I last saw him in person: just thinking about it made me blush. I looked back at the abandoned off-licence, old leaves already starting to fur