on the table beside him. The latter had been a gift from DS Dyson after we’d arrived. Allegedly there was coffee on its way for me, but we’d been here for twenty minutes now, and it showed about as much sign of imminent arrival as Beck did. Jake and I hadn’t really spoken the whole time. I didn’t know what to say to him right now, and my pacing had been as much about filling the silence in the room as the space.
Did they find him, Daddy?
I walked over now and knelt down in front of him.
“Yes. They found the man who came to our house.”
“That’s not who I meant.”
The boy in the floor.
I stared at my son for a second, but he looked back at me without any apparent fear or concern. It was astounding that he could take everything that was happening in stride, as though it were all perfectly normal—as though we were talking about a boy who had been playing hide-and-seek, not human remains that had been in the floor of our garage for God knew how many years, and which it was impossible for him to have known about.
It was something we shouldn’t be talking about. Not here. My statement to the police had been honest but incomplete. I hadn’t mentioned the drawings of the butterflies or told them about Jake talking to the boy in the floor. I wasn’t sure why, beyond the fact that I couldn’t make any sense of it myself, and because I wanted to protect my son. That all this was a grown-up’s burden to shoulder, not a seven-year-old’s.
“Yes, Jake,” I said. “That is who you meant. Okay? This is serious.”
He thought about it.
“Okay.”
“We’ll talk about the other thing later.” I stood up, realizing that what I’d said wasn’t quite enough, and that he deserved to know more. “But yes, they found him.”
I found him.
“That’s good,” Jake said. “He was scaring me a little.”
“I know.”
“Although I don’t think he was meaning to.” Jake frowned. “I think he was just hurt and lonely, and that was making him a little bit mean. But they’ve found him, and so he won’t be lonely now, will he? He can go home. So he won’t be mean anymore.”
“It was just your imagination, Jake.”
“It wasn’t.”
“We’ll talk about it later. Okay?”
I gave him the serious look I always attempted when I wanted to draw a line under a conversation. It usually had no authority whatsoever, and a minute later one or the other of us would end up shouting, but today he nodded. Then he swiveled on his chair, picked up the juice box, and began drinking it seemingly without a care in the world.
The door opened behind me, and I turned to see DS Dyson entering, carrying two cups of coffee. He held the door open with his back for DI Beck, who marched in past him. She was brandishing papers and looked as tired as I felt: a woman with a million things to do, determined to do each of them herself.
“Mr. Kennedy,” she said. “I’m really sorry about your wait. Ah—and this must be Jake.”
Still distracted by the juice box, my son ignored her.
“Jake?” I prompted. “Can you say hello, please?”
“Hi.”
I turned back to Beck. “It’s been a long day.”
“I completely understand. This must be very strange for him indeed.” She leaned down toward him, pressing her hands against her knees a little awkwardly, as though unsure how to talk to a child. “Have you ever been in a police station before, Jake?”
He shook his head but didn’t answer.
“Well.” She gave an awkward laugh, then stood up. “First and last time, hopefully. Anyway—Mr. Kennedy. I have your statement here. If you could just read through it, make sure you’re happy with the contents, and then sign it. And your drink is here too.”
“Thanks.”
Dyson passed me the coffee, and I sipped it while I scanned the statement on the table. I’d explained about Norman Collins, what Mrs. Shearing had told me about him and Dominic Barnett, and the man who’d been at the door whispering to Jake last night. All of which had led me to investigate the garage, wondering what Collins might have been looking for. That was why and how I’d found the remains in there.
I glanced at Jake, who was now sucking at the end of his juice box, the liquid rattling at the bottom, and then I signed on the final page.