Uneasy, Fred hung up and sat quietly for a minute, staring absently out at the empty schoolyard, biting the skin at the top of his thumb. Where are you, boys? He kept picturing the tank. He pictured Sunday night. While he was holding his jacket over Maisie as the rain came down, where was Jeremy? He pictured the park: he knew the Hanging Tree well. He saw the boys drinking and talking, the girls huddled and cold. He imagined them walking or cycling away one by one until it was just Jeremy and Rave. Where did you go? He saw Rave pick up the bike and Jeremy sitting on the saddle, Rave a little worse for wear, the bike swerving, Jeremy trying to steady him. Maybe he cycled too close to the water. It was dark, muddy and slippy. Was the water high that night after all the rain? He pictured the tank, saw the boys silently floating in the dark. No. No way.

He cast his mind to the hotel room and lying in bed with Maisie. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Chapter Six

‘Everybody Hurts’
REM, 1992

Maisie

THE MURPHY HOUSE was run down. It hadn’t been painted in years and the garden was overgrown with bits of cars and bikes strewn across an overgrown lawn. Maisie was banging on the door when a police car pulled up. ‘Sid Murphy, I know you’re in there so open this bleedin’ door.’

She turned to see two men step out of the car. The one she didn’t recognize must be Detective Tom Doran. He had called her earlier to introduce himself and to set out what would happen over the course of his investigation until the boys were found. He was calm and practical, but everything he had said terrified her. She couldn’t bring herself to look Fred in the eyes so she avoided his gaze. ‘There’s someone in there – I can hear them.’ She turned back to the door and resuming banging. ‘Open this door.’

‘Ms Bean, I’m Tom Doran. We spoke on the phone.’

He looked to Maisie to be in his early fifties, a handsome man, short fair hair, tall but not as tall as Fred. ‘Hello.’ She shook his hand. It was the polite thing to do, after all.

‘You OK, Mai? What are you doing here?’ Fred said.

She wasn’t sure if he was concerned or annoyed. He had told her to stay at home by the phone. She didn’t care what he’d said: she couldn’t just sit there when Sid Murphy might know where her child was. ‘His phone is dead.’ She kept her back to him while she hammered on the door again.

‘I understand,’ he said, placing his hand on her lower back. ‘But you need to allow Tom to do his job.’