She crossed the yard which was rammed with an assortment of items: piles of fire grates and mantelpieces, old doors stacked like a deck of cards, baths that were stained and cracked, and a mountain of wooden chairs with turned legs that towered so high they threatened to topple.

‘Can I help?’ said Rick. He took off his cap and scratched his head.

‘I’m Angie. Angie Tresize.’

His face broke into a smile. ‘Of course you are. Sorry, Angie. It’s been a while. How’ve you been keeping?’

She nodded, her eyes searching the yard for her son.

‘Is he here?’ she said. ‘I need a quick word.’

‘Is who here?’

Her stomach turned over. ‘Jago,’ she said, biting back desperate tears. ‘He… he said he was working today.’

Rick furrowed his brow. ‘Jago? Working here?’

Angie’s tears brimmed over and she wiped them away with the back of her hand.

Rick’s discomfort was clear as he shifted on his feet, and fiddled with his cap.

‘Maybe somewhere else? He’s not working here.’

‘You mean today?’ She was grasping at straws, pleading with him to smile, bat her arm, tell her he was joking and the boy was out back.

‘Never worked here. He comes to pick Bob up on the bike every now and then, to go to the pub or what-have-you.’ He hesitated. ‘Everything okay?’

She forced a smile and shook her head. ‘Yes, everything’s fine. I must have got the wrong end of the stick. Misheard him. My mistake.’

He nodded with sympathy, parent to parent, the look on his face saying ah, these kids of ours are little buggers, aren’t they?

‘If I see him,’ Rick said. ‘I’ll tell him you’re after him.’

Angie nodded and walked back to the car. As Gareth drove her home she stared out of the window, unable to respond when he tried to talk to her.

All she could think of was the cash tucked under the toaster and all those times Jago told her he’d been at the yard or talked about Rick or moaned about how tired he was.

‘Oh, Jago,’ she breathed. ‘What on earth have you done?’

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Jago

August 1986

She’s waiting for him on the stairs when he walks in. Sitting on the second step. Hands folded into her lap. Her face is seething with anger and it throws him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I should have told you about her. I—’

‘I went to Rick’s to look for you.’

His heart jumps into his throat.

‘Well?’

He can’t speak.

‘You’ve nothing to say?’

He scratches hard at his lower arm, focuses on the thin leather cord Edie knotted around his wrist before he left her to walk home at dawn that morning.

‘Eleanor’s lost a bracelet.’ His mother’s lips twitch with rage. ‘Says it’s been stolen.’