Finding Davey Read online

  “What?” Bray asked in dread, knowing his son.

  “They want some of Davey’s hair.”

  Bray stared. “They want…?”

  “DNA tests. One will do, they said. To go with the fingerprints.”

  That had been a harrowing time, finding books Davey read in his story hour. Bray had thought of the modelling clay he used to teach Davey. It showed the little lad how to shape wood.

  Fingerprints Bray could understand. You discovered if the child had been at this cafe, that garage. Heading where, though? North? Or south, to some quayside and across the sea? Unlikely that whoever had stolen Davey would head for the Bahamas or Antigua, they having historic connections with Great Britain and all that. Except you took DNA samples when you’d found somebody who could no longer say his name, because… To go with the fingerprints. Right.

  Bray looked at his son. He was ageing at such speed. So much was on him. His complicated job, money always pressure, fractional losses that magnified to inconceivable amounts.

  “Sorry I’m not much use, son.”

  “No, Dad, it’s me.” They didn’t see some re-run of a dynamic goal, the crowds erupting.

  “You’ve been great, Geoff. I feel I’m letting the side down.”

  “I know, Dad.” Bray was appalled to see his son’s cheeks glisten with tears. “I think of things. Us grumbling at Davey playing when he ought to’ve been at his sums.”

  “You were right, son.”

  “No, Dad. I should have…” A pause, then, “Shirley’s breaking down. I don’t think she’ll recover.”

  There, it was out. Shirley’s psychiatrist had given a bad report.

  “Women manage better than we do, Geoff. They’re more resilient. We men often can’t cope. I mean, look at us. Officer Stazio probably has all sorts of leads.”

  “Anything Davey chewed, Officer Stazio said. Or maybe if Davey grazed his knee, where it got bloodstained. Or a comb. He has scientists.”

  The sportscast ended. Geoff stirred himself. “How did your session go?”

  “Oh, a woman doctor. Talked a long time.”

  “Have you to go again?”

  “I’m to phone for another appointment.” As good a lie as any.

  “I won’t go to our counsellor again.” Geoff usually had a glass of wine of an evening. Now, nothing except a late coffee. “I’d rather be here.”

  Bray understood. “Dr Feering wants me to have a physical. Nothing serious. Much good, eh?” Bray said. He quickly added, “Let’s keep hope up, son.”

  Geoffrey looked. Bray didn’t usually speak in those terms. “Yes, Dad,” he said. “Let’s.”

  They went to Davey’s room and found a comb, put it in a plastic freezer bag. They left all the clothes untouched.

  “If it isn’t enough we can ask Shirley,” Geoff said. “She’d do this better.”

  Bray said goodnight and left. He hadn’t been down to the shed since reaching home. He wanted the shed and garden to become dark. Let an urban fox come sniffing, the hedgehogs come trundling by in the pitch night.

  He had bought a paperback to read in the lantern hours. Computer work to do alone, for only he and Davey knew KV. He finally whistled Buster. The dog, a creature of ritual, came astonished and grumpy. Saturday’s late football was for a doze. Bray told him. “No putting it off, Buzz.” Buster came trotting, looking up.

  Shirley and Geoff had long since gone to bed. To lie grieving, listening for the phone that might bring Davey back.

  Alone in the gloaming Bray sat on his stool, Buster twitching by the shed door. It was cold, a cutting breeze from the sea ten miles away stirring the perfumed wood shavings. Along the shed walls hung pieces of wood, all justly seasoned. He finally lit a candle, saw Buster’s eyes gleam as the dog glanced about as if expecting to see a bright-haired lad appear.

  Bray quite liked feeling cold. In normal times, Shirley would forever pull his leg because who on earth didn’t like being warm?

  Some pieces were being carved – Davey’s own hands, too, showing consummate skill for a boy. Bray was proud. Geoff had never shown much aptitude in this direction. Maybe folk were right, that skill skipped a generation?

  Now, he had no illusions. At first he had believed it was all some ghastly mistake, and Davey would be found on some coach among a Methodist children’s group from Tampa Bay or wherever, and the nightmare would pass.

  Several days into the horror, Bray had phoned the American police officer. Officer Jim Stazio.

  The man had wanted proof that Bray wasn’t some news reporter or pervert “getting off” on the story. Stazio had insisted on ringing Bray back at the Charlestons’ home number, making sure. Bray learned afterwards that Stazio had checked with the Liaison WPC at Fenwold and the British consul, doubly testing Bray’s identity.

  The conversation had taken place when Geoff and Shirley were in mid-flight. Of course they had stayed in Florida, going over photographs and security camera tapes until they were advised to go, the ultimate deception. The police simply meant Go away for Christ’s sake and can’t you see the obvious?

  Shirley and Geoff did the same tortured rounds of interviews and tearful question sessions with local Fenwold’s liaison police. It had ended in a fiasco.

  On that call, Bray had his questions worked out to the letter for Officer Stazio. He had them written and numbered. He thought them over.

  “What are the chances, Mr Stazio?”

  “I gotta be frank, Mr Charleston. We got a Child Abduction Unit keeps records, provides data.” Then had come that hesitation that shot Bray’s hope dead. “Chances are small.”

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Bray, there’s weirdo, weirder and weirdest. Expect the worst, hope for some fluke. All kindsa shit flying here, political shit, police shit, commercial shit.”

  Bray closed his eyes in pain. Question Four couldn’t be avoided. He’d rehearsed it using a midget tape recorder.

  “How many do you recover, Officer Stazio?”

  “Few. When you say recover, Bray, you’re qualifying that before hoping too much, right? Y’understand what I’m saying?”

  “Safe, then?”

  “There’s some natural theft out there. Child stealers sell kids to rich folk who can pay. Even now papers are full of all kindsa embryo things, old biddies with no man around, still they get themselves made pregnant in clinics. Seems unnatural to me, but they do it all the time.”

  “What does natural theft mean?”

  “Thieving a child, buy one, to raise as their own.”

  Bray almost lost track, but this was important.

  “Who would buy a child?”

  “I dunno what kinda news you get, Bray, but here people go abroad to adopt. Romania, the Balkans, anywheres there’s war, Asia. You’ll have heard of Vietnam Americans and Philippinos?”

  “They just want to adopt?”

  “Seems so.”

  Bray prompted Officer Stazio by grunts and false starts, encouraging him to speak on. The man seemed relieved to do so, prevent himself being “put on the spot” – one of his frequent phrases. Bray listened.

  At the end he spoke his thanks. From novels, American police seemed to get little gratitude so, he reasoned, appreciation might stimulate Officer Stazio to more zeal. Bray replaced the receiver, and went to replay Stazio’s words over and over. The day before making the call he had bought a tape deck from a pimply young electrical retailer.

  Meticulously, he had labelled the miniature tape, Officer Jim Stazio, USA. He carried it out to the shed and placed it in a wooden sawdust box.

  Since that first call he had had further conversation with Jim Stazio. Probably pointless, Bray thought, but who could tell? He had asked that Stazio avoid mentioning to Shirley and Geoff that they ever spoke, saying it might distress them. Stazio agreed.

  This evening he decided against playing over his phone conversations with Officer Stazio. Not tonight. Too many decisions. Tomorrow he had so many journ
eys to make, so many people to wring dry of information.

  Instead, he leant forward and turned the screw-bar on the far wall of the cramped little shed, and swung the right-hand leaf aside. He felt breathless, opening the door on Davey’s drawings.

  Chapter Twelve

  The following Sunday Shirley broke. Dr Feering was called at five in the morning, the rain beating down speckling his car lights. He was kind, Geoffrey told Bray when, roused by the disturbance, he came in. Dr Feering explained that no, it wasn’t “madness”. Tears, moans, repetitive rocking, loss of perception, a troubled mind’s defences were simply overrun.

  In a way, Feering said quietly, it was her way of mimicking the trauma experienced by a missing loved one. Not too fanciful an explanation. Shirley had hung on until hope was gone. Geoff was brilliant, Bray saw, but at what cost? Everything seemed in ruins.

  Christine Lumley went with Shirley to the Psychiatric Unit. The Lumleys were close friends, their Thomas being Davey’s schoolfriend, car-pooled for the morning run. Christine’s husband Hal stood palely by, holding Samantha the baby, saying was there anything, absolutely anything. It was turgid and distressing. House lights came on down the avenue as Geoff followed the ambulance in his motor. Bray was to stay by the phone. Nobody thought in case any longer. Buster lurked wanting reassurance.

  Bray sat in his kitchen, stirred the teapot. Always sugar for the first cup of tea in any day, thereafter just skimmed milk. Coffee dilute and black, only one cup in midmorning, Bray’s frugality a joke at Gilson Mather. Had been a joke. Geoff had come to an understanding with Officer Stazio about phone calls. In future Bray would call once a week. Stazio was never to call back unless asked.

  Under the staircase was his hellhole, where Bray kept small triumphs of the past. He left his mug of tea to cool and rummaged, Buster getting in the way testing for new scents. Five minutes, and Bray found the papers.

  Bray had painted the folder purple, to please Davey. It was his colour.

  The article was there, poor quality paper yellowing, the dotted photograph too vague to be any help: “Reproduction Miniature Mock-Finial Regency Corner Cabinet of William Vile at the Treasurer’s House, York, England,” Bray read aloud. “By Bray John Charleston.” Geoff had laughed at the pedantic title. “I’ll wait for the film, Dad!”

  But laughs were for back then, not now.

  Four enthusiasts had written letters to the Editor about his meticulously worded article. Bray had answered their queries, and received two letters of thanks.

  “Not much of a plan,” he said, but it was a start, and better than unthinkable nothing. Buster came to, saw things didn’t concern him, and flopped back down.

  He donned his spectacles and re-read the article. He could remember having hellish difficulty with his old Remington typewriter.

  One correspondent lived Ipswich way. Bray found the address between rust-stained staples. Would he still be there, three years on? You could never tell these days, mobility, spouses wandering off.

  “George Corkhill, printer,” he told Buster. “That’s him.”

  They had once conversed by phone, over a question of finishing Regency wood surfaces.

  He hadn’t kept Mr Corkhill’s letters, so much discarded in clear-outs after Emma went.

  Sunday. Would Mr Corkhill be home? Bray knew nothing about the man except he signed himself Printer. If he’d moved, might a printers’ guild have his address? Bray started a lie, in case.

  “If ever,” he clearly remembered Mr Corkhill half-joking in their last conversation, “you want some private text on Regency mahogany furniture printed, Mr Charleston, come here first!” They’d had a chuckle.

  Bray made his habitual porridge Lancashire style, only water and oats. He watched the clock, waiting for news of Shirley, but wanting Mr Corkhill, printer, to enter the day.

  Half-past nine, Bray finished vacuuming, washed up his breakfast things and started his laundry. He would give Mr Corkhill, printer of Saxmundham, until ten. If the printer was having a lie-in, hard luck.

  The difficulty with gardening, he thought as the doorbell rang, was being under the reproachful gaze of neighbours. It was reproach, no mistake. What family would go on holiday and lose a child?

  Christine was minute, dark of hair and normally smiley. A library volunteer three mornings.

  “Hello, Christine.” He stood aside.

  She came in a pace, no further, and stood cupping her elbows.

  “They’ve decided to keep Shirley in. Dr Feering told Geoff a few minutes ago. He stayed with them. Isn’t he brilliant? You can visit Shirley this afternoon.”

  “Thanks, Christine. Sure you won’t come in?” He was already moving the door, making it easy for her to decline.

  “No, thanks. I’d better get back to…home.”

  She did the pursed lips with which women escaped giving offence, avoiding mentioning the children she managed to protect, unlike some people.

  “Say ta to Hal.” So many thanks.

  “It’s no bother.” She hesitated. “If there’s anything.”

  Gently Bray closed the door. He instantly went to the phone and dialled Mr Corkhill. It was picked up on the fourth ring. Somebody was arguing about football, mid-sentence.

  “Could I please speak with Mr George Corkhill, printer?”

  “Speaking.” Bray recognised the voice.

  The hunt was beginning. Bray felt himself shaking slightly.

  “I don’t know if you remember me, Mr Corkhill. Mr Charleston, joiner.” He halted, giving the other a moment. “We corresponded some years ago.”

  “William Vile of York!” Corkhill interrupted enthusiastically. “Of course! I finished the piece, gave it to a small museum we have here. Nothing like what you’d turn out, I’m sure, but I was pleased.”

  “Very complimentary, Mr Corkhill.”

  Bray hesitated. He’d forgotten his written questions and lost direction.

  “Have you entered for the competition, Mr Charleston?”

  Competition? Something in a cabinet-making journal? The latest issue was still in its postal wrapper among other mail on the hall table.

  “Er, no. I hope this isn’t a terrible intrusion, Mr Corkhill. It’s personal. Perhaps you’ve read in the papers?”

  A silence, then Corkhill asked him to hold on while he changed phones. Something clattered, Corkhill saying to freeze the video. Youthful voices pierced Bray. He stayed impassively looking at the hall’s frosted glass, going over the sentences ploddingly worked out.

  “Hello? I read something in the paper, Mr Charleston. The surname…I almost rang. I hope not?”

  “Afraid it was, Mr Corkhill.” Bray went straight on to forestall any questions, “No news yet.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Can I ask your advice?”

  “Anything I can do?” The offer seemed a long time coming.

  “Would you tell me about printing?”

  “Printing?” The man sounded startled. “What, exactly?”

  “A small book.”

  “Have you a word count? What computer language have you?”

  Bray cleared his throat for the hard part. “It depends on what you tell me.”

  Corkhill went quiet with puzzlement. “How many copies? Illustrated or —?”

  “It isn’t written. Not a word.”

  Bray had the first twinges of doubt. He would have spoken more directly but for the agony of missing even the most fragile chance.

  “Look,” the printer said at last. “I’m at a loose end. How far are you from Saxmundham?”

  Bray almost sweated in relief. Now for the hard hard part.

  “The job might not be altogether legal, Mr Corkhill.”

  “I’ll tell you if it’s not, Mr Charleston,” Corkhill answered drily.

  They arranged to meet at a coastal wharf. The printer would borrow his niece’s motor.

  That morning Bray read his paperback on the hieroglyphics of the Internet. Could compute
rs really do all these things, chat, explore, roam, “surf”? He lost the thread, took Buster to watch football on the park. Later he attacked the incomprehensible book for another hour.

  He cooked Geoff egg and chips, and left his weary son sleeping in front of the TV sports. As Geoff dozed, Bray made an appointment at Dr Feering’s surgery for the morning Well Man Clinic. He then booked a finance session at some all-hours investment office in London.

  It was then, dozing after that greasy lunch, that he saw the note on the matting by the front door. For a frightening moment he had a wild vision of a ransom demand. It was nothing so hair-raising. The note was typed.

  mr charlston a m8 can get u a pc with the busniss but itl cost its clean av u wheels hav 2 b cash its a 1 of OK

  I told him ur strite Kylee

  Kylee, offering him a computer? It sounded decidedly rum. What if it was stolen?

  Strite for straight, and m8 for mate, presumably? How to explain to Geoff why he was buying a computer from a loutish teenager? And what of her father?

  He wondered whether to talk it over with Geoff, but his son would be horrified and want to know what Bray planned, thinking his father had lost his marbles.

  No. He had to do it alone, get help from anywhere, anyhow.

  Officer Jim Stazio talked most with Sam Tietze. His partner was still doing some crazy night school law and criminology, the course not worth a belch. And would never finish it, Jim knew. He suspected Sam had something going with the woman who ran the gas station over Benksayne. Sam argued strong points, pardons, kind of stuff Jim thought a waste of a good evening.

  Nobody should get pardon.

  “See, Sam,” he told him. “That crazo Menzoy had a partner. We never got the two, right?”

  “Aldo, he talks, he gets his throat cut in Ablutions, Jim. He fed you a load of shit and shine.”

  “I didn’t ask what he done, Sam. I asked about others.”

  They’d made an arrest that morning, a lowlife receiving stolen goods looted after crowd disturbances, what Sam called a shout bout, women shrieking yelled about fascist hogs, what gave you bile hours later. They were in a diner on Coltra, five roads met there, giving town loafers a pile-up every time some drunk overshot the lights, be right there on the spot when the next happened.