Gone

71

In spite of the fire Janice was freezing. Her head was like stone. Cold and hard. Everyone was staring at her, expecting her to do or say something. She folded her arms and tucked her hands under her armpits to stop them trembling. Tried to gather herself.

‘Maybe – uh – maybe Rose is right.’ Her teeth were chattering. Banging together uncontrollably. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time the police were wrong. Maybe Ted Moon is the wrong man.’ She thought of all the men Emily had come into contact with over the years. A string of faces unfurled in her head – teachers at school, a lanky football coach with bad skin who was always too friendly with the mums, the milkman who sometimes spoke to Emily on the doorstep. ‘Maybe we’re all connected to someone else. Someone we haven’t even thought of.’

‘But who?’

‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know.’

A long silence descended on the group. Outside, Janice’s sister and Nick were showing Philippa Bradley the garden. She had brought her spaniel to play with the Labradors. From time to time the three women could be seen from the french windows, muffled in their coats and scarves, walking back and forth, throwing balls. They made black footprints in the frosted lawn. Janice stared at them. She remembered Emily playing out there as a toddler, laughing because she could hide behind the lavender beds and make Janice come out and act scared, say: Oh, no! My little girl’s gone! Where’s my Emily? Has the monster got her?

Not Ted Moon? If so, then who? Who connected her and Cory to these five other people?

From the corner Damien spoke in a subdued voice. ‘Look.’ He opened his hands, turned to face the people behind him. ‘I ain’t never met that son-of-a-bitch in the photo neither, but I ought to say something.’ He levelled a finger at Jonathan. ‘You, man. Sorry to say it, but I know you from somewhere. Been thinking it since I came in.’

Everyone looked at Jonathan. He frowned. ‘From the papers, you mean? I’ve been all over the papers this week.’

‘No. I saw the pictures on the news and I never recognized you otherwise I’d’ve said something to the police. But when I came in just now I saw you and I thought, I do – I know that man from somewhere.’

‘From where?’

‘I can’t remember. Maybe I’m imagining it.’

‘Do you go to church?’

‘Not since I was a kid. The Deptford Seventh Day Adventists. Not since I got away from home. No disrespect but you wouldn’t catch me dead.’

‘And your child,’ Jonathan said. ‘Your daughter. What was her name?’

‘Alysha.’

‘That’s right. The police asked me. I did know an Alysha once, but it wasn’t Alysha Graham. It was Alysha Morefield, or Morton. I can’t remember.’

Damien stared at him. ‘Moreby. Alysha Moreby. Moreby’s her mother’s name – the name Lorna schooled her under.’

Colour crept into Jonathan’s face. Everyone in the room had inched forward a little and was staring at the two men. ‘Moreby. Alysha Moreby. I know her.’

‘Where do you know her from? We never took her to church.’

Jonathan’s mouth was half open. As if a terrible, terrible truth was about to reveal itself. Something that had been there all along and could have saved the world if only he’d thought of it early enough. ‘School,’ he said distantly. ‘Before I was ordained I was a headmaster.’

‘Got it.’ Damien slapped his thighs. Dug a finger in the air. ‘Mr Bradley – of course. I remember you, man. I mean, I never met you, like – Lorna always did Alysha’s school stuff. But I seen you. I seen you – at the gates an’ shit.’

Janice sat forward, heart thumping. ‘Someone at the school. You both knew people at the school.’

‘No. I never came to anything at the school,’ said Damien. ‘Hardly anything. It was Lorna’s thing, the school run.’

‘No PTA meetings?’

‘No.’

‘Fêtes or fairs?’

‘No.’

‘You really didn’t meet the other parents?’

‘I swear – just never got involved. That’s how it’s always been in our family – woman does the school thing.’

‘But your wife,’ Jonathan said woodenly, ‘she was friendly with the other parents. I know because I remember her well. She always had a group of friends at the school gates.’

‘Anyone in particular?’ said Simone.

‘No. But . . .’ Jonathan’s eyes rolled up as if he was recalling something.

‘What is it?’ Janice was half out of her chair. ‘What?’

‘She got involved. In an incident.’ He looked at Damien. ‘Do you remember?’

‘What sort of incident?’

‘With one of the other parents. It got unpleasant.’

‘The sweetie jar? Is that what you’re talking about?’

Jonathan loosened his collar and turned bloodshot eyes to Janice. The room was suddenly hot. As if it was full of electricity. ‘It was the Monday after a fête. Lorna, Mr Graham’s partner, came into my office. She was holding a sweetie jar. She said she’d bought it at the fair. I remember it clearly because it all seemed so very odd at the time.’

‘A sweetie jar?’

‘I’d asked the parents to bring old jars filled with sweets to sell at the fair. For a pound, or whatever. It was to raise funds for the school roof that year, but when Mrs Graham got her jar home she found—’

‘A note in it,’ said Damien. ‘A little Post-it. Some writing scribbled on it.’

‘Lorna, Mrs Graham, read the note and brought it straight to me. She would have taken it to the police, but she was concerned it could have been a prank. She didn’t want the school in trouble.’

‘What did the note say?’

‘It said,’ he looked at her gravely, ‘ “Daddy hits us. He locks Mummy up.” ’

‘Daddy hits us. Locks Mummy up?’ The words put ice into Janice’s veins and made her want to stop breathing. ‘Did you find out who wrote it?’

‘Yes. Two of my pupils. I remember them very well, brothers. I think their parents were going through a divorce. I took it very seriously and, yes, I got Social Services involved. It didn’t take long to find out it was true. Two boys being abused by their father. Months before the sweet jar they’d been off school for a week. Came back looking very subdued.’ He rubbed his arms as if the memory made him cold. ‘Once Social Services were on board the mother got custody of the children. Father never went to court. He was police, I seem to recall. Backed down and never fought the custody case . . .’ He trailed off. Janice, Cory and Neil Blunt were sitting forward, their faces white. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What have I said?’

In her chair, her legs still crossed at the ankles, Janice began to shake.