Little Boy Blue

57

Charlie stifled a yawn and looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight – she had another two hours before she was relieved. If Helen wanted to punish Charlie, she was doing a good job. Steve had complained about being dragooned into emergency childcare yet again and Charlie was irritated too – with Sanderson, with Helen, but mostly with herself. When had she become so brittle? She used to be the fun, cheeky officer who everyone got on with. Now she was exhausted, short-tempered and paranoid. She didn’t regret starting a family for one second, but there were a lot of hidden costs that nobody told you about and she was feeling those now.

Outside, the press pack’s enthusiasm was starting to wane. It was cold and a thin drizzle floated down the street, saturating all those still out and about. Most of the journalists had retreated to their vehicles, experience teaching them that you can catch your death on a night like this. Those that remained outside were swathed in thick North Face jackets, praying that the weather would clear. They would have gone home some time ago, but for the light that stole underneath the garage door. Somebody had turned it on a while back and, as the family car was stored in there, everyone present was expecting Jackson to make a break for it.

Charlie assumed it was Paul Jackson, as she’d seen his wife head upstairs a few hours ago. The gaggle of photographers that haunted the property was hoping to grab a through-the-window shot of him fleeing his home. There was something about the angle and context of those shots that always made the subject look guilty. Editors loved them, which is why people were prepared to brave the elements to get them.

Charlie flicked through the radio stations again. If Paul Jackson was smart, he’d turn the light off and head to bed. The best way to deal with journalists was to starve them of what they craved. By hanging about he was just raising their hopes. Finding little to divert her, Charlie switched off the radio and stole another look at the clock. Ten past midnight.

Had Paul Jackson been banished to the garage? Surely not. There were plenty of bedrooms in the house, so even if his wife didn’t want anything to do with him… Charlie looked over at the garage again. Paul Jackson’s sons were elsewhere and his wife had stormed off upstairs, meaning he was in the garage alone. And had been for thirty minutes or more.

Charlie now found herself opening the door and stepping out into the rain. It settled on her face, gentle and cold, but she didn’t bother pulling her hood up as she marched towards the garage. If she was wrong, then she wouldn’t mind getting a little wet. But if she was right…

She walked straight up to the metal garage door and put her ear to it. A motorbike roared past in the road and a couple of news hacks now shouted at her, ribbing her for doing their job for them. She waved at them to shut up but it made no difference. Furious, Charlie dropped to all fours, her knees soaking up the moisture from the ground. She placed her ear at the bottom of the metal door, where the narrowest chink allowed a little light to escape. She was listening for the sound of the engine, but it wasn’t the noise that struck her first. It was the smell.

Now Charlie was on her feet, yanking at the garage handle. But it was locked from the inside and refused to budge. She re-doubled her efforts, but still nothing.

‘Get over here now,’ she roared at the startled photographers.

The look on her face made them comply.

‘Get that open now.’

As they grappled with the door, Charlie raced up the steps. She rang the doorbell once, twice, three times, then opened the letterbox and yelled through it. There was no time for hesitation, no time for caution. This was a matter of life and death.