The Lost

Chapter 9

‘Congratulations! You’re famous!’

Fletcher spun the newspaper through the open doorway of Jonah’s flat. Standing in the hallway, Jonah fumbled the catch on his crutches. The newspaper slapped against his chest, spilling pages as he grabbed for it.

‘You got a full-page spread,’ the DI sneered. ‘There’s a nice photo of you in your uniform. Very heroic. You’ll want souvenir copies to frame on your wall.’

As soon as he’d opened the door to see Fletcher and Bennet in the corridor outside, Jonah had known why they were there. He’d already seen the article online. Daly’s business card identified her as a staff writer for one of the more lurid nationals, and every day since his discharge from hospital he’d checked the newspaper’s website, waiting for something to appear. After nearly two weeks he’d begun to hope he might have got away with it.

Until that morning.

‘Well? Aren’t you going to invite us in?’ Fletcher demanded.

Jonah reluctantly stood back. ‘Will it take long? I’ve got somewhere to be this afternoon.’

‘It’ll take as long as it takes.’ Fletcher strode past him, trousers flapping around stalklike legs and bony hips as he went to the nearest chair. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t be late for your mate’s send-off.’

A memorial service was being held for Gavin later. It promised to be a grim enough affair, without Jonah having to rush to get there on time. But he knew he’d be wasting his breath asking if this could wait until later. He wouldn’t give Fletcher the satisfaction of saying no.

Bennet stepped inside then motioned for Jonah to go ahead of her. ‘I’ll get the door.’

By the time Jonah reached the living room, Fletcher was already flopping down into one of the armchairs, bony knees sticking up like spikes. Jonah dropped the newspaper on the coffee table as he went to the other chair.

‘I know it looks bad, but I thought she was a counsellor,’ he said, easing himself down into the chair. Bennet followed him in and sat on the sofa near the DI.

‘Oh, a counsellor.’ Fletcher’s burnt face was flushed and angry. ‘Show you her credentials, did she? Offer to let you cry on her shoulder?’

‘OK, I made a mistake—’

‘A mistake?’ The DI snatched up the newspaper and tore through its pages before reading from one. ‘ “I’ll never forget the scene in that warehouse,” says hero police firearms officer Jonah Colley. Hero, did you hear that? “Obviously, I was scared but I don’t think of myself as brave. I just did what I had to do.” Was that a mistake?’

Jonah’s own face was burning. ‘That isn’t what I—’

‘I haven’t finished. Sergeant Colley is still recovering from the injuries he received in what police sources refuse to confirm or deny was part of an undercover human trafficking operation gone tragically wrong. Four people lost their lives in the abandoned warehouse on the aptly named Slaughter Quay. One of them was Detective Sergeant Gavin McKinney, the whereabouts of whose body remains unknown. A highly respected Metropolitan Police officer, he was a close personal friend of Sergeant Colley. “Gavin was best man at my wedding, and a great cop. I’m devastated by his death,” says Colley.’

‘I didn’t say any of that,’ Jonah cut in.

‘OK, this is where it gets really good,’ the DI said, ignoring him. ‘None of the three victims have been identified, but it’s now known that at least one, a young woman believed to be Middle Eastern and known to the police only as “Nadine”, was still alive when she was found. Colley becomes visibly emotional at the memory. “I just wish I could have done more to save her”.’

Fletcher lowered the newspaper. ‘Not exactly cutting-edge journalism, but full marks for colour, don’t you think?’

‘I told you, I didn’t tell her any of that,’ Jonah said, his own face burning. ‘As soon as I realised what was going on I threw her out. Fine, I mentioned that the girl told me her name, which was stupid. But that’s all. She already knew all that stuff about Gavin, so she’d obviously been talking to someone else.’

‘That’s all?’ The DI’s blue eyes were icy in the flushed scar tissue of his face. ‘You discussed an ongoing murder investigation with a fucking reporter!’

‘I didn’t “discuss” anything! Christ, do you seriously think I’d want plastering all over the papers like this?’

Fletcher’s face held naked disdain. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to work out.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Instead of answering, Fletcher opened the newspaper and held it up. Theo’s laughing face stared out at him from the page. Jonah had seen the photograph earlier online, but the sight of it still winded him. He could remember taking the photograph on Theo’s fourth birthday, only a few weeks before he’d disappeared. Could still hear his son’s delighted chuckle.

‘Big smile, Theo! Say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.’

‘No! That’s silly!’

‘You’ve got to say it when you have your picture taken on your birthday.’

‘No, I haven’t!’

‘Come on, just try it.’

‘Supercala... friji... biscuit...’ his son had managed before dissolving into laughter.

Click.

Fletcher tossed the newspaper back onto the coffee table. ‘Nice bit of publicity, if you’re wanting to get the story back out there. Was that the plan? Use the warehouse investigation to remind people what happened to your boy, see if you can’t shake a few apples from the tree? Who knows, with a bit of luck you might even get the case reopened.’

‘Case? You mean Theo’s case?’ Jonah felt like he’d just walked off a step. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I think it’s time we were honest,’ Fletcher said. ‘You never accepted your son drowned, did you?’

Jonah’s mouth had dried. He opened it to speak but found he’d no idea what to say.

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ he managed.

‘Bear with me,’ Fletcher said. ‘I’m curious to know if you believe he died in that culvert. Because that’d mean it was all on you.’

‘It is all on me,’ Jonah grated. ‘I fell asleep and let him wander off. I’ve had to live with that ever since.’

‘But they only found a shoe, not his body. At the back of your mind there must have been doubts. Maybe it wasn’t his, maybe the inquest got it wrong. Maybe something else happened. Something you could blame someone else for.’

‘I don’t need anyone to tell me my son’s dead. Or that it was my fault.’ Jonah felt rattled and confused, unable to understand why Fletcher was pushing this.

‘So you’re telling me you never wondered?’ the DI went on. ‘That you just accepted it, thought, “fair enough, now I know what happened I’ll move on”?’

Jonah looked away. He hated this, hated laying himself bare. Especially to Fletcher. But he knew the DI wasn’t going to let it go.

‘Of course I didn’t. If he drowned, I wanted proof. All I got was a shoe.’ Jonah stopped, struggling to compose himself. Just talking about it brought back the desperation of that time: that terrible, yawning absence. It was still with him, even now, waiting below the everyday surface. He cleared his throat. ‘It didn’t matter what I wanted, though. That was all there was, so I’d no choice but to accept it.’

Fletcher folded his hands as he considered him. ‘Did you, though?’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘You’re a firearms officer. You’d know which boxes you’d have to tick to convince everyone you were safe to return to duty. And admitting you didn’t accept the coroner’s findings wouldn’t have been one of them.’

Jonah could feel his hold on his temper beginning to slip. ‘I didn’t pretend, if that’s what you mean. Everything else had been ruled out. It was the only thing that could have happened.’

There was something faintly reptilian about the way Fletcher considered him, like a lizard contemplating a fly.

‘That’s not strictly true, is it?’

Something cold raised its head in Jonah. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Just that everyone assumed your son had been abducted at first. There was even a suspect.’

‘Not for long,’ Jonah said, his confusion and disquiet growing. ‘He had a solid alibi. The enquiry cleared him.’

‘But did you believe that? Even if someone was only suspected of taking your boy, there’d always be that lingering doubt. I’d think you’d be desperate to get your hands on him. Wring the truth out of the bastard.’

Jonah’s chest had tightened. ‘Where’s this going?’

The DI gave a nod to Bennet. Without a word, the policewoman took out a photograph from her bag and reached across to place it on the coffee table in front of Jonah. He picked it up. It was a police photo, showing the shaven head and coarse features of the man Jonah had seen near the play area the morning Theo disappeared.

‘Recognise him?’ Fletcher asked.

‘He was the suspect. Owen Stokes.’ Jonah’s heart was racing. ‘Why are you showing me this?’

‘We found photographs of Stokes on McKinney’s laptop. Recent ones. By the look of it, McKinney had been keeping him under surveillance. Following him, staking out where he was staying.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?’

Jonah felt like the world had tilted. ‘No, of course not!’

‘So you’ve no idea why McKinney was so interested in Owen Stokes?’

‘No, I’ve told you! You’ve examined my phone, for God’s sake, you’ve seen I wasn’t in contact with Gavin.’ Jonah put the photograph back on the table, suddenly loath to touch it. ‘Was Stokes part of an investigation he was working on?’

But Fletcher was shaking his head even before he’d finished.

Stokes wasn’t on our radar at all. He’s kept his nose clean for the past couple of years. No cautions, no arrests. And he doesn’t have any gang affiliations we’re aware of. He’s a loner, keeps himself to himself. There was no official reason to keep him under surveillance any more than there was for McKinney to be at that warehouse. In fact, the only connection we can find between McKinney and Owen Stokes is what happened ten years ago.’ Fletcher regarded him through lidded eyes. ‘You, in other words.’

‘No.’ It was Jonah’s turn to shake his head. He tasted bile in his throat. ‘No, that doesn’t make any sense. Why would Gavin be following Stokes now?’

‘That’s the question, isn’t it? But it might go some way to explaining why McKinney called you that night rather than anyone else. And why he wanted you to go to the warehouse.’

Jonah’s mind baulked at where this was heading. ‘I don’t understand.’

Fletcher drummed his fingers on his leg before continuing. ‘The blood we found at the warehouse that we couldn’t identify. We’ve got a DNA match. It belongs to Owen Stokes.’

All the air felt sucked out of Jonah’s lungs. ‘That’s not possible...’

‘Oh, I assure you it is. DNA doesn’t make mistakes like that.’

‘Owen Stokes...?’ The room swam. ‘Jesus Christ, you’re trying to tell me that’s who was at the warehouse? Owen Stokes?’

‘I know, I’m finding it hard to believe as well,’ Fletcher said. ‘Especially the part where you claim you fought the suspect in your son’s abduction without realising.’

Jonah felt close to passing out. There was a rushing in his ears, and his vision seemed to be pulsing.

‘Are you all right?’ Bennet asked as he leaned forward. ‘Shall I get you some water?’

He shook his head. Christ, this couldn’t be happening. ‘That’s why you think Gavin was following him? Why he wanted me to go out to the warehouse? Because of what happened to Theo?’

Fletcher spread his hands. ‘If you have a better theory, I’m all ears.’

‘Why, though? It was ten years ago, why would Gavin start following Stokes now?’ Something like panic was replacing disbelief. ‘Jesus Christ, are you saying the fucking enquiry got it wrong? They insisted Stokes didn’t have anything to do with it, they said it was impossible! And now you sit there and tell me he’s the one who killed Gavin and three other people at the warehouse? Who nearly killed me?’

Fletcher looked taken aback. ‘No, that’s not what I said. McKinney’s judgement was hardly sound at the best of times, and with his track record we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. And you need to calm down—’

‘Calm down? You drop something like this on me and expect me to be calm? Gavin had Stokes under fucking surveillance! Why would he have done that, or called me unless he’d found something out about Theo?’

Bennet stepped in smoothly, giving Fletcher a quick glance, as though asking him to back off.

‘At this stage we’re still trying to find out what happened,’ she said. ‘The point to remember is that even if McKinney thought Owen Stokes was somehow involved in your son’s disappearance, that doesn’t mean he actually was. DCI Wells, the SIO of the original investigation, died a few years ago but we’ve spoken to his deputy, DI Conway. We’re satisfied there’s nothing to suggest anything was overlooked or any mistakes were made in the search for Theo. We made sure of that before we broached this with you, so—’

‘So Owen Stokes wasn’t responsible for what happened to your son, OK?’ Fletcher interrupted, his face still flushed. ‘Regardless of whatever else he might or might not have done, the inquest’s findings still stand. Nothing’s changed in that respect.’

Jonah’s jaw was so tightly clenched it hurt. Nothing had changed? Everything had changed. Again. Owen Stokes wasn’t some hapless down-and-out, he was a killer. He’d fooled the investigation about his true nature ten years ago, fooled everyone. That undermined every shaky foundation Jonah had rebuilt his life on.

But he kept that to himself as Fletcher continued.

‘That said, McKinney was obviously following him for a reason. Given your history with Owen Stokes, the fact he chose to call you rather than anyone else makes me think he might have been on some sort of half-baked vendetta. So you can see why I’m struggling to believe you didn’t know anything about it.’

Jonah took a few seconds, making sure he was in control of himself before he spoke. ‘A while ago you thought I’d killed Gavin. Now it sounds like you’re accusing me of going after Stokes with him. Do I need a lawyer?’

It was a bluff, but Fletcher shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Do you?’

They stared at each other. Jonah’s heart was pounding, with anger but also dismay at the direction this was taking.

‘What about Owen Stokes?’ he asked, trying for a calm he didn’t feel. ‘Are you doing anything to catch him, or just going for the easy target?’

‘You need to watch your attitude, Colley,’ Fletcher said, the putty-like skin of his face darkening again.

I need to watch a lot of things. Jonah’s anger seemed to have expanded beyond himself now, allowing him to feel detached from it. But he couldn’t keep the scorn from his voice.

‘Yes, sir.’

Fletcher seemed on the point of responding but Bennet shifted slightly, quietly clearing her throat. As though some signal had passed between them, Fletcher clamped his mouth shut. He rose to his feet.

‘We’ll leave it there for now.’ Retrieving the photograph of Owen Stokes, he made a contemptuous gesture at the newspaper. ‘You should frame that. It’s the only good press you’ll get.’

Leaving Bennet to follow, he strode out.

After they’d gone, Jonah couldn’t sit still. His crutches made muted thumps on the carpet as he paced around the small flat, going aimlessly from room to room. His mind was boiling, churning over what he’d heard. In the space of a few minutes the framework by which he’d rebuilt his life after Theo’s disappearance had been undermined. For years he’d willed himself to believe the official explanation. He’d tortured himself over it, imagining Theo giggling as he’d crept away from his sleeping father to hide in the cave-like culvert. As though watching a film, he could visualise his son toppling into the cold, fast-running water. See the small body, buoyed up by its blue anorak as it drifted alone in the subterranean dark.

The thought of it had haunted him every day since. But as awful as it had been, at least he’d known. Or thought he had.

Now all that had been torn apart.

The news that it had been Owen Stokes he’d fought with in the darkness of the warehouse, that the man cleared of abducting Theo had murdered Gavin and three other people, was incomprehensible. Christ, how could everyone have got it so wrong? Including him. The thought that he’d literally — literally — had his hands around his neck was too much to bear. Going into the bedroom, he went to the punchbag hanging in the corner and threw his crutches to one side. Balancing himself with his weight braced on his good leg, he began thumping punch after punch into the heavy leather bag, imagining the hated face smirking in the photograph. He swung faster and faster, grunting with the impact until one wild punch made him twist and come down on his bad knee.

‘Ah, fuck! Fuck!’

He collapsed onto the bed as pain shafted through the joint. He sucked air through his teeth as tears of rage and frustration ran down his face.

Owen Stokes. Owen fucking Stokes.

After a while, he sat up, massaging his knee before hobbling to retrieve his crutches from the floor. Going into the kitchen, he ran a glass of cold water, but set it down when he saw the age-yellowed painting stuck to the fridge door. It could have been a blue giraffe or a teapot, messy and beautiful. Daddy, look what I made! Chrissie had been going to box it up, so Jonah had claimed it. He hadn’t planned to keep it there so long, but once he’d put it up he couldn’t bring himself to take it down.

Going into the living room, he stopped by the window. His flat was a characterless space on the ninth floor of a tower block in East London. He’d moved there after the divorce. Partly because it was cheap and close to the tube and bus routes, mainly because he didn’t have the inclination to hunt around. He picked up a framed photograph from the windowsill. Theo beamed out at him from it, frozen in time. Another captured moment hung on the wall, this one of Jonah and Theo laughing, their hair wet after a swimming lesson.

Oh, Christ...

He slumped down on the sofa. Whatever Gavin had found out about Stokes — and that was the only explanation that made any sense, no matter what Fletcher and Bennet said — Jonah bitterly regretted the flawed reasoning that had led to him keeping it to himself. At least, until it was too late. That decision had cost him his life, and probably that of the young woman Jonah had failed to save. Maybe the other two victims as well. And it had robbed Jonah of the chance to learn what had really happened to Theo ten years ago.

Jesus, Gavin, you had to go it alone, didn’t you?

But the thought was without heat. After a while, Jonah stirred. He looked at his watch and saw more time had passed than he’d realised. He’d have to leave for the memorial soon. The prospect still depressed him, but now there was an incentive for him to go. There would be people there who would have known Gavin, worked with him. Somebody might know something, and while Fletcher would already have spoken to anyone who might have information, Jonah knew how a few drinks could loosen tongues.

It was a place to start.

He showered, then dried off and went into the bedroom. Opening the wardrobe, Jonah took out his uniform and laid it on top of the duvet. He put a clean white shirt next to it, and then sat down to pull on his uniform trousers. It was awkward, but they were looser than the jeans he normally wore, so went over his knee brace more easily.

Standing up, he balanced on one leg, steadying himself against the wall as he buttoned his shirt and knotted his tie. Tunic next, tugging it down as he studied his reflection in the mirror inside the wardrobe door. The stitches on his scalp had been taken out but the wound was still visible. For the time being he’d kept his hair shaved to a stubble, and from time to time it still felt like someone else was looking back at him. The uniform hung loose on him as well. He’d lost muscle bulk since he’d been injured, though not so much that anyone would notice.

Tightening his belt another notch, he closed the wardrobe door. As the mirror swung past, he caught a glimpse of a figure behind him.

Jesus! Jonah almost fell as he spun around. There was no one there. Heart thumping, he hobbled over to check the hallway. Empty. What did you expect? The front door’s locked. His leather jacket was hanging up behind the bedroom door, swinging on a coat hanger. He looked in the mirror again, saw his own pale face looking back at him. There, you see?

Straightening his shoulders, Jonah swung himself down the hallway. Tying his shoes was as much fun as always with a leg that wouldn’t bend, but at last he was ready. Setting his uniform cap on his head, he took a deep breath.

Then he went to say goodbye to Gavin.