Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [63]
Amelia Jacobs was considerably more presentable. Dressed in black jeans and a grey, long-sleeved T-shirt, she paced the floor between them. Carlyle said nothing while Amelia gave him a hard stare, looking him up and down as if he was some John who couldn’t get it up. Finally she asked: ‘Did you ever talk to Michael?’
‘I did try.’ Carlyle leaned forward and gave her some proper eye contact. ‘I couldn’t find him.’ Not that I tried very hard, he thought. ‘Did you know a guy called Jerome Sullivan?’
Laidlaw made no sign of even hearing his question.
Jacobs frowned. ‘No. Why? Has he got something to do with this?’
‘I don’t know,’ Carlyle replied, ‘but I know Michael has been hanging out with him recently.’
‘He must be a right scumbag then,’ Amelia snapped. ‘Have you spoken to him yet?’
‘He’s dead,’ Carlyle said casually.
‘Great! So what are you going to do about it now?’ Amelia’s question was a reasonable one. If nothing else, he admired her determination. She seemed to be the only person who really cared about the kid. Even if Jake came back, he would go straight into the care of Camden Children’s Social Services. His mother had blown her last chance. It would be a miracle – or, rather, a scandal – if she ever got her kid back. Amelia knew all this already, but she would still not give up.
Carlyle shrugged. ‘It’s not my case.’
‘The other guy,’ Amelia snorted, ‘doesn’t give a toss.’
‘Cutler?’
‘Yeah. A copper in search of a freebie, if I ever saw one.’
‘I spoke to him about the case the other evening.’
She looked doubtful. ‘And?’
‘And they are on top of everything,’ said Carlyle, parrying the query as best he could.
‘Right.’ Amelia looked as if she wanted to give him a slap. He couldn’t blame her.
‘I’m sure that they,’ Carlyle corrected himself, ‘that we will find him.’ The reality was that he wasn’t sure at all.
Amelia Jacobs balled her fists, her face locked into a brittle stare. ‘Someone has got to show some interest in this little boy.’
Giving up on the eye contact, Carlyle stared at his shoes.
‘Otherwise, it’s like the poor little sod never even existed.’
‘Yes.’
‘That bastard can’t have just vanished.’
‘No.’
‘It’s been weeks now . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
Carlyle stared harder at the floor. ‘I know.’ He did know. He could shut his eyes and paint a very clear picture in his head. But that didn’t mean he could do anything about it.
Waking the next morning, Carlyle watched Helen pad out of the bedroom to make a cup of green tea. Declining her offer of coffee, he got up, stretched and headed into the bathroom. After getting dressed, he decided on one last effort at conciliation. The TV was still playing, but Alice’s fifteen minutes were up and it was time for school. He wandered into the kitchen, where Helen stood gazing aimlessly out of the window at the London skyline, sipping her tea.
‘Why don’t I take Alice to school this morning?’ Carlyle suggested.
Helen turned to face him. ‘No need.’ She reached for the kettle and poured more hot water in her mug.
He looked at her carefully. This had to be a test. He needed to show more willing. ‘I don’t mind,’ he continued carefully. ‘It’ll give you a bit of extra time before work.’
Helen sipped her tea demurely. ‘Actually, I spoke to Alice about it yesterday, while you were out making your enquiries.’ A small smirk crossed her mouth. ‘She’s going on her own.’
‘What?’ A sense of panic flashed through Carlyle’s brain. How could his daughter be travelling across London on her own at her age? There were so many dangers; all those nutters and perverts, watching and waiting for an opportunity to prey on the innocent. Not to mention all the crazy white-van men itching to knock down any careless pedestrians. What the hell was Helen thinking about?