‘Tommy Johnson.’
‘Mark Draper.’
Resnick smiled, remembering.
‘Good Cup year for you, wasn’t it?’
‘Through to the Sixth Round. Spurs beat us two-one at White Hart Lane.’
‘We should’ve stopped you sooner.’
‘You had your chances.’
Kiley looked out through the window. Off-licence. Estate agent. Delicatessen. He had spent most of the game on the bench and only been sent on for the last fifteen minutes. Before he could adjust to the pace, the ball had come to him on the edge of the area and, with the centre half closing in on him, he had let fly and, leaning back too far, his shot had ballooned over the bar. Then, a goal down and with less than five minutes to spare, he had nicked the ball away from the full back, cut inside, and, with only the goalie to beat, had skewed it wide. At the final whistle he had turned away disgusted as the Notts players ran towards their fans in triumph.
‘All a long time ago,’ Resnick said. ‘Fifteen years.’
‘And the rest.’
‘Think about it much?’
Kiley shook his head. ‘Hardly at all.’
The car swung round into Manvers Road and they were there. Still no one was answering the door. Round at the back, Resnick hesitated only a moment before putting his shoulder to the door, once, twice, before the bolt snapped free. He stepped carefully into the kitchen, Kiley following. Nothing had been moved. The cloth dog, two shades of brown, still sat, neglected, in the hall. The front room was empty and they turned back towards the stairs. A chill spread down the backs of Resnick’s legs and along his arms. The stairs creaked a little beneath his weight. A child’s blue cardigan lay, discarded, on the landing. The door to the main bedroom was closed.
Drawing a slow breath, Resnick turned the handle. The bed had been hastily made; the wardrobe doors stood open and several garments had slid from their hangers to the floor. There was no one there.
They turned back towards the other room, its door ajar.
The closer of the two, Kiley looked round at Resnick enquiringly then nudged the door wide.
There were bunk beds against the right-hand wall. Posters on the wall, a white melamine set of drawers. Several clear plastic boxes, stacked on top of one another, filled with toys. Stuffed animals and pieces of Lego and picture books strewn across the floor.
Kiley felt the muscles in his stomach relax. ‘They’re not here.’
Thank God for that.’
Back downstairs they stood in the kitchen, Resnick taking in the evidence of hasty sandwich making, the fallen chair.
There were a dozen explanations, mostly harmless, some more plausible than the rest. ‘You think they’ve done a runner?’ he said.
‘I think they might have tried.’
‘And if they didn’t succeed?’
Kiley released a long, slow breath. ‘Then he’s taken them, that’s what I’d say.’
‘Against their will?’
‘Odds are.’
Resnick called the station from the car; arranged for the place to be secured and Scene of Crime officers to attend. Jumping to conclusions they might be, but better that than to do nothing and wait for bad news.
Terry Anderson had waited, cautious, van parked just around the corner on Exchange Road, back towards the primary school. From there he could see the house, see if Rebecca had any callers, visitors in or out, make sure the coast was clear. Waiting. Watching. Alert. Ready for danger, the least sign. It was nothing to him. What he was trained for. Northern Ireland. Iraq. Afghanistan. Belfast. Basra. Sangin. Someone waiting to take your head off with a rifle or blow you to buggery with an RPG.
Little happened. The occasional couple returning home from visiting friends, an hour in the pub, an evening in town. Men taking their dogs for a last walk around the block, pausing perhaps, to light a cigarette. Television screens flickering brightly between half-closed blinds. House lights going on, going off.
He sat behind the front seats, leaning back, legs stretched in front of him, out of sight to passers-by. Beside him in the van were blankets, sleeping bags, bottles of water. A few basic supplies. First-aid kit. Ammunition. Tools. Tinned food. His uniform, folded neatly. Waterproofs. Rope. Prepared.
As he watched, the downstairs room of Rebecca’s house went suddenly dark and he imagined, rather than heard, the sound some moments later as she turned the key in the front door lock. Careful, he liked that. Not careful enough.
Eleven thirty-five.
She’d been watching, he guessed, a rerun of some American soap or a late-night film and had either got bored or found her eyes closing, unbidden. How many times had they sat together like that in the semi-dark, the change in her breathing alerting him to the fact that she had dropped off, unwillingly, to sleep? Her warm breath when he had leaned over to kiss her, her head turning away.
The upstairs light went on and, for a brief moment, he saw her in silhouette, standing there, looking out, looking down; then the curtains were pulled across, leaving a faint yellowish glow.
Automatically, he rechecked his watch.
Imagined the children, already sleeping.
The houses to either side had gone dark long since, but up and down the street there were still signs of life.
He would wait.
Rebecca stirred, wondering if she had ever really been asleep and, if so, for how long? The bedside clock read 01:14. It was her bladder that had awoken her and, grudgingly, she slid her legs round from beneath the duvet and touched her feet to the carpeted floor. The house was smaller than she might have liked, and at times, even for the three of them, barely large enough — bedlam when one or more of Keiron’s friends came round after school to play. But the fixtures and fittings were in better nick than in many of the other places she’d seen and the rent, with her parents’ help, was reasonable enough. If it weren’t for them, she didn’t know what she could have done.
Careful not to flush the toilet for fear of waking Billie — a light sleeper at best — she eased back the door and slipped into their room. Keiron’s thumb was in his mouth and carefully she prised it free, causing him to grunt and turn his head sharply to one side, but not to wake. Billie, pink pyjama top gathered at her neck, was clinging to the edge of the blanket she had slept with since she was three months old.
Straightening, Rebecca shivered as if — what did her grandmother used to say? — as if someone had just walked over her grave.
Rubbing her arms beneath the sleeves of the long T-shirt she was wearing, she turned and went softly back to bed, this time, hopefully, to sleep through. The morning would come soon enough.
When she woke again it had just gone two. Levering herself up on to one elbow, she strained to hear. Had one of the children woken and cried out? A dream, perhaps? Or maybe Keiron had got up and gone to the toilet on his own?
No, it was nothing.
The wind, perhaps, rattling the windowpanes.
Her head had barely touched the pillow when she heard it again, for certain this time, the sound that had awoken her, a footstep. Next door, it had to be next door. Quite often, late at night, she heard them moving. Early, too. Her breath caught in her throat. No. There was somebody in the house, somebody down below, a footstep on the stairs.
Rebecca froze.
If I close my eyes, will it go away?
It.
He.
Whoever…
