'Yeah. Older one just had his thirteenth birthday. His brother's ten.'
She looked as if she was about to ask something else, but Erica interrupted. 'Have you tidied up in here?'
'No need. Bruce is a neat little boy.'
'Very,' Erica said. 'Noticed anything missing? Clothes, maybe? Money?'
'Money?' Mrs Wilson leaned back slightly, her head tilted to the side.
'I just wondered,' Erica said. 'Kids sometimes have a bit of cash stashed away.'
'Not Bruce. He doesn't need money. What would he need with money? I have money.'
'Clothes?' Erica's voice was calm but firm. 'Any clothes missing?'
Mrs Wilson shook her head.
'Can you take a look, please,' I said. 'Just to make sure?'
'For God's sake.' Mrs Wilson pulled out the drawers, scanned through the wardrobe. A couple of minutes later, she crossed her arms and said, 'Everything's here. Apart from what he's wearing.'
'And what was that?' Erica asked.
Mrs Wilson told us he was wearing his school uniform, and described it, and mentioned the Hearts scarf he liked, but wasn't allowed to wear in class. It matched the information we'd got from Dutton. At least he'd got something right.
I asked Mrs Wilson, 'There's not one single photo of him?' I wondered what Uniform were working with. Just a description?
She looked as if she was going to leap across the room and choke me. But instead she said, 'John was the positive one.'
I had no idea what she was talking about. She must have picked up on my confusion.
'Bruce's dad,' she said. 'My husband. Remember?'
I nodded. 'Yes, yes, John, of course,' and no doubt sounded like a total idiot. But I hadn't forgotten her husband's name. I just didn't see how her reply had answered my question about Bruce's photo.
But who knew how her mind was working right now.
'You know what it's like not being able to say sorry?' Mrs Wilson asked, clenching her fists. 'We'd argued, me and John. Just before… It was a silly thing, didn't know it would become important. He hadn't shaved for a couple of days.'
I ran my thumb over my chin.
'I asked him if he was growing a beard.' She started pacing around the bedroom. 'He was already stressed out. Rough day at work with a major client. I didn't realise how stressed he was until he told me to shut up. Told me to stop nagging him.' She was walking up and down, pumping her fists. 'That was the day before the accident. And I never apologised to him, and now I can't tell him I'm sorry. Can't tell him that he looked just fine.' She smacked her fists against her thighs. 'I don't give a crap about him not shaving. I was a total fool! I've lost John. I can't lose Bruce too.'
'I think you should go back downstairs,' Erica said. 'Sit down. Calm yourself. And please don't jump to conclusions.'
'Yes.' Mrs Wilson cupped her hands over her nose. 'Okay. I think I need a drink.'
4
Outside, I called Dutton on my Airwave handset. I hated those bloody clunky things and would have much rather used a mobile phone.
'There's no sign of any activity round here,' I said. Still no patrol car, no uniforms talking to neighbours in a doorway. 'What's going on?'
'They're spreading out,' Dutton said. 'Kid's still missing.'
'What do you want us to do?'
'School's closed and everybody's gone home for the day. Bruce's teacher, name of…' there was a pause '… Mrs Grace Lennox, lives about five minutes away. She hasn't been interviewed yet. Pay her a visit.'
He gave me the address. I mentioned the boyfriend and Dutton said he'd get Uniform to go round to check out Mr Les Green and make sure Bruce wasn't there. 'By the way,' I said, 'did anybody get a photo of the kid?'
'Why wouldn't they?'
I told him what Mrs Wilson had said.
'She must be upset,' he said. 'Uniform got a photo no problem. I'll see if I can get you a copy.'
'And what about the car crash? Her husband's death?'
'What about it?'
'You didn't tell me,' I said.
'I didn't? Must have slipped my mind.'
And before I could reply he was gone.
5
In a couple of minutes, we were outside Bruce's teacher's flat. She lived in an end tenement block with its construction date chiselled into the sandstone above the door. 1881. It was a nice enough area without being as leafy as the one we'd just left.
'Kiddie fiddler lives a couple of doors down,' Erica said. 'Real sicko.'
'Once they're out, they have to live somewhere,' I said.
'He was never locked up. The dirty sod walked.'
'Lack of evidence?' I asked.
'Yeah, and he was smart. Wouldn't talk. Right from the off, all he ever said was, 'No comment'.'
'You think there's a chance he might have followed Bruce's teacher to school?'
'Now that you mention it.' Erica nodded slowly. 'Maybe we should pay him a visit.'
'Right after we've spoken to Mrs Lennox.' I pressed the buzzer and a man's voice answered. 'Police,' I said. I always enjoyed saying that.
6
Upstairs, Mr Lennox was waiting for us in his doorway. 'How can I help?' he asked. He wore heavy-looking black-framed glasses and he couldn't stop smiling.
He didn't seem nervous, though. More likely he was just eager to please. Which happened more often than you'd think. Sometimes people made up all sorts of stuff with the best of intentions. I once had an old dear describe a burglar in great detail, all the way down to his ginger beard and nose ring and Hibs top. Turned out she never saw the guy. She'd just wanted to help and imagined that's what a burglar would look like.
'Could we speak to your wife, sir?' Erica said to Mr Lennox.
'She just popped out for some milk,' he said. 'But she has her phone with her. I can give her a call.' His eyebrows raised in a question.
'Please do,' Erica said. 'Tell her we'll meet her outside.'
We trotted down the stairs and back out into the street. The late afternoon sun still had some fight left in it. Shadows dappled the roof of the pool car.
We waited on the pavement.
A couple of minutes later, a heavy woman came jogging up the road. She wasn't dressed for running. And she was carrying a carton of milk.
