Delaney bent down and put his finger in it. He gripped under and pulled upwards. The plank came loose. Delaney put it to one side and put his arm through the aperture. ‘Bingo,’ he said quietly and pulled his hand back up, bringing with it a pack of cigarettes. He reached down with his arm again and felt around. There was nothing there. ‘That’s it,’ he said, disappointed, nodding to the cigarettes. ‘At least we know he wasn’t lying about those.’
‘Let me have a go, sir,’ said Sally. ‘My arm is thinner than yours.’
Sally knelt down and put her arm through the hole, reaching in almost up to her shoulder as she groped on the floor under the shed. ‘Hang on – I think I’ve got something,’ she said excitedly as she forced her arm further in. She reached again and then pulled her arm slowly out. She held in her hand an A4 brown paper envelope, filthy with dust and covered with spider webs and mouse droppings.
She handed it to Delaney, who took it and opened it, sliding out a series of photographs. He took one look at the top photo before sliding the rest back into the envelope and dropping it on the armchair. Then, holding his hand to his mouth, he dashed out of the shed. Sally picked up the envelope and looked inside it.
Delaney put his hand on the side of the shed, leaning against it, and threw up. The bitter acid taste of the Bushmills he had been drinking the night before filled his mouth and he retched again, a dry, heaving retch. A short while later he became aware of Sally standing beside him.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said.
‘Were they all of her?’ asked Delaney.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And the men …?’
‘There were no faces.’ Sally’s face was ashen too. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
*
Delaney stood beside Sally’s car. He was aware of people moving around him, could hear voices but had no idea what anyone was saying. It was just sound. Meaningless.
Ahead of him the news vultures had gathered again behind the yellow tape. Melanie Jones’s assistant fluffing her hair and touching up her make-up. The glamorous face of the news. News that was hitting home to Delaney fifteen years too late. Hitting home like a sledgehammer in his gut.
He fumbled a cigarette into his mouth, grateful at least that the rain that had been falling for days on end seemed finally to have let up. He scratched a match and lit up, drawing deep and holding the smoke in his lungs till they burned.
It was cold but the sky was clear, pale streaks of salmon pink threading through it like coral in a cobalt ocean. Delaney looked at the street lamp that stood at the entrance to the alleyway, but it certainly didn’t lead to Narnia. He remembered the posters of the children that had been plastered all over the area. He remembered the hundreds of hours he’d wasted walking the area. He looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. He took another pull on his cigarette as Sally Cartwright approached.
‘What do you reckon, Sally?’ He said. ‘Too early for a pint?’
Sally looked at him sympathetically for a moment and then shook her head. ‘No, sir,’ she said simply. ‘The Crawfish is just around the corner. If it’s still open.’
‘That used to be the best boozer in the area back in the day.’
‘Not any more.’
Delaney nodded sadly. ‘No. Not any more.’ He stood up straight. ‘Shit,’ he said.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘Something Bob Wilkinson said. About never mind the church, it’s the pub that is at the heart of the community.’
‘So?’
‘It’s the locus. Things happening round here. All those years ago and now happening all over again.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘The landlord back then had the pub as a sort of nerve centre for the search for the missing children. Organised teams of locals as well as the police who were combing the area. Ellie Peters used to work there now and again, I remember her.’
‘And?’
‘She was a part-time hooker, an alcoholic, a drug addict. It was a fairly well-known secret that the landlord was giving her more than just three pounds an hour. And she was giving the customers more than a bitter shandy.’
‘I still don’t follow, sir.’
‘The landlord was due to marry his chef who worked there at the time.’
Sally nodded, remembering. ‘The woman who cooked the best seafood platter south of your Aunty Noreen?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And she’s important because …’
‘Because of her maiden name, detective constable.’
‘Which was?’
‘Her name was Emily, Sally. Emily Harper!’
*
