Fry stared at him, wondering what was wrong with the man. He wasn’t ignorant about cars, and he had bought this one himself. Very few men would have got the age of a vehicle so wrong especially when the registration system had been changed very recently. Now, the year of a car’s registration was identified by numbers on its plate, instead of the old system of letters, which had ended with ‘Y’.
‘This car is “The” registration/ she repeated. ‘It’s at least four years old, Mr Renshaw.’
She waited for Renshaw to explain himself, but he didn’t seem to want to. He simply looked at the Audi with that pitiful, hangdog expression she had seen before. Then Fry realized the problem. The car had been two years old. It had been two years old when
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Emma Renshaw disappeared. In the minds of her parents, the car was still the same age, just as Emma was still on her way home from Wolverhampton. Those two years in between might as well not have existed.
This is ridiculous/ she said.
‘I’m sorry/ said Howard.
But Fry couldn’t tell whether he was actually apologizing for his behaviour, or simply hadn’t understood what she meant. It was her own fault, anyway - she should have checked before now, instead of taking what the Renshaws said as the truth. ‘When did Emma last drive this car?’ she said.
‘She only uses it when she’s home from university.’
Fry gritted her teeth, trying to stay calm.
‘Mr Renshaw, your daughter hasn’t been home from university for over two years. When did she last use this car?’
She saw his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. He was starting to sweat a little. ‘It would have been the Christmas holiday/ he said. ‘Emma was at home for three weeks, over Christmas and New Year. We had a proper family Christmas together, just the three of us on Christmas Day. But she went out with some friends on Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve. She used the car then, I think.’
‘I see/
‘I took a lot of trouble over Christmas dinner/ said Sarah. ‘We spent weeks doing the tree and the decorations, and months buying the presents. We bought Emma a lot of presents that Christmas. I think it was because she was away from us most of the year, we felt we had to make more effort to show her how much we loved her when she was at home. Perhaps we spoiled Emma a bit, I don’t know. But I’m glad we did it. It was the last time. The last Christmas we saw her/
Listening to Mrs Renshaw’s voice growing quieter and quieter in the half-empty garage, Fry began to feel guilty for her impatience and irritation. She felt as though she had trampled on the Renshaws’ dreams by pointing out the fact that it was over two years since they had seen their daughter.
I’m sorry, Mrs Renshaw/ she said. She knew it wasn’t enough, not by any means. But she couldn’t think of anything else to say to her.
A silence developed between them as Fry examined the car.
‘Of course, there’ll be even more presents for Emma next Christmas/ said Sarah.
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And now her voice had life in it again. There was a rising note of optimism at the end of her sentence that sent a shiver through Fry’s spine.
‘What?’
‘We’ve saved them all for her, of course/ said Sarah. ‘The spare room is full of them. Emma will have such a surprise next Christmas. She won’t want to go away again when she sees how much we love her.’
Fry stared at Sarah Renshaw until she couldn’t bear to look at her any longer. It was like watching someone trying to get up and walk after their legs had been blown off - and smiling hopefully as they did it. The sight was too painful to prolong, and Fry turned away.
‘Mr Renshaw, do you have the keys for this car?’ she said.
They were squatting uncomfortably on seats that had been ripped out of some derelict car. At least, Derek Alton hoped that it had been derelict before the seats were ripped out. The seats were tied to the struts of the van sides with their seat belts, which kept them fairly stable except when the van went round a bend, and then they tended to slide and crash into each other. Alton had been thrown against one of the seat-belt buckles, and now he had a pain in his shoulder, which he knew would be a nasty bruise by tomorrow morning. He bruised very easily. His mother had always told him that when he was a child.
‘Where are we going?’ said Alton.
‘Practice session, Vicar.’
Alton looked round at the rest of the Border Rats. Directly across from him was Scott Oxley, with his brother Ryan. On either side of him were Sean and Glen, and two Hey Bridge men he didn’t know were squashed together at the front, just behind the driver’s cab, where Eric rode alongside his son. All the team were in full kit, with their top hats and their black make-up and mirrored sunglasses, carrying their sticks and, in some cases, bottles of beer.
‘How old are you, Ryan?’ said Alton. ‘I can’t quite remember.’
‘Eighteen, Vicar.’
‘And how old is young Sean here?’
‘Eighteen, Vicar.’
‘I see.’
The interior of the van smelled strongly of theatrical paint and sweat, and leather boots, along with the beer that the younger
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ones occasionally spilled on their trousers or on the floor of the van, which was covered with an old carpet. Alton looked down at the carpet suspiciously. It seemed to be embedded with small pieces of coal and splinters of wood. He wondered what Lucas Oxley normally used the van for when it wasn’t serving as the team bus. For a moment, he also wondered whether it was legal but he put the thought hastily out of his mind as unworthy. It was just that he had never known what Lucas did for a living. Or any of the Oxleys, come to that.
