conspicuous.
“Is this about Susan?” A tear fell on to Mrs Ridyard’s skirt.
I gathered myself. “I know it must be difficult but we know how much of your time you’ve, er, put into this and…”
Mr Ridyard put down his cup. “Our time?”
“You’ve both done so much to keep Susan in the public’s mind, to keep the investigation alive.”
Neither Mr or Mrs Ridyard spoke.
“And I know you must have felt…”
“Felt?” said Mrs Ridyard.
“Feel.”
“I’m sorry, but you have no idea how we feel.” Mrs Ridyard was shaking her head, her mouth still moving after the words had gone, tears falling fast.
Mr Ridyard looked across the room at me, his eyes full of apologies and shame. “We were doing so much better until this, weren’t we?”
No-one answered him.
I looked out of the window across the road at the new houses with their lights still on at lunchtime.
“She could be home by now,” said Mrs Ridyard softly, rubbing the tears into her skirt.
I stood up. “I’m sorry. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mr Ridyard, walking me out to the door. “We were doing so well. Really we were. It’s just brought it all back, this Morley thing.”
At the door I turned and said, “I’m sorry but, reading through the papers and my notes, the police don’t seem to have had any real leads. I was wondering if there was anything more you felt they could have done?”
“Anything more?” said Mr Ridyard, almost smiling.
“Any lead that…”
“They sat in this house for two weeks, George Oldman and his men, using the phone.”
“And there was nothing…”
“A white van, that’s all they bloody went on about.”
“A white van?”
“How, if they could find this white van, they’d find Susan.”
“And they never paid the bill.” Mrs Ridyard, her face red, was standing at the far end of the hall. “Phone almost got cut off.”
At the top of the stairs, I could see the heads of the other two children peering over the banister.
“Thank you,” I said, shaking Mr Ridyard’s hand.
“Thank you, Mr Dunford.”
I got into the Viva thinking, Jesus fucking Christ.
“Merry Christmas,” called Mr Ridyard.
I leant across to my notebook and scrawled two words only:
I raised a wave to Mr Ridyard standing alone in the doorway, a lid on all my curses.
One thought: Call Kathryn.
“It was a fucking nightmare.” Back in the bright red phonebox, I dropped in another coin, hopping from foot to foot, freezing my balls off. “Anyway, then he says well there was this white van, but I don’t remember reading anything about a white van, do you?”
Kathryn was flicking through her own notes on the other end, agreeing.
“Wasn’t in any of the appeals for information?”
Kathryn said, “No, not that I remember.” I could hear the buzz of the office from her end. I felt too far away. I wanted to be back there.
“Any messages?” I asked, juggling the phone, a notebook, a pen, and a cigarette.
“Just two. Barry and…”
“Barry? Say what it was about? Is he there now?”
“No, no. And a Sergeant Craven…”
“Sergeant who?”
“Craven.”
“Fuck, no idea. Craven? Did he leave a message?”
“No, but he said it was urgent.” Kathryn sounded pissed off.
“If it was that fucking urgent I’d know him. Calls again, ask him to leave a message, will you?” I let the cigarette fall into the pool of water on the floor of the phonebox.
“Where you going now?”
“The pub, where else? Bit of the old local colour. Then I’m coming straight back. Bye.”
I hung up, feeling fucked off.
She was staring at me from across the bar of the Huntsman.
I froze, then picked up my pint and walked towards her, drawn by her eyes, tacked up by the toilets, above a cigarette machine, at the far end of the bar.
Susan Louise Ridyard was smiling big white teeth for her school portrait, though her eyes said her fringe was a little too long, making her appear awkward and sad,
Above her the biggest word was in red and said: MISSING.
Below her was a summary of her life and last day, both so brief.
Finally, there was an appeal for information and three tele phone numbers.
“Do you want another?”
With a jolt, back to an empty glass. “Yeah. Just the one.”
“Reporter are you?” said the barman, pulling the pint.
“That obvious is it?”
“We’ve had a fair few of your lot in here, aye.”
I handed over thirty-six pence exactly. “Thanks.”
“Who you with?”
“
“Owt fresh?”
“Just trying to keep the story alive, you know? We don’t want people forgetting.”
“That’s commendable that is.”
“Just been to see Mr and Mrs Ridyard,” I said, making a pal.
“Right. Derek pops in every once in a while. Folk say she’s not too good like.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Police don’t seem to have had a right lot to go on?”
“Lot of them used to sup in here while it was all going on.” The barman, probably the landlord, turned away to serve a customer.
I played my only card. “There was something about a van though. A white van?”
The barman slowly closed the till drawer, frowning. “A white van?”
“Yeah. Police told the Ridyards they were looking for a white van.”
“Don’t remember owt about that,” he said, pulling another pint, the pub now Saturday lunchtime busy. He rang up another sale and said, “Feeling I got was they all thought it were gypsies.”
“Gypsies,” I muttered, thinking here we fucking go.
“Aye. They’d been through here week before with the Feast. Maybes one of them had a white van.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Get you another?”
I turned back to the poster and the eyes that knew. “No, you’re all right.”
“What do you think?”
I didn’t turn around. My chest and my stomach ached, the beer making them worse, telling me I should have
