Gunsmoke has already disappeared down the hill, doing forward reconnaissance through the undergrowth, sniffing at trees and holes in the ground. When I reach the bridge I see the police tape laced around tree trunks and snaking along the banks of the river. I remember finding Sienna and carrying her this far. It seems like weeks ago. It was less than twelve hours.
In a field on the far side, Gunsmoke lopes after a skittering rabbit that is far too nimble, jinking left and right before disappearing down a hole. He did once catch a rabbit, which seemed to surprise him so much that he let it go again. Maybe he’s opposed to blood sports, which would make him a curiosity in these parts.
Occasionally, he comes back to me, loping down the hill, pink tongue flapping, awaiting instructions. He gazes up at me as though I am the wisest of the wise. If only my children were so in awe of my intelligence. Reassured, he takes off again, sniffing at every cowpat and clump of grass.
Gunsmoke has made the past couple of years easier. He doesn’t judge me like I judge myself. He’s gets me out of bed. Makes me exercise. Eats my leftovers. Babysits Emma and initiates conversations with people.
I walk for a mile across the fields, following the old railway line, before turning and retracing boot prints on the dew-covered grass. I keep thinking about Ray Hegarty, a man I barely knew.
I once saw him drawn into a fight at the Fox and Badger. Six bikers came into the bar one Friday evening just after the rugby club raffle had been drawn. Ray had won the meat tray and was sitting with his prize. The lead biker stood over his table and asked him to move.
‘Plenty of spare seats,’ Ray replied.
The biker sized him up and liked what he saw. He was mistaken.
Leaning over the table, he casually spat in Ray’s pint of cider. Before he had time to straighten, one of Ray’s hands had shot out and gripped him by the neck as the other smashed the pint glass and pressed the jagged base into his throat.
Calmly, Ray whispered in his ear, ‘There are six of you and one of me. Looking at those odds, I’m going to die, but here’s the thing . . . you’ll be dying first.’
A thin trickle of blood ran down the biker’s neck, over his Adam’s apple, which was rising and falling as he swallowed. Another liquid trickled over his boots and on to the worn floorboards.
The scene stayed that way for maybe twenty minutes until the police arrived from Radstock. It made Ray a legend. Hector bolted a special plaque at the corner of the bar, which said, ‘Reserved for Ray’ and guaranteed him at least one free pint every time he dropped by.
The strange thing is, when I recalled the altercation afterwards, picturing Ray Hegarty’s calm hostility, I found myself feeling sorry for the bikers. It was as if the odds were always stacked against them.
Turning the corner into Station Road, I spy the battered Land Rover parked out front of the terrace. Ronnie Cray is sitting behind the wheel with her eyes closed, resting her head against the doorframe.
‘Morning?’
Her eyes half open. ‘You shouldn’t leave your door key under a rock. Second place I looked. Had to use the little girl’s room. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘You could have stayed inside.’
‘I don’t mind the cold.’
Climbing out, she shakes my hand. Holds it. Looks into my eyes. ‘You didn’t stop earlier.’
‘I saw you were busy.’
Her hands go to the pockets of her overcoat. She’s short and round with a wardrobe of tailored trousers and men’s shoes. Dark shadows beneath her eyes betray her tiredness, but there’s something more.
‘I’ve come to check on the cat,’ she says.
‘Yeah. Sure.’
Eighteen months ago the DCI dropped by unexpectedly and presented me with a box. Inside was a straw- coloured kitten, part of a litter that had been born in her barn a few weeks earlier.
‘I have a dog,’ I said.
‘You need a cat.’
‘Why?’
‘You own a dog but you need something to
The detective put the box on the floor. It contained six cans of cat food, a bag of cat litter and two plastic dishes. Reaching inside, she pulled out the kitten, which hung over her palm like a sock.
‘Isn’t she’s a beauty? She’ll keep you company.’
‘I don’t need company.’
‘Hell you don’t. You sleep alone. You work part-time. You’re home a lot. I got all the stuff you need. She’s vaccinated but you might want to get her neutered in about four months.’
She thrust the kitten at me and it clung to my sweater as if I were a tree. I couldn’t think of what to say except, ‘It’s very thoughtful of you, Ronnie.’
‘If she’s anything like her mother, she’ll be a good ratter.’
‘I don’t have any rats.’
‘And you won’t.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Call her what you like.’
Emma named her Strawberry - ‘because she’s coloured like straw’ - don’t ask me to explain the logic of a preschooler.
When Charlie was kidnapped, Ronnie Cray was in charge of the police investigation. I think she blamed herself for not protecting my family. Some tragedies forge friendships. Others are touchstones for too many bad memories. I don’t know what I have with Ronnie. Maybe it’s a friendship. Maybe we’re sharing the guilt.
Whatever the case, the detective has stayed in touch, calling me every so often to ask about the cat. Occasionally, she talks about cases that she’s working on, dropping in details she thinks might intrigue me. I don’t take the bait.
One night she phoned from the scene of a hostage crisis where a man had barricaded himself in a house with his ex-wife who he’d doused with petrol. Ronnie asked for my help. I said no.
Afterwards I sat up late watching Sky News, listening to the reports on failing banks, repossessions and market meltdowns, hoping the stories would stay the same. I also prayed, which is bizarre because I don’t believe in God. I’m not superstitious either, yet I crossed my fingers. I
I sat up all night watching the news, certain that if I maintained my vigil nothing bad would happen. I didn’t go to bed until the sun had come up and the beautiful TV couples were smiling brightly from their morning sofas. I had saved another life.
Cray has stepped past me into the hallway without waiting for an invitation. She shrugs off her coat and tosses it over the back of a chair. I always forget how short she is until we’re standing side by side. I’m looking at the crown of her head. Her bristled hair is pepper grey.
‘I saw you on TV the other week,’ I say. ‘You’ve been promoted.’
‘Yeah, I’m sleeping my way to the top.’ Her laugh sounds like gravel rash. ‘How’s the shaking business?’
‘Up and down.’
‘Is that a Parkinson’s joke?’
‘Sorry.’
She’s about to light another cigarette.
‘I don’t let people smoke in the house.’
The lighter sparks in her cupped hands. ‘I appreciate you making an exception.’ She inclines her head as she exhales. The smoke floats past her eyes. I can’t hold her gaze.
As if on cue, Strawberry appears, walking silently into the kitchen and sniffing at Cray’s shoes. Perhaps she can smell her mother. The DCI leans down and scoops up the cat with one hand, studying her eyes for answers.
‘She’s getting fat.’
‘She’s part sloth.’
‘You’re feeding her too much.’
