'Gabe?' DI Michael had dropped his hand away from the engineer's arm, but he angled his head, trying to look into Gabe's downcast eyes. Gabe knew what was expected of him.
'The clothes belong to Cam,' he said without apparent emotion.
'You're sure?'
He nodded. 'Pretty much.'
'If you are certain, there's no need to see the body.'
'I got to.'
'It's been in the river for a year. Sorry, Gabe, but it's been eaten away, as well as spoiled by the polluted water. It isn't necessary to put yourself through any more. We've got the clothes—you've identified them.'
Gabe nodded towards the interior window. 'He's in there, isn't he, Kim?'
'Yes, he's there. But I'm telling you, there's no need to see the body itself.'
'I don't want to see the body,' Gabe replied grimly. 'I just want to see the hands.'
•
Gabe slowly sank down onto Cam's small bed, leaned his elbows on his knees and cupped his face in his hands. He was still numb from the shock of finally accepting his son really was dead, that there was no more hope, that their little boy was gone for ever.
With its Shrek posters, brightly patterned wallpaper and robust transporters and the like spilling from an open pine chest, the cheerfulness of the room belied the desolate mood of its occupant. A Lion King mobile hanging from the overhead light-fitting stirred only slightly in the draught he had caused by entering the room. Early evening shadows gradually deepened and cohered as he sat there, his heart a dead weight, his thoughts dulled by the trauma of unbearable truth.
At the mortuary, Gabe and DI Michael had gone through to the room where Cam's poor decomposed body was laid out beneath the green sheet. Horribly, a few strands of hair—blond hair that had been bleached white by the dirty shifting waters—protruded from one end of the sheet and Gabe had forced himself to look away, to concentrate on the only parts of the body he needed to see. The mortician who had accompanied them had been considerate; he had pulled up the cover so that the exposed hair was concealed. Then carefully, after instructions from the detective, the man had folded back both sides of the green cloth, revealing the corpse's hands and arms.
Gabe had felt nauseous and horrified when he saw the skeletal fingers, scraps of corrupted flesh still clinging to the digits and the wrist. He had sucked in a sharp breath when he compared the little fingers of both hands and found the one on the right was shorter than the one on the left.
He had wanted to see no more than that, but the temptation to draw back the sheet and reveal the whole of the body was almost irresistible. It was Kim Michael, as if reading Gabe's mind, who deterred him. He tugged gently at the engineer's elbow and led him back to the viewing room next door. Gabe knew he would always be grateful to Kim for that: full sight of Cam's despoiled little body would have haunted him for ever. He officially identified the corpse as Cameron Caleigh, then left the mortuary and drove to his Canonbury home.
Ringing Eve was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life, but unexpectedly she had not broken down or become hysterical; rather she had taken the news calmly, as if he were telling her something she already knew so it was no shock. He realized her denial this past year had been a sham, something she would never admit even to herself—
He sat on Cam's small bed, with its gaily patterned duvet, its pale blue pillow, and his emotions began to surge, to rise to the surface, overwhelming that numbness he felt, finally bursting through so that his chest spasmed, his shoulders shuddered, and the tears he had held back for so long flooded his eyes and wet his cupped hands. It was as if at last he had been given permission to grieve properly.
He remained weeping for his dead son until the room's darkness was almost complete.
54: MAURICE STAFFORD
Sam Pennelly, landlord of the Barnaby Inn, wiped the bar counter with a teacloth, surveying the room as he did so. It was all very well keeping the pub open all day, but where was the trade? Two customers, that's what he'd had since three o'clock. Old Reggie (as he was known) with his halves of bitter, each one lasting at least an hour before he ordered another, was sitting there in his regular place by the fire, cloth cap and muffler still in place but his storm coat laid over a chair opposite. Because he was long retired, Old Reggie spent most afternoons and evenings in the Barnaby, ready to engage anyone who gave him a greeting in conversation, but most of the time content to sit alone and no doubt reminisce about the old days. Earlier, when he'd ordered his first half-bitter, he had complained about the inclement weather, likening it to 1943 when Old Reggie was just a nipper and the constant rainfall had caused the Great Flood. Sam didn't like such talk—it made his other customers edgy, afeared it might happen again.
'Can't resist the force of nature,' the old boy had remarked glumly as he'd handed over the exact amount for the beer. Mebbe he was right, but there was no cause to go alarming people. Some villagers were even talking about moving out, going to stay with relatives or friends on safer ground until the downpours had passed, but Sam saw no sense in that, not when it meant he might lose his regular customers. In any case, the widened estuary and fortified embankments would see the village all right if a flood ever occurred again.
He wiped his hands on the teacloth and his eyes wandered to the bar's other solitary customer, who sat at a small corner table. The man seemed thoughtful too, mebbe reminiscing like Old Reggie.
Sam was glad of his custom. Large brandies, the man drank, and he'd had two since he'd arrived. The landlord frowned. He hadn't said much to his customer, just the usual pleasantries when the first Hennessy had been ordered, no more than a polite welcome and a short exchange about the foul weather, but Sam had thought he recognized the man. Couldn't place him, though.
It came to him then. The man was an infrequent visitor to the inn, dropping by once or, at the most, twice a year. Sam only remembered him because he always had the same tipple: a double brandy, always a Hennessy, and never with ice or soda. Yes, the man had been coming in for a few years now, always as a stranger because of the length of time between visits. Not one for conversation, Sam recollected, just a 'good day' and a 'thank you' when he took his drink.
Without a newspaper or book to read, Sam's occasional customer seemed to be concentrating on the glass of brandy before him on the small round table. He was certainly lost in thought. He had a half-smile on his face.
•
Maurice Stafford was hardly aware of the coppery-gold liquid in the tumbler. His fingers encircled the bowled glass and he leaned his elbows on the tabletop, but although he gazed into the brandy, his thoughts were on other things. Like the old man who sat by the pub's warm fire, he was sifting through his memories, remembering a different era…
Most of the evacuees had been collected by the LCC (London County Council) from meeting points at schools, orphanages and town halls all over south London and brought by coach (or charabanc, as they used to be called, Maurice reflected with a faint smile) or bus to Paddington railway station, while a few had been taken there directly by fretful and remorseful mothers. Hundreds of children were gathered on the station's great concourse, all with identity labels attached to collars or coat buttons, gas-mask boxes hung around their necks, a few possessions in cardboard suitcases or brown paper parcels tied with string. Ministry of Health and Board of Education officials were in charge of the mass exodus of children, and they were fraught with disorganization and noise.
Maurice stood and waited with nine others from the same orphanage. None of them were crying like many of the evacuees, because they had no family from which to be parted. In truth, the ten of them regarded the evacuation as an exciting adventure. At the last moment, another boy joined them, hurriedly brought there by two members of the RCM (Refugee Children's Movement). Documents were checked by officials before the five-year-old boy, Stefan Rosenbaum from Poland, was formally handed over. After the first evacuee-laden trains had departed the station, the eleven orphans were herded towards an already crowded carriage and put on board. One of the older orphans, a girl called Susan Trainer, had immediately taken charge of the overwhelmed Polish boy, holding his hand tightly and calming him with soft words he did not understand.
After a long journey, the eleven orphans were taken off the train by their adult guardians at a town none of them had ever heard of in North Devon, and from the small rustic station a yellow bus carried them to a house in
