“There’s a . . . a tree,” said Luke. “Just over there. An oak, I think. But it’s old. Dying, maybe. And there’s a hollow. When we were younger, playing out here, I used to hide there.”
Fleet tracked the line from Luke’s finger. There was indeed an old oak tree farther on. It bore no leaves. And unless it was a trick of Fleet’s imagination, its trunk appeared darker than those around it.
“Luke,” said Fleet, carefully. “Before I go on, is there anything else you want to tell me?”
Luke’s head snapped Fleet’s way—and just that slight movement was enough. It confirmed everything Fleet had already guessed. I hope I’m wrong, he’d told Holly, but now he didn’t know which outcome would have been better. That he had got it wrong, and Luke had done everything he claimed he had? Or that Luke was lying—still—and that the truth was the only alternative explanation there was left.
“What do you mean?” said Luke, looking as afraid now as he had since the moment he turned up at the station. “I . . . I killed her,” he said. “We argued, and I got angry, and when Sadie turned to leave—to walk out on us, on me and Dylan—I . . . I picked up a rock. I threw it. Hard. And it hit her. On the back of the head. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want her to die, but she . . . she . . .” His voice trailed off. He was staring at Fleet, pleading with his eyes, but he’d registered the expression Fleet was offering back.
“What?” Luke said. “Why don’t you . . .” He turned to the social worker, then back to Fleet. He shook his head, as though to clear it—or perhaps in denial of the unspoken accusation. “That’s why I’m here,” he went on, insistent now. “To tell you. To admit it.” He gestured ahead of him. “To show you! And then, when you see, you’ll be able to let my friends go.” Even as he spoke, the tears that had been building in his eyes began to fall. “Please,” he said. “Please. Why can’t it be that? Why can’t it be what I told you? What difference does it make to anyone now?”
Fleet sighed. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so weary. “It wasn’t Sadie’s door you found open, was it, Luke?” he said, gently.
The boy let out a sound then, like wet fingers on a windowpane. His chin dropped toward his chest, and his shoulders began to heave. Miss Jeffries stepped forward, but Fleet raised a hand to hold her back.
“It’s OK, Luke,” he said. “Really, it’s OK. I know you meant well. But I also know you wouldn’t have let Mason shoulder the blame for as long as he did if it was really you who killed Sadie, not unless there was someone else you were trying to protect.”
The only answer he received was the boy’s sobbing. Fleet waited a moment, then nodded at Miss Jeffries to approach. He took a breath, steeling himself . . . and then turned to look at the oak tree.
He started forward.
Every step he took felt like a hammer blow against his heart, and it was nothing to do with the pain that was lingering in his ribs. Five strides away, he noticed the smell, although it struck him that in fact he’d noticed it sooner. He’d assumed it was the forest: dying plants and decaying leaves. But it was more than that. Sharper. More acrid.
Three steps away, Fleet spotted the hollow. It was no wonder none of the search party had noticed it. It was masked anyway by the shape of the tree trunk, the lumps and gnarls where the dying oak had turned in on itself. But the opening had also been blocked off with branches, most of which had now lost their leaves. There was just enough of a gap for Fleet to peer inside. The sound of the rain on the canopy above was like a constant murmur, but when he saw the girl’s body lying crumpled in the hollow, the sight was one of devastating silence.
Before Fleet could properly react, there was a yell from behind him.
He snapped his head around, in time to see Nicky and the young PC rushing toward him. Miss Jeffries, the social worker, was holding herself up against a tree, and Luke . . .
Luke was nowhere to be seen.
“THAT WAY. HE went that way.”
Fleet spun in the direction the social worker was pointing, and caught a flash of movement between the trees. His first reaction was confusion. Why was Luke running? How on earth did he expect to get away? He had a head start, yes, but there was no way he could hope to . . .
And then Fleet realized. A head start was all the boy needed.
No, thought Fleet. No, no, no.
He waved an arm frantically toward Nicky. “Go that way!” he called. “Both of you! Try to cut him off!” And then he was running himself, directly after Luke. Nicky and the young PC veered in the direction Fleet had indicated. There was no way any of them would be able to catch Luke before he cleared the tree line, but there was a chance Nicky would be able to outflank him. As for Fleet . . . all he could hope was that he’d be able to get close enough in time to convince the boy to change his mind.
As Fleet ran, he felt every bump and bruise from the night before. Every cigarette he’d ever smoked, too, and every spoon of sugar he’d ever added to his coffee. On top of which, Luke was twenty years younger than him. He was lighter, fitter, faster.
“Luke!” Fleet yelled, but either the boy didn’t hear or he didn’t want to. He continued to hurtle through the trees, as effortlessly as if he
