“Why don’t you walk us through what happened,” I suggested. It was always good to hear the story in the witness’s own words.
Ainslee swallowed, braced herself, and when she spoke, her voice trembled like a bird’s wings in the wind. “My son, Finn, he’s seven, he didn’t come home from school Tuesday. At first, I didn’t think anything of it, since he has an after-school music class Tuesday afternoons, but he wasn’t back for dinner like he usually is. I checked with his friends’ parents, but they haven’t seen him. I checked with the school, but they said he left just like normal. I haven’t been able to get a hold of his music teacher to ask her.”
“What’s her name?” Fletcher asked.
“Lena Taggert. I called the police that night, but they couldn’t do much since it hadn’t been forty-eight hours. But he didn’t come home the next day or today, and I just…” A sob cut her off, her shoulders shaking as fresh tears marred her already strained mascara.
I pulled a fresh tissue from the box on the table and passed it to her. She took it gratefully, scrubbing it across her eyes. “Does Finn have a phone?” If he did, we’d be able to track it and find him.
But Ainslee shook her head. “He’s only seven.”
“What about Finn’s father?” Fletcher asked.
Ainslee hiccuped, brow furrowing in confusion. “Does he have a phone?”
“No, sorry. I meant, what can you tell us about him?” Fletcher corrected herself.
“Oh. I haven’t heard from him since Finn was two. He sends alimony checks every month, but otherwise, I have no idea where he is.” A deeper sorrow filled her face, memories taking her somewhere she didn’t seem to want to go.
“His name?”
“Richard Smith.”
Fletcher wrote that name down as well. We would have to see if we could track down Richard Smith. There was always a good chance an absent parent was involved in a missing child case, assuming, of course, that the kid hadn’t just run off.
“He wouldn’t run away,” Ainslee said as if she had read my mind. “Finn was a good boy. Never got in trouble at school, never even argued really argued with me. Someone took my child, DCI MacBain. You have to find him. Please. You have to find him.” She fixed her green eyes on me, magnified by the tears still welling there, and she clutched the tissue I’d given her as if it were somehow a lifeline, the only thing keeping her from drifting away into total despair.
“I will,” I promised. I reached into the pocket of my coat and handed her my business card. “My number. In case you think of anything else or need anything from us.”
Her hand shook as she took the card and tucked it away, but she nodded and offered me another smile, though it crumbled away just a second later.
Fletcher and I left the room, changing places with the officer from before. I glanced over my shoulder, looking through the small window at Ainslee’s red and puffy face one last time. I didn’t have children… didn’t plan on it, either… so I couldn’t imagine the pain she was in, but I was willing to bet it felt somewhat like losing a father.
I opened the case file, having taken it with me when we left. Finn Wair stared up at me out of a school photo, all chubby cheeks and a gap-toothed smile. His red curls flopped down over his forehead, winning the war against the gel that sought to slick them back, and there was a spray of freckles across his cheeks, vivid against his pale skin. He must be so afraid.
When I was about his age, my family took a trip to the Lake District. I wandered off while my parents were distracted trying to calm my newborn sister down, and I wound up lost for three hours in the rain and the hills, calling out for someone to find me, convinced that they never would, that I’d stumble right into a fair folk ring and be lost forever.
There would be no helpful tourist around to find a crying child this time. I would have to do it myself.
“Where d'you go?” Fletcher asked. We were still standing in front of the interrogation room while I stared at Finn’s photo.
“Nowhere.” I snapped the folder shut and tucked it under my arm. “Tell me, rookie, what do you think our first move is?”
She grinned at the light jab. “Head to the school. Since that’s where he was last seen.”
I nodded. “Correct. But we need to talk to our new friend first.” The young man from earlier was still seated in the chair beside my desk, nervously eyeing the entire room.
“Why would someone be following him?” Fletcher wondered as we made our way over there.
A good question. He wasn’t much to look at: medium height, slender, glasses wire-rimmed and a smidge large for his face. His black hair looked like he had slicked it back but the constant attention of his worried fingers had since pulled it free from its confines. He ran a hand over his head as we approached and then took a small cloth from his pockets, wiping his glasses clean again and again.
He jumped as I put a hand on my armchair and sat down, Fletcher leaning up against the desk beside me. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I’m not usually this jumpy.” The young man wrapped his hands around his half-empty mug to keep them anchored.
“That’s okay. It sounds like you’ve had a stressful week. Hopefully, I can be of
