Finders Keepers

He put the kettle on, then said, ‘I think we have some wine.’

‘God yes, please. I’ve just come from the bloody Piper Parents’ meeting. I need booze.’

He clinked about behind some cooking oil and then opened a bottle of red. Good. Reynolds was a white-wine drinker. She cleared a space at the kitchen table and took a seat.

Jonas poured himself a glass too, but didn’t join her at the table or raise his glass in answer to her salute, just leaned against a counter.

There was a long silence as she sipped her wine, which was rough and Spanish. He just held his, looking into the glass.

‘Nice,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

He nodded. The clock ticked. He wasn’t going to say anything. She’d have to start.

‘This case is driving us nuts.’

He nodded slowly. ‘It’s a tough one,’ he said. ‘You don’t love him.’

‘What does that mean?’ Rice was relieved that Jonas had finally allowed himself to become engaged in conversation – even if it was shoptalk.

He shrugged. ‘I guess it means something to him.’

‘The kidnapper?’

‘Yes.’

‘But what?’ said Rice, and took another sip. Encouraging Jonas to fill the gap.

‘I think …’ he started and then stopped. She nodded at him, letting him know she was ready to listen. He put his glass down and put his hands in the pockets of his jeans, then took them out again. Nervous.

‘I mean, I can understand in one way.’

‘Understand what?’

‘His anger.’

Rice hid her surprise and sipped her wine while giving another supportive nod.

Jonas continued without further prodding. ‘People. You know.’

She thought that was all she was going to get, but then he sighed and went on.

‘They put their shopping in the boot, the satnavs under the seats. They hide their stereos in the glovebox. Then they leave their children on display like old umbrellas. I mean – their fucking children!’

She blinked in surprise. Jonas picked up his glass and took a mouthful of wine.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘Not at all. I know what you mean.’

She was surprised to find that she actually did. Jonas was right, wasn’t he? If people’s Christmas presents had been pinched off the back seat instead of their children, she would have shaken her head and asked them what the hell else they had expected. She was pleased he’d trusted her enough to speak his mind. Plus, Jonas looked good when he got fired up like that. When he got passionate. The slightly distant expression he wore most of the time was replaced by a dark intensity. And he’d looked at her properly for the first time. She emptied her glass and felt the warmth of the wine relaxing her and making her feel that they had something in common, although she wasn’t quite sure yet what it was.

‘Shall we go in the other room?’ she said impulsively, then stood up and picked up the bottle before he could demur.

The front room was cold, despite the summer. It had the feel of a closed-up place. When Jonas turned on the light, she noticed the TV wasn’t even plugged in. This time he sat down while she stood. She replenished her glass and put the bottle on the mantelpiece beside a photo of Lucy Holly doing the garden. It seemed rude not to say anything about it.

‘She was very beautiful.’

Jonas nodded briefly but said nothing. She’d expected him to agree and expand. His unusual response made Rice feel self-conscious. It was all she could do to stop herself babbling – asking how he was coping alone, whether he’d thought of anyone new, all the cliched crap.

To hide her discomfort she picked up a slim gold letter knife with an engraving of Weston pier on the handle, and studied it as if it held great interest for her.

He sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, glass held loosely, and watched her as she turned the little fake dagger over in her hands. She was conscious of his eyes on her and felt her stomach fluttering. So silly! Part of it was the wine – she knew. But part of it wasn’t. Absently, she ran a neatly clipped nail across the engraved hilt of the knife, and tiny brown flecks flaked from the shiny surface.

She wondered what he’d be like in bed. She doubted he’d had sex since his wife’s death. That would be exciting. Maybe moving, too. It was a very long time since Elizabeth Rice had had sex that was exciting and she wasn’t sure she’d ever been moved by it.

The idea and the wine made her bold. What did she have to lose? What did either of them have to lose?

She looked up to ask Jonas Holly if he’d like to take the bottle and the conversation upstairs.

It was only then that Rice realized that he wasn’t staring at her at all, but at the letter knife in her hand. He had a curious expression on his face – as if he’d woken suddenly, and in a strange place.

‘You OK?’ she said.

He got up and nodded and put down his wine before saying ‘Yes’ like a really bad liar.

Rice sighed and put the knife and her half-glass of wine back on the mantel.

She’d be driving tonight, after all.

27

MARK TRUMBULL HAD GIVEN Davey the skateboard he’d bought from Lalo Bryant. It was a Renner Blood Tattoo, which Davey had denounced as ‘crap’.

‘I’ll have it if you don’t want it,’ said Shane, and having poured such scorn on it, Davey had been forced to surrender the deck.

Now Shane rode it down the street to the playing field in a series of erratic little skids and wobbling rolls, as Davey eyed him with a mixture of contempt and envy. ‘Have a go,’ said Shane. ‘It’s not that hard.’ Davey shook his head. He had Steven’s skateboard under his arm, but held on to it.

They reached the field at the edge of the village. The last house in the row had been boarded up for ages with a For Sale sign, and its side windows stared blindly across the gradually sloping field where the home team never seemed to have the advantage. Shane picked up his board and they set off across the yellowing grass.

Chantelle Cox was pushing her baby on a rusty swing, her hair scraped and parted to within an inch of its life and fastened on top of her head with the precision of an SAS kitbag.

‘Got a fag?’ Davey asked her.

‘No,’ she said, even though she was tipping a fresh one out of a soft pack.

He didn’t care. He didn’t smoke. It just sounded good.

They walked on past the skate ramp to the far edge of the field, where a narrow stream defined the border between the village and the steep yellow moor behind it. The lack of recent rain had left the stream sluggish and shallow.

Davey leaned out and dropped Steven’s skateboard into the water. It entered with a smacky little splash, sank below the surface and was carried only half a dozen yards before it nose-dived gently into the mud at the bottom. He was disappointed. He’d imagined the board being tossed and turned on white-water rapids all the way to Tiverton. Still, beggars can’t be choosers – as his mum had said when he’d asked for an Xbox for his birthday and got a second-hand PlayStation 2 with a wobbly lead that meant he could never save his high score.

‘What do you think he’ll do?’ asked Shane.

‘Don’t give a shit what he does. Serves him right.’

‘He’s going to kick your arse.’

‘I’d like to see him try,’ said Davey. Although really he’d rather not see Steven try. Steven’s grip on his arm had been unexpectedly strong, and he guessed he couldn’t outrun him either.

They trudged back across the grass to the ramp, where Shane dropped the deck that had briefly belonged to