Finders Keepers

‘Where are my socks?’ yelled Davey.

Lettie sat there, frozen, for a few seconds that stretched to fill her entire future. Then she hauled herself from the water and went on living for a bit longer so she could find her son’s socks.

43

JONAS KNEW THE huntsman’s name.

He wasn’t sure when he’d remembered it, just as he wasn’t sure where he’d got the bruises. Bruises down his arms, sharp black welts across his calves, ridges on his ribs that hurt to touch, and an odd raw abrasion on his chest.

He remembered Lucy in water – that was all.

Then he’d woken up just now, when a chunk of bone came over the gate with a soft thud.

Bob Coffin. That was his name.

He’d been the huntsman for years – even when Jonas was a boy, working for rides up at Springer Farm and galloping about the moors with his friends on a pony called Taffy. They’d seen him, walking the hounds or resplendent in scarlet. The huntsman had touched his cap at Jonas and led him to the Red Lion car park the day they’d all searched for Pete and Jess.

Jonas looked through the wire. There was Jess Took. Beyond her were Kylie Martin and Maisie Cook and – at the end of the row – Pete Knox. He’d seen their pictures in the Bugle.

Bob Coffin. Jonas’s skimpy memory was of a much younger man, treating hounds, horses and children with the same efficient confidence that he would be obeyed.

And these were the Blacklands hunt kennels – although the hunt was no more. Jonas hadn’t sought its demise, but some locals had – and even more incomers. Incomers resented the red coats; they admired the foxes; they could afford the chickens.

The kennels had been searched at least once – Jonas was sure of it.

How did we miss them?

‘I don’t eat meat,’ he said as a second slab slapped on to the concrete, but the man ignored him, as if the stocking mask he wore made him deaf as well as smooth.

‘He doesn’t listen,’ said Steven Lamb to himself. ‘He only talks.’

Jonas stood up, then winced as something tugged him back down. He put a hand to his throat and felt the collar.

Steven watched the way Jonas Holly touched the collar and chain; the bemused look on his face; the way he’d stood up as though he thought he could.

It was as if he’d only just arrived. Didn’t know the ropes.

‘Hey,’ Steven said. ‘How long have we been here?’

Jonas opened his mouth to answer, but then frowned.

‘Five six nine eleventy years!’ said Charlie behind him.

‘Ten days,’ said Steven, and Jonas Holly stared at him in blank confusion.

44

FOR A WEEK, no child was taken. Then a week and a day. A week and two days.

A week and a half.

Exmoor held its breath.

Even the flash bulbs seemed more subdued, and the reporters more inclined to drift away from their vigils outside the homes of the Piper Parents to revisit the scenes of the abductions, to survey the local pubs, or to vox- pop market-day farmers about the curse of Exmoor. Several were even recalled and reassigned to stories that had a more tangible conclusion.

It was dull stuff. No new abductions meant no new news.

Marcie Meyrick took a view and stayed put, along with four die-hard freelance photographers who had stationed themselves outside the school in Shipcott which hosted children from several villages around. She was her own boss and had a feeling in her water that the Pied Piper story may yet pay for her to have that cruise to the fjords that she’d dreamed of for years.

So every morning she parked her only indulgence – a four-year-old Subaru Impreza – close to the school, and kept true to her vigil.

Three times a day she popped quickly into the Spar shop for a Cornish pasty or a bottle of water, or a pee. She’d flattered and cajoled Mr Jacoby into letting her use his toilet, and made sure he always saw her put a pound in the Guide Dogs box by way of thanks. So far she was right up there at the head of the hack pack with her single exclusive. She wasn’t about to languish over lunch in the Red Lion and let some pampered expense-accounted bimbo catch up while she was gone. It could happen in an instant and suddenly she’d have to start all over again. It had happened before and she’d started all over before. Not once but many times; and each time it got harder.

For the first time in her life, Marcie Meyrick wondered when it was going to end. Not the story, the job. There was always another tragedy, another paedophile, another house fire, another pit bull, another car crash. And she was always clawing and fighting to be first in line. Just once, just once, thought Marcie, it would be so good to be ahead of the game. To know exactly how things were going to go, and to be confident of being there when they went.

Suddenly, while watching children spill out of the school gates, Marcie Meyrick had a brainwave. She told the photographers her plan.

‘If we get pics of every single kid now, then when one of them’s snatched we’ve got a head start! Got their pic, their name, age, address – everything! Screw running round kissing the cops’ arses just to squeeze a bit of info out of them and a crappy old snap from the kid’s third birthday party!’

The men looked at each other – interested but nervous.

‘Is that legal?’ said one.

‘As long as we don’t approach them on school property, where’s the harm?’ Marcie said. ‘They have the right to say no.’

‘What’s the catch?’ asked Rob Clarke for all of them.

‘No catch,’ shrugged Marcie. ‘You’re all freelance. The more kids you get, the better chance you have of hitting the jackpot. You just gotta promise to use my words, that’s all. It’s a package deal.’

Within minutes they were all approaching children, taking their pictures, and logging their names, ages and addresses. Most children were excited about having their picture in the paper, and those who declined were generally girls who declared their hair looked a mess and to ask again tomorrow.

Marcie and Rob jogged after two boys who were already heading up the street.

When they turned around, Marcie realized one of them was Davey Lamb.

Shane smiled for a photo and gave his name to Rob, but Davey was more wary.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘My name’s Marcie. You’re Davey Lamb, right?’

He said nothing.

‘How’s your mum doing, Davey?’

The boy looked up the street towards home and kept his mouth shut.

‘I really am praying for Steven to come home. We all are. You know that, right?’

He fixed her with a steady gaze that would have wilted anyone less Australian.

‘Can we take your photo quickly, Davey?’ She smiled. ‘Maybe one of you and Shane together?’

‘You already have my photo,’ he said, and walked away.

* * *

Reynolds let the water pummel his head into submission.

He should have been happy, but he wasn’t. Nobody else had been kidnapped. It should have been a cause for relief, if not celebration, but all Reynolds could think was: Why has he stopped?