really very good at this sort of thing.”
“If there’s anything I can do…” said Martin.
“Of course.” Annie gave them her best, most confident smile and left, not feeling confident at all.
3
D I Michelle Hart locked up her dark grey Peugeot outside 58 Hazel Crescent and took measure of the neighbourhood. She’d been there twice before: once investigating a string of burglaries and another time because of vandalism. As council estates went these days, the Hazels, as the locals called it, wasn’t particularly bad. Built in the early sixties, before the “new town” expansion, its terraces of serviceable brick houses behind low walls and privet hedges were now home to a mixed crowd of unemployed people, teenage mothers, pensioners who couldn’t afford to move and a growing Asian population, mostly from Pakistan or Bangladesh. There were even a few asylum-seekers. Like every other estate, the Hazels also had its share of shiftless hooligans who took their greatest pleasure in vandalizing other people’s property, stealing cars and spraying graffiti over the walls.
It was still raining, and there was no sign of any gaps in the grey cloud cover. The drab street that curved through the heart of the estate was empty, all the kids indoors playing computer games or surfing the Web, and their mothers wishing the sun would come out and bring a few moments’ peace and quiet.
Michelle knocked on the dark green door. Mrs. Marshall, a frail-looking woman, stooped and grey-haired, face lined with care, answered and led her into a small livingroom and bade her sit on a plum velour armchair. Michelle had met the Marshalls before, during the identification process, but hadn’t yet visited them at home. Everything in the room was so tidy and spotless that she felt a momentary twinge of guilt over her own unwashed breakfast dishes, unmade bed and the dust balls in the corner. Still, who was there to see them but her?
Bill Marshall, incapacitated by a stroke, looked at Michelle, blanket over his knees, walking stick by his side, slack-jawed, a little drool collecting at the corner of his mouth, one half of his face drooping lower than the other, as if it had melted like a Dalí clock. He had been a big man, that much was obvious, but now his body had withered with disease. His eyes were alive, though, the whites a little cloudy, but the grey irises intense and watchful. Michelle said hello to him and thought she saw his head move just a fraction in greeting. Though he couldn’t speak, Mrs. Marshall had assured Michelle that he could understand everything they said.
Among the framed photographs on the mantelpiece above the electric fire, one was of a young boy, aged about thirteen or fourteen, hair in a “Beatle” cut popular in the early sixties, wearing a black polo-neck, standing on a promenade with the sea in the background and a long pier off to one side. He was a good-looking kid, Michelle noticed, perhaps a little feminine, soft and delicate in his features, but he’d probably have grown up to be a real heartbreaker, nonetheless.
Mrs. Marshall noticed her looking. “Yes, that’s our Graham. It was taken on the last holiday he had. We couldn’t go away that year–Bill had a big job to finish–so the Bankses took him to Blackpool with them. Their lad Alan was a good mate of his. Mr. Banks took that photo and gave it to us when they came back.” She paused. “No more than a week or so later, and Graham was gone forever.”
“He looks like a fine boy,” Michelle said.
Mrs. Marshall nodded and sniffed.
“I don’t want to bother you for long,” Michelle began, “but as you can imagine, finding your son after all this time has come as a bit of a shock to us, too. I need to ask a few more questions, if that’s all right?”
“You’ve got your job to do, love. Don’t worry about us. We did our mourning years ago. Most of it, anyhow.” She fingered the collar of her dress. “Funny, though, how
“If there’s anything I can do…” said Martin.
“Of course.” Annie gave them her best, most confident smile and left, not feeling confident at all.
3
D I Michelle Hart locked up her dark grey Peugeot outside 58 Hazel Crescent and took measure of the neighbourhood. She’d been there twice before: once investigating a string of burglaries and another time because of vandalism. As council estates went these days, the Hazels, as the locals called it, wasn’t particularly bad. Built in the early sixties, before the “new town” expansion, its terraces of serviceable brick houses behind low walls and privet hedges were now home to a mixed crowd of unemployed people, teenage mothers, pensioners who couldn’t afford to move and a growing Asian population, mostly from Pakistan or Bangladesh. There were even a few asylum-seekers. Like every other estate, the Hazels also had its share of shiftless hooligans who took their greatest pleasure in vandalizing other people’s property, stealing cars and spraying graffiti over the walls.
It was still raining, and there was no sign of any gaps in the grey cloud cover. The drab street that curved through the heart of the estate was empty, all the kids indoors playing computer games or surfing the Web, and their mothers wishing the sun would come out and bring a few moments’ peace and quiet.
Michelle knocked on the dark green door. Mrs. Marshall, a frail-looking woman, stooped and grey-haired, face lined with care, answered and led her into a small livingroom and bade her sit on a plum velour armchair. Michelle had met the Marshalls before, during the identification process, but hadn’t yet visited them at home. Everything in the room was so tidy and spotless that she felt a momentary twinge of guilt over her own unwashed breakfast dishes, unmade bed and the dust balls in the corner. Still, who was there to see them but her?
Bill Marshall, incapacitated by a stroke, looked at Michelle, blanket over his knees, walking stick by his side, slack-jawed, a little drool collecting at the corner of his mouth, one half of his face drooping lower than the other, as if it had melted like a Dalí clock. He had been a big man, that much was obvious, but now his body had withered with disease. His eyes were alive, though, the whites a little cloudy, but the grey irises intense and watchful. Michelle said hello to him and thought she saw his head move just a fraction in greeting. Though he couldn’t speak, Mrs. Marshall had assured Michelle that he could understand everything they said.
Among the framed photographs on the mantelpiece above the electric fire, one was of a young boy, aged about thirteen or fourteen, hair in a “Beatle” cut popular in the early sixties, wearing a black polo-neck, standing on a promenade with the sea in the background and a long pier off to one side. He was a good-looking kid, Michelle noticed, perhaps a little feminine, soft and delicate in his features, but he’d probably have grown up to be a real heartbreaker, nonetheless.
Mrs. Marshall noticed her looking. “Yes, that’s our Graham. It was taken on the last holiday he had. We couldn’t go away that year–Bill had a big job to finish–so the Bankses took him to Blackpool with them. Their lad Alan was a good mate of his. Mr. Banks took that photo and gave it to us when they came back.” She paused. “No more than a week or so later, and Graham was gone forever.”
“He looks like a fine boy,” Michelle said.
Mrs. Marshall nodded and sniffed.
“I don’t want to bother you for long,” Michelle began, “but as you can imagine, finding your son after all this time has come as a bit of a shock to us, too. I need to ask a few more questions, if that’s all right?”
“You’ve got your job to do, love. Don’t worry about us. We did our mourning years ago. Most of it, anyhow.” She fingered the collar of her dress. “Funny, though, how
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