The Well (21 page)

Becca cupped her hands again and allowed herself another drink. Her stomach fluttered, but she held on to the water. She was again soaked to the skin, but no worse than she’d been for the last few days.

Weary, she sat down in the water, listening to the rainstorm. She smiled. The rain was her first bit of good fortune in days. It renewed her determination.

9

Ed Davis ran across the road, through the pounding rain, to where Tom Randle was gathering a small group of children, ready to cross the road. Ed was amazed that any of the children had braved leaving the school during such stormy weather, but such was the pull of the local chip shop compared to the school’s own dinners.

Lunchtime was almost over and the drenched children were huddled together, desperate to get under cover.

Randle had been expecting this moment most of the morning. When he’d arrived, there were already several police officers waiting – not that they paid much attention to him. He was just another old fart doing a dead-end job.
They’d get around to me later, once they’d spoken to the teachers,
thought Randle.
And probably the cleaners
.

Like everyone else, he didn’t initially know what was going on – other than it was clearly serious. Even when the school had experienced rare but acute bullying problems, there had only been a couple of policemen.

The day had started with two police cars at the school gates with perhaps a handful of police officers. By lunchtime, that number had more than doubled. Randle didn’t usually stay around between his three shifts (when the school opened, at lunchtime and when it closed) but today he made an exception; like everyone else, he wanted to know what was going on.

When he found out, he realised he had something of a problem. He knew he was one of the last people to see Becca and Matt on Friday; he also knew that they’d not been home on Saturday. The fact that he knew these things wasn’t in itself a problem. What was most definitely a problem was the way that police worked: one question begets another. Friday at school he could probably get away with. He couldn’t recall anything that might raise suspicion, other than Becca’s almost hostile eye contact with him and her friend’s guarded glance over in his direction while they were both talking. Saturday was considerably more difficult. His alibi of a photographic hobby was paper thin when placed at the home of someone who’d just gone missing. Randle decided that the best strategy was silence.
In a school of around four hundred pupils
, he’d say,
they were just another couple of faces at the crossing
. Offering anything more could encourage a line of questioning that could quickly become very uncomfortable.

“Thomas Randle?” shouted Ed above the noise of the rain.

Randle nodded, a pantomime nod, to make sure the policeman understood him.
Stupid fuck
, thought Randle.
How many other Thomas Randles would be working the crossing at the school?

“Can we talk?” Ed indicated towards the school with his thumb. “When you’ve finished?”

Randle nodded. “Sure,” he shouted. “Five minutes.” He held his hand up, fingers outstretched, to make sure the policeman understood:
five
.

Randle hoped he looked calm and casual, but decided that there probably wasn’t a right way to look in situations such as these. Two children had gone missing: calm and casual was almost certainly as incriminating as packing your bags and booking a flight to South America.

He herded the remaining children across the road and waited for the faint ringing of the school bell. Despite what he’d said, he was contracted to hang around for another ten minutes. The police would have to wait; anything else would look suspicious.

When Randle made it across the road into the school, he was drenched, despite his plastic rainwear.

“You had lunch?” asked Ed.

Randle propped his crossing sign against the wall, then took off his jacket and shook it outside the door. “Nope. I’ll grab some in a bit. Got to be back here before three.”

“Can you spare fifteen minutes? We could do with talking to you about the missing children.”

“Sure,” said Randle, wiping the rain from his soaked beard. “Of course.”

Ed led the way to the library. He couldn’t immediately see why Becca might find Randle creepy. He seemed affable enough: his manner was pleasant and his body language unguarded. But if Becca believed it, he wanted to dig a little.

They sat in the library, Randle warming by the radiator while one of the junior officers went to make them some coffee.

Ed smiled at Randle. “I’m really sorry to keep you from your lunch,” he said.

Randle held up his hands to dismiss the apology, but Ed had already continued to speak. “You’ve heard what’s happened?” asked Ed.

Randle nodded. “A couple of the kids have gone missing?”

“Right. A boy and a girl. This isn’t a formal questioning. We’re just asking a few questions. We’re trying to make it fairly fast to begin with as we need to work around a lot of people. But I especially wanted to speak to you.”

Ed held eye contact with Randle, measuring his reactions. Randle’s reply was one of genuine surprise, without a trace of fear or hostility. “Oh? Why’s that?”

Ed switched tack, hoping that sidestepping the question might wrong-foot Randle. “Do you know the missing children?” He held up two photographs, one of Becca and one of Matt.

“Not especially,” said Randle, considering the pictures. “I know their faces, but there are hundreds of children in this school and I see them all every day.”

The officer arrived with the coffee. Randle took a deep, grateful drink. “Thanks for that,” he said. “I’m drenched and chilled to the bone.”

“I’ll try and be done quickly,” said Ed. “I hope you don’t mind me asking. I noticed your limp. Accident?”

“Sadly, no. I was in the army. Northern Ireland. On the wrong end of a car bomb.”

That explains his build
, thought Ed.
He clearly still keeps in shape, despite the leg.
“I am sorry,” he said.

“No need,” replied Randle. “I was lucky. Some of my mates didn’t make it home.”

Ed paused. “It may be that you were one of the last people to see the children. We don’t know where they went after they left the school. Do you remember seeing them on Friday evening?”

It was an innocent enough question, but Randle’s instincts told him that the policeman was testing him, as if he already knew the answer to the question. Randle took another look over the photographs to buy a little time. After a moment, he said, “Possibly. It really is hard to say. They’re both familiar. I think so, maybe. I’m sorry, it’s hard to be precise.”

“Don’t you know them by name?” asked Ed.
That
, thought Randle,
is definitely a trap.

“I’m not sure. The boy is new – I think. The girl – I think she’s called Rebecca?”

Ed nodded. “I thought you might have known her better, what with you having photographed her so many times.”

Randle’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m sorry?”

Ed fished out a handful of photographs from a file. “I think you took these – for the school website?” There was no indication of accusation in his voice. Randle wondered if he’d worried unnecessarily.

“Yes, those are mine,” he said, with a touch of pride. “But I take so many photos for the school. I really don’t remember everyone’s name. But I remember her now – she’s the swimmer.”

Ed nodded. “They’re good,” he said, hoping the praise sounded genuine. “Better than mine. I’ve been into photography for a couple of years, but I’m never really that happy with the results. What sort of camera have you got?”

“A Canon. Not a great one, but good enough. You?”

“Nikon. It’s only a basic model, but I don’t know how to use half of the settings on it.”

“I wouldn’t have minded a Nikon,” said Randle, “but I couldn’t afford it.”

“I probably couldn’t buy a new one either,” sighed Ed. “I got mine second-hand.”

Like anyone asked about their hobby, Randle had visibly relaxed. Ed decided it was time to corner him. “I was speaking to one of the other teachers,” he said, referring to his notes; more for effect than necessity. “Louise Sanderson. She says she was one of the last teachers to leave and you were still outside.”

“Yes, that’s right,” he said. “I have to wait until all of the children are gone.”

“One of the other children said that Rebecca and Matthew didn’t leave right away, that they were hanging around. Are you sure you didn’t see them?”

Randle felt the hairs on his neck rise.
I can’t change my story now
, he thought. He shook his head. “Not especially. I’m sure I did see them, but I don’t recall anything special or different about them that day.”

It was a reasonable enough answer. Ed scratched his head. “I know what you mean. But sometimes people see things and forget them because they’re not important. Right now, any little detail could be important.”

Randle screwed up his forehead to give the impression of thinking hard. “No, I’m sorry, I really can’t remember anything else.”

“Fair enough,” said Ed, gathering up the photographs and replacing them in the file. He deliberately left one on the table, a picture taken by Randle of Becca in her swimsuit, hair wet and slicked back, collecting a medal. “If you do think of anything, you will tell us?”

“Of course,” said Randle, as earnestly as possible.

“Oh, one more question,” said Ed. “Have you ever been to Rebecca’s house, or met her family?”

Randle worked hard to keep his voice steady, but felt Ed’s eyes burning into him. “I guess I may have seen them around, but I really don’t remember. Like the kids, I see hundreds of parents every day. I’ve no idea where she lives.”

Ed nodded. The answer wasn’t unreasonable – it was possible that being on Lincoln Street was a coincidence, though Ed thought that unlikely. He decided to back off until he’d had a chance to find out a bit more about Randle. On top of that, he didn’t want to push the questioning – that was a mistake he’d made once before and he didn’t want to repeat it on such a high-profile case.

“We’ll probably need to talk to you again, if that’s OK? At the moment we only have the basic facts – if that, to be honest – so our interviews with other people may raise questions about other things we need to ask you about.”

“That’s fine,” said Randle, “anything I can do to help. Am I OK to go?”

Ed nodded. “Thanks for your time.”

Randle reached out his hand and Ed shook it. Randle’s grasp was firm.

Ed picked up the lone photograph. “Pretty girl,” he said, absently.

“I guess,” said Randle, glancing at the picture.

“Thanks again,” said Ed, closing off the conversation.

Randle gathered up his reflective jacket and left. He couldn’t decide if he’d hit it off with the policeman, or whether that was just what he’d wanted Randle to think. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the policeman knew more than he was saying.

In retrospect, Randle wished he’d been more honest. After all, he had nothing to hide. The girl’s disappearance was nothing to do with him.
Still
, he thought, confidently,
a couple more conversations like that and they’ll leave me alone.

Ed went to the library door and watched Randle limp down the corridor. He had nothing concrete on which to base his conclusion, but he felt sure that Randle was hiding something.

10

Less than three hours after they’d started to drive around Becca and Matt’s most likely routes home, Jenny and Sarah returned home. They’d exhausted each route, several times, but the search was mostly pointless. The pounding rain made it almost impossible to see anything.

Drenched and frustrated, Sarah threw her dripping coat into the sink and brushed her bedraggled hair out of her eyes. “Nothing,” she said, in answer to Jim’s questioning look. She didn’t have to ask if Becca or Matt had called – if they had, Jim would have rung her straight away.

Sarah was exhausted, her body running on adrenalin. “I’m soaked,” she said, “and I’ve only run from the car.” She flopped onto the sofa and kicked off her shoes.

Ever practical (and increasingly uncertain how to handle Sarah’s progressively angry mood) Jim busied himself making some tea. Jenny Greenwood was conferring in the hall with the policeman who had been left with Jim, Ashley Morgan. Jim thought that fresh-faced Morgan was improbably young to be working at all, let alone as a policeman.

Jenny put her head around the door. “Ashley’s going now. If you don’t mind, I’m going to call in for an update.”

Jim sat down next to Sarah and handed her the tea. She cupped the warm mug in her hands and sipped from it, shivering.

“Do you want me to get a towel?” asked Jim.

Oh grow some balls and stop being so sensible
, thought Sarah. She shook her head. “I’ll change and dry off in a minute.”

Jim put his hand on Sarah’s knee. “Sarah? It’s not my fault, you know.”

Fury rose inside her and she pushed his hand away, hard. She slammed her mug down on the coffee table, hot tea slopping out. Jim put his hand back on her knee. “I know you’re angry,” he began.

She cut him short. “Angry? Angry? Of course I’m fucking angry!” The tension that had been building within her surfaced; the accusations already prepared in her mind.
His fault. His fault because it was Matt’s fault. It had to be Matt’s fault. We’d have come back sooner if it wasn’t for you. You stopped me calling Becca.
The thoughts spun around in Sarah’s tired, wired mind, ready to explode from her mouth.

But Sarah didn’t explode. Without warning, she lost control and disintegrated emotionally: absolutely, completely crushed. Tears flowed down her face; she wailed, distraught. Jim pulled her close. She tried to push him away, hitting his chest. Jim just pulled her closer. She gave in and let herself be held while she cried uncontrollably.

“She’s just a baby,” she shrieked. “Just a baby.”

She wasn’t angry with Jim, she finally realised. Jim hadn’t forced her not to come home right away. She’d been willing enough to go along with his suggestions to stay. She was angry with herself – and she was angry with the world: a warped world where innocent children go missing or are taken. Where sometimes they never come home.