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Authors: Sarah Hilary
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immigrants?’ Debbie suggested.
‘Fran will be able to tell us more after the full PM,’ Marnie said. ‘Later today, with luck.’
‘Or foster kids. They fall through the cracks, don’t they?’
Debbie was right; they saw it all the time. Clancy Brand was lucky to be living with the Doyles. Too many kids his age didn’t know what a stable family life looked like.
‘Not little kids,’ Ron objected. ‘Not as young as our boys.’
They all looked back at the whiteboard.
Boy 1 and Boy 2. No names yet. No faces.
Doug Cole’s was the only name on the board.
‘All right.’ Marnie nodded. ‘Let’s work those angles. Foster kids, school records. And keep at Missing Persons. I want to know they’ve done every search possible before they tell us for certain that they have nothing. DS Jake? Let’s see what Ian Merrick’s got for us.’
‘Shonky bloody builder . . .’ Carling uncapped the pen. ‘He is so going on the board.’
• • •
As they walked to the station car park, Noah asked Marnie what theories she had about the bunker on Blackthorn Road.
‘Plenty, but that’s all they are. Theories. It could be industrial, 1930s, or later. Cold War, maybe. I want to know who knew it was there, and who had access to it before theDoyles bought the house.’ She unlocked the car and they climbed in. ‘Someone knew it wasn’t airtight. They knew they could put two kids down there, with books and toys and a bucket, and they wouldn’t die. Not until whoever did it was good and ready.’
She started the ignition but didn’t pull out, letting the engine idle for a minute.
‘I was thinking,’ Noah said, ‘if it was fields, before they built the houses . . .’
‘Big fields,’ she agreed, ‘lots of acres.’
‘So who builds one bunker in the middle of a big field? That size, I mean. It wasn’t large.’
Marnie cut the engine. She turned in the seat to look at him. ‘You think . . . there’s more? More bunkers?’
‘Maybe. It would make more sense than one. Wouldn’t it?’
‘Lots of bunkers. And the developer missed them all?’
‘He missed the one in the Doyles’ garden,’ Noah pointed out. ‘Or he knew about it and kept quiet, reckoned it was in the garden so it wouldn’t disturb the foundations of the house. A row of bunkers would play hell with his planning permission.’
‘A row of bunkers,’ Marnie repeated. ‘One per garden?’
Noah turned away while he fastened his seat belt. ‘We should check. The neighbours are going to start asking questions once the story breaks. How long before one of them decides to go digging in his garden, just to make sure?’ He looked back at her.
Marnie cursed softly, her eyes a hot blue.
‘We could issue a statement,’ Noah suggested, ‘let them know we’re organising an extended search . . .’
‘For what, more bodies? You think there’s a chance we’ll find that?’
‘No. No, I hadn’t thought of it like that.’ He thought ofit now, and his skin grained with goose bumps. ‘I just thought one bunker in a field was . . . odd.’
‘All right, let’s look. Put in a request for a GPR team and let the neighbours know we’re expanding the search. If it stops some of them digging around and getting a shock like the one that floored Terry, it’ll be worth it.’
GPR: ground-penetrating radar.
Noah searched his phone for the number.
Marnie restarted the engine. ‘Let’s see whether Ian Merrick deserves that space on Ron’s whiteboard.’
15
Merrick Homes had set up base on the Isle of Dogs, an almost-island in London’s East End.
A temporary base, Noah guessed, going where the scent of money was strongest. The Isle of Dogs had been a real island, bounded on three sides by the Thames, before part of the river was filled to create a dock. Even now, three of the four ways to reach it were by water.
Marnie and Noah took the fourth way, approaching the temporary offices by car, across a potholed site
‘Fran will be able to tell us more after the full PM,’ Marnie said. ‘Later today, with luck.’
‘Or foster kids. They fall through the cracks, don’t they?’
Debbie was right; they saw it all the time. Clancy Brand was lucky to be living with the Doyles. Too many kids his age didn’t know what a stable family life looked like.
‘Not little kids,’ Ron objected. ‘Not as young as our boys.’
They all looked back at the whiteboard.
Boy 1 and Boy 2. No names yet. No faces.
Doug Cole’s was the only name on the board.
‘All right.’ Marnie nodded. ‘Let’s work those angles. Foster kids, school records. And keep at Missing Persons. I want to know they’ve done every search possible before they tell us for certain that they have nothing. DS Jake? Let’s see what Ian Merrick’s got for us.’
‘Shonky bloody builder . . .’ Carling uncapped the pen. ‘He is so going on the board.’
• • •
As they walked to the station car park, Noah asked Marnie what theories she had about the bunker on Blackthorn Road.
‘Plenty, but that’s all they are. Theories. It could be industrial, 1930s, or later. Cold War, maybe. I want to know who knew it was there, and who had access to it before theDoyles bought the house.’ She unlocked the car and they climbed in. ‘Someone knew it wasn’t airtight. They knew they could put two kids down there, with books and toys and a bucket, and they wouldn’t die. Not until whoever did it was good and ready.’
She started the ignition but didn’t pull out, letting the engine idle for a minute.
‘I was thinking,’ Noah said, ‘if it was fields, before they built the houses . . .’
‘Big fields,’ she agreed, ‘lots of acres.’
‘So who builds one bunker in the middle of a big field? That size, I mean. It wasn’t large.’
Marnie cut the engine. She turned in the seat to look at him. ‘You think . . . there’s more? More bunkers?’
‘Maybe. It would make more sense than one. Wouldn’t it?’
‘Lots of bunkers. And the developer missed them all?’
‘He missed the one in the Doyles’ garden,’ Noah pointed out. ‘Or he knew about it and kept quiet, reckoned it was in the garden so it wouldn’t disturb the foundations of the house. A row of bunkers would play hell with his planning permission.’
‘A row of bunkers,’ Marnie repeated. ‘One per garden?’
Noah turned away while he fastened his seat belt. ‘We should check. The neighbours are going to start asking questions once the story breaks. How long before one of them decides to go digging in his garden, just to make sure?’ He looked back at her.
Marnie cursed softly, her eyes a hot blue.
‘We could issue a statement,’ Noah suggested, ‘let them know we’re organising an extended search . . .’
‘For what, more bodies? You think there’s a chance we’ll find that?’
‘No. No, I hadn’t thought of it like that.’ He thought ofit now, and his skin grained with goose bumps. ‘I just thought one bunker in a field was . . . odd.’
‘All right, let’s look. Put in a request for a GPR team and let the neighbours know we’re expanding the search. If it stops some of them digging around and getting a shock like the one that floored Terry, it’ll be worth it.’
GPR: ground-penetrating radar.
Noah searched his phone for the number.
Marnie restarted the engine. ‘Let’s see whether Ian Merrick deserves that space on Ron’s whiteboard.’
15
Merrick Homes had set up base on the Isle of Dogs, an almost-island in London’s East End.
A temporary base, Noah guessed, going where the scent of money was strongest. The Isle of Dogs had been a real island, bounded on three sides by the Thames, before part of the river was filled to create a dock. Even now, three of the four ways to reach it were by water.
Marnie and Noah took the fourth way, approaching the temporary offices by car, across a potholed site
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