eleven, having come off the ten fifty-eight train, and deposited in Oval Street at eleven-twenty. Wexford and Vine passed his door, turned left and left again, and parked outside 72 Rhombus Road.
It was a street of small terraced houses, put up at the end of the nineteenth century, as so many in Stowerton had been, to accommodate workers in the chalk quarries and their families. All were now owner-occupied, affordable by young couples and first-time buyers. Most front doors were painted various bright colors, flowery window boxes attached to sills and front gardens concreted over to give room for one parked car.
No car stood in front of 72, which though not shabby retained its original glass-paneled front door and sash windows, had flower beds full of chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies and a gravel path. The door was opened by a woman who looked far too young to be the grandmother of a fourteen-year-old. She had frizzy dark hair, pulled back with two barrettes from a pale freckledface that appeared as if makeup had never touched it. Denim dungarees were loose around her waist and over the checked shirt. Her eyes were frightened, too wide open.
“Come in, please. I’m Audrey Barker. Ryan is my son.”
They went into a small, exquisitely tidy living room that smelled of lavender polish. The woman who had got up from her armchair was in her seventies, plump, white-haired, in a heather and green tweed skirt and a sweater set the color of the scent.
Wexford said, “Mrs. Peabody?”
She nodded. “My daughter came this morning. She came as soon as she knew about the muddle we’d got in. She’s not well, she’s just got out of the hospital, that’s why Ryan was staying with me, because she was in the hospital, but as soon as we didn’t know—I mean, as soon as we knew …”
“Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Peabody, and tell us about it from the beginning?”
It was Audrey Barker who answered him. “Basically, my mother thought Ryan was going home yesterday and I wasn’t expecting him till today. We should have phoned and checked, but we didn’t. Ryan himself thought yesterday was the day.”
“Where do you live, Mrs. Barker?”
“In south London, Croydon. You get the train from Kingsmarkham and change at Crawley or Reigate. You don’t have to go into Victoria. Ryan had done it a good few times. He’s nearly fifteen and he’s tall for his age, taller than most grown men.” She evidently thought they were condemning her, though their faces were quite blank. “He could have walked to Kingsmarkham Station,” she said.
“It’s over three miles, Audrey. He had his bag to carry.”
Vine steered her back to the previous morning. “So Ryan was going home, Mrs. Peabody, and you thought he ought to have a taxi to the station. Is that right?”
She nodded. Slowly she clenched her fists and held them in her lap. It was a controlling gesture, a way of containing panic.
“The stopping train is the eleven-nineteen,” she said. “The bus would have got him there an hour ahead of time and the next one would have been too late. I said why not have a taxi. I’d give him the money, it would be my treat. He’d only once been in a taxi before and that was with his mum.” Her voice slipped a bit. She cleared her throat. “He didn’t know what to say so I phoned up. It was a bit before half-past ten, five-and-twenty past ten. I asked the man for a taxi for a quarter to eleven. That was to give Ryan time to buy his ticket. A nice bit of time, I don’t like rushing. Oh, I wish I’d gone with him—why didn’t I, Audrey? I was just too stingy to pay the fare back again.”
“That’s not being stingy, Mum. That’s common sense.”
“Who did you phone, Mrs. Peabody?”
She thought. One hand went up and briefly covered her mouth.
“I said to Ryan to do it. Phone up, I mean. But he wouldn’t, he said he didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t push it. I said, Find me the number in the book, the local
It was a street of small terraced houses, put up at the end of the nineteenth century, as so many in Stowerton had been, to accommodate workers in the chalk quarries and their families. All were now owner-occupied, affordable by young couples and first-time buyers. Most front doors were painted various bright colors, flowery window boxes attached to sills and front gardens concreted over to give room for one parked car.
No car stood in front of 72, which though not shabby retained its original glass-paneled front door and sash windows, had flower beds full of chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies and a gravel path. The door was opened by a woman who looked far too young to be the grandmother of a fourteen-year-old. She had frizzy dark hair, pulled back with two barrettes from a pale freckledface that appeared as if makeup had never touched it. Denim dungarees were loose around her waist and over the checked shirt. Her eyes were frightened, too wide open.
“Come in, please. I’m Audrey Barker. Ryan is my son.”
They went into a small, exquisitely tidy living room that smelled of lavender polish. The woman who had got up from her armchair was in her seventies, plump, white-haired, in a heather and green tweed skirt and a sweater set the color of the scent.
Wexford said, “Mrs. Peabody?”
She nodded. “My daughter came this morning. She came as soon as she knew about the muddle we’d got in. She’s not well, she’s just got out of the hospital, that’s why Ryan was staying with me, because she was in the hospital, but as soon as we didn’t know—I mean, as soon as we knew …”
“Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Peabody, and tell us about it from the beginning?”
It was Audrey Barker who answered him. “Basically, my mother thought Ryan was going home yesterday and I wasn’t expecting him till today. We should have phoned and checked, but we didn’t. Ryan himself thought yesterday was the day.”
“Where do you live, Mrs. Barker?”
“In south London, Croydon. You get the train from Kingsmarkham and change at Crawley or Reigate. You don’t have to go into Victoria. Ryan had done it a good few times. He’s nearly fifteen and he’s tall for his age, taller than most grown men.” She evidently thought they were condemning her, though their faces were quite blank. “He could have walked to Kingsmarkham Station,” she said.
“It’s over three miles, Audrey. He had his bag to carry.”
Vine steered her back to the previous morning. “So Ryan was going home, Mrs. Peabody, and you thought he ought to have a taxi to the station. Is that right?”
She nodded. Slowly she clenched her fists and held them in her lap. It was a controlling gesture, a way of containing panic.
“The stopping train is the eleven-nineteen,” she said. “The bus would have got him there an hour ahead of time and the next one would have been too late. I said why not have a taxi. I’d give him the money, it would be my treat. He’d only once been in a taxi before and that was with his mum.” Her voice slipped a bit. She cleared her throat. “He didn’t know what to say so I phoned up. It was a bit before half-past ten, five-and-twenty past ten. I asked the man for a taxi for a quarter to eleven. That was to give Ryan time to buy his ticket. A nice bit of time, I don’t like rushing. Oh, I wish I’d gone with him—why didn’t I, Audrey? I was just too stingy to pay the fare back again.”
“That’s not being stingy, Mum. That’s common sense.”
“Who did you phone, Mrs. Peabody?”
She thought. One hand went up and briefly covered her mouth.
“I said to Ryan to do it. Phone up, I mean. But he wouldn’t, he said he didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t push it. I said, Find me the number in the book, the local
Similar Books
