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Authors: Tony Parsons
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trunk of the tree. I clambered upright and started edging down the tree. I couldn’t see the Polish builders any more but I could hear them applauding. Coming down was easier, although there was a sheer drop for the final ten feet or so. How could you do it with a child?
With a child that was still alive, I thought.
I dropped into the cemetery.
I hit the ground and caught my breath, staring into the thick wild wood of Highgate Cemetery. There was a stone angel next to me. The features of its face had been worn completely smooth by weather and time. In the distance I could see glimpses of giant crosses and strange memorials. Massive stone animals. A lion. A dog. All curled up with their eyes closed, sleeping for eternity. It was like leaving the world behind and stepping into a dream. The silence was total. It did not feel like the heart of the city. It felt like another planet.
Then suddenly Mary Wood was walking towards me through the mist, watching me every step of the way, just the two of us in that silent place.
I held my breath, flashing back to when I had last seen her on a stainless steel table at the Iain West, and when I had first seen her dead in her marital bed.
And I realised it was not Mary Wood.
It was her sister, Charlotte Gatling. And she was looking at me with the same watchful intensity that I had seen when I was with Scout in Savile Row.
‘Please don’t give up on him,’ she said. ‘Don’t give up on Bradley. My nephew.’
I shook my head.
‘Never,’ I said.
‘I know you think he’s probably dead,’ she said, raising a hand before I could say anything. ‘I know that’s what the statistics all say – you find the child immediately or you never find the child at all. But he’s not dead, Detective. I don’t give a damn about the statistics. I can feel it. That little boy is alive.’
There was something in her hand.
A small toy. A cowboy. One of those eight-inch plastic figures. Boots, waistcoat, white shirt. No, not a cowboy. Han Solo from
Star Wars
. Of course – the space cowboy. Her nephew’s toy, I thought. Bradley’s favourite toy.
Then there were more people coming out of the trees and the day suddenly felt like a dream. There was her brother and a camera crew. The Media Liaison Officer and the Family Liaison Officer were trailing behind Nils Gatling and the camera crew, flustered and ignored, their high heels unsuitable for Highgate Cemetery in January.
‘What’s happening?’ I said.
‘We’re doing a reconstruction,’ Charlotte Gatling said. ‘For
Crimewatch
. They want me to be my sister arriving home so we can perhaps jog a few memories.’
‘Did we set this up? The Met?’
‘My brother set it up. It’s good, isn’t it? Exposure is the key. That’s what Nils says.’
‘Exposure can be counter-productive,’ I said, as gently as I could. ‘Because every nut comes out of the woodwork. We can get so many false leads that we miss the real leads. Exposure needs to be carefully managed.’
There was a flash of irritation in her eyes and I remembered her sister staring down the mocking reporter in Lillehammer.
‘But it’s better than just being ignored,’ she said. ‘Like the families of most missing children.’
‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s better than that.’
Then I saw something inside her start to crack. ‘So where is he?’ she said, her voice strained with distress, as though her throat wanted to choke down all the terrible questions. ‘What’s happening to him? What are they doing to Bradley?’
Thinking that way did no good, I knew. Thinking that way just paralysed you. But I couldn’t say that to her.
‘I’m going to find Bradley,’ I said. ‘I promise you.’
She stared at me as if she could see into my soul.
‘You really promise me?’
‘Yes.’
Her brother approached us.
‘They’re ready for you, Charlotte.’
‘My brother, Nils Gatling,’ she told me.
I held out my hand.
‘DC Wolfe of West End
With a child that was still alive, I thought.
I dropped into the cemetery.
I hit the ground and caught my breath, staring into the thick wild wood of Highgate Cemetery. There was a stone angel next to me. The features of its face had been worn completely smooth by weather and time. In the distance I could see glimpses of giant crosses and strange memorials. Massive stone animals. A lion. A dog. All curled up with their eyes closed, sleeping for eternity. It was like leaving the world behind and stepping into a dream. The silence was total. It did not feel like the heart of the city. It felt like another planet.
Then suddenly Mary Wood was walking towards me through the mist, watching me every step of the way, just the two of us in that silent place.
I held my breath, flashing back to when I had last seen her on a stainless steel table at the Iain West, and when I had first seen her dead in her marital bed.
And I realised it was not Mary Wood.
It was her sister, Charlotte Gatling. And she was looking at me with the same watchful intensity that I had seen when I was with Scout in Savile Row.
‘Please don’t give up on him,’ she said. ‘Don’t give up on Bradley. My nephew.’
I shook my head.
‘Never,’ I said.
‘I know you think he’s probably dead,’ she said, raising a hand before I could say anything. ‘I know that’s what the statistics all say – you find the child immediately or you never find the child at all. But he’s not dead, Detective. I don’t give a damn about the statistics. I can feel it. That little boy is alive.’
There was something in her hand.
A small toy. A cowboy. One of those eight-inch plastic figures. Boots, waistcoat, white shirt. No, not a cowboy. Han Solo from
Star Wars
. Of course – the space cowboy. Her nephew’s toy, I thought. Bradley’s favourite toy.
Then there were more people coming out of the trees and the day suddenly felt like a dream. There was her brother and a camera crew. The Media Liaison Officer and the Family Liaison Officer were trailing behind Nils Gatling and the camera crew, flustered and ignored, their high heels unsuitable for Highgate Cemetery in January.
‘What’s happening?’ I said.
‘We’re doing a reconstruction,’ Charlotte Gatling said. ‘For
Crimewatch
. They want me to be my sister arriving home so we can perhaps jog a few memories.’
‘Did we set this up? The Met?’
‘My brother set it up. It’s good, isn’t it? Exposure is the key. That’s what Nils says.’
‘Exposure can be counter-productive,’ I said, as gently as I could. ‘Because every nut comes out of the woodwork. We can get so many false leads that we miss the real leads. Exposure needs to be carefully managed.’
There was a flash of irritation in her eyes and I remembered her sister staring down the mocking reporter in Lillehammer.
‘But it’s better than just being ignored,’ she said. ‘Like the families of most missing children.’
‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s better than that.’
Then I saw something inside her start to crack. ‘So where is he?’ she said, her voice strained with distress, as though her throat wanted to choke down all the terrible questions. ‘What’s happening to him? What are they doing to Bradley?’
Thinking that way did no good, I knew. Thinking that way just paralysed you. But I couldn’t say that to her.
‘I’m going to find Bradley,’ I said. ‘I promise you.’
She stared at me as if she could see into my soul.
‘You really promise me?’
‘Yes.’
Her brother approached us.
‘They’re ready for you, Charlotte.’
‘My brother, Nils Gatling,’ she told me.
I held out my hand.
‘DC Wolfe of West End
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