LITTLE BOY, GONE

  J. A. BAKER

  To Laurie, Patrick and Hazel.

  Love all. Trust a few.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  More from J. A. Baker

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by J. A. Baker

  The Murder List

  About Boldwood Books

  1

  NOW

  They cut a sorry sight, the two figures, as they stumble down the road, their shadowy outlines incongruous against the backdrop of the sinking sun: one small silhouette, one larger person, bent almost double, clutching hands as they attempt to break into a run, only to falter and fall by the roadside, landing in an ungainly heap together. Their cries fill the air, drowning out the birdsong from the nearby treetops and hedgerows.

  A car approaches, the roar of its engine growing closer. It rounds the bend, metal and sunlight colliding in a sudden, eye-watering flash. The couple stand up, cry out, wave their arms frantically. The vehicle drives past them then slows down, grinding to a sudden halt, the gravelly sound of rubber against tarmac filling the silence. It begins to reverse, the high-pitched whine of the engine a howling screech.

  The driver’s door opens, a man steps out, his expression pained and bewildered, turning soon to panic as he stares first at the child then back at the person huddled by their side.

  ‘Please,’ the adult says, holding their head, blood oozing through their trembling fingers. ‘Please help us. You have to do something.’

  The child begins to cry: an ear-splitting howl that could shatter glass. The adult tries to comfort the youngster but is too unsteady, too broken and damaged to console them properly. Tears mingle with snot as they sob uncontrollably.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ the man says as he opens the passenger door and pushes the child inside. Before the bleeding adult can protest, the man grabs their arm and pushes them against the back door of the car. ‘I know who you are. I fucking know you and I know what you did.’

  In a flurry of terror and blind panic, the adult cries out as they are bundled into the back seat. They hear the sharp slam of the door and the click of the lock, realisation dawning that they are trapped. They pull at the handle, cry out, claw at the seat as the driver climbs back in and starts the engine, pulling off at speed.

  The child is suddenly silent, slumped in their seat, limbs frozen, face ashen, stricken with terror.

  ‘You,’ the driver says, staring through the rear-view mirror to the person behind them. ‘It’s you. Don’t move and don’t speak.’ His voice is low, laced with menace and intent. The adult begins to object, their shouts reverberating around the confined space only to be met with a hand that connects with them as the driver swings around, fist clenched, and smashes it into their face, silencing them before turning back to grip the steering wheel.

  ‘I said, don’t speak, okay? Don’t say a single word. I know exactly who you are. I’ve heard about this on the television, read about it in the paper. You’re a fucking psychopath. People like you should be hanged. You’re nothing but scum.’

  Momentarily dazed, the bleeding adult slumps back into the seat, more blood pumping through their fingers, saturating their clothes; sticky, warm blood oozing out of the wound in great waves, coating their skin, their clothes, the upholstery of the vehicle.

  ‘I hope they arrest you,’ the driver says, the words loaded with vitriol and venom as he spits them out and stares in the rear-view mirror, ‘and throw away the fucking key.’

  2

  BEFORE

  The likeness is uncanny. It catches me off guard. His face sends me into a near swoon as he steps away from the heaving throng, his features suddenly coming into sharp focus, hitting me in my solar plexus and turning my blood to sand. Despite the rare sweep of heat from the late-afternoon sun, I feel a chill on my flesh as a shard of ice penetrates me, digging into my bones and rippling over my skin. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. My scalp tightens and prickles. As hard as I try to look away, my eyes are drawn to him: to the shape of his face, to his gait, to the sound of his laughter as it sails through the late-afternoon air like the delicate tinkling of fine china. Everything about him resonates with me. I can hardly breathe, oxygen seeping out of my lungs in short, erratic bursts. He is here. After all this time, he is here. So many years of emptiness and yearning coupled with an acute sense of loss, and now I have found him.

  By the time the crowd has cleared and almost everyone has departed for home, I feel as if my world has shrunk to the size of a pinhole. My head pounds, my throat is dry. The most basic of bodily functions – breathing, blinking – feel laboured and onerous.

  I continue to watch as a small car pulls up and an exasperated woman leaps out and runs over to the boy, leaning down and speaking to him. Her face is flushed as she grabs at his schoolbag, holding it tightly while she ushers him back towards the car. He is the last child to be picked up. After the 3 o’clock pandemonium as the school gates opened and a small army of children spilled out, the road is now deserted. He is the last boy standing.

  Trying to regulate my breathing and put my thoughts in order, I slip the key into the ignition of my car and start the engine. Using an inordinate amount of strength and focus, I am able to drive home, concentrating on staying the right side of the white line and keeping within the speed limit. Skills that had become reflexes seem to require a whole new level of attention as I remain alert and rigid, my eyes glued to the road, every nerve ending in my body screaming, every sinew stretched and taut with agitation and excitement. An intoxicating combination of terror and trepidation pulses through my veins.

  I take a deep breath, tell myself to calm down, but it’s pointless. Everything feels like such an effort. My mind is in a spin as I picture his face – my boy’s face – and think about his voice, the soft rush of his breath as he leans in to give me a kiss goodnight. Everything about him was as familiar to me as my own features. It’s him. There’s no doubt about it. It’s my boy.

  Trees, buildings, pedestrians, they are all a smear in my peripheral vision as I sail past them, eyes fixed ahead. Nobody else matters any more. Nobody and nothing is important. They are meaningless now that I have seen him, now that I’ve been near him and sensed how lost he is, how abandoned he feels. He needs me. We need each other.

  We are meant to be together.

  Once home, I slam the door behind me, close the curtains and curl up on the sofa where I remain for the rest of the evening, tears blinding me as I fight off the memories, those wicked memories of what I lost. Those wicked memories that remind me of how I was left on my own. But not for much longer. I have a chance to make everything better, to go back to how things used to be before I lost him. Before I lost everything that ever mattered to me.

  I sleep fitfully, waking at regular intervals, my skin hot and cold simultaneously. The following day, I arise and dress, choosing my outfit with care and precision, knowing that I’m ready for this. I know what it is that I must do. My mind is made up. I’m ready for him.

  3

  THE ABDUCTOR

  A bubble of air catches in my throat; my chest contracts. The trapped oxygen concertinas, making me wheeze as I spot him again, a solitary figure, small and helpless in contrast to the milieu of school with its swathe of dark brickwork and ugly, green, spiked gates. Once again, he is standing unaccompanied. Another late pick-up. Abandoned once more and left to fend for himself.

  I take my chance and step out of my car, the squeak of my training shoes on the pavement a thunderous roar in my ears as I approach him and give him a warm smile. He is truly alone. Everybody has gone, disappeared, leaving just the two of us. No teachers waiting around to watch over him, no other parents or pupils. Just the two of us. Me and my boy and the soft whispering of the wind as it passes through the treetops, a reassuring susurration as I walk towards him and lean down to speak. ‘Hi,’ I say as casually as I can. ‘How are you doing?’

  He eyes me cautiously, a furrow wrinkling his small brow as he gives me a small, courteous nod.

  ‘Your mum asked me to come along and see if you’re okay. She’s been held up again.’

  I see his shoulders sink a little then feel relieved as he lets out a sigh and
straightens up, narrowing his eyes while surreptitiously assessing me. He’s wary. That’s as it should be. Such a good boy. Such a careful, intelligent boy. Then a smile from him as he grasps my words. ‘Is she stuck at work again?’

  ‘I’m afraid she is.’ I suddenly realise I don’t even know his name. Not his everyday name, the one she gave him, his so-called mother. I need to know it if I am to make a connection with him. I glance down at his bag and reach out to take it. Without missing a beat, he holds it up for me. A small, white piece of card is slotted into a plastic pocket bearing his name and class. I glance at it furtively then afford him a quick, friendly wink.

  ‘Well, Leo,’ I say casually, ‘she asked me to pick you up and said that she’s going to come and collect you as soon as she can get away.’ I keep my voice light, a sing-song timbre to it as I give him a broad smile, making sure my eyes crease at the corner to signify sincerity. I have to get this right. Failing isn’t an option.

  He brightens, a sudden recognition striking him. ‘You must be the person she talked about. She said she was going to get some help to look after me. A childminder or somebody like that. She even mentioned getting somebody from the youth club to help out.’

  My heart soars, a comforting, rhythmic thump beneath my breastbone. ‘Yup, that’s me. I’m the new helper. My car is just over there.’ I point at my vehicle, the one I keep garaged up and use only on special occasions. I’m hoping it will tempt him, appeal to his boyish nature. It’s my special weapon, my treasured prize. I use it rarely and now it’s about to serve me well. Better than I ever hoped.

  His eyes widen as he spots it. ‘A two-seater Mazda? That’s your car?’ He lets out a small giggle and covers his mouth with his hand. I stare at his fingers, at those long, slim perfectly shaped nails and am overwhelmed with a desire to pick him up and hold him close, to feel the weight of him, the solidity of his body as it presses against mine. It’s been so long. Too long. I can barely breathe.

  I place his bag under my arm and walk towards the road where I am parked, praying he follows me without question. Like a dream, he breaks into a run to keep up, his grin so wide, I want to dance and clap my hands with joy. It worked. I still have the ability to climb inside the heads of children, to know what stokes their interests and makes them tick. Already, we have a connection, a tie that binds us together. Unadulterated bliss blooms within me.

  ‘Right,’ I say a little too sharply, aware that time is against us. Aware that his mother could turn up any second and steal my moment, this tenuous link to my past, to all I hold dear. She could take it all, the only thing I have ever wanted, snatched away from me in a heartbeat. ‘Hop in, Leo.’ I hold up my mobile and give him a warm grin. ‘Once we get going, I’ll ring your mum, let her know I’ve got you and that she can pop round mine once she’s out of work.’

  He hesitates, his face impassive, his limbs locked rigid in a stance of uncertainty.

  ‘Oh, that’s yours as well,’ I say nonchalantly as I point to a bottle of Coca-Cola in the centre console. I pretend I haven’t seen his reticence and let out a silent breath of relief when I see him relax, his eyes lighting up with boyish delight. ‘A special treat for you.’

  Without hesitation, he slips into the passenger seat and grabs at the bottle, holding it aloft and staring at it as if it is made of solid gold. ‘This is ace,’ he says as he pulls on his seatbelt. ‘Mum doesn’t let me have Coke. She always says it’ll rot my teeth.’

  ‘Ah well, she asked me to give it to you as an apology for being late and not introducing me to you properly.’

  He is nodding now. I can see him out of the corner of my eye. I can see his smile, sense his easiness in my presence. Our relationship is already growing, strengthening, becoming stronger with every word and action that passes between us. I’m trying really hard here and it seems to be working. ‘Drink up,’ I say encouragingly.

  ‘In your car?’ He is suddenly cagey, a distinct uneasiness in his voice.

  ‘Why not?’ I swing out of the narrow side street and onto the main road. ‘I trust you to not spill it all over the seat. And if you do, then so what? I clean it up afterwards. No big deal.’

  He waits a second and I hold my breath, praying he isn’t so fastidious that he refuses, then relax, warm air passing through my pursed lips as he twists the lid and takes a long, greedy glug of the fizzy liquid, suppressing a sudden burp by holding his fist over his mouth.

  ‘May as well drink it all,’ I say, forced conviviality in my words that he thankfully doesn’t seem to pick up on. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from.’

  I grip the steering wheel tightly and sink down in the seat, my muscles unknotting as in my peripheral vision, I watch him drain every last drop. Relief floods through me, waves of it slipping over my cool skin, warming me through. I put my foot down and take him home.

  It doesn’t take too long for the effects to kick in. The bottle hangs limply in his hand as I pull up on the driveway and press the remote on my key fob to open the garage door. My temper begins to unravel, my heart thudding in my chest while I count the seconds, the interminably long seconds that it takes for the door to open fully. How slowly everything seems to move when time is of the essence.

  Only when we are finally inside the garage, our bodies hidden in the gloom, do I turn and take a good look at him, at the soft line of his jaw, the feathery cut of his blonde hair and the slow droop of his eyelids after drinking the Cola that I laced with sleeping tablets.

  His mouth drops a little, his tiny tongue lolling to one side. I lean over, touch his jaw and close it with my knuckle then smooth down his hair, thinking how fortunate I am to have this boy with me. I can hardly believe it’s happened. And yet it has.

  Leo. Little Leo. He is here. I’ve done it. I’ve got him. But not Leo. Not any more. He is Timothy. My Timothy. I’ve finally got him back. My little Timmy is here after all these years. Back home where he belongs.

  4

  EMILY

  Standing close by his bed and watching him as he sleeps has become her guilty pleasure. From the slightly downward turn of his mouth to his dark, fluttering lashes, everything about him makes her glad to be alive, sending a flush of adoration through her, gliding beneath her skin and warming her body through to its very core.

  She is not usually an overly tactile person, nor is she the type of gushy woman who likes nothing better than to talk about her children to others, insisting they are riding high above everybody else’s offspring with their special talents and abilities, but after listening to the news over the last couple of days, seeing her young son tucked up in his bed, knowing he is warm and safe, she is unable to stop herself. Just standing here gazing at him sends a ripple of delight through her veins. Not delight. That’s the wrong word. Relief is more fitting. She is relieved to have him here, in their house, where she can take care of him and know that he is happy and free from harm.

  The world, for all its positives and beauty, can also be a cruel, violent place, proven by the recent news that has infiltrated every home. She is torn between being repulsed by the coverage of the missing boy and feeling compelled to watch it over and over, gleaning what she can from every new piece of information, filtering out the dross and storing the important stuff, keeping it in her mind so she can apply it to her life and keep her son safe. She has taken to watching every repeat of the reports until she is unable to think straight and is able replicate the news correspondents’ script off by heart.