The Sleepover Page 11

  “That’s a shame.” He pauses so long, I wonder if the line has cut out.

  “Hello?” I prompt.

  “Sorry. I was just thinking. I wonder if the boys would open up to me. As their form tutor, I mean. I spend a lot of time with them in the book group, too. We chat about all kinds of stuff. I could try?”

  “Really?” I chew on a thumbnail, gripped by the possibility that Mr. Newton is right—that the boys might open up to him—before remembering DCI Maxwell’s reluctance to let me speak to the boys. “The police do have pretty strict procedures, though. I’m not sure—”

  “Oh God. Yes. You’re right. Sorry, scrub that thought. I was just trying to figure out if I can be of more help. But of course. Interfering with a police investigation isn’t—”

  “It’s not a bad idea, though.” I sit up straighter, suddenly feeling energized. “I know how much the boys like you. They’d probably trust you more than the detectives, too. They’re nice people, but they’re still the police. They might be intimidating the boys. Only if you’re sure, though. I know it’s asking you to go above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “You didn’t ask. I offered.” His sigh echoes down the line. “I know Nick wasn’t at school when he disappeared. Even so, I feel a duty of care. All teachers do. That’s why we do the job. Because we like kids and want the best for them. Anyone at the school would do the same thing, but I’m these boys’ form tutor. Not Jason’s, but—”

  “Oh, I doubt you’ll get anything out of him anyway,” I cut in. “I’ve just tried, and his mum wouldn’t even let me speak to him. But Beth and Ayesha have been really kind. And they know you. I’m sure they won’t object to letting you chat with Adrian and Samir.”

  “Really? You think so? OK. Leave it with me, then. I’ll call them in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Sean. Nick’s right. You’re the best teacher he’s ever had.”

  I know I’m feeling fractious and overemotional at the possibility of uncovering new information, but I mean it: it’s extremely kind of Sean to put himself out like this to help. I just wish Nick hadn’t had to wait until secondary school to find a teacher like him; I wish I could turn back time and swap him for the teacher who unintentionally first planted the thought in my mind that maybe parenting might be a lot easier with a partner at my side . . .

  * * *

  “I’m sorry we have to meet again in these circumstances, Miss Blake.” Mrs. Jenkins put down her pen and gestured for me to take a seat. “It is Miss, isn’t it? Or do you prefer Ms.?”

  “Miss is fine.” I sat down in the low chair opposite her desk, pulling Nick against my side. “But what do you mean?” I thought our meeting was a regular parents’ evening chat; I’d been given no indication that there was anything out of the ordinary about our appointment.

  Mrs. Jenkins’s mouth pursed. “There’s been another little incident, I’m afraid.”

  “Another . . .” Little incident seemed such an inadequate phrase to describe what Nick had endured on almost a daily basis since starting school. “Can you be more specific?”

  “Do you want to show your mum, Nick? She won’t be cross.”

  “Of course I won’t be cross.” I gave the teacher a sharp look, annoyed at the suggestion, then turned to look at Nick. His eyes were so wide, I could see the entire blue of his irises. “What’s happened, love?” I said gently. He’d seemed a little happier lately; I had even begun to hope things might have improved after my last meeting with the school.

  “He’s torn his shirt.” Mrs. Jenkins nodded. “Lift up your sweater, Nick.”

  I turned him around to give him some privacy, lifting his shirt myself. “Oh my God. Who did this?” My fingers shook as I pressed them gently against four long, bloody scratches, clearly fingernail marks, all down his back.

  “He was climbing the tree again,” the teacher answered for him.

  “Really. Was he?” I wondered if she was being deliberately obtuse, or if she genuinely had no idea about what seemed obvious to me must have happened. “Were you?” I said more softly to Nick.

  He shook his head again, blond hair flying up, but no words came out of his mouth.

  “That tree is out of bounds,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “You know that, don’t you, Nick?”

  “He knows it. So do the bullies,” I pointed out sternly.

  “Sorry?”

  “Look, everyone knows Nick loves climbing.” After dancing, it was his favorite thing to do: hiding out in the little treehouse his dad had built for him. “It’s easy enough to make scratches look like he’s slipped on the branches. Don’t you think?”

  “Are you suggesting those marks were inflicted by another child? That’s a serious allegation, Miss Blake. As you know, we take bullying extremely seriously, and—”

  “Do you?” I fought to keep hold of my temper; antagonizing her would solve nothing. She already seemed to have Nick labeled as a “problem child”; after so many meetings, I suspected I was becoming known as a “problem mum.” “So you think this is Nick’s fault?”

  “It isn’t the first time he’s been caught playing where he shouldn’t.”

  “Or that he’s tried to hide somewhere he thought he’d be safe, perhaps?” I countered.

  “Is that what happened, Nick?” Mrs. Jenkins leaned over her desk. “Were you hiding?”

  Nick shuffled his feet and turned to look up at me. “Mummy, can we go now?”

  “Yes, darling. We can go.” I squeezed his hand as I stood up.

  “I’m happy to talk this through some more,” Mrs. Jenkins said, looking a little flustered as I ignored her proffered handshake. “If you’d like to make another appointment.”

  “Oh, I’ll be sure to do that.” I picked Nick up and carried him, even though he was seven years old and would no doubt protest later that he was perfectly capable of walking by himself. “Only next time it will be with the head teacher. To make an official complaint.”

  * * *

  I only discover that I’ve fallen asleep clutching the phone when its shrill ring hurts my ear.

  “Izzy? It’s me. DS Clarke. I’m at your front door.”

  “Sorry, what?” Groggily, I check my watch. Eight in the morning. I must have crashed out, emotionally exhausted. I had meant to call DS Clarke after speaking to Sean, I recall in a rush, feeling down and disoriented as I realize that, just for a moment, I’d forgotten why the detective is even here . . . that Nick is gone.

  “Izzy? Are you there?” The detective’s voice cuts through my sleep-muzzy thoughts.

  “Yes. I’m . . .” My fingers curl tighter around the phone. “Has something . . . is there any news?”

  “I think you’d better let me in.” There’s an uncharacteristic edge to her usually soft, low tone. “Bit of a crowd gathering out here.”

  “A crowd?” I haul myself upright, every cramped muscle protesting at my accidental, uncomfortable night on the sofa. Hearing voices, I peep through the curtains, puzzled to see a group of people congregated outside my front gate. Several have camera cases slung over their shoulders. Reporters. “No. No.”

  Disconnecting the call and throwing down the handset, I dash to the door. Then hesitate. I know DS Clarke said going public could help, and I’m happy to brace myself for the necessity of a press conference. I’m not happy for journalists to snoop around my home.

  It occurs to me, too, that it was most likely one of them hanging around last night, hoping for a snap of a distraught mother to sell to the tabloids. The timing of their appearance seems way too much of a coincidence.

  I have to count to ten before, finally, I can summon up the courage to open the front door. Cameras flash; the clamor of voices grows louder.

  “Izzy—over here!”

  “Can we talk, Mrs. Brookes? Anything you’d like to say about Nick?”

  “What do you think drove your son away? Did you have a fight with him?”

  “Is it true your husband left you because he thought you we
re a bad parent?”

  “Nick was at a sleepover when he vanished. Do you feel guilty about leaving him?”

  “Are you guilty, Mrs. Brookes? Have you done something to hurt your son?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “OK, people. That’s enough. Press conference is this afternoon. Save your questions for then, please.” DS Clarke pushes her way through the small crowd. Stepping into the hallway, she closes the front door firmly behind her. “Sorry about that.”

  “They’re like . . . vultures. Is that normal?” I yank the curtains closed over the hall window, wishing I could blot out the grating sound of the reporters’ voices as easily.

  “Don’t take it personally. It’s just how news agencies work. They’ll have picked up the story from the bulletins. Cases involving children always provoke lots of interest. Those guys will have been hounded by their bosses to get the first scoop.”

  “Fine. But that’s why we’re doing the press conference, isn’t it?” I don’t care what their bosses want; I feel shaken and upset at the reporters’ hostile questions. “I can’t believe they have the insensitivity to turn up at my house. How did they even know where I live?”

  DS Clarke sighs. “Two clicks on Google and you can find anyone these days.”

  “Except a missing child,” I snip, feeling shakier still as the chatter outside grows even louder now the reporters have caught a glimpse of me.

  “Sorry, Izzy. I should have warned you this might happen. They were quicker off the mark than I expected. Try to ignore them. They’ll give up soon if we stay put for a while. How are you, anyway? Did you get any sleep?”

  “A bit.” I run my hands over my face. “Here. Let me take that.” I turn to hang up her coat, stiffening as I spot Nick’s old parka looped over a peg. I’ve been meaning to take it to the charity shop; now I’m glad I didn’t. Just for a moment I allow my fingers to rest on the sleeve, letting it slide between my fingertips, imagining his hand peeping out of it.

  “You OK?”

  “Yes, I just . . . Do you mind if we talk upstairs? I can’t hear myself think with that racket out there.” Without waiting for her to reply, I head for the stairs.

  “Sure.” DS Clarke follows me. “You do look exhausted,” she says as we reach the top and make our way along the landing. “I mean that kindly. I’m worried about you. Have you had a hot drink this morning? Eaten anything?”

  “I’m fine.” I force a smile and keep walking. She’s right, though: I am exhausted. And overwrought. But if she’s kind to me now, I know I’ll break down completely.

  “OK.” Thankfully, she lets it drop. “In that case, why don’t we run through the format for the press conference? These things can be a little intimidating. I want you to feel as comfortable as possible. Would you like someone to come along with you? A friend?”

  I sigh, thinking of Katie. “No. There’s no one.”

  “Craig?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, either.”

  “The boss seems keen for him to be there,” DS Clarke says carefully. “To present a united family front, as it were.”

  United. I ponder the word, wondering if we ever were. I’ve clearly missed whatever has been going on for Nick; it’s a small step to believing I didn’t spot a relationship between Katie and Craig happening right under my nose. “We’re not together anymore,” I point out.

  “True. And for what it’s worth, I’m not sure I agree with the DCI anyway.”

  “Oh?” I slant her a surprised look as we reach Nick’s bedroom. I had intended to go into my study, but every time I come upstairs my feet seem to automatically carry me here, the place I feel closest to him.

  “You mentioned a dispute about custody. Is it possible that Nick was worrying about that? I know you said he and Craig always got on, but, well, he’s had a year without his stepdad, hasn’t he? Maybe he was feeling odd about him coming back into his life.”

  I shake my head, crossing the room to sit down on Nick’s bed, picking up Sleepy Bear and hugging the soft threadbare toy against me. “I never told him that’s what Craig wanted. I only found out myself on Friday. You’re right, though. Nick does seem to have avoided seeing his stepdad lately.”

  “Does that surprise you?” DS Clarke perches on the desk chair, her eyes still on me.

  “A bit. But Nick’s a kind boy. Maybe he thought he was pleasing me by refusing to see Craig. Showing loyalty.”

  “Sure.” She gazes around at the posters covering the pale green walls, most bought at West End productions Craig has taken Nick to see. “He’s been to a lot of shows, hey?”

  “Nick lives for his dance. He used to love going to the Royal Opera House with his stepdad. It was kind of their thing. I haven’t been able to afford it for a while,” I admit, feeling guilty. “Nick’s never complained. He must miss it, though.” I pause. “Sometimes I wonder . . . maybe he was happier when Craig was around.” I can’t swallow the painful thought any longer. “All those luxuries I can’t afford to give him.”

  “I doubt that. From everything you’ve said, I get the impression Nick’s closer to you.”

  “Not lately, though. He’s been so quiet. Maybe that’s why. Maybe he and Craig even talked about it. Nick could have let slip that he was missing him.” I think back to the shock of Craig’s letter. “I thought his custody request came out of the blue. Perhaps it didn’t.”

  “That’s a lot of what-ifs and maybes,” DS Clarke says gently.

  “I know. You’re right.” I sigh, impatient with my own insecurity. “I’m probably way off track. It’s just so hard when kids don’t tell you what’s in their heads.”

  “My sister says the same thing. Only hers are a bit older. A law unto themselves, Rach calls them. She wouldn’t dare ask what they’re thinking. Too scared of the answer.”

  I sit quietly, asking myself if I’m guilty of exactly that: not asking Nick what was on his mind because I was afraid of hearing the truth. That he wanted to live with his stepdad rather than with me. And, realizing how much it would hurt me to hear that, he decided to simply avoid making any decision at all—and ran away instead.

  * * *

  I cup my hands around the mug of tea DS Clarke brings me ten minutes later, sinking back against Nick’s pillow, wondering how many nights he stared up at this ceiling, plotting his escape. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours convinced he would never just run away; it hurts to admit I could be wrong. Something bad still might have happened en route to wherever he was going, but DS Clarke said there has been no ransom note, no other children reported missing locally. And as Craig pointed out, Nick hasn’t turned up in any hospital. No body has been found . . .

  “I know I asked you this in our very first interview,” DS Clarke says, perching on the end of the bed, “but Nick didn’t keep a diary, did he?”

  “Not that I’ve found. And, believe me, I’ve looked.”

  “The guys did, too. They went through all his stuff yesterday. Didn’t find one.”

  Her gaze works around the room; helplessly I follow it. I might not agree with DCI Maxwell about everything, but he was right about one thing: the complexities of puberty. I see the evidence of Nick’s transition from boy to young adult everywhere. Pokémon cards stacked under cans of deodorant; coloring pencils in a pot with the razor Craig gave him in preparation; comics stuffed between school textbooks. My little boy is changing so fast, I haven’t been able to keep up with him.

  “I just feel like I’m missing something.” I frown thoughtfully as DS Clarke stands up and starts pacing the room. The floorboards creak; a memory stirs. “There is one place . . .”

  “Oh?” She stops pacing and turns to look at me.

  I leap off the bed and pull back a corner of the shaggy green rug, kneeling down and running my hands over the bare boards beneath. “We had mice when we first moved in here. Craig had to pull up the floor and put down poison. It got rid of the mice, and Nick . . .” I manage to slip
my fingers into a gap between the wooden planks, gaining enough purchase to waggle free a small cutaway section. “He loved the idea of a secret hideaway for his treasures. I’d forgotten all about it, but . . .”

  “Wow. Now that is interesting.” It’s DS Clarke’s turn to frown as she watches me pull out a glossy adult magazine from the small hiding place.

  “I can’t believe it.” I sit back on my heels, flicking through it. “I can’t believe he’d want to look at this stuff.” I understand natural curiosity, but Nick isn’t a prurient boy; he still makes gagging noises at kissing scenes in movies. His body consciousness has only recently kicked in, too; it’s not that long since he’d happily wander around the house in his underwear. I try to remember when that changed. Probably about a year ago, around the time Craig left. But everything changed then.

  “Has he talked about his sexuality? Any worries about puberty?” DS Clarke sits back down on the bed. “We spoke about that yesterday. Does this prompt any more thoughts?”

  I trawl my memory, trying to recall Nick ever seeming anxious about the changes his body has begun to go through—the emotional changes that I have noticed: a little more moodiness; a greater insistence on privacy. I’ve respected that and, in doing so, I realize I’ve allowed distance to creep in between us. I have no idea if Nick’s recent change of mood has been due purely to hormones or to real-life problems bothering him.

  “He likes a few girls at his theater school,” I say uncertainly, picturing Imogen. “But I think he just sees them as dance partners. And he thought the idea of shaving was funny. Not that he needs to do it. It was just, you know, a sort of father-son ritual Craig wanted to do with him.”

  “And Craig did ‘the Chat’?” DS Clarke mimes quotation marks.

  “No. Actually, I did.” Leave it out, Mum. We learn all that at school. “To be honest, I thought I might have timed it a bit early. He didn’t seem at all interested.”

  “Masking something, maybe? It can be overwhelming for kids when they start to be aware of physical feelings. Confusing. Scary. Do you think it’s possible he had questions he was too embarrassed to ask? Hence looking at . . . ?” She nods at the magazine in my hands.