The Sleepover Page 12
“Maybe. But how would he even have got hold of this?” Nick is twelve, but he looks much younger.
“Could have been passed around at school. Let me give our tech team a call.” The detective stands up and moves to the door. “I want Nick’s laptop checked one more time just to be absolutely sure we haven’t missed anything.”
“You mean contact with someone who encouraged Nick to look at this.” I stand up, too, flapping the magazine. “Someone pretending to be a friend, who was actually . . . ?” I’m too upset to say more as I think of the chat rooms hidden inside secret apps that Sean mentioned. My legs suddenly feel weak; I sit down abruptly on the bed.
“Let’s not panic. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation. Honestly, we found nothing like this in Nick’s Internet history.” DS Clarke steps forward and takes the magazine from me, flicking through it one more time before setting it down on the desk. “That would be the most likely place to find porn searches.”
“Sure,” I say faintly, horrified at the possibilities of what my twelve-year-old son might have seen online—at the ease with which it’s possible to bypass any restrictions.
“And we’re still investigating everyone local on the sex offenders’ registry,” DS Clarke adds quietly.
“The sex . . .” My throat dries as the implication sinks in.
“Don’t worry, Izzy. If Nick’s been in touch with an inappropriate stranger, we’ll find them.”
“What if it’s not a stranger, though?” My heart thumps against the inside of my rib cage. “What if it’s someone he already knows?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Craig, it’s me. When you get this, can you call me, please? It’s important,” I add, as if every conversation we’ve had since Nick went missing hasn’t been.
After DS Clarke steps out to make her call, I remain on Nick’s bed, trying not to stare at the magazine on his desk. I keep my eyes focused instead on my phone, willing Craig to call back. He was the one who said that boys don’t always confide in their mums, and I can understand if sexuality was something Nick felt awkward talking to me about. While it pains me to admit it, Craig might be able to shed more light on any such concerns Nick was having.
I try not to feel piqued at the idea of him knowing more about Nick’s inner turmoil than I do; I tell myself I don’t care if Craig is planning to be with Katie, or if Nick wants to live with the pair of them. I just want him safely home first.
My phone rings. “Craig?” I say breathlessly.
“Izzy? Are you OK?”
“Oh, Laura. Hi. Yes, sorry, what?” I was so expecting it to be my ex-husband that for a moment I’m completely disoriented.
“I’ve just heard about Nick. I can’t believe it.”
“You’ve just heard . . . ?” It’s one thing reporters following the story; I have no idea how my boss can have found out. So far, the police investigation has been focused but low-key. The press conference will change all that, but I’m not due there for two hours.
“I’ve got the breakfast news on. Bessie, stop that. Please. Finish your toast. No, darling, you had waffles yesterday.”
A second later, Laura is drowned out by the sound of the TV, and I realize her four-year-old daughter must be playing with the control. Voices boom down the phone line: Missing since Friday night . . . Urgent appeal for information. I leap up and scrabble around Nick’s desk, looking for his portable TV remote.
Finally unearthing it in a drawer, I frantically hop through channels until Nick’s blue eyes stare out at me. Thanks, Mum, you’re the best. Only I’m not. I’m the worst mum in the world, and I’d give anything to have him here right now, subjecting me to more of the silent treatment I should have realized was about far more than wanting to go on a stupid sleepover.
“Take all the time off you need,” Laura says. “And if there’s anything I can do . . .”
“Right. I’ve spoken to the guys, and—” DS Clarke pulls up short as she returns. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were on the phone.”
“It’s fine. It was just my boss.” I flick off the television and sink back onto the bed, feeling a bit wobbly as I realize Nick’s name and photo are now public property. I know that’s the whole point of the media appeal, but the reality feels far more invasive than I’d imagined it would.
“She’s heard the news, I’m guessing. Nick’s making all the headlines now.” DS Clarke leans against the door frame, giving me a kind look. “This is good, Izzy. I know it doesn’t feel like it. But like I said, we need the public’s eyes and ears. A two-pronged strategy. That’s what we need. Unraveling clues close to home. Chasing up leads out there.”
“A push or a pull,” I say, thinking of her boss now.
“I’ve kept DCI Maxwell fully updated.” She picks up on the reference. “He’ll be at the press conference.”
“Oh, right. And you’ll make sure he knows not to invite Craig?”
“If you’re sure, Izzy.”
“Completely. I don’t want to confuse Nick. If he’s watching. I do want to speak to Craig, though. I want to know if he and Nick ever discussed custody arrangements.”
“Our tech guys didn’t find anything like that in Nick’s emails. I just spoke to them.”
“What about texts? You can access those remotely, can’t you?” I dredge my limited knowledge of technology.
“Through the server, yes. We didn’t find anything significant. A few texts from Craig suggesting theater trips. Nothing about moving in with him. Same for his voice mails. Just a couple of messages asking Nick to be in touch. There are a few from you, too, of course.”
“Yes, I left him . . . some.” Dozens, constantly pleading for him to call me.
“I understand. Sorry, Izzy. I had to listen to them. No one else had picked them up, though. They were all highlighted as new messages. Oh, but the guys did manage to reactivate Nick’s Facebook account. Apparently, it was only set up a couple of weeks ago.”
“A couple of weeks ago? Really? That’s when Nick went into full-on pester mode about the sleepover.” I study DS Clarke’s face, waiting to see if a lightbulb sparks in her head as it just has in mine. “That can’t be a coincidence, can it?”
“You know, I don’t think it is,” she says slowly. “There are no actual status updates on Nick’s timeline. No posts about what he was doing or thinking. He hadn’t shared any of the usual circular jokes or memes. The only photos were of Friday night. Look. I’ll show you.”
She takes out her phone, and I watch eagerly as she loads the website. My hands shake as I take the phone from her; my eyes eat up the screen, desperately trying to look beyond the silliness of the photos to find something more—anything at odds with the boys’ fun antics . . . I can’t find anything. Sean was right: the photos are completely innocent, just the boys larking around, being playful with each other—exactly as I’d hoped for Nick when I agreed to the sleepover. His shy smile tugs at my heart, but it tells me nothing.
I keep scrolling, clicking on photo after photo, then I look up at DS Clarke, feeling more puzzled than ever. “You’re right. All that’s on there is—”
“The sleepover. Yes.” She frowns, looking pensive. “It’s almost like Nick’s profile was created specifically with that in mind. And once it was done, once Nick had disappeared, he got rid of it.” She hesitates. “Or someone else did.”
“Someone else?” My mind does a 180-degree flip.
“Nick doesn’t have a smartphone, does he?” she says, coming to sit next to me on the bed. “And we’ve checked local Internet cafés. The library. Everywhere with public computer access. No one has seen Nick.” She chews the end of her ponytail thoughtfully. “So how did he delete his account?”
I stare at her, feeling sick as I realize she’s right. It has been my worst fear, but to have it seemingly confirmed is devastating. “But who? Why? These photos”—I take one last look, then hand back her phone—“they’re hardly incriminating evidence. Of anything.”
“Messages? I didn’t see any.” I watch her fingers flick expertly across the screen again, wishing I knew more about the digital world Nick seems to have tumbled into.
“That’s because Nick’s account wasn’t just deactivated,” she says, turning to me with a serious look. “It was permanently deleted. Whoever closed it wanted it gone for good. Luckily, data is still stored online for a while. That’s how our guys managed to retrieve the photos. But no messages or instant chat reappeared. If Nick has been chatting to anyone, Izzy, those conversations have been wiped.”
I lean back against the headboard, piecing together what she’s saying, hating the picture that begins to form in my mind. Maybe the sleepover wasn’t a casual event that went wrong. Maybe what happened on Friday night was far more deliberate, with Nick setting up a Facebook account specifically to communicate with someone: using the sleepover as a decoy, posting those photos purely to convince everyone he was having a good time, before quietly slipping away to meet whoever it was he’d secretly been in contact with.
That person could be a friend I don’t know about. But if so, and Nick’s disappearance is simply a preteen statement of independence, why hasn’t he been in touch? Unless he was messaging someone who had bad intentions. . . someone who manipulated Nick into trusting them, persuading him to sneak out from the sleepover to meet them, forcing him to delete his Facebook profile to cover their tracks—before hurting, abusing . . . killing him?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I check my rearview mirror constantly as I drive, unable to shake off a sense that I’m being followed—although, in theory, I’m the one doing the following. After running through a quick rehearsal for the press conference, DS Clarke kindly offered me a lift, but I wanted some time to myself, to gather my thoughts before facing the media. I’m regretting it now.
I’m so preoccupied trying to decide if the black Range Rover I’ve seen in my mirror the whole journey really is tailing me that I’m finding it hard to keep the detective’s nondescript blue car in my sights. Soon I realize I’ve lost her, and when my phone rings I have to admit defeat and swing over to the side of the road, hoping it’s DS Clarke phoning to check where I am and give me directions. If not, I’ll have to manage with my ancient GPS.
“Izzy? It’s Mr. Newton. Sean. Can you talk?”
“Oh, Sean, hi. Yes, of course.” I don’t take my eyes off the Range Rover as it drives past, slows down, and then speeds around a corner. As soon as it disappears, I rest my head on the steering wheel, puffing out relief, lecturing myself to stop with the paranoia already.
“Are you sure? You sound like you’re in Piccadilly Circus.”
“Sorry, traffic’s bad. I’m driving. Well, parked at the moment. Did you speak to the boys?” I ask, although I’m beginning to suspect they really are as much in the dark as me. If Nick has been targeted by someone on the Internet, he clearly hasn’t told his friends. Insisting on secrecy, instilling shame . . . I know it’s the modus operandi of online predators.
“Only briefly, I’m afraid.”
“Jason?” I say doubtfully.
“Unfortunately not. He’d already set off for his Sunday job. But you were right: Mrs. Baxter was somewhat. . . resistant to the idea of me speaking to him. Adrian’s and Samir’s mums were fine about it, though. They both met me for a quick chat with their boys. Samir’s dad, Richard Matlock, joined us, too.”
“And? What did they say?”
“I’m really sorry, Izzy. I couldn’t get much out of them, after all.”
“Right.” I bite my lip. “That’s OK. You tried. I’m grateful for that.”
“I honestly thought they might have opened up to me. I’m sorry if I gave you false hope.”
“No. It’s OK.” I struggle to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
“There was one thing,” he says hesitantly. “It might be nothing, though.”
“What is it?” I can tell he just wants to give me something, just as he did when he told me about the book Nick was reading. I don’t care; I’ll take any scrap of information I can get.
“Apparently, Nick’s started hanging out a lot with someone new. At break times, lunch. Whenever they’re out of lessons. Adrian was a bit worried about telling the police. I think he was scared it might sound like he was being a bit, you know, jealous of his best mate buddying up with someone else.”
“Oh, right. I see. Wow.” I feel a buzz of hope as I think about Nick’s Facebook account, set up two weeks ago. Maybe the simple explanation is that he’s found a new best friend. He hasn’t mentioned one—but that no longer surprises me. “Has he noticed it more recently? Over the last two weeks?”
“He didn’t say, I’m afraid. Do you think it’s worth having the police check it out? The name’s Cass Parker, by the way. In Year Eight.”
“Cass . . . Gosh, yes. That could be very helpful indeed.” The buzz intensifies, butterflies dancing in my stomach now. “Thanks, Sean. I can’t thank you enough.”
I end the call, fizzing with thoughts. Does Nick have a girlfriend? Not only could that explain why he joined Facebook in the first place—to chat privately with this girl—it might even be the reason he pestered me so much about the sleepover. There’s no denying it would have provided the perfect cover for the pair to sneak off together, if that is what’s happened.
It feels unlike Nick to be so thoughtless, but my conversation with DS Clarke reminded me how fast he’s growing up. Perhaps even now he and this Cass are enjoying their big adventure too much to think of how worried their parents will be. I can’t decide whether the possibility makes me feel hopeful—that Nick isn’t in danger; he’s off having illicit fun—or terrified. Two young children on the streets; the risks are enormous.
I turn on the ignition, punch the TV studio’s address into my GPS, and drive. Frustratingly it’s another half-hour before I arrive at the studio, and not just because of the heavy traffic. Every time I see a blond head passing by, or two almost-teenagers walking along arm in arm, I stop, turn, and stare, hopes soaring—only to be crushed yet again.
* * *
“Mrs. Brookes? My name’s Lexie. I’ll be looking after you today.”
I turn to stare at the dark-haired young production assistant at my side. “Sorry?”
“Are you ready for us to start? Two minutes?”
My eyes follow the direction of her hand as she gestures toward the table set at the head of the room on a platform. The TV studio is small but chaotic, overrun with cameras and cables. Technicians mingle with journalists, and despite the production assistant’s friendly smile, the whole place feels bewildering and slightly hostile.
I look around anxiously for DS Clarke. She was waiting for me outside the studio, and as soon as I’d parked the car, I relayed everything Sean had told me on the phone. She immediately agreed it presented a potentially useful lead and strode off briskly to investigate, promising to return before the press conference got underway. She’s still not back.
“Mrs. Brookes?” the production assistant repeats. “Are you OK?”
“Yes. Sorry, thank you. I’m fine. I was just waiting for—”
“Izzy! Sorry. Calls took longer than I thought.” DS Clarke hurries toward me, tucking her phone in her jacket pocket. “How are you doing?”
“Better now that you’re here,” I say, eager to know what she’s found out. “Did you find the girl? Have you spoken to her parents? Do they know—”
“I’m so sorry.” DS Clarke shakes her head. “I was hoping for a lucky break, too. But I managed to get hold of someone at Nick’s school. There’s no girl called Cass Parker in Year Eight. Could you have misheard?” She reaches into her pocket for her notebook.
“Oh, what? No . . . no, that was definitely it.” I stare at her in disappointment, realizing I’ve spent the last hour unconsciously painting an entire scenario in my head: Nick secretly messaging his first girlfriend before sneaking out
to meet up, the pair of them crashing on another friend’s sofa . . .
I should have realized I was simply projecting experiences from my own teenage years on to Nick; I should have known it was wishful thinking. After all, no other parent has come forward to say their daughter is missing.
“There is a boy called Cassidy Parker,” DS Clarke continues. “He’s in Year Twelve, though. Did Nick’s teacher specifically say it was a girl—and that she’s at Nick’s school?”
“A boy.” I’m such an idiot. “No. He didn’t. I just assumed. On both counts.”
“Well, you may still be right on at least one of them. Don’t worry, I’ll look into it some more when we’re finished here. Maybe Mr. Newton got his names mixed up.”
“I don’t think so. He was quite clear about what Adrian said. I’m sorry if I was wrong to ask him to speak to the boys,” I say, feeling deflated. “I’ve probably confused things.”
“No, not at all. It was a good thought, actually. They obviously trust their teacher.”
“They do. To be honest, that’s why I thought he might be helpful.”
“And he has been, don’t worry. He’s answered loads of questions about school, playground cliques. All that stuff.” DS Clarke glances over her shoulder as murmurs from the studio floor grow louder. “Let’s hope the media appeal does the trick. I know this is all a bit overwhelming, Izzy. It’ll be worth it, though, if seeing you nudges someone’s memory.”
“Or conscience,” I say bitterly, still grappling with disappointment.
“Quite. The sight of a mother’s distress . . . You’d have to have a heart of stone to resist it.” She gives me a hug. “Just be yourself. And don’t worry about that lot.” She nods at the assembled journalists. “We kept the guest list select. They’re all on your side.”
“I hope you’re right.” I remember the parting shot of the reporter outside my house: Have you done something to hurt your son? I think of press conferences I’ve watched on TV myself, the suspicion—the judgment—that often lands on the parents of missing children.