Karen White climbs carefully over the sack of unopened post that sandbags Beth’s front door. ‘Thanks for saying you’ll talk to me.’
Beth nods. She’s still not sure. It’s Liz who decided they should talk to the press.
‘I’m not here to hassle,’ says Karen, like she knows what Beth is thinking. ‘I’ve been here since day one and I’ve left you alone.’
‘It’s true,’ chimes Chloe. ‘I left Big Chimp at the beach. She brought it back to me, save it getting nicked.’
‘I think this should be getting more coverage,’ Karen says. ‘But it’s a mad summer and there are a lot of stories around right now.’
Beth doesn’t like that word. Pheasant poaching, parking fines and celebrity gossip, those are stories. This is life and death stuff. Story is an insult. It’s even worse than case.
‘So what should we do?’ asks Mark.
At Beth’s gesture, Karen sits on the sofa, right on the edge of the cushions. She pushes her sleeves up her forearms and leans forward. ‘OK, you won’t like hearing this, but part of the reason Danny’s death isn’t getting the attention it deserves is it’s not the right profile. If Danny had been a girl, and blonde, and a few years younger, this place would be crawling with reporters by now.’ She catches Beth’s look of disgust. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, and she looks like she means it. ‘It’s just how it works. Eleven-year-old boys run away from home all the time. I know it’s brutal, but the papers only ever reflect what the public latch on to. If you really want more focus on this case, it’s down to you, Beth. You tell your story, every mum will respond. If I could have a picture of you and Danny to go with the article, we’d get two pages out of it.’
Two instincts tussle within Beth: the desire to do whatever it takes to get publicity and the feeling that she might as well let them go through her dirty underwear. What will she achieve, putting herself under the spotlight, spilling her guts to a journalist she’s only just met? Beth searches her family’s faces for guidance but finds her own cluelessness reflected back at her three times. It’s her decision: they are merely waiting for it.
‘It’s the Herald, I read the Herald,’ says Liz, like the newspaper owe her something for her forty-odd years of loyal readership. Beth doesn’t know much about the media but even she knows it doesn’t work that way. She twists hard at the hem of her dress.
‘What if she shows us what she’s written, before she sends it in?’ asks Chloe.
‘I wouldn’t normally do that, but maybe this time…’
She’s making it sound like she’s doing them the favour. Perhaps she is. ‘Is that what we want to do?’ Beth thinks out loud. ‘Shouldn’t we clear it with the police?’
‘You can absolutely do that,’ says Karen, but her body language – leaning away, arms folded – tells a different story. ‘I will say that they’re very cautious, particularly after Leveson, and DI Hardy especially, because of the Sandbrook connection.’
There’s a cold sinking sensation in Beth’s throat, like she’s swallowed a block of ice. Sandbrook is only famous for one thing. She can see the girls’ faces without even trying.
‘What’s he got to do with Sandbrook?’ asks Mark.
‘Because he… you didn’t know?’ Karen’s composure slips for a second. ‘Alec Hardy was the officer in charge of the investigation. I was there. I profiled him on the case. It’s his fault it all fell apart in court.’
The chill inside Beth reaches her core. That abruptness she took for ruthless efficiency looks very different now. And they have trusted him. They have trusted him with the most important job in the world. Surely he should have been legally bound to declare it or something? She opens her mouth to speak but it is dry as dust. Nothing comes out.
‘How did he get another job?’ asks Mark.
‘I don’t know,’ says Karen. ‘But one of the reasons I’m here is to make sure he doesn’t do it again.’
Something occurs to Beth and she finds her voice. ‘Ellie would’ve told me.’
‘I assumed someone had,’ says Karen. ‘I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have blurted it if I’d known.’
The chill spreads to Beth’s skin. How could Ellie keep something like this from her? Whose side is she on?
The room waits for Beth’s answer. She doesn’t trust her own judgement any more, that’s the problem. Look how far off the mark she was with Steve Connolly and Alec Hardy. With Ellie, of all people. Who’s to say Karen White will be any different? Then again, what’s the alternative? Send her away, refuse to give the interview? There is a ripping sound and Beth looks down to see that she has torn through her skirt.
Karen puts her head on one side. ‘I realise I’m biased, but now you know, it’s all the more reason to use the press. Because, I’m sorry, Beth, but Alec Hardy isn’t exactly rounding up the suspects on his own, is he? The more coverage we get, the more pressure there is on him.’
Put like that, it’s easy. Beth’s desire to look after Danny has not diminished with his death. If anything, it is stronger now than it has ever been.
There’s a photograph on the windowsill, Beth and Danny at the beach last summer, arms around each other’s necks. As she slides it from the frame, she knows that she can live with herself if this turns out to be the wrong choice. But she will not be able to live with herself if she does nothing.
The late-afternoon sun paints the Sea Brigade hut a buttery yellow. In the yard, an upturned boat is stacked with child-sized life jackets. Jack Marshall is in his leader’s uniform, crested navy tie on a sky-blue shirt, overseeing his little charges erect another shrine to the lost boy. This one has a nautical theme: seashells instead of flowers, laminated drawings. There are photographs of Danny on the beach, Danny in his Sea Brigade uniform, Danny picking litter from sand, Danny holding up a fish, Danny tying knots.
Olly Stevens pauses for a moment in front of these pictures. He shakes his head slowly and rubs at his eyes. Then he clenches his jaw, sets his phone to record and sticks it in his pocket.
‘Hi, Mr Marshall,’ he says brightly.
‘Oliver!’ says Jack. ‘Come to help?’
‘Well, d’you think we could talk inside maybe?’
Jack is on guard. ‘No, we can talk here. Can you not see I’m busy? What is it you want?’
‘I’ve come across some information and…’ Olly guides Jack gently away from the boys. ‘Being as we know each other, I thought I should come to you before it gets out.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I’m really sorry, there’s no good way of asking this. Is it true you’ve a conviction for underage sex?’
Fear and anger hit Jack’s eyes. ‘You little bastard!’
‘I’m not trying to stitch you up —’ begins Olly. He doesn’t get the chance to finish. Jack, with the speed of a man half his age, grabs him by the collar and pushes him against the railings. The Sea Brigade boys back away, young and out of their depth.
‘Who told you?’ snarls Jack. ‘Was it the police? You’re all as bad as each other, gossiping and accusing.’
‘I think you should let go of me!’ Olly says through the stranglehold. Jack does, and suddenly he’s a frail old man again.
‘You’ve known me how long?’ he implores. ‘When did I ever do anything improper with kids?’
‘If we can talk inside…’ pants Olly.
‘So you can trick me into saying something incriminating?’
‘How can I incriminate you if you’re innocent?’
‘Oh, they’ve trained you to be a clever weasel, haven’t they? Get away! Go on!’
Olly knows when he’s beaten. He leaves the Sea Brigade hut at a pace halfway between a walk and a jog. Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice Nige Carter is parked up nearby, eating chips in the cab of his van. With the window down and the wind in his favour, he has heard every word.