Read Online Random Acts of Unkindness by Jacqueline Ward - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jacqueline Ward
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odds of that? It seems like a coincidence on the surface, something freaky that I could dwell on and wonder about. But underneath it isn’t, and logic kicks in. There’s a common denominator, and it’s Connelly.
This is why I’m so sure that he has Aiden. I don’t know what it means, but I hold it in my mind as I become more drowsy. Then, as I finally teeter on the edge of sleep, I realise that all this happened five decades ago and anyone could have found the letters. Anyone to do with Connelly because, after all, he owned this house.
I’d followed up a tentative lead and got a result. Not a coincidence at all, a link in a place where no one else was looking. Bessy must have known that someone would have found the book after she had gone. Someone who found out about the box upstairs and its contents.
But lots of people have missing relatives. Don’t they? Yet I’ve been in the police long enough to know that somewhere in this fucked-up mess there’s a link. Estranged. That was the final word as I fell into a deep sleep.
Now I’m in the car, ready to drive to Coal Pit Lane to meet Mike. I want to read more of Bessy’s notebook, but I don’t have time. I’ve been on autopilot this morning, with Percy winding through my legs as I tried to make coffee, and now I can hear him meowing. I could have sworn he was in the house on Aiden’s bed. I look in the rearview mirror, but there’s no sign of him so I set off.
Mike had texted to say he was going to be late, and I was glad of the leeway. Bessy’s story had made me feel less alone. Harrowing though it must have been for her, at least it showed that something was eventually done about her case.
The Moors Murders. I’d policed this area long enough to know that they were what she was caught up in. Famous worldwide, any discussions always came with the qualification that cases like this were few and far between, that serial killers didn’t crop up that often, and that children were relatively safe.
This is what I had believed until Aiden disappeared. Even with my privileged knowledge, that people were possibly less safe than they thought, and a keen eye for how rife crime actually was, I’d still believed my son was safe. At fifteen, wasn’t it fine to let him go out with friends, travel alone across town to his father’s flat?
It had been six weeks now, and Bessy’s story made me realise that I had never actually checked the crime stats on missing children. Boys. Normally, that would be the first thing I’d do, to see how unusual a case was, who were the usual suspects, what it had in common with other cases.
But I hadn’t done it. Not yet. I hadn’t done it partly because I was still in shock and partly because, if I’m honest, even I made the assumption that the crime stats around teenage boys were correct. That stereotype of missing boys being from rough homes, running away from trouble to trouble. I hadn’t bothered because I thought my son was different. But what if he was the same? A seed grows in my mind and I store it for later.
I spot Mike’s car parked up on Coal Pit Lane. I lock up my car and jump into his.
‘Mornin’. How’s tricks?’
He looks tired.
‘OK. You know. Onward and upward.’
He nods. He’s not looking at me, a sure sign that he’s about to tell me whatever’s on his mind. I’ve known him long enough to be able to read his expressions.
‘Yeah. Look. I need to say this before we embark on Prophesy.’
I snigger.
‘Embark? Christ. Bit formal.’
‘Yeah. Thing is, you’ve been acting a bit, erm, strange. I just want to know you’re up to it. You know I’ve got your back one hundred percent. Problem is, this could get heavy and I need you to be on the ball. Otherwise . . .’
‘What? Otherwise what? And I can’t see that I’ve been any stranger than anyone else who’s kid has gone missing. I’m fucking worried. Just think if it was one of yours.’
I see him flinch and I know this isn’t fair.
This is why I’m so sure that he has Aiden. I don’t know what it means, but I hold it in my mind as I become more drowsy. Then, as I finally teeter on the edge of sleep, I realise that all this happened five decades ago and anyone could have found the letters. Anyone to do with Connelly because, after all, he owned this house.
I’d followed up a tentative lead and got a result. Not a coincidence at all, a link in a place where no one else was looking. Bessy must have known that someone would have found the book after she had gone. Someone who found out about the box upstairs and its contents.
But lots of people have missing relatives. Don’t they? Yet I’ve been in the police long enough to know that somewhere in this fucked-up mess there’s a link. Estranged. That was the final word as I fell into a deep sleep.
Now I’m in the car, ready to drive to Coal Pit Lane to meet Mike. I want to read more of Bessy’s notebook, but I don’t have time. I’ve been on autopilot this morning, with Percy winding through my legs as I tried to make coffee, and now I can hear him meowing. I could have sworn he was in the house on Aiden’s bed. I look in the rearview mirror, but there’s no sign of him so I set off.
Mike had texted to say he was going to be late, and I was glad of the leeway. Bessy’s story had made me feel less alone. Harrowing though it must have been for her, at least it showed that something was eventually done about her case.
The Moors Murders. I’d policed this area long enough to know that they were what she was caught up in. Famous worldwide, any discussions always came with the qualification that cases like this were few and far between, that serial killers didn’t crop up that often, and that children were relatively safe.
This is what I had believed until Aiden disappeared. Even with my privileged knowledge, that people were possibly less safe than they thought, and a keen eye for how rife crime actually was, I’d still believed my son was safe. At fifteen, wasn’t it fine to let him go out with friends, travel alone across town to his father’s flat?
It had been six weeks now, and Bessy’s story made me realise that I had never actually checked the crime stats on missing children. Boys. Normally, that would be the first thing I’d do, to see how unusual a case was, who were the usual suspects, what it had in common with other cases.
But I hadn’t done it. Not yet. I hadn’t done it partly because I was still in shock and partly because, if I’m honest, even I made the assumption that the crime stats around teenage boys were correct. That stereotype of missing boys being from rough homes, running away from trouble to trouble. I hadn’t bothered because I thought my son was different. But what if he was the same? A seed grows in my mind and I store it for later.
I spot Mike’s car parked up on Coal Pit Lane. I lock up my car and jump into his.
‘Mornin’. How’s tricks?’
He looks tired.
‘OK. You know. Onward and upward.’
He nods. He’s not looking at me, a sure sign that he’s about to tell me whatever’s on his mind. I’ve known him long enough to be able to read his expressions.
‘Yeah. Look. I need to say this before we embark on Prophesy.’
I snigger.
‘Embark? Christ. Bit formal.’
‘Yeah. Thing is, you’ve been acting a bit, erm, strange. I just want to know you’re up to it. You know I’ve got your back one hundred percent. Problem is, this could get heavy and I need you to be on the ball. Otherwise . . .’
‘What? Otherwise what? And I can’t see that I’ve been any stranger than anyone else who’s kid has gone missing. I’m fucking worried. Just think if it was one of yours.’
I see him flinch and I know this isn’t fair.