Something Wicked
and why hasn’t he come home? How did three of his fingers end up in those
woods?’
    Andrew squirmed in his seat. ‘I’ll be completely honest here, Mr Carr—’
    ‘Richard.’
    ‘Sorry, Richard. I’m not exactly sure what you think I can do that a police investigation couldn’t.’
    Richard ran his hands through his hair and breathed out loudly. Behind him, Jenny tapped gently away at her keyboard. ‘I suppose somebody doing something is better than a bunch of people
doing nothing.’
    He reached into his satchel and handed over a small photograph. A teenager, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, was lying on a patch of grass giving the thumbs-up to the camera. He had dark blond hair
similar in colour to Andrew’s, tousled in a just-got-out-of-bed look that so many young people seemed to have. Were people really that attractive first thing in the morning? From
Andrew’s experience, it was all yawns and trying to remember which day it was.
    ‘That’s Nicholas around eighteen months ago,’ Richard said, counting on his fingers. ‘That was taken eight or nine months before he disappeared.’
    ‘Was he living at home?’
    ‘Yes – my wife and I have a place in Prestwich. He lived with us while he went to college. He was talking about university and had a girlfriend. There was no reason for him to go
off, let alone for anyone to do anything to him. He was just a normal kid.’
    ‘Did the police ever come up with a motive or a theory?’
    Another shrug. ‘Not that they ever told us. They didn’t seem to have a clue.’
    Andrew glanced over Richard’s shoulder, catching Jenny’s eye as she peered over her glasses towards him, probably reading his mind. She was seemingly naturally gifted at everything
else, so telepathy wouldn’t be a push. Jenny turned back to her monitor without a word.
    ‘We’ll need a few initial pieces of information from you,’ Andrew said. ‘Nicholas’s full name, his date of birth, national insurance number, details of any bank
accounts. If he had a mobile phone and you know the number, that would be good. Ditto for personal email addresses and any social media accounts, that sort of thing. If you don’t know it,
then fair enough – but anything you can give us will be helpful.’ He nodded towards the other desk. ‘Jenny will take your details and if there’s anything you don’t
have on you, you can either phone in when you get home, or drop us an email. Everything that comes in and out of here is encrypted at our end, so don’t worry about security. Will you be in
tomorrow afternoon?’
    Richard nodded. ‘I’m retired, so I can always be in.’
    He leant forward, extending his hand but Andrew hesitated before shaking it. ‘I know it’s awkward but . . .’
    ‘Oh, don’t worry about money,’ Richard replied. ‘I know it’ll cost – but you can’t put a price on your son, can you? We just want some closure. It
sounds dreadful, I know, but if he’s dead we’d rather know – otherwise my wife and I are going to spend our days staring at the front door and hoping.’ He paused to swallow.
‘Do you have children?’
    Andrew shook his head.
    Richard smiled weakly. ‘Then take my word for it: there’s nothing worse than watching your child walk out of the front door and never coming back.’

WEDNESDAY

4
    Nine thirty-five in the morning was a very specific time. Violet Deacon could have told Andrew to come around at half past like a normal person. It was an accepted fact of life
that people worked in even blocks of time. Preferably, things happened on the hour. If that was impossible, then half past. At a push, quarter past or quarter to. It was the done thing, but
apparently not for Violet Deacon. Still, her husband was driving thirty miles out of his way to visit prostitutes, so Andrew should probably give her some slack.
    He parked outside her house at precisely nine thirty-four, hoping she’d forgive him the extra minute. He would have preferred to
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