Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) (24 page)

‘Yes.’

‘You’re shaking.’

Jessica glanced away from the driveway to see the whites of her knuckles as they clung onto the

steering wheel. He was right: her wrist was trembling. She felt something on her arm and jumped

with surprise, accidentally pulling the car to the left before righting herself with a gasp.

Niall had placed a comforting hand on her arm but removed it sharply. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s fine.’

Jessica pressed the brake, slowing the car as she parked next to an almost-new Bentley. The house

in front was enormous – three storeys high, each a dozen windows across with a tall, thick wooden

front door with white marble-looking steps leading up to it and impressively carved pillars. Jessica

had never visited Washington DC but it looked like a sandstone-coloured version of every picture

she’d seen of the White House.

Large houses only ever made her think of one place. Her heart was thumping and she didn’t have to

look into the mirror to know her face was flushed.

‘It’s a different house, Jessica.’

Niall spoke calmly, facing the front. Good – she didn’t want anyone staring at her, not when she felt

like this.

‘I know.’

‘I’m here. It’s all right.’

Jessica breathed in through her nose, thinking of that fictional bloody psychologist again. He didn’t

even have the decency to exist anywhere other than in her head. Bastard, bastard, bastard. Not now –

it’s only a house. Bricks, cement, wood. Pull yourself together.

Slowly, she breathed out through her mouth and opened the car door. Her legs were unsteady and

she held onto the roof as she closed the door with a pitiful slam.

Only a house – and it didn’t even look like
that
one.

Before she could properly get a grip, she heard a woman’s voice and turned to see someone she

assumed was Sylvia Farnsworth standing between the two pillars at the front. ‘Hello? Are you

Jessica?’

One step at a time, hand outstretched, smile. It’s not bloody hard, is it?

‘Hi, I’m Jessica Daniel and this is my colleague Niall Hambleton.’

Sylvia gripped her hand, with a smile like it was painted on, make-up immaculate, smart,

expensive clothes. She hadn’t noticed, had she?

Jessica let Niall go ahead of her as they entered the house. She was expecting a huge hallway and a

giant painting but it was nothing like that. No wood panelling, no thick rugs. Definitely not the same

house. Instead the interior was like her place but bigger – carpeted, a small side table for keys and

mail, a cupboard where coats went. The ceiling was higher and the room larger but Jessica instantly

knew the people she was dealing with – Anthony Farnsworth Senior was the son of a miner and came

from Bradford. She knew the area, knew the people. It wasn’t the type of place where you’d be

allowed to get above yourself. He’d made a fortune from good-quality social housing, not ripping

people off.

Sylvia led them through a hallway into a dining room laid out like an old Victorian tea room. There

were four round tables with green baize covers and varnished wood around the edge. The chairs,

curtains and carpet all matched. ‘I’ll fetch Anthony,’ she said, pronouncing the H in her husband’s

name.

Jessica and Niall sat opposite each other, taking in the room, chandelier and all.

She was beginning to think she’d misjudged the couple when Sylvia re-entered with Anthony at her

side. In contrast to his son, Anthony was a brute of a man: tree-trunk thighs, saucepan hands, a neck as thick as his waist. Six and a bit feet of pure Yorkshireman but somehow he didn’t feel intimidating.

He reached in to shake her hand, his brown eyes staring into hers. His grip wasn’t overly strong but

the moment he let her go, his attention turned to Niall, the same fixed stare.

As they sat, he failed to mask his discomfort, glancing around the room unhappily. Jessica didn’t

need to ask to know what the problem was. They had been childhood sweethearts but Sylvia was

prim and proper. This was her room, perhaps something she’d dreamed of having since she was

young. Anthony was old-fashioned, a product of the mining family in which he’d grown up, gruff with

an accent as thick now as it had likely ever been. Opposites really did attract.

‘I was hoping to ask you about your son,’ Jessica said, looking between the pair.

‘I bloody told you!’ Anthony practically broke the back of the chair as he spun to face his wife. It

wasn’t through aggression, more that the setup was far too dainty for him.

Jessica expected Sylvia to shrink away but despite her size, she wagged a finger in her husband’s

face. ‘Don’t you take that tone with me.’

Anthony cowered under her gaze, turning back to Jessica. ‘What’s he done now?’

Jessica felt bad for lying but didn’t know if there was any great benefit – at least for now – in

telling them their son was back doing drugs again. ‘He’s not done anything. I was wondering if either

of you have had any contact with him in the past few weeks or so?’

Sylvia replied. ‘I’ve been up to see him a handful of times. He’s been sorting himself out.’ She

emphasised the final few words, clearly for her husband’s benefit.

‘Tony’s been helping us with a couple of things – nothing for you to worry about – but I’ve not seen

him in around a week. I’m sure he’s fine but he told me he was thinking about getting out of

Manchester and perhaps returning home. I wondered if you’d heard anything?’

Jessica could have asked on the phone but sometimes it was better to see people’s faces. All she

could see in theirs was concern – from his mother especially. His father had an ‘I-told-you-so’ look of

annoyance on his face but the eyes gave his disappointment away.

‘I could try calling him?’

Sylvia left the room, returning moments later with a mobile phone, muttering that he might answer if

he saw it was her. She tried three times back to back before giving up, putting the phone on the table

in front of her.

‘I really thought he’d turned himself around,’ Sylvia said, eyes fixed on the phone, willing it to ring.

‘No one’s saying he hasn’t—’

Anthony’s snort of derision interrupted her. ‘You do know the types of thing he was into?’

‘Tony’s been in and out of my life a lot over the years.’

‘Then you should know what he could have had. I’ve worked my whole life for this – back-

breaking stuff, early mornings, late nights.’ He stretched out a hand towards his wife. ‘Sylv couldn’t

have children after him. She dedicated her life to that boy and this is how he repays her. We told him

we’d support whatever he wanted – if he wanted a job, or if he had some idea that he thought he

could make a go of, then we would have invested. But oh no, he had do things his own way in that

God-forsaken hellhole. Look at him now – a stupid, thick junkie.’

Before Jessica could reply, Anthony was on his feet, sending the chair spiralling to the ground

behind him. He was at the door in three strides and away down the corridor, the heavy echo of his

footsteps booming behind him. Niall must’ve clicked that this was what Jessica had feared because

he was quickly on his feet too, saying he’d be back and heading out of the room after the other man.

Sylvia stood and picked up the fallen chair. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘No need . . .’

‘He’s always been like this – he wants people to think he doesn’t care so he gets angry and stomps

away. The truth is, he’s hurting as much as I am. He always wanted a son.’

‘He’s right about one thing.’

‘What?’

‘Manchester: it really is a God-forsaken hellhole sometimes. I’ve not seen blue sky in weeks.’

Sylvia smiled wearily. ‘I thought it was different this time.’

‘When I saw him a couple of weeks ago, I thought that too. He was into his tea and talking about

coming back here.’

‘What happened?’

‘Who says anything did?’

‘Why else would you be here?’

Jessica didn’t have an answer but still didn’t want to tell Sylvia about the state in which she’d

found her son. ‘All I can say is that we’ve not seen him in a few days – that’s the truth.’

Sylvia peered back towards her silent phone again. ‘I can’t help but feel that so much of this is

down to us. I know it sounds stupid but I suppose we were the ultimate in pushy parents. We didn’t

spoil him, that’s not our way, but we kept on and on at him about what he was going to do for his

future. He was never going to work for his father, we both knew that, so we offered to give him some

money to set up a business if he could find something investable. Anthony asked for a proper business

plan, costings, the lot. He was only eighteen. We were trying to be hard on him but probably pushed it

too far. We thought we were giving him an opportunity not many eighteen-year-olds got but that was

the point, wasn’t it? He didn’t want that, at least not then, he wanted to go out with his mates, meet

girls, get into trouble.’

‘I’m sure you did what you thought was best.’

Sylvia shrugged, which didn’t seem quite right given her otherwise straight-laced appearance.

‘When he said he was going to university, we weren’t exactly unhappy but we were surprised. I

suppose it was because neither of us went and we assumed. He had great grades at school and we had

the money. We would have paid for him to study abroad, or if he’d wanted to go to one of the big

universities, it wouldn’t be a problem. But then he said he was going to Manchester and we didn’t

know what to think. I know you’ll think I sound like a snob but it wasn’t like that. It felt like we were offering him the world – giving him everything we never had – and then he turned around to say he’d

rather live down the road.’

Jessica had often felt that herself, especially when she had been younger. It sounded ridiculous

considering the hell some children went through but sometimes, a person’s upbringing was almost too

good. It wasn’t about being spoiled, but things were put on a plate, not giving an individual the chance to go out and find out what the real world was like. Making mistakes was as important a part of life

as getting things right.

Perhaps this was why Tony was in her head – Jessica had seen it in him and now she knew it was

true. He’d gone to the city for the same reason she had: to get away from home. Here he would have

had a huge bedroom, support, money, opportunity; but they were their own prisons too. Perhaps

sleeping rough or in a poky flat offered him the freedom that this didn’t. He had certainly made his

own mistakes.

Jessica asked a few more questions, finding out that Sylvia had visited Manchester half-a-dozen

times in the past six months, seeing an improvement in her son on each occasion. Jessica asked if

Tony had ever been with anyone but his mother insisted he was always by himself. She’d not heard of

anyone named Scott.

When Niall returned, letting Jessica know with the merest nod of his head that he wasn’t going to

get anything else, she started to say her goodbyes, giving Sylvia her card and telling her to call if she heard anything.

‘Will you phone me too?’ Tony’s mother asked.

‘If we find him, I’ll get him to call you himself.’

Sylvia nodded but the gulp exposed her real fear. ‘That’s
if
you find him.’

Jessica negotiated the tight turns away from the property a lot better than she’d managed when she

was coming in the opposite direction. Niall didn’t speak until they were back on the main A road

leading to the motorway.

‘I had an interesting conversation with Anthony. It sounds like his son is quite the character.’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘What’s going on with the pair of you?’

‘I’d rather not say.’

‘But you’re not here on official business, so it’s something personal . . .’

Jessica didn’t reply, remaining silent until they were back on the motorway, where the traffic was

thankfully moving.

‘Did you visit your mum yet?’ Niall’s question came so out of the blue that Jessica answered

without thinking.

‘Not yet. I’ve been busy.’

‘You really should.’

If anyone else had told her that, they would’ve been impolitely informed to mind their own

business. With Niall, she let it go, replying with a simple: ‘I will.’

He was about to say something else when his phone started ringing. Niall hunted through his

pockets until he found it. She thought whoever was calling was going to ring off but he eventually

pressed the right button to answer. She only heard one half of the conversation but the increasing

agitation in his voice put her on edge too, the mention of his grandchildren’s names sending a shiver

rocking through her: ‘Right . . . Are you sure? . . . Poppy and Zac? . . . Both of them? . . . Where was Rebecca? . . . They’ve got to be somewhere . . . I’m on the motorway, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

Warm air was spewing from the car vents but the atmosphere still felt icy. ‘Where do you need me

to take you?’ Jessica asked.

‘My son’s house.’

‘Brendan?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Zac and Poppy are missing.’

Jessica put her foot down, blazing around a BMW into the outside lane and barrelling past a

caravan, wishing she had a siren. There was nothing she could say but Niall’s final word left her

dumbstruck anyway. It was barely a whisper, almost lost in the sound from the heater, but it was there

nonetheless: ‘Slasher.’