Dead Of Winter (Willis/Carter #1)(74)

‘Had he ever gone off before?’

‘No . . . never. Why would he do that? It was his birthday treat. He’d been looking forward to it for so long. My husband, Michael, went back up to the stadium with Aaron, they talked to the officials. No one had seen anything. Michael phoned the police from there.’ She swallowed hard and shook her head. ‘Nothing . . . it’s like he’s just gone . . .’ Her eyes searched Carter’s face for some grain of hope.

‘Any problems at school, that kind of thing?’

She shook her head, weary with the same questions but trying hard to grasp at any memory that might add up to an answer for his disappearance.

‘Does Alex have access to the internet?’

‘Of course . . . every kid his age does.’ Helen sounded defensive. ‘He couldn’t do his homework without it.’

‘Please.’ Carter kept his voice soft. ‘It’s not a criticism. You’re right, every kid does. Just need to know if you were worried about any unusual amount of activity on it? Did you monitor it? Was he looking at it in here?’

‘In here and in his room.’ She thought for a moment, her eyes drifted. She smiled weakly at Alfie as he stared up at her face and grinned. ‘Alex was reaching that age when he had secrets: girls, I suppose, I don’t know. He’s such a wonderful, caring, thoughtful lad; we’ve never had any trouble with him.’ Helen’s expression was open-ended. She looked like she wanted to say ‘until’ . . .

‘Did he seem to be a little distant recently?’ Ebony asked as she wiggled a spotty dog toy at Alfie and made him laugh.

Helen sighed. ‘Yes, a little. He spent a lot of time in his room; he was a little snappy with me. I didn’t think about it at the time . . . but now I think . . . yes, maybe a little changed. He was tired, irritable. He’d had his tonsils out a few months ago. He didn’t seem quite himself after that. I put it down to him recovering, I suppose.’

‘Can I have the address of the boy he was with please?’ asked Carter

‘Aaron? Yes of course.’

After they’d gone Helen Tapp counted the chimes as she pulled the cork from the wine: one, two, three, four, five chimes from the antique French clock in the hallway that she was beginning to wish they’d never had restored. It got on her nerves. It marked the passing of time in a way that she couldn’t ignore.

She poured herself a large glass of red wine and gulped half of it down. Red in winter, white in summer, vodka when she didn’t care what season it was and she didn’t want people to see what she was drinking. Housewives all over the land did the same as her, that was a fact, she told herself.

Alfie was getting fractious. He was just beginning to do without his afternoon nap and it was now the tricky time of day, keeping him awake long enough to get past tea, bath, story and then bed. Tonight she would limit herself to one glass before he went to sleep. It didn’t help her cope with him. It made it a chore. Made her snappy, made her face rubbery and ugly. Made her want to scream at the injustice she felt inside and made her miss Alex more than she could bear. She looked at her reflection in the kitchen window. Outside was darkness. All she could see was blackness and the reflection of her face, her hands holding a glass. She had never felt so lonely.

The phone rang and she slammed her glass on the table, chipping its base as she rushed to answer it. She picked it up and listened, there was the pause that meant it was a salesperson or a recorded message asking her if she’d been ripped off by the banks. Who hadn’t?

‘Mrs Tapp? Can we use your house as a show-home for our double glazing?’

She put the phone down and looked down the hall at Alfie, who had fallen asleep sitting up, propped against a bean bag where she’d left him playing with the Duplo. Bugger . . . he’d take ages to get to sleep that evening now. She walked over and picked him up – he was flush-faced and heavy in her arms, completely asleep. She carried him upstairs and ran a bath as she sat on the edge and swished her hand in the water. She held onto him and started to cry; noisy agonizing wrenches that came from her core and hung harsh and jagged in the air . . .

‘I’ll take him.’ Her husband stood in the doorway looking at her with disgust and contempt on his face . . . ‘Give him to me.’ She didn’t seem to hear him. ‘Give . . . him . . . to . . . me.’ He hated her when she was drunk like this. Fucking drunk at five o’clock . . . her mouth was red-stained from it, her eyes swollen, her face blotchy, ugly, drunk . . . Christ, she looked a mess.

‘You’re home early . . .’ She heard the words join up and flinched. She tried a smile but then she turned her face from him as he took Alfie from her arms. She stared into the bath, swishing her hand until the water got scalding hot and she withdrew it fast.

‘What the fuck are you trying to do, scald him to death? Fuck, Helen . . . you need to get a grip. Anyone could knock on the door. What if the police come back and want to talk to you? What are you going to say? I was celebrating? I felt like getting drunk? They’re going to think not only has she lost one son, she looks like she doesn’t know how to care for the other.’

She stood and confronted him, her eyes burning, her body trembling.

‘Don’t ever talk to me like that. It wasn’t my fault.’

He shook his head, his eyes despising, his voice sarcastic. ‘Well it sure as hell wasn’t mine. And you have no idea about his life because you’re always pissed by six o’clock. While I’m out working to keep this family afloat. You didn’t know what he was doing on that PC; you didn’t care, as long as you had enough booze to keep you going. Well I’m stopping it now. The gravy train stops here. You’re nothing but a fucking housewife and no fucking good at that. This house is a mess, Alfie is asleep at five o’ fucking clock and you’re pissed.’