She gripped the handle of the buggy so hard that her hands hurt.
She hadn’t asked how much it was going to be. Shit. What if it was hundreds of pounds? The bag filled with the gas meter money had felt very substantial when she’d left home. But here, now, it didn’t seem like a lot at all – not for someone who’d been on TV.
She felt sick with worry. She’d asked now, and she needed answers. What if Latham laughed at her heavy, light money and refused to tell her what had happened to Daniel? What would she do then? What could she do?
Anna bit her lip and felt her eyes grow hot with threatening tears.
She would make him help her. She would beg or threaten, or cry and get angry. Something would work; something would have to, because Anna Buck was crazy and anyone could tell—
‘Now,’ said Richard Latham, ‘what would you like to talk about?’
Anna looked around to see that while she had been panicking, everyone had left, and it was just her and Latham in the dingy little hall. Her eyes lit on the crucifix over the doorway, and she felt guilty that she wasn’t praying, instead of paying for help.
But James was right. Where was God when Daniel disappeared?
Nowhere.
This was the moment of truth. A minute from now she might know where her son was. The hope in her heart felt as swollen and fragile as a soap bubble.
For a second she couldn’t speak at all, and thought she might cry instead. Then she pulled herself together. She had to stay strong for Daniel. She couldn’t fall here at the very first step.
Anna drew a deep breath and her words came out in a rush. ‘I need to know where my son is. He’s been missing for over four months. He’s nearly five now and his name is Daniel and here’s a photo of him, it was taken last summer so his hair will be longer now but you can see it’s him, and Sandra told me you can just look at photos and you know things, so can you look at his photo? Please? I can pay you. I have money. I only have twenty-five pounds at the moment but I can get more if it’s more. I just have to know where he is, or whether he’s—’
Daniel’s not dead.
She took a deep breath and rushed on. ‘He’s not dead. I know he’s not dead because I’d feel it, I think. I know I would, so I know he’s not dead, but can you please just look at it? Please? And tell me?’
She held out the photo to Latham, but he didn’t take it from her trembling hand.
‘Please?’ she said, and her voice cracked.
Latham reached out, but instead of taking the photo, he took both Anna’s hands in his.
‘I can’t,’ he said.
‘Yes, you can. Sandra said so. She said you’re a shut eye and you talk to her dog and you can just look at a photo and—’
‘I can’t,’ he repeated. ‘I’m very sorry.’
‘She said you can. Can you just look at it? I mean, that’s all I want you to do! It’s not much to ask! My son’s gone! He’s four years old and he got out of the door because James left it open when he went to buy fireworks and now he’s gone! Please just look at it.’
Latham hesitated, then took the photo from her and Anna’s stomach churned frantically. She could feel the blood heating her cheeks, and she shook in anticipation. Felt faint with it.
But he didn’t look at the photo. He looked at her through thick lenses with moony, uneven-brown eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I don’t do this any more.’
The blood in Anna’s ears was so loud that she cocked her head and asked, ‘You what?’
‘I don’t do missing people any more. I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t do them any more? What do you mean? Won’t you even look at it? Look at the photo! Please!’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘But this is what you do! You helped the police look for another child; why won’t you help me find mine? I need your help! Nobody else can help me. Please! Please just look at the picture!’
He blinked slowly behind the thick lenses. ‘I’m sorry.’
Anna looked down. He was offering the photo back to her, but she didn’t take it. She stared at it. Daniel smiled up at her from next to Richard Latham’s big thumb. There was a black mark on Latham’s nail where he’d dropped something on it, or hit it with a hammer. It was her best photo of Daniel. He was in his red dungarees, like a jolly little hillbilly. She’d got them from Oxfam and they were his favourite things. Loose and cool and with lots of pockets for lots of things: crayon stubs and pennies, and discarded toys from other children’s Happy Meals. She thought of the way he was so fascinated by the dungarees’ bib fastenings that she always had a job to do them up, because his head was always in the way. His little blond head, with the short curls, craning to see how the metal button slid into the buckle. She never minded how long it took to do up the bib, as long as she could kneel there and breathe in the heady aroma of Daniel: innocence and joy.
Innocence and joy.
‘I’m sorry.’ Latham said it again. He wasn’t going to change his mind.
Slowly Anna reached out and took the photo.
She had been ready to beg him, to threaten, to shout and scream. She would have slapped him; she would have slept with him.
But when the moment came, she had nothing.
She was empty.
So empty, she couldn’t even ask why.
‘OK,’ she whispered.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.’
Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t? No difference.
‘OK,’ she said again. She got up and put the photo back in her pocket.
‘Please come back next week,’ he said. ‘Maybe somebody else will bring you a message from Daniel.’
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t think about other possibilities. The pain of losing this one was too great.
‘Goodnight,’ he said.
Anna pushed the buggy up the old green carpet and put her wet shoes on at the door.
‘Don’t give up hope,’ he said.
It was too late for that.
Outside the rain was coming down hard and the baby bawled loudly all the way home.
14