“Yes, I will. I expect you could do with one too,” his father replied evenly.
Lloyd headed to the kitchen, the earlier fun of the evening already starting to recede. Lloyd loved his father as much as any son could orshould, but his father was a hard taskmaster and Lloyd often bridled at his implied criticism. Andhewas the success story of the family, for God’s sake. His brother and sister were work-shy, living off benefits, unwilling to work as hard or as diligently as their father had done when they were growing up. Lloyd knew they resented the fact that their father had seldom been present when they were small, often leveling this at him during furious family rows. Lloyd understood their grievance, but he never backed them up. His father had brought the family over from Jamaica with nothing—he’dhadto work all the hours God sent just to keep the family in food and clothing.
It had been backbreaking work too—twelve-hour shifts down at the Western Docks as a stevedore—the legacy of which still made itself felt now. At one time or another Lloyd’s father had strained, fractured or broken most parts of his body—Lloyd particularly remembered one nasty fall that had resulted in a broken back that had laid his father out for weeks. His mother had cried pretty much nonstop during that time, as the family stared destitution in the face. But his father had eventually risen from his sickbed and returned to work. He carried on doing just that until they handed him his cards some time later.
So even though he was a hard man to live with, especially now that their mother had passed away, Lloyd refused to criticize him. His brother and sister he was less equivocal about, especially as their failure to live up to the hardworking strictures laid down by the previous generation meant that Lloyd was now the sole repository of his father’s dying hopes and ambitions. His father, Caleb, was extremely tough on Lloyd, pushing him to get the best examination results, to pass out of Hendon top of his class, to climb the ranks from PC to DC to DS, faster, faster, faster. Nothing ever seemed to satisfy him. Lloyd kept on achieving, only to find he had still notearned his father’s approbation. He had already gone further and faster than most of his peers, but still he fell short.
Lloyd handed his father a full cup of tea and settled down to watch the politicians insinuate and evade.
“Look at this one. Lying through his teeth and he doesn’t even bother to hide it.”
His father had no time for politicians, but he still watched these shows. Caleb was a man who took life seriously, who set the highest standards and always seemed to be on the lookout in case someone fell short. Especially his own son, Lloyd thought to himself, as he drank his tea. Especially his firstborn son.
39
Helen stared down at the file, her heart breaking. She hadn’t slept a wink and had been on edge all morning, waiting for the file she’d requested on Robert to be faxed through. But now that she had it in her hand, she was no further on and her fragile hopes lay in tatters.
There had been some kind of assault in Northampton city center, which had resulted in Robert’s arrest and detention. A fight outside a pub between Robert and another individual over a trivial matter. The injuries were relatively minor—thank goodness—but that was about as much as Helen could make out. The rest of the two-page report had been heavily redacted, great swaths of it blacked out, so that only scant details of the incident remained. There was no clue as to whether charges had been brought, where Robert was living or what had happened to him. It promised somuch but, obscuring its precious content from view, delivered only bitter frustration.
***
“I know it’s an unusual request, but in the circumstances a justified one.” Helen’s tone was even and controlled, as she addressed Ceri Harwood.
“But why, Helen? To what end?”
Helen wanted to say, “I would have thought that was bloody obvious,” but swallowed her derision.
“He’s been off the radar for nearly a year now. No contact with his parents, no benefits collected, no e-mails, nothing. I’d like to find out if he’s okay, where he’s living—for their sakes, as much as my own.”
“I understand, Helen, of course I do. But you know the rules. The unredacted file is classified.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why—that’s Northamptonshire Police’s business, not ours—but even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. I don’t need to remind you of this, surely.”
“I know the protocols for undercover work,” Helen said, just about keeping her voice steady. “But I would argue that this is a special case. He’s a young man with no support network—”
“You don’t know that.”
“He doesn’t have any contacts in Northamptonshire, any relatives to turn to—”
“It sounds like he’s been there for nearly a year. Time enough to make friends, put down roots—”
“Oh, come off it,” Helen spat back, finally losing her temper. “When he left here he was in pieces. He’d just found out his mother was a serial murderer. His adoptive parents’ lives had been turnedupside down; he was full of anger, grief, resentment... He wasn’t in a frame of mind to ‘make friends.’”
The last phrase dripped with sarcasm, which Helen instantly regretted, as she saw Harwood’s expression harden. Harwood was her only hope here—she had to keep her onside.
“I don’t wish to appear aggressive or disrespectful, but you must understand that I have to find him. It was my fault he left—” Helen continued quickly.
“You didn’t out him. Emilia Garanita did,” Harwood said coolly.
“To get at me. I feel responsible, which is why I’m asking for your help here. Every day since he disappeared, I’ve been expecting the worst. He has nothing to live for, no one to care for him, no reason to go on. I know it’ll cause a fuss, that it goes against well-established protocols, but you can make this happen. So help me. Please.”
Helen had never been so open or vulnerable in front of her superior before. Harwood looked at Helen, then rose and walked round her desk. She put a comforting arm around her and instantly Helen knew she had lost.
“I hear your pain and I sympathize. But I cannot compromise ongoing operations out of sentiment. I’m sorry, Helen; my answer has to be no.”
***
