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By the time her words penetrate, it’s too late to react. Joseph shoots across the junction without slowing. He senses a vehicle speeding towards his driver’s door, hears a shriek of brakes, a horn, and by the time he’s unlocked his arms he’s rocketed through the lights. In his rear-view mirror he sees a car slewed round in the road.
‘Jesus!’ Erin yells, unsticking her hands from the door rest. ‘Joe, wake up! I told you I should drive. What’s got into you?’
‘Sorry,’ Joseph mutters. In the rear-view mirror, he catches Max’s eyes, mouths another apology.
Enoch Cullen lives in a two-bedroom terraced house on the Larchwood council estate, ten minutes from the Carvers’. A rotting and bird-shit-caked caravan sits on the front drive; inside, what looks like worthless junk is piled to half the height of the windows.
Joseph parks on the road and switches off the engine. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’m not saying we should keep it a secret indefinitely, but I’m not sure how much it helps the situation by telling Enoch about Max and Drew.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Erin asks. ‘That we lie?’
‘No, I’m not saying that.’ He takes a breath. ‘I just don’t think it’ll come up, so I don’t see the point in offering it.’
‘Good with me,’ Tilly says. She glances at her stepbrother for confirmation.
‘I guess,’ he adds.
When they throw open the rear doors and climb out,Erin remains in the passenger seat. She stares at Joseph long and hard. Then, shaking her head, she climbs out too.
They have to knock twice before Enoch answers. His eyes are red with booze and small with animosity. He doesn’t look scared, not yet. Rather, he seems like he’s seething with a cold-burning rage that could explode into violence at any moment.
‘Erin,’ Enoch hisses, as if he’s unsure whether to greet her or bury his fist in her face. His shoulders drop a little when she hugs him, and when her lips graze his cheek he closes his eyes like a man receiving a rubdown after a day spent breaking rocks.
‘We brought food,’ she says.
‘You brought the whole clan,’ he replies, squinting past her. He looks Joseph up and down before offering his hand. Joseph really doesn’t want to touch it. Coming here was bad enough, but feigning solidarity with the father of Max’s victim feels like his worst atrocity yet. He shakes hands because he has to, because decisions of conscience are a luxury for the innocent.
Enoch’s grip is hot and slimy, as if he’s in the throes of a fever. ‘Swear to God,’ he whispers in Joseph’s ear. ‘If someone’s hurt her, I will bury him in the ground while he’s still breathing. I will fuckingburyhim.’
Inside, the house is a mess. Towers of unwashed crockery stand on the kitchen’s food-spattered worktop, among toolboxes and engine parts resting on oil-spotted rags. In the living room, DVD cases are piled around the TV. Against one wall lean the door panels of what looks like an old kitchen. In the corner, an artificial Christmas tree has burst from its cardboard box.
‘Have you contacted Drew’s mum?’ Erin asks.
‘I’ve left messages, but Paula’s in Ibiza,’ Enoch says. ‘She’ll be coked up to the eyeballs for the next week, spreading her legs for any dickhead that’ll have her.’
Erin glances at her daughter, straightens. ‘And you’ve been over to her place? Made sure Drew isn’t there?’
‘I have and she isn’t. Neighbours ain’t seen her, either.’ From his pocket Enoch pulls out an iPhone in a fake leather case decorated with turquoise rhinestones. ‘I did find this, though, up in her room. It’s never usually more than a few inches from her right hand.’
The room fades to monochrome, Drew’s phone the only point of colour. Joseph sees every detail in bright, laser-focused clarity – the scuffed and hairy edges of the fake leather, the rhinestones catching and bejewelling the light.
The evidence on it – photos, web searches, location history – might be enough to send him and Max to jail. He could seize it from Enoch’s fingers, smash it to bits, but then what? He might as well unravel an enormous banner stencilled withGUILTYand wave it in everyone’s faces.
‘I recharged it,’ Enoch says. ‘But I can’t unlock it – I don’t know the code.’
That’s one bit of good news, Joseph thinks.
‘I do,’ Tilly says, a moment later. ‘Pass it to me.’
THIRTY-ONE
Enoch nods, but he doesn’t relinquish the phone. ‘Tell me,’ he says. ‘I’ll type it in.’
Bristling at his lack of trust, Tilly says, ‘One-six-three, zero-one-one.’
Joseph glances at Max. Only after the boy’s shoulders have risen and fallen in a tiny don’t-worry-we’re-not-screwed shrug does Joseph notice that Erin is watching, forehead creased and mouth pinched.
‘What?’ she mouths, and Joseph repeats his son’s shrug. When her eyes narrow, his stomach feels like it’s being fed through an old-fashioned mangle.