The Lost

‘So Owen Stokes wasn’t responsible for what happened to your son, OK?’ Fletcher interrupted, his face still flushed. ‘Regardless of whatever else he might or might not have done, the inquest’s findings still stand. Nothing’s changed in that respect.’

Jonah’s jaw was so tightly clenched it hurt. Nothing had changed? Everything had changed. Again. Owen Stokes wasn’t some hapless down-and-out, he was a killer. He’d fooled the investigation about his true nature ten years ago, fooled everyone. That undermined every shaky foundation Jonah had rebuilt his life on.

But he kept that to himself as Fletcher continued.

‘That said, McKinney was obviously following him for a reason. Given your history with Owen Stokes, the fact he chose to call you rather than anyone else makes me think he might have been on some sort of half-baked vendetta. So you can see why I’m struggling to believe you didn’t know anything about it.’

Jonah took a few seconds, making sure he was in control of himself before he spoke. ‘A while ago you thought I’d killed Gavin. Now it sounds like you’re accusing me of going after Stokes with him. Do I need a lawyer?’

It was a bluff, but Fletcher shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Do you?’

They stared at each other. Jonah’s heart was pounding, with anger but also dismay at the direction this was taking.

‘What about Owen Stokes?’ he asked, trying for a calm he didn’t feel. ‘Are you doing anything to catch him, or just going for the easy target?’

‘You need to watch your attitude, Colley,’ Fletcher said, the putty-like skin of his face darkening again.

I need to watch a lot of things. Jonah’s anger seemed to have expanded beyond himself now, allowing him to feel detached from it. But he couldn’t keep the scorn from his voice.

‘Yes, sir.’

Fletcher seemed on the point of responding but Bennet shifted slightly, quietly clearing her throat. As though some signal had passed between them, Fletcher clamped his mouth shut. He rose to his feet.

‘We’ll leave it there for now.’ Retrieving the photograph of Owen Stokes, he made a contemptuous gesture at the newspaper. ‘You should frame that. It’s the only good press you’ll get.’

Leaving Bennet to follow, he strode out.

After they’d gone, Jonah couldn’t sit still. His crutches made muted thumps on the carpet as he paced around the small flat, going aimlessly from room to room. His mind was boiling, churning over what he’d heard. In the space of a few minutes the framework by which he’d rebuilt his life after Theo’s disappearance had been undermined. For years he’d willed himself to believe the official explanation. He’d tortured himself over it, imagining Theo giggling as he’d crept away from his sleeping father to hide in the cave-like culvert. As though watching a film, he could visualise his son toppling into the cold, fast-running water. See the small body, buoyed up by its blue anorak as it drifted alone in the subterranean dark.

The thought of it had haunted him every day since. But as awful as it had been, at least he’d known. Or thought he had.

Now all that had been torn apart.

The news that it had been Owen Stokes he’d fought with in the darkness of the warehouse, that the man cleared of abducting Theo had murdered Gavin and three other people, was incomprehensible. Christ, how could everyone have got it so wrong? Including him. The thought that he’d literally — literally — had his hands around his neck was too much to bear. Going into the bedroom, he went to the punchbag hanging in the corner and threw his crutches to one side. Balancing himself with his weight braced on his good leg, he began thumping punch after punch into the heavy leather bag, imagining the hated face smirking in the photograph. He swung faster and faster, grunting with the impact until one wild punch made him twist and come down on his bad knee.

‘Ah, fuck! Fuck!’

He collapsed onto the bed as pain shafted through the joint. He sucked air through his teeth as tears of rage and frustration ran down his face.