"Richard"

"But I don't know your name, so what is it?"

"Lexa Armstrong, and I want to know what you did to him. Before the plod come asking."

"Excuse me? Plod?"

"The little b.u.g.g.e.r slid out of the car when I was distracted, when we were stopped, right? And of course I've told the police, but that doesn't get him back necessarily, so where the h.e.l.l has he gone?"

"This is awful" Suzanne spoke fast, matching Lexa Armstrong's scared-and-angry voice, and whether that was professional voice-rapport or because of the sudden coldness dropping inside her own belly, she could not tell "so you need to slow down and tell me more, because I don't know what happened and we need to find out."

The long sentence, phrases run together, was deliberate, lulling, far better than staccato questions.

"We'd just gone past the Gherkin, stopped at the lights, and there was a crowd crossing the road, some rowdy lads, some a bit suspect, kind of leery, you know?"

"What happened?"

"Richard must have I just caught like a whisper, a glimpse but he slipped his arm between the front seats he was in back and switched the central locking off, and then he slipped out and that was it. Gone."

This was awful.

"What did you do next?"

"Left the car where it was that's an automatic fine

and went to look for him, calling the cops while I did it. No sign of him. He's never done anything like it, too pulled in on himself, if you know what I mean. What did you do to him, Doc?"

"Taught him confidence too soon, or maybe that's nothing to do with it. Where was this? Near the Gherkin building, you said?"

"Heading up Bishopsgate. You think that's maybe significant?"

"I don't know of anything relevant, no locations that would trigger a reaction. You don't know any?"

"No. s.h.i.t." Lexa Armstrong rubbed her face. "He's fourteen years old and soft, you know? Anything could happen to him."

"You've told his father?"

"Yeah, and there was a lot of yelling, but I think he's scared, too."

What Broomhall would do to the driver who had let his son disappear in the middle of crowded London, Suzanne had no idea. And as for what action he might take against the therapist who'd seen the boy just minutes before this radical new behaviour shattered everything Lexa Armstrong had probably just lost her job; Suzanne's entire career was crashing down.

"You've got the car downstairs?"

"Another fine, and yeah."

"So let's go look for Richard."

The Merc whispered to a halt on Bishopsgate. Suzanne sat up front, shivering a little from the air-con or from worry. At red lights they stopped the delays seemed longer these days allowing Lexa to point out a stall selling caps and T-shirts.

"After Richard ran out, he might have gone past that s.h.i.t, not that guy, it's someone else. Claimed he hadn't just sold a veil-cap to a white kid."

"He was lying?"

"Telling the truth, I thought, but you'd know for sure. Point is, there's a bunch of other sellers just the oh, here we go." Lexa put the car into drive. "If Richard got the idea of picking up a veil-cap, the streetcams probably lost him in the crowds."

They pa.s.sed a turning on the left. Farther down Threadneedle Street, blood pooled on the pavement outside a bar. Bankers' duel, a lunchtime foolishness, or perhaps a disgruntled client calling out a bank employee.

"High price to pay for voting, don't you think, Doc?"

Lexa had noticed Suzanne looking down the street. It confirmed Suzanne's impression of Lexa: observant, her perceptions trustworthy.

"So where would you guess Richard went? And I mean, just take a guess."

"Could be anywhere." Lexa shrugged, betraying no unconscious gestures to suggest otherwise. "Any direction takes you into crowds around stations, overground or Tube or just on foot."

They were pa.s.sing a steel-and-gla.s.s side entrance to Liverpool Street station.

"But that means more streetcams, doesn't it?"

"With a harder job to do."

"Good point," said Suzanne. "If you were Richard, what would you be running away from?"

"His entire life, maybe? Posh house, absolutely lovely, but it don't make up for the rest. I'm not talking actual abuse, mind."

"Of course not."

Suzanne wondered if Richard might be running toward something, rather than away; but it seemed unlikely. In the throng surrounding the car they had stopped yet again it seemed impossible to track a single figure. Thirty years of being the most surveilled city on Earth had not stopped London from being a Mecca for runaways. The blur of moving faces brought home the impossibility of their task.

"Which way shall I go?"

"Just drive by instinct."

"You think that will help?"

Maybe I'm just trying to avoid calling Philip Broomhall.

"It's the best we can do," said Suzanne.

"s.h.i.t. I was hoping for a miracle."

Suzanne rubbed the inside of her arm.

"There's no such thing, I'm afraid."

[ SIX ].

End of day one, 6pm and everyone going home. Beside Josh, Vikram alternately fiddled with his beard or folded his arms across the swell of his belly. From the edge of the piazza, they watched the crowds stream toward Dockland station, while high overhead, tethered to the pointed apex of Canary Wharf, a dark-green trizep swayed in the crossdraught. The airship was a symbol of eco-economic trade, the Global Eco Global Eco2nomy legend in distorted yellow characters on its side. legend in distorted yellow characters on its side.

"You actually believe in carbon derivatives and all that s.h.i.t?" asked Vikram.

"No, but the grads in my group do."

"Silly b.u.g.g.e.rs. How did the team building go?"

"They were supposed to plan an outdoor corporate bash for fict.i.tious foreign customers, VIPs. Themed event, venue hire, catering, the lot. You know what their risk a.n.a.lysis listed as the one thing that might go wrong? It might rain."

"Poor little sods. Too much time in cla.s.srooms." Vikram tugged at his sweat-patched shirt. "It's hot. You reckon the others already hit Bar Aleph?"

"Probably."

"So this'll be a good time for you to get s.h.i.t-faced, right?"

"Don't touch the stuff, you know that."

"Sometimes you need to let rip. That's what I say."

Josh stared up at the airship.

Letting rip is what I'm afraid of.

"I'll get my head back together in time for week three."

The first two weeks were a wandering role, mentoring, and helping out, because the groups were large enough to need more than the lead instructor, at least in the bank's opinion, and they were paying the bills. The third week was when he would come into his own, teaching the stuff he knew best.

"Can you afford to take time off?" asked Vikram. "Money-wise, I mean."

As with all freelancers, no work meant no money.

"Probably not. And I need to keep busy."

"Well, that makes sense. Or we could just get normal jobs like normal people. So what would you do?"

"G.o.d knows."

"How about running a pig farm? Or a brothel? Hey, you could combine the two."

"Say what?"

"You know, like the two Welsh farmers talking. One says, 'How do you find a sheep in long gra.s.s?' The other says, 'Irresistible, boyo.' You could do a piggy version. All those plump porky a.r.s.es with their cute curly tails."

"Vikram Vivekananda, I am seriously concerned for your mental health."

"Then you can turn 'em into rashers when they're all used up. Might taste kinda salty."

"You're sick, man. Very, very sick."

Tony and the other trainers were approaching.

"What are you two chuckling about?""Believe me, mate," said Josh. "You so don't want to know."

As a group, seven of them, they headed into Bar Aleph and took seats among the old-fashioned chrome fittings, surrounded by colourful liquid crystal lighting, the air bouncing with the kind of rap Josh heard as a little kid.

"I've got to teach a bit of crypto to my lot," said Vikram. "Just an intro. I was gonna start with Alice and Bob sending signals to each other."

"Like every other example since World War II." Tony raised his dark beer. "Cheers, everyone."

"Cheers."

"Yeah." Vikram sipped from a fluorescent blue c.o.c.ktail. "That's my theme, like. You know, how Alice has been sending signals for f.u.c.king ever, and Bob ain't taking the hint. Either the relationship evolves or she's got to find someone else, you know? Maybe Charlie."

"No, that's not it." Sheena, with the bronze earrings like ninja weapons, gave a jangling shake of her head. "Bob and Charlie are gay, you see. What you need to say is"

"Or Bob's the father of her love child." This was Alan, getting into the act. "And her encrypted signal reads: Little Davey keeps asking where Daddy is. Or should that be little Tony?"

Josh's phone vibrated.

"No offence, everyone, but thank G.o.d I've got a call."

He went outside, though he could have used the noise-cancelling earbeads tucked in his pocket. The caller was Kath Gleason, and she was Sophie's teacher, or had been. Everything about Sophie was inching into past tense, detail by detail.

"Mr c.u.mberland, I'm sorry to call you in the evening, but I thought you might be working."

"I was, yes. There's no change in Sophie."

"Mostly I was wondering if I can help. The hospital staff don't tell us everything, but Eileen" she meant Eileen O'Donoghue, the headmistress "has been keeping in touch. How are you and Mrs c.u.mberland doing?"

"You've talked to Maria?"

"No, I tried you first."