Page 48 of 36 Hours

Fred opened the door with a finger to his lips.

Kim instantly thought of grandchildren.

‘Please be quiet – I’ve only just got Dad off to sleep.’

‘Okay,’ Kim said, stepping inside and seeing a wheelchair beside a stairlift.

Fred pointed to the ceiling to indicate where his father was sleeping and ushered them into the lounge.

‘Is your father ill?’ Kim asked.

‘He has MS. Has done since I was twelve.’

‘And your mum?’ Kim said, taking a seat. Bryant did the same.

‘She died when I was thirteen. Just me and my dad.’

‘Other relatives?’ Bryant asked.

‘Not really,’ he said, reaching for a pile of papers.

Kim took a moment to survey her surroundings. Although tidy and functional, the house bore no hint of a woman’s presence. There was nothing to soften the edges, no flowers, candles or cushions. Only a couple of photos stood on the mantlepiece. One had been taken at the seaside, where a young Fred sat beside his father on a wall, and another showed a slightly older Fred sitting beside his dad’s wheelchair at some kind of function.

Kim could see it clearly. Fred had been a carer child.

She’d seen programmes about children who spent a great deal of time taking care of a parent. The programmes always saddened her, made her feel that the kids were missing out, that their childhood was being stolen.

For Fred, his father’s illness had developed at a time when he should have been forming friendships with peers, starting to discover his independence, girlfriends.

‘We were fine,’ Fred said as though reading her thoughts.

Kim highly doubted that. This would have been fifty years ago. There weren’t safeguards in place back then to make sure all the children’s needs were being met, that they finished their schooling, had time away from the sick relative, maybe met with other kids in their situation, and counselling wouldn’t have even been a thought.

She was betting that Mr Guest senior had been given the option of putting Fred in care and when he refused, they were pretty much left to their own devices.

She immediately saw Fred differently. This morning he’d been the authoritative busybody full of his own importance, and now she realised he was just doing what he’d always done: organise, sort, arrange, take care of things. He’d shown that trait in offering to collate the information he was handing to her now.

‘These are the names of the forty-three volunteers who turned up today. I don’t have all their addresses, but if I know what area they’re from, I’ve listed that too as well as their phone numbers.’ He paused. ‘I’ve spoken to them all.’

‘All of them?’ Kim asked, both surprised and impressed.

‘Well, I’ve had a few hours. None of them gave a label to anyone, but I guess someone could have happened along and helped themselves.’

‘I suppose?—’

‘So, on that premise,’ he said, cutting her off, ‘I asked them all if they remembered seeing anyone they didn’t recognise.’

‘And?’ Kim asked, considering offering the man a job.

‘Mrs Billingham thought she saw a teenager in joggers leaving the area as she pulled into the car park, and Mrs Smart saw someone she didn’t know with a rucksack not too far from the bridge.’

‘Any better description than that?’ Kim asked, already feeling sure that Fred would have asked.

He shook his head.

‘Okay, Fred, well thanks for this,’ she said, taking the list.

‘May I ask what’s going on, Officer?’