Narey nodded at that – there were going to have to be a lot of apologies made before they were finished. She opened the folder and pulled out the top sheet.
Derek Solomon. Colin McPake. John Paul Kepple. Fraser Anderson. Martin Geir. Ian Bryce.
Six men. Six files. Six histories. Six chances of finding the man calling himself Matthew Marr.
‘You have to be aware, Inspector, that the man you’re looking for may not be known by the names on these files, never mind the name you know him by. He might have invented a completely new life for himself. If he somehow convinced our staff that he should be released by hiding his true self then he’s a person of some considerable guile who has also managed to hide himself from those around him. Anyone that good at hiding won’t be found easily.’
Narey nodded. ‘No matter how good he is at hiding, we’re nearer to finding him than we were an hour ago. So thank you.’ She held up the folder. ‘If he’s in here, he’s ours.’
CHAPTER 34
Igloo. Messages. Vikki, 32.
Hi Ryan, are you still on this site?
Delivered, 14.34
Read, 14.34
Hey Vikki. I was thinking about you and wondered if you might be online
Oh were you? That’s sweet. Maybe I was thinking the same
That’s good to know! How was your lunch?
It was good. So what are you doing with your afternoon?
Apart from talking to you? lol I might read for a bit. I’m in the middle of a book and loving it
What are you reading?
Don’t laugh, right?
Promise
Emile Zola. La Bete Humaine. I am not saying this to sound intellectual or anything. I’m just a huge fan of his books
Are you kidding me??? I LOVE Zola. I’m not sure I’ve talked to anyone before who’s properly liked him
Really? Well I do. I don’t usually tell people because it just sounds wanky. But he’s brilliant. I don’t read them in French or anything, just the translations
Me too! What’s your favourite?
Oh, tough question. I’ve read a lot. Maybe Le Ventre de Paris. Any of the Rougon-Macquart books really
Love them! You are full of surprises Mr Teacher
I try :) Sorry but I’m going to have to go. I’ve got a phone call. Will you be on tonight?
I might be :)
I hope so
I will be :)
CHAPTER 35
Steph Hansen was shaking when she sat opposite O’Neill and Salgado in her modest, whitewashed single-storey house on Jeffries Avenue on the southern edge of Cypress Park. Her eyes were wet and red, and she wrung her hands constantly.
She was slim and blonde, lightly freckled, make-up free, her hair tied harshly behind her. Sitting on a large green sofa built for three, she looked little and lost.
‘I know this is difficult,’ O’Neill led with the under-statement, ‘but we need you to tell us about Dylan. Anything that might help.’
Steph puffed out her cheeks and gathered enough courage to do it.
‘He’s a great kid. Never been any trouble, even when he was a teenager. The other moms used to say to me how lucky I was that Dylan never came home drunk or got in fights or stayed out late, never gave me any lip either. He would help around the house, especially after his father died. He’s sweet. Kind and caring. He’s . . . I always think he’s nineteenth century meets twenty-first.’
Neither of the cops took her meaning, and shrugged.
‘Dylan doesn’t go out much. He gets anxious in crowds and prefers just one or two people at the most. That’s why he works from his apartment. He prefers talking to people by email. Or text. Or online. He’s an old-fashioned kind of guy who does most of his talking via modern technology. I know I’m biased because I’m his mom but he’s a great writer, really brilliant, but you’d probably never think it talking to him because it takes so much for him to open up. He’s not unsociable; like I say, he’s sweet. And funny. He’s just happier with one or two people at a time.
‘Bob, his dad, died when Dylan was fifteen. Since then it’s just been me and him. He moved out to Glendale four years ago, but he comes over at least once a week and we have dinner and hang out. But otherwise it’s just him and his movie scripts, the ones that he reads and the one he’s working on for himself. And his cat. Oh shit, shit. The cat. Kubrick will be starving to death.’
The last line fell between them like a body hitting the floor during a wake.
‘We’re going to his apartment from here, so we’ll check on the cat,’ O’Neill reassured her. ‘He’ll be fine.’
Steph didn’t dare ask if they meant Kubrick or Dylan.
‘So, does he have any friends, anyone we can talk to who might know where he was headed or who he could have confided in? A girlfriend maybe?’
There were two sharp shakes of the head. ‘No. Dylan doesn’t have close friends. Apart from me. He prefers it that way. He has people he speaks to online, gamer friends and such, but he isn’t the confiding type. And he’s never had a girlfriend, not that he’s told me about anyway and I think he would have done.’
The mention of online friends had Salgado and O’Neill glancing at each other. They wouldn’t ask just yet though.
‘Mrs Hansen, can you talk us through the last time you spoke to Dylan? Anything he said, anywhere he said he was going, anyone he’d planned to meet.’
Steph tilted her head to her shoulder, looking above them to the ceiling. Maybe a vain attempt to keep the tears from sliding down her cheeks. Her words came out stilted and punctured with sniffles.
It had been six days and there was little remarkable about the last time they’d spoken. It hadn’t even been real conversation, just Dylan’s version of it. A flurry of exchanged texts studded with emojis and exclamation marks. He’d been excited because he’d read a script he loved and was recommending big time to the production company. He’d said how he wished he could write something as good as that and she’d told him not to be silly, that of course he would.
He’d had no plans other than to hunker down and make notes on the script then work on his own. She knew he could go days without resurfacing and that’s why she hadn’t questioned his lack of reply to her texts.
They both knew it was almost certainly a pointless question, but it had to be asked.
‘Mrs Hansen, has Dylan ever mentioned a man named Ethan Garland?’
The woman looked at O’Neill then to Salgado, eyes wide, as if she didn’t know what the right answer was but was desperate to help.
‘I’ve never heard the name. Should I have? Oh God, I’m sorry. Who is he?’
‘We believe he’s the man who took Dylan.’
Her mouth dropped. ‘Then why haven’t you arrested him?’
O’Neill laid it out for her. The whole tangled, sorry, frantic mess. How Garland had died. How they didn’t have the first freaking clue where Dylan was. How she couldn’t mention Garland’s name to the press if she was asked. None of it eased her panic.
‘What are you doing to find him?’
‘Everything we can.’ It sounded as trite to them as it did to her.
‘Mrs Hansen, you talked about Dylan having online friends. What can you tell us about them?’