Like This, for Ever

not even sure I can get the key to the boat.’
    Jorge shrugged. ‘So we break a window. Send Hatty in to open it up. She’s tiny.’
    ‘We can’t do that,’ said Harvey. Barney gave him a grateful smile. If they broke a window, he’d have to pay for the replacement, sneaking the money into his dad’s wallet somehow. Anything else just wouldn’t be fair.
    ‘Harvey says you’ve been studying the murders since the first boy went missing,’ said Jorge. ‘That you’ve got all sorts of theories about who the killer is and how he gets them.’
    ‘A few,’ Barney admitted.
    ‘So what we should do is visit all the murder sites,’ said Jorge. ‘See what they have in common, work out why he’s choosing them.’
    The kitchen door opened and the boys’ grandmother appeared. She was easily the tallest of the family, a giant of a woman with bobbed white hair and big blue eyes. Her make-up always lookedlike she’d put it on in a dark room with a very shaky hand. As a young woman she’d been a dancer, Barney had seen photographs of her in costumes that seemed nothing but feathers and sparkles. She nodded at Barney and patted Jorge on the head, but her eyes didn’t quite meet those of any of the boys. She made for the sink and rinsed out the glass she’d been carrying. In her wake, she left the same stale, sweet smell that always seemed to follow her around.
    ‘We don’t know where the murder sites are,’ said Barney, keeping his voice low, although he knew the old lady didn’t hear too well. ‘Just where the bodies are being left.’
    Jorge smiled. ‘True. Still, be fun to look though.’

18
    RIGHT, PHOTOGRAPHS OF Mum, where would they be? Barney was in his dad’s study, knowing he had an hour at most. The room was lined with bookshelves. His dad taught eighteenth- and nineteenth-century literature at King’s College and sometimes Barney thought every book printed in those two hundred years was right here in this very room. Still, finding things was what he was good at. The first set of bookshelves housed textbooks. Books about books.
    He moved on around the room, wondering how his dad ever managed to find anything. Before Barney could spend one day in here he’d have to organize the shelves so that they were in alphabetic order at least. And probably by date of publication. In a locked case under the window were first editions.
    Not a single photograph album in the room. If they weren’t here, they could only be in the attic. On the back of the door hung the jacket his dad had been wearing the previous evening. Barney remembered how odd his dad had seemed, how he’d been holding something in his hand that he obviously didn’t want Barney to see. Something that he’d tucked into his jacket pocket.
    From downstairs came the sound of a key being turned in the front door. Barney reached out, pulled the small, soft ball of something woollen from his father’s pocket and looked at it. A child’s glove. Black, with bumps on the palm side to help the wearer grip atennis racket or something. Not his. For one thing, it was too small. It was like a little kid’s glove. He shoved it back into the jacket pocket.
    ‘You home, Barney?’ called his dad from the hallway, as he always did.
    ‘Yeah,’ called back Barney as he slipped out on to the landing and up the next flight of stairs. First mission aborted. On to the next.
    In his den, he took down the solar-system poster and swivelled his chair round to face the missing boys’ wall. When he’d first started following the investigation, he’d used both official news and social media sites to find out where the bodies of the abducted boys were being dumped.
    Barney sat and looked at the map, letting his focus slip and waiting for the patterns to emerge. After a couple of minutes he knew it wasn’t going to work. Three sites just didn’t give enough data for any sort of pattern to stand out. All the locations of the sites told him was that the boys had probably been taken by someone who knew that part of the river.
    On the other hand, it might be possible to learn something from the roads. The killer must have brought the boys by car, and there were only a certain number of roads he could have travelled along. So if he plotted where the boys had disappeared from, then marked the most likely route to the dump sites, if those lines crossed anywhere, wouldn’t that indicate where he might live?
    Movement outside caught his attention. Lacey was leaving