Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

“No. And the police there are doing bugger-all. The boy was born in Germany and as far as they’re concerned, he’s a German citizen. The father doesn’t have him now, but he’s a Catholic with family ramifications from one end of the country to another. The boy could be with any of them, and even if they found him, he wouldn’t be sent back to his mother. That’s German law, and the Common Market hasn’t changed that.”

“So really, Mrs. Randall is in a more hopeful position?”

“Yes. But try telling that to her. The main thing is, we’re pretty sure the child is still in the country. She had one of these tormenting phone calls only three days ago, from Romford. Once we get hold of the child, returning him to her will be a mere formality. If he was abroad, she’d be bogged down in the local judicial system for years.”

“On the other hand, we don’t seem to be any nearer to discovering where the two of them might be.”

“No, and that’s because they’re not anywhere. They’re everywhere, zigzagging hither and yon to create confusion. Nevertheless, the indications are that Dick Randall is a good father. I just hope she’s not fooling herself about that. If he is, he must be considering the future, facing the fact that the boy needs to be settled, have friends, go to nursery school, live in a house he recognises and relates to. If he finds somewhere and goes on with his burglaries, the local police are going to start seeing a pattern, because he’s not going to be able to go very far afield.”

DC Lackland screwed up his face sceptically.

“The police up here apparently didn’t discover a pattern when he was a teenage Raffles,” he said.

“Good point. We need to alert them to the pattern. The other thing is, the balance of sightings and traces seems to be shifting. There’s still some zigzagging — Romford was a piece of cheek, to suggest they’d gone to ground in London, but it was a rogue report. The balance is shifting southwards. Nothing in the North for over three weeks. It’s been Midlands, South, shifting westwards. I’m going to concentrate on alerting police in Devon, Dorset, Cornwall — that’s where he’s going to be found.”

“The West Country does attract a lot of drifters and oddballs,” conceded Lackland.

“Maybe. Though no more than places like Brighton and Tunbridge Wells. The West at this time of year is a good place to be anonymous in.”

“So, no television appearances for Selena Randall?”

“No... Even if other things were equal, and even if we could persuade them to slot her in, I’d be doubtful about putting her on the Esther Rantzen programme, or the Richard and Judy show.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Mrs. Parker is effective because she’s blazingly angry with her ex-husband. She hates him. It comes across white-hot to the listener.”

“Whereas Selena Randall is still half in love with hers?”

“Yes. More than half. And not only that: She still thinks of him as a good man.”

“In spite of those phone calls.”

“Yes, in spite of them. The message coming from her would be very blurred, or no message at all.” He mused, with the wisdom of the police force over the years, unalloyed by feminism, or any other — ism: “Funny things, women.”

This was a sentiment DC Lackland could agree with.

The woman who opened the door of Lane’s End, in the village of Briscow, was comfortable, attractive, and brightly dressed: a woman in her late forties, neither well-off nor on her uppers, but at ease with life and still full of it.

“Yes?” Good, broad, open smile.

“I wondered if you have a room for the night,” said Dick.

She looked at the open face, the lean figure, the little boy on his shoulders. The smile of welcome became still more warming.

“I do that,” she said. “Come on in and have a look at it.”

She led the way upstairs and pushed open a door. Two single beds pushed together, chintz as a bed covering, chintz at the windows, and the sun streaming through on the gleaming wooden furniture. It looked like heaven.

“This is wonderful,” said Dick. “Isn’t it, Malcolm?”

“Yes!” said Malcolm, already a connoisseur.

“Are there just the two of you? Is his m—” She stopped on seeing Dick give a tiny shake of the head. “Well, if you take it that will be seventeen pounds fifty a night, and I can do a proper evening meal for six pounds extra — three for the little boy.”

They closed the deal at once, there in the sunlight. Already there was a warmth between the three of them which had, in the case of the two adults, a little to do with sex, more to do with aesthetic appreciation, likeness of spirit, a feeling of some kind of reawakening. Dick had consciously begun shaping his story accordingly.

Later in the evening, after a good dinner where his own preferences had been consulted and Malcolm’s still more, Dick put the boy to bed, read him to sleep, then by invitation went downstairs to the living room for coffee.

“Will it be coffee, or would you prefer a beer?”

“Coffee, please. I can never get used to beer in cans.”

She came forward, her hand held out rather shyly.