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

Then he saw the police car in the mirror. Moments later he heard its siren.

The police car wasn’t an old banger, or even a sedate family model Ford. It was gaining on him. He pushed the accelerator down to the floor. He was seized momentarily with exhilaration, but at the back of his mind something outside of him seemed to be shouting: The Dream. The Nightmare. And then he began to sweat, and a quieter voice whispered to him: the dead child. He tried to continue, tried to squeeze more speed out of the car, but his heart was not in it. In the mirror he saw the police car gaining on him, its siren gathering in intensity.

He took his foot off the accelerator. The car dropped speed, began coasting. He changed lanes, let the car slow down, then let it chug to the side of the road and stop. As he pulled on the hand brake the police car came to a halt in front of him. Two policemen jumped out and ran over to lean in his window. One had a hard face and piercing cruel eyes. The younger one had unformed features but compassionate eyes.

“Are you Richard Randall, going by the name of Colin Morton?” the sergeant asked, flicking his ID in his face. Dick considered, then nodded.

“You know it all, I expect,” he said. “Yes, I am.”

“And this is your son Malcolm Randall?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Richard Randall, I am arresting you...”

The policemen agreed to drop Malcolm off at Peggy’s as a temporary measure. Dick knew hard-eyes wouldn’t want the embarrassment of a child around him cramping his style. “You must be nice to Mummy when you go home,” he said to the boy as Peggy came out to collect him, not looking him in the face. “She must have missed you all this time.”

When he was alone with the policemen, driving to the station in Launceston, he suddenly broke down. It was the end of his dream, the very end. Somehow it felt like the end of his life.

He looked up, red-eyed, at the young constable handcuffed to him in the backseat of the car.

“Will you tell his mother I would never have done anything to harm him? That’s why I stopped. I love that boy. Tell Selena it’s all up to her now. Will you tell her that exactly?”

“Of course I will. What if she asks what you mean?”

He didn’t answer directly.

“Tell her I don’t want to see her, or the boy. She’ll understand. Tell her it’s all up to her.”

Then they drew into Launceston Police Station and began the long business of interviews and charging.

Having Malcolm back was like a dream for Selena. Inspector Purley had flown down to Bristol the night of Dick’s arrest, hired a car, then participated in interviews the next day. He had phoned Selena to say they were sure it was Malcolm and he’d bring him back up North the next day. No point in her coming down.

It was late afternoon when his car had driven up the street and parked outside her Darlington home. She had rushed to the front door just in time to hear the inspector say, “Run to Mummy,” and, picking the little bundle up, to hug him, kiss him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the inspector raise a hand, then get back into his car and drive off.

Malcolm was grown out of all recognition, and was confident beyond belief. He gravely inspected his old toys, told her what he’d most like for tea, and ran around the garden when she told him that Finny the cat was out there. All his talk and memories were of Daddy, and he’d tell her quite disjointedly things they’d done on the road, how Daddy had taken him away, how Jemima at Peggy’s was always naughty. When he asked her, “Are you my mummy now?” she had almost choked, and had taken him in her arms and said they’d never be apart again.

Later in the evening she had a phone call from the young constable in Launceston. She was almost incoherent in her joy and thanks, and she was really grateful to get Dick’s message to her.

“I suppose they’ll be bringing him back up North for trial,” she said wistfully. “I could go and see him then.”

“He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t... feel he should see you or Malcolm.” Being a kind-hearted young man, he added: “Yet. I don’t think he feels the time is ripe.”

Selena was sad, but she didn’t have time to stay sad. Soon it was time for bed, but first she had to wash away the grime and mustiness of travel from the little boy. She ran the bath, just lukewarm as he liked it, and Malcolm insisted on undressing himself, a new departure for Selena, who had always done it in the past. She wondered at his chubbiness — what had Dick been feeding him on? — but saw how good and competent he was in all the little things he did for himself.

He climbed into the bath himself, slowly, seriously, but once in, he was more interested in his old rubber duck than in washing himself. Still a child in some things, Selena thought. She worked up a soapy lather on his flannel and began washing him herself. It was pure pleasure, and it felt as if she was washing off all those months when only his father had had him, seen him grow. She leant over the bath to wash the far side of him, and it was then that she saw it.