Low-level panic starts to twist in my stomach as I do a recount. Still nine. When I meet Niall’s eyes he can see something’s wrong.
“Who’s missing?” I don’t know if I’m asking him, myself or the children. “There’s only nine of you.” I glance over at Allegra, who’s standing next to Niall. Thank God she’s okay.
The kids start murmuring but none of them are talking to me. “Come on, which one of you knows something?”
Twelve-year-old Maisie Weeks catches my eye. “Cameron walked off about ten minutes ago.”
I swallow hard. “He walked off?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, he said this was boring and he was going to find something better to do.”
I catch Niall’s eye. “We’re in the middle of London. He could be anywhere.” I know I sound shrill. Sheer panic has raised my voice by an octave.
He puts a calming hand on my shoulder. “The likelihood is he’s either still in here or on the bridge. Let’s go down to the information stand and see if they’ve seen him. They might have CCTV.”
So we all troop back to the entrance. This time I walk at the back of the group, afraid to lose anybody else. Niall leads the way; Allegra still stuck beside him for some reason. I can see her chatting away to him, which is really unusual. After her experiences with her mum’s boyfriend she doesn’t usually take well to men.
All is quiet when we get to the information booth. I make the kids stand in twos while Niall and Allegra go up to the woman standing there. He talks rapidly to the lady behind the desk, then nods as she answers. Then she picks up a telephone and makes a call. How did we manage to lose one of them so easily? There’s a huge river practically outside the building, and I’m trying to ignore the thought of him falling in.
My heart hammers against my chest when Niall walks back over. It speeds up when I see the expression on his face.
“Bad news, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, God. Is he hurt?”
“Hardly. He’s been caught nicking stuff from the shop. They’ve called the police.”
Oh shit. Suddenly, this seems so much worse than just playing about on the bridge. This is serious. “Can I see him?”
“I’ll ask.”
A few minutes later I’m being led down to the security office. I’ve left Niall behind with the kids, with strict instructions to get them in the bus, and stop for McDonald’s as he promised. They won’t give him any problems—they were all downbeat and morose when I left them. Cameron’s put a dampener on everybody’s day.
The head of security—a man whose uniform seems practically painted on his plump body—takes me aside and explains Cameron was caught stealing a £50 ornament. He’d pushed it down inside his hoodie before he was caught. It’s all on camera. The guard tells me it’s their policy to press charges, and I nod sagely, wondering if it’s worth begging on Cameron’s behalf.
Then I see him sitting in the office, his feet up on his chair and his arms crossed over his chest. He’s got this aura of bravado, wears it like a suit of armour, and I wonder if being taken to the station is the worst thing that can possibly happen. I’m not a therapist, and I’m definitely not a child psychologist, but Cameron’s on a track that can only lead to a life I don’t want for him. So I take the seat the manager offers and we wait almost an hour for the police to arrive.
8
Cameron stares at the wall with dry eyes, his thin lips pulled tightly across gritted teeth. Following his gaze, I search for the thing that’s dragging his attention away from the sergeant sitting opposite him, but the only thing there is the pockmarked, steel-coloured wall. The paint is thick, shiny and dull, dull, dull.
If Dulux made it they’d probably call it ‘Suicide Grey’.
He’s scared, I know he is. Beneath the cockiness and swagger that form a tight shell around his body there’s a frightened little kid. I know it from the occasional look he gives me, and from the way his eyes soften and liquefy when they tell him his rights. It’s that little kid that keeps me here, sitting beside him as a responsible adult, trying to get him to answer the questions.
“We’ve got CCTV evidence,” Sergeant Collier says. “Shows you stuffing that paperweight in your pocket like it’s a Mars bar. Are you still denying it?”
Cameron shrugs and I want to shake him. His lack of cooperation is infuriating. Not only to the policeman, whose narrow eyes show the impatience of a man who is tired of being lied to. I, too, want him to hurry up, to admit to the crime and let them get on with it. Simon was expecting me home an hour ago. I’ve not had the chance to call him or send him a message. I’m going to be in big trouble when I finally do.
“Cameron, maybe you should answer his questions.”
He folds his arms tightly across his pigeon chest and flashes his bleached blue gaze across the room. “Have you found my dad yet?”
They sent a policeman to locate Mr Gibbs two hours ago. We waited for an hour before Cameron finally crumbled and agreed to be questioned in my presence. He refused to have a duty solicitor present; claimed all they were good for was getting him found guilty and locked up. How a thirteen-year-old knows anything about duty solicitors, I’ve no idea. I suppose he’s been around a lot of crime.
“Nope.” Sergeant Collier has a self-satisfied smirk. I can understand why Cameron took an instant dislike to him. I’m not that keen, either.
“I want to wait for him.”