At the back of the surprisingly large void lay some sacking and a small brown suitcase, maybe eighteen inches long and nine high.

Rossett reached for the case and pulled it toward him, aware that he was getting soot on his raincoat. He was keen to get out of the space and started to back out, but then he stopped.

It was no good going to all this trouble and then only doing half the job.

He set the case to his side and cursed as he banged his head on a jagged brick before stretching into the gap again. Some old soot dropped from the chimney above and he rested his hand on it, feeling it crunch under his palm. He took hold of the sacking and pulled it toward him to look underneath.

Sooty, curly black hair and a pale white face emerged.

A child, a young boy, maybe seven years old, blinked at him.

The boy didn’t move. He sat with his back to the wall, big brown eyes staring and lips clamped tight.

The only movement was the shadow cast by the flicker of the candle.

Eventually, Rossett spoke.

“Come here.”

The child’s eyes stayed fixed. Rossett knew the boy was willing him to go away, and Rossett wished that he could.

But he couldn’t.

“Is that a kid?” Baker leaned over his shoulder, straining to see what was going on.

The little boy’s wish wasn’t going to come true; Rossett wasn’t going away.

He’d been found.

 

Chapter 5

“BOY, COME.” ROSSETT flicked an impatient finger toward the boy, who gave the slightest of jumps in response.

Rossett leaned in, grabbed the sacking, and pulled it clean away from the boy, who was wearing a duffel coat and Wellington boots that trapped his calves like flower stems in oversize flowerpots.

“Come on, now, out.” Rossett grabbed a leg and the boy slithered back farther into the corner, eyes now shut, lips trembling, and hands pulling the coat up as far as it would go. Rossett was about to shout when Baker spoke softly behind him.

“Come on, sausage, we’re the police. We won’t hurt you.”

The words hurt Rossett. The child opened his eyes and looked at the young bobby. “Come on, son, come out, please?”

Rossett realized he was crowding the space, and he nodded his head, motioning that he wanted to get out of the gap and into the room.

“Maybe he doesn’t speak English, Sarge? Some of them refugees haven’t had time to pick it up yet,” said Baker once they had straightened up.

“My grandfather told me to wait for him.” A tiny voice from the fireplace.

“We are the police, sunshine, you can trust us,” replied Baker, bending forward to look into the gap again. The young bobby made Rossett feel impotent and unable to communicate, and he wiped his sooty hands together to clear off the dust. “Come on out and we’ll clean you up and get you a cup of tea. How does that sound?”

“Is my grandfather there?” said the mouse, and the two policemen looked at each other, unable to lie to a child, but able to put him on a train to an uncertain future. “Can I see my grandfather?”

“He’s gone ahead.” Finally Rossett found his voice, but he was unable to look at the boy when he spoke.

“Gone where?”

“Ahead.”

“Where?”

“Please, come out.”

“I want my grandfather first.”

Rossett turned to the window and looked out. In the street below he could see the inventory squad had arrived; they were unloading boxes from the back of the truck as they waited for their supervisor.

He turned to the young bobby and nodded toward the fireplace.

“Drag him out.”

Baker nodded, got down on all fours, and disappeared into the gap. A moment later the child squealed as the bobby backed out dragging him by the leg above his Wellington. Rossett bent down to help pull the child, who was by now silent, farther out of the space and onto his feet.

Baker stood up and wiped down his uniform, then silently stood by the door, blocking any chance of a darting run by the child.

“What’s your name?” Rossett asked, crouching down and wiping soot from the coat of the child, who didn’t reply.

“Boy. What is your name?” This time more firmly.

The child stood, silent, head bowed, eyes closed, with the slightest tremble playing on his lips.

Rossett stood and turned to the tiny suitcase for clues, then turned back to the child again, leaning down.

“I knew your grandfather when I was your age,” he said softly. “Me and my mother used to visit his shop.” Rossett glanced at the bobby, who was diplomatically studying the palms of his hands and scratching at the soot. “He was a nice man. I liked him,” Rossett whispered.

The child didn’t look up, and Rossett sighed and wished he was better with children; it had been so long since he’d had to talk to a child, he’d forgotten how to.

He turned back to the case and tried the catch; it was locked.

“Do you have a key for this?” The child didn’t respond, so Rossett fished in his coat and produced his penknife. It took him less than five seconds to release the flimsy lock. He lifted the lid and found a dirty shirt that had once been white, some undershirts and underpants, and a couple of pairs of well-darned socks.

At the bottom of the case were a few envelopes, written in an educated hand postmarked Amsterdam. Rossett took them out and opened one, glancing at the boy as he did so.

The boy stared back, indignant at the invasion of his privacy, his bottom lip jutting slightly.

Rossett unfolded one of the letters and turned it over, smelling it before reading the first page.

“My dearest, darling little Jacob,” he said out loud. Without looking, he felt the boy stiffen. Another secret exposed, another layer peeled away.

He didn’t read on. He placed the letters into his pocket, but as he was about to close the case, he noticed it felt heavier at one end. He rummaged through the clothes again until his hands brushed against something solid, chunky, and heavy. His hand closed around it, and, on pulling it free, he saw it was a sock with something stuffed inside. He tipped it out into the palm of his hand and a red suede pouch dropped out.