The Infinity Bridge

Part 9

15.

Rob loved York. More than any historical city, he loved York. As a child, moving from the tranquil greens of Cambridge with his parents and elder sister, Gaynor, he had soaked up the stories with zeal. Every corner of the city had its tale: the Vikings and their paradoxical farmlands; the Romans and their famous wall; the final days of the highwayman Dick Turpin; the seat of the House of York, the white rose of Yorkshire.

Yet as he strode through the winding streets, carved from millennia of living past, he began to hate every single stone. He begrudged every nook and cranny, every shadow shrouded corner, every alleyway in which his son could be lost within.

When he’d returned from the supermarket that morning, Sam and Nick were gone. He’s shrugged it off at the time—boys of fourteen had better things to do than hang out with men of his age—and knuckled down to a bit of guitar practice.

The morning faded into the afternoon and still they weren’t back. He’d rung Gaynor, who had been off in the damp fields filling bags with mushrooms, but she’d not heard from them either. By three’o’clock he’d got frustrated and texted Sam. There was no response.

After the sixth unanswered text, he left the flat above the shop and went out into York. Gaynor had mentioned that the boys had gone to the station first thing, before they turned up dressed as girls at his flat. A sickening sense of dread grew in his belly as he approached the train station and saw the police incident cordon around it. A small army of reporters hung around in the drizzle, like a cohort of sulky legionaries.

The sense of apprehension deepened as he explored the rain-soaked streets and tried to ring Bootham hospital. The switchboard operator said ward three was temporarily unavailable and that he would be better coming into the hospital.

His phone had gone flat at that point. He cursed the cheap model and headed back to the flat to pick up the charger on the way to Bootham.

Petergate was deserted—the worsening rain and the Sunday evening combined to drag even the most devoted student drinkers off the streets and into the amber warmth of the many pubs. He reached the shop door and froze. The lock was scratched and damaged. The door opened with a gentle push.

Rob moved into the shop. The streetlight cast a honey glow over the rows of CDs and glittered on the frame of the Elvis record above the till.

‘Hello? Who’s in here?’ he called.

‘Mister Worthington?’ a voice asked behind him. Rob jumped in fright.

‘Hell’s bells! What are you doing sneaking up on me?’ he said angrily.

A red haired woman with a pretty face and a long dark coat was stood on the street with two hefty policemen in uniform. She was holding up her warrant card.

‘DS Sinead O’Ryan. Can we come inside and have a chat?’