We present an extract from Reported Missing, the new thriller by Joseph Birchall.
When four-year-old Alfie vanishes during a community sports day, Detective Sergeant Darcy Doyle and Detective Inspector Mick Kelly are drawn into a case that grips Dublin with fear.
What begins as a desperate search soon darkens when a body is found in the Dublin Mountains – but the truth proves far more complex than anyone expects.
PROLOGUE
John Scanlan unclipped his four-year-old son, Alfie, from the back seat of his SUV and planted the boy's feet firmly on the ground. In the coming days, he would look back at that moment and remember it as the last time he touched his son.
'Come on, Alfie,’ he said. ‘We’re already late. You were the one who said you wanted to go hurling. I was quite happy to stay nice and warm at home.’
John winced at his own words, and he berated himself. His wife was right — he was too hard on the little boy. What made it worse was Alfie’s unending ability not to care in the slightest about his father’s severity. Instead, the boy looked up at him with his big, bright-blue eyes under a flop of blond hair, and said in the sweetest of voices, ‘Sorry, Daddy’.
‘It’s OK, champ,’ John told him. ‘Just let’s hurry, yeah?’
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Listen: Author Joseph Birchall talks to Oliver Callan
A raw wind swept through the car park and slithered inside John’s open jacket. It seemed to permeate his skin and creep into his bones. He couldn’t remember the last time it had felt this cold in the days leading up to Christmas.
They continued into St. Margaret’s Park, where the small man-made lake had frozen over. On the icy bank, four large swans huddled together, like ballet dancers on a glistening stage, their heads tucked under their smooth, white wings, as if cowering from some heinous scene in the show.
‘Alfie, come on!’
John had planned on spending these two hours watching Liverpool playing at Anfield while he sprawled on the sofa, not standing in a field with a bunch of four-year-olds who couldn’t hit a ball straight to save their lives. The last conversation with his wife played on a loop in his head.
‘You’re the one who signed him up to hurling,’ he had told her. ‘If you want him to go, why don’t you take him?’
‘Because I’ve been with him all week, John,’ she replied. ‘It’s you don’t spend enough time with him. Unlike your sports.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’m busy at work.’
‘We’re all busy, John.’
‘Some more than others.’
‘Now what’s that supposed to mean?’ she had yelled at him before he’d grabbed Alfie and stormed out of the house.
John looked around the sectioned-off park. The surrounding fields still held a thin coating of frost that glistened under a weak winter sun. The area was already full of screaming and running kids. Every week he had to ask which was his son’s group.
At the entrance, a box of markers lay next to several white A4 sheets that were divided into tear-off stickers. As usual, he scribbled Alfie’s name onto one sticker, pulled off the square strip, and stuck it onto his son’s T-shirt.
Eventually, he recognised one of the mothers whose son was also on Alfie’s team. She always wore the same see-through yoga pants. Her own son was crying, and she was bent over to attend to him. John stared, but then another woman walked in front of him and blocked his view. He recognised that woman too but couldn’t place her.
Alfie saw one of his friends and ran over to him. John found a quiet spot by the wire fence and crouched down, leaning his back against it. He took out his phone, opened the sports app and connected to the game. It had just started, and he stuck in his earphones and listened.
After a while a man walked by, sipping from a takeaway cup, and John remembered there was a small kiosk that sold drinks in the clubhouse. The coffee was instant and weak, but it was hot at least, so he stood up and, with a cursory glance at his son, sauntered off in its direction.
As he returned, he heard a goal being scored against Liverpool through his earphones, and his mood sank lower. He stood watching the kids run around for some minutes before he realised that none of them was Alfie. Embarrassingly, he had been standing beside the wrong group. He looked up and searched for the yoga-pants mother. Walking around, he found her in the far corner of the field where the kids were practising taking penalties. He spotted Alfie in a large group running after the ball, their hurleys raised in unison in the air like Zulu warriors charging into battle. It was chaos just watching them, but the analogy made him smile. He wondered where the coach got his patience from.
He leaned against the fence and sipped on the coffee. On his phone, he heard Liverpool score an equaliser and he raised his coffee cup into the air in delight, some of it splashing out and onto his hand.
The next time he looked up, the yoga-pants mother was putting on her son’s jacket. He looked over to Alfie’s group. Parents were leading their children hurriedly away and back to their cars.
Now, where the f**k is Alfie?
He shoved his phone into his pocket and walked over to where he had last seen his son.
The coach was tidying up the nets and markers. John hurried up to him.
‘Where’s Alfie?’
‘Who?’
John looked around at the children leaving with their parents. The group was thinning out.
‘Alfie. The little blond boy,’ he said. ‘With the Liverpool beanie. ’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? He was right here, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes. He must have left.’
‘He must have left? What do you mean, he must have f**king left?’
Most of the field was empty now. John felt a tightening in his chest as panic set in. He took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly.
‘Do you remember him or not? Alfie. His name’s Alfie.’
The coach was looking alarmed now. ‘I remember seeing him playing but, I’m sorry, I don’t remember when he left.’
The coach was saying something else, but his voice became muffled as if John was sinking under water.
He began walking quickly towards the car park.
‘Alfie!’ he yelled.
He was still holding his coffee cup, but threw it onto the grass.
‘Alfie!’
Cars were driving out and back to the warmth of their homes, children strapped safely inside.
He looked in the direction of the lake and an image of his son’s body, face-down in the water, flashed before him. He ran towards it, but it was deserted. He raced back to the car park.
The last few cars were leaving.
He sprinted out onto the main road, and looked up and down the paths, praying to see his little boy aimlessly walking on his own. No child in sight, so he ran back to the carpark. His SUV was the only vehicle there now.
Panic consumed him, and his breathing became laboured.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ. Where are you, Alfie?’
Every second that passed filled him further with dread. He went back to the football pitches, scanning the horizon and out towards the distant fields. His heart pounded hard in his chest, and he felt like he was having a heart attack. He gripped his coat, bent forward and fell onto his knees.
‘Alfie!’ he roared across the fields, ending in almost a dying gasp.
The four swans momentarily ruffled their wings at his roar, but then wrapped themselves tighter against each other, none of them daring to glance up or be witness to the scene.
At the edge of the football pitch where Alfie had played, John spotted a white label crunched up on the ground. He scrambled to his feet and hurried towards it. He snatched it up and with both hands unfolded the sticky white paper.
He had written the single word on it – Alfie.
Reported Missing is published by Poolbeg Press
