Free Never Coming Back by Tim Weaver

“Yes,” he said, finally. “Best friends.”
    â€œAre you still friends?”
    â€œDefinitely. They’re like brothers to me.” He studied the photograph for a long time, Carrie watching him, Annabel continuing her leg exercises. “I bought a scanner a few months back, so I could get all my old pictures on to computer before they started to get beyond repair. I’ve got so many, though, I’ve .
 . . well, kind of been putting it off.”
    â€œThat’s a good idea.”
    â€œTo put it off?”
    She smiled. “No, to scan them in.”
    He shrugged. “I don’t want to lose these memories.”
    â€œWell, maybe you can start with this one.”
    â€œYes,” he said, his eyes moving between him and his friends. Finally, he returned her smile and placed the photograph back on top of the cabinet. “Maybe I can.”

12
    After Emily had gone, I walked through to the living room and sat down in a chair by the window. Like most of the furniture in the cottage, it had belonged to my parents, its arms marked by years of wear, the material worn thin, the pattern bleached by age. Outside, I could see Start Point lighthouse further along the coast, like a bone-white finger breaking out of the earth. Mostly, though, on this side of the house, all I could see was the garden.
    I booted up my laptop, pulled a stool toward me, then googled the Ling family’s disappearance. Nationally, it hadn’t got much coverage. One single-column story in the
Daily Mail
; a short in the
Guardian
and
The Times
. Both were light on details and included the same soundbite from Rocastle, probably issued through a catch-all press release. There was nothing juicy about the story a day in, just a very basic framework of events, which was probably why coverage died out pretty much as soon as it had begun. If the police had given the press the house—everything untouched, TV still on, toys on the floor, spilled bottle of milk—they’d have generated some buzz, but it was a catch-22: they didn’t want to release too much information too soon, as with any case, and the surface detail didn’t intrigue the media enough for them to start digging deeper.
    Local press coverage lasted longer, but hard information was thin on the ground, which meant either the police had kept the details locked down or—more likely—the case had quickly fizzled out. Ten and a half months down the line, with no sign of the family and no further updates for Emily, certainly suggested as much. Even so, there were a couple of things that nagged at me. The first was Rocastle, and his involvement in the case. The second was Paul Ling’s wallet, and the amount of time it had taken for it to be returned. It could have been nothing. Extra caution on the part of the police, or maybe an administrative error. But seven months seemed a long time to hold on to it.
    I turned back to the laptop.
    On-screen was a front-page story from one of the local newspapers, the family’s photo on the right, their faces clear even if the colors were washed out. Emily had given me their basic personal details, but it was good to put names to faces. At the back of the group was Paul Ling. Fifty-three. Balding. Mustache. Five or six inches taller than his wife, who was to his right, his arm around her. Carrie looked just like Emily: slim, small, dark hair,dark eyes, exactly the same smile. The only difference was that, at fifty, she was eight years older. To Paul Ling’s left, also smiling, was Annabel.
Belle
. She was definitely more like her mother than her father; her frame a little bigger maybe, her hair a little lighter, but neither by much. Height-wise, she was midway between Carrie and Paul—probably five-eight—and had her hair up in a ponytail, revealing a beautiful face, full of gentle sweeps. In front of her—Annabel’s hands on her shoulders—was Olivia,