And then he was back. This is where Harry had begun his search for his daughter four months ago, driving with the window down, sometimes pulled over reading a map billowing on the car bonnet, his brother-in-law pissing into the long grass. They hadn’t found her. But they were back.
Somerset, May 3rd, 1975.
The police worked within a jurisdiction of laws and rules. That’s why Harry and Vincent set out to look for her themselves—because they had no jurisdiction. And Vincent had a small collection of firearms if it came to that. It almost did come to that. It was going to come to that again and worse.
Vincent let the car idle outside a stucco cottage and Harry could see his wife Helen through the kitchen window. Vincent lit a cigarette. His hair was long now, an inch above his shoulders, and his moustache was coming in thick and black in the shape of a handlebar.
‘It’s never easy,’ Harry said. ‘Coming back. Feel like Jack without the golden goose.’
Vincent put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘We’re gonna find her. I promise you.’
‘That’s what I told Helen,’ said Harry. ‘But deep inside, you can never know.’
‘You’ve got to banish that darkness.’
‘A little light called hope, I guess.’