The Child’s Secret - Amanda Brooke

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of time and hadn’t worn a watch in six years. ‘I don’t,’ he answered bluntly, having decided that he wasn’t going to give any more information than was absolutely necessary until the detective explained what it was he wanted.

      Harper was nodding as he drew his own conclusions. ‘Two hours. That must have been some run.’

      ‘Nothing unusual.’

      ‘So how far did you get?’

      ‘Not that far. I ran towards Allerton, then Garston, before sweeping around towards Hunts Cross. It was the first time out running for Jasper so we walked for a while too.’

      ‘Did you go through the park?’

      ‘Calderstones? Yes, I cut through it on the way out, but we came along Menlove Avenue on the way home,’ he said as he rubbed his clean-shaven chin and neck where the sweat had begun to dry and tickle. ‘Has something happened there? I work in the park.’

      ‘Yes, we know. And you only left the house at about half ten, you say?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Not before?’

      ‘It could have been nearer to ten but no earlier,’ Sam said as he sat down heavily at the dining room table, which was clear except for a single sheet of silky smooth paper. The six-inch square was dark green with a pattern of yellow flowers and he played with a corner while waiting for Harper to explain himself. His patience eventually paid off.

      ‘At approximately nine o’clock this morning, an eight-year-old girl was reported missing. While you were out on your run, Mr McIntyre, her parents have been frantically searching for her,’ the detective added helpfully.

      Sam’s slowing pulse gathered up speed. ‘What little girl?’

      ‘Jasmine Peterson.’

      The name was like a direct jolt to the heart but Sam kept his voice surprisingly steady when he asked, ‘What’s happened? Has she run away? Do you think she’s been harmed?’

      ‘That’s something I’d like to find out as quickly as possible for her parents’ sake.’

      ‘Have you spoken to them? Is her mum all right?’

      ‘Mrs Peterson is distraught, as I’m sure you can imagine,’ Harper said, and then his eyes narrowed, changing not only his demeanour but the nature of the interview. ‘When was the last time you saw Jasmine, Mr McIntyre?’

      A flicker of guilt crossed Sam’s face but he hid it well. ‘It was a while ago. Two weeks, maybe.’

      ‘That long?’ Harper said, less concerned with hiding his own reactions. ‘But you had become very close to her, hadn’t you?’ Before Sam could respond, he added, ‘And yet you haven’t known her very long at all.’

       2

       Six Months Earlier

       Thursday 23 April 2015

      ‘Does it hurt?’

      Scanning the group of schoolchildren, Sam searched out the owner of the fragile voice which had been difficult to hear above the whispers and giggles of her peers. A small cluster of girls to the back of the group had turned around and he followed their gaze. The girl standing behind them was taller than many of her classmates and yet so insubstantial she was hardly there at all. Her head was dipped and her long blonde hair fell poker straight over her shoulders. Her blue eyes fixed directly on Sam and worry hung like a veil over her face.

      ‘Sorry?’ he said. ‘Does what hurt?’

      ‘The tree. Does it feel pain?’

      A frown furrowed Sam’s brow as he considered his answer. He had given countless tours of Calderstones Park in his time and the Allerton Oak was one of the highlights, for him as much as anyone. The behemoth was estimated to be a thousand years old and had remained rooted to the spot while the human race rushed past towards bright futures that had quickly receded into the dim and distant past. Had the tree been an impassive observer or did it somehow absorb the trials and tribulations of the people who had taken shelter beneath its heavy boughs? Was that what the girl was asking? It was a good question if it was.

      One of the boys nudged his friend and Sam knew instinctively that there was a derisive comment on its way. The Allerton Oak was the last stop of his guided tour and he had already worked out who were the troublemakers – they were easier to spot than the quiet ones. The boy in question had taken a deep breath and was opening his mouth when Sam beat him to it. ‘It does look like it should hurt, doesn’t it?’ he agreed, looking from the girl to the tree, his eyes drawing the children’s gaze away from her willowy figure and towards the giant oak with its fresh green buds that were only just peeking through gnarled branches.

      The group took a few steps closer and one or two leaned against the painted iron railings that formed a square to guard the oak from the more inquisitive visitors. The trunk of the tree was at least six feet in diameter but was by no means solid. The hollow at its core was large enough for a small child to stand up in. Some said it had been a gunpowder ship called the Lotty Sleigh exploding on the Mersey in 1864 that had split the tree asunder, but age had also played its part. Like an old man leaning on crutches, the oak’s boughs were held up by giant metal props to keep it from tearing itself in two.

      ‘This old gent would have been around long before Calderstones was a park and even before this land was part of a great estate – long before Calderstones Mansion was built. In fact, the tree is older than Liverpool itself,’ Sam said. He looked over towards one of the teachers. ‘Isn’t that right, Miss Jenkins?’

      ‘Yes, and when we get back to school we’ll be looking at some old maps which show how the area has changed over the centuries,’ she said.

      Miss Jenkins was standing in amongst her class and when they had first met a year ago, Sam had thought her not long out of school herself. He had said as much to her and was surprised when she told him she was twenty-eight. The teacher was slightly built with dark hair and almond eyes that always seemed to be smiling and they were smiling at Sam now, making him uncomfortable. He scratched his tangled beard, which, in contrast to Miss Jenkins, made him look older than his years.

      ‘Why don’t you tell the children about the tree’s special powers, Mr McIntyre?’ she asked.

      Sam raised an eyebrow. ‘Now you know I’m not supposed to do that.’

      The statement sounded like the perfect ruse to leave the schoolchildren intrigued, but Sam had been told on numerous occasions by his managers not to make up stories but to keep to the script approved by the park ranger services. He was meant to explain how the tree was reputedly the medieval meeting place of the so-called Hundred Court, but that wasn’t going to impress a group of eight year olds. Sixteen faces – nineteen if you included the teaching staff – looked at him expectantly. What harm could it do? he asked himself.

      ‘Can you keep a secret?’

      When the flurry of yeses ebbed away, Sam made a point of looking around to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Legend has it that this is a Wishing Tree. For centuries, people have written down their secret desires and placed them inside the trunk.’

      ‘Where?’ someone asked.

      Sam pointed to one of the gaping wounds in the trunk. ‘Right there.’

      ‘So you just stick a bit of paper in the tree. Then what?’ said the boy who had caught Sam’s attention earlier.

      ‘Manners, Matthew,’ Miss Jenkins scolded.

      ‘And then what, Mr McIntyre?’ he repeated, sounding even less interested in the answer than he had the first time he’d asked.

      ‘And

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