Mitchell shifted uncomfortably at her ask, a knot forming in his stomach. He didn’t need any more complications in his life. But when he looked over at Poppy, her eyes urged him to say yes. Her words about no one being there to help her mum felt branded into his brain. Maybe he could do something this time around.
‘Okay,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Mitchell was usually like a coiled spring, ready to take up his bolt cutters and get to work. However, today his movements were slower because of his sore back and aching limbs. He felt glum rather than determined when he saw all the locks stretching out in front of him. When he trudged over to Redford, he found Barry working there.
Barry cut through a shackle and kicked the lock across the pavement. He rubbed his neck and stared at his mobile phone before he noticed Mitchell. ‘I can’t work in this heat,’ he groaned. ‘Just look at the amount of locks now. We need a drastic solution here.’
Mitchell surveyed the railings and for the first time ever, the size of the task removing the locks felt overwhelming. ‘A stick of dynamite might be the only option,’ he said.
‘It’s all down to you and me, mate. Russ isn’t going to help us.’
The word impossible appeared in Mitchell’s head and he ordered it to go away. All he could do was set to work and keep going. ‘Do you have any spare bolt cutters I can use?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, but they’re a bit rusty. I’ve asked around about your missing toolbox, too, but no luck. We could stick a note to the railing and see if anyone replies. I’ve got paper, a pen and sticky tape.’
‘That’s very organized, for you.’
Barry shrugged self-consciously. ‘Tina the artist said I should try out some landscape drawing, but that’s not going to happen.’
As the two men walked along Redford, Mitchell glanced at the river, and a shiver ran down his spine. The water wasn’t gushing as quickly today, but it looked cold and gun-metal grey. He thought of Yvette Bradfield’s smile and the gold heart-shaped padlock glinting in her hands.
We did share a connection, didn’t we? How does she know me?
‘I found out the woman I helped is Liza Bradfield’s sister Yvette,’ he told Barry. ‘But she’s been missing for almost a year, and the family have no idea where she is.’
Barry blew from the corner of his mouth. ‘Wow. Mind blown.’
‘I know. And now Liza wants me to find Yvette’s lock. She hopes it might provide a clue to her sister’s whereabouts.’
‘Can’t they put something on Facebook?’
‘I think they want to keep things in the family.’
Barry stared at the thousands of locks on the railings. ‘Hmph, you’ve got no chance.’ He picked up a thick black pen and wrote on a piece of paper ‘Lost toolbox (shiny metal). Award for safe return.’ ‘We should add your phone number to this,’ he said.
‘My mobile’s not working, and I don’t want to put my home number.’
Barry rooted around in his toolbox and handed a gnarled plastic mobile to Mitchell. ‘It’s a spare one, a bit bashed, but it works okay. You may get calls from random women looking for dates. Not that it’s a bad thing.’
‘Yes, it is. And I’m still going to look for Yvette’s lock.’
Barry put his hand on his hip and looked around. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘It’s easier than cutting them off, and I’ll tell you about Enid.’
‘Another lucky woman?’
Barry nodded proudly. ‘A dog stylist.’
‘I thought you didn’t like dogs.’
‘I like cats better, but she looks great in her photo.’
Mitchell moved the conversation on by describing Yvette’s lock to Barry. He tried to remember roughly where she’d fastened it.
‘At least it’s a different shape to the norm,’ Barry said as the two men crouched down on the pavement. They worked methodically, examining locks on a stretch of railing, one by one.
‘Are you sure we’ve got the right place?’ he asked after a while when they failed to find it.
Mitchell was beginning to doubt himself, too. ‘Let’s try further along.’
As he picked up another padlock, he became aware of someone standing behind him.
‘Are you him?’ a voice said. ‘The Hero on the Bridge? You look like him.’
Mitchell and Barry looked up to see a young woman clutching a fake Mulberry mustard-coloured satchel. She had an ice-blonde straight bob and wore a white blouse with a large bow at the neck. Plasters were stuck to the back of her heels, where her half-size-too-small designer court shoes had chafed.
Barry stood up and smoothed his hair. ‘Barry Waters,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
She gave him a withering look. ‘I meant him.’ She held her hand out towards Mitchell. ‘I’m Susan Smythe.’
Mitchell recognized her name from the online article. He straightened himself up and tentatively returned her handshake.
‘I’m a journalist,’ she said. ‘Well, in training.’
He retracted his hand. ‘We don’t know anything about Word Up,’ he said dismissively. ‘We get asked about them all the time.’
‘That’s not why I’m here.’ Susan’s eyes glistened as she took a tissue out of her satchel, giving her nose a blow.
‘Hay fever?’ Mitchell asked warily.
‘I’m gathering myself. I’m a bit, um… I’m rather upset.’
Barry took a step to the side. ‘Time for my break,’ he said and sidled away. ‘Catch you later.’
Mitchell waited for Susan’s sniffling to stop. She stuffed her tissue back into her satchel and moved the strap higher on her shoulder. ‘I wrote a piece about you for the Upchester News channel. Your name is Mitchell Fisher, right?’
He nodded reluctantly.
‘I recognized your, um…’ She eyed his face.
‘My courageous and dashing nature?’ he quoted from her article.
‘I was about to say your eyes. I came to give you something.’ She opened her satchel again and took out a batch of ten or so letters fastened together with a purple rubber band. ‘These. They arrived this morning. I, um…’ Her tissue reappeared, and she spoke to herself through clenched teeth. ‘All I want to do is come up with a great story, and I messed up. Again.’
Mitchell was surprised to feel a touch of paternal-like concern towards her. There was something about her determined demeanour that reminded him of Poppy. ‘I’m sure you’ve done nothing of the sort.’
She gave him a self-depreciating smile. ‘My first week on the job, I spilled coffee on a politician. During the second week I got stuck in a traffic jam and