by C J Parsons
‘Yes, Hiranand. Go ahead.’
Unlike Dutoit, he remained seated, elbows on the table, one hand fisted around a pen. He pumped the end with his thumb as he spoke, making it click in and out of its sheath.
‘I’ve been looking into the stuffed animals used to lure the girls.’ He lifted his chin towards the right-hand side of the board, where photos of the two toys were displayed. ‘As you know, lab results showed they’d been dipped in chloroform that appears to come from the same source. There’s DNA on them from the girls, but no one else. The penguin was mass produced and could have been bought pretty much anywhere. But the bear is a different story.’ All eyes were now fixed on Hiranand. There was no sound in the room but his voice and the pen’s click. ‘It came from Hamleys. Limited edition. Expensive. Ninety-nine pounds ninety-five, to be exact.’ His smile was small, but she could sense the self-satisfaction behind it. ‘And guess who just so happened to go to Hamleys and purchase one of these rare and extortionate bears exactly two days before Zoe was abducted?’ His eyes swept the room before stopping on Juliet.
‘Tara Weldon,’ she said.
A triumphant double click. ‘Got it in one.’
A cheer rippled around the room, but Juliet didn’t join in. She frowned.
‘Tara paid with a card?’
‘Yep. Lucky for us.’
‘That seems . . . careless.’
‘Well, like Dutoit says, she’s got mental health issues. She’s unravelling, not thinking things through.’
Juliet considered this as she wrote ‘Purchased by Tara Weldon’ under the picture of the bear. She forced herself to think dispassionately, to focus only on the facts. And saw that Hiranand’s theory fit. Both abductions had been an odd combination of calculation and carelessness: meticulous planning, let down by basic mistakes. Because, if the girls had been gagged or drugged for longer, it was entirely likely that neither of them would ever have been found. And she could see the emotional logic behind the inconsistency; a mother driven by love and loss wouldn’t have wanted to harm or terrify her young victims. Tara’s maternal instincts had come into play . . . and become her downfall.
‘Anyone got anything else?’ A brief silence and a couple of headshakes. But they didn’t really need anything else. Alistair was right. They had her.
‘OK.’ Juliet snapped the lid back onto the pen. ‘I’d say that’s more than enough to charge her. Nice work, ladies and gents.’
Hiranand bobbed his head in something that was halfway between a nod and a bow. Dutoit clapped, then someone else joined in and, before she knew it, they were all clapping like teenagers at a pop concert. Juliet looked at Alistair, grinning at her from his perch on the front desk, banging his palms together with the rest of them. Normally, this was the point at which something bordering on euphoria would roll through Juliet, making her want to shout out loud.
But not this time. She looked at the delighted faces in front of her and felt nothing. Because she’d been off on her own frolic, running in the wrong direction while everyone else was busy solving the case.
This simply wasn’t her victory.
‘So what do you think?’ Alistair asked, as the other officers filed past them out of the room.
She tossed the marker pen back onto the ledge.
‘I think I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Fancy grabbing a bite while we wait for the warrant to come through?’
‘Sure. What do you fancy? Pizza?’
‘I had pizza last night. And the night before.’ Juliet massaged her temples as she followed him out into the corridor, feeling the throb of a headache starting. Regret had lodged itself inside her, leaning against her ribcage, making her chest ache. People made mistakes, she told herself firmly. It was part of life. The case had been solved and that was all that really mattered.
‘You pick, then,’ Alistair said, as they entered the grubby stairwell leading down to the side exit. ‘Burgers, Chinese . . . whatever. I’m not fussed.’
‘OK.’ She began running a mental inventory of all the nearby restaurants and takeaways as they descended the stairs, steps echoing in the concrete space. Comfort food, that was what she needed. Something with potatoes. Maybe cake afterwards, from the bakery next to the Italian place.
And that’s when it hit her.
Solly’s Bagels.
The shop next to Josh’s office makes them.
Carrie’s words, echoing in her memory.
Except that wasn’t right. Josh Skelter’s office building was located between a Greek restaurant and a pharmacy. Juliet knew that because she had been up and down Newman Road on foot, had combed through its CCTV footage. And there was no Solly’s Bagels. Carrie obviously didn’t know that, though, since she hadn’t pinched herself after saying it.
Juliet sat down on the bottom step and took out her mobile, Googling ‘Solly’s Bagels’, cursing herself for not having thought of this sooner. She was clearly off her game. She tapped ‘Maps’.
Alistair was still heading towards the exit door in a cloud of chatter, failing to register, at first, that Juliet was no longer behind him.
She heard the sound of the metal door opening, then a pause.
‘Oh. What are you doing? Researching places to eat?’
But she didn’t look up. Juliet sat on the grubby step, staring down at the red marker now pointing to a spot halfway down Radich Avenue: the street parallel to Newman. She zoomed in until the bagel shop and Station House filled the screen. The two buildings backed onto each other. There was no sign of a path or alleyway linking the two roads.
‘Juliet?’ She looked up to find Alistair standing in front of her, frowning. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Just give me one sec . . .’
She went onto Google Earth, homing in on Josh’s building. Most of the businesses on Newman Street were separated from their rear neighbours by walls. But Station House had been extended at some point, so its ground floor stuck out further. The only thing behind it was a small stretch of concrete that ended at the back of Solly’s Bagels.
‘Alistair, can you do something for me?’
‘OK,’ he said, dragging out the second syllable (okaaaa-aay).
‘Call Solly’s Bagels on Radich Avenue and ask them if they have a back door, and whether it’s left unlocked.’
‘I’m sorry, you what now?’
‘I’ll explain in a minute.’
She could feel him staring at her, no doubt wondering what the hell was going on. But her eyes didn’t leave the screen. Her mind was already jumping ahead, to the next question. Josh’s office was on the top floor. So even if there was a back route to the neighbouring street, how could he reach it without walking past his secretary, not to mention lobby security, with its CCTV camera? She stared at the sketchy image of the building. There had to be another way out of that room, something she wasn’t seeing. She switched to Google Street View, which fed her a familiar image of the building’s façade. But nothing new, nothing she’d overlooked.
Frustration was gnawing at her. She could obviously head over there right now, comb the building from front to back. Of course, the rest of her team would want to know why she’d suddenly run off, just as they were poised to make an arrest. And what exactly was she going to say to them? She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, scanning her memory of that first visit to Josh’s office, with its high ceilings, linen blinds and tidy surfaces. The secretary standing in the doorway like a chatty security guard.
Isn’t it beautiful? The Observer did a big spread on the building in their design supplement.
Maybe . . .
She ran ‘Observer’ and ‘Station House’ through the search engine and was rewarded with an image gallery. She scrolled quickly through the first few shots, which showed street views, hunting for something she hadn’t seen already, something that might explain how . . .
The stairs were attached to the back of the building, curling from the top-floor window down to the space behind Solly’s. A secret shortcut to the bagel shop ‘next door’.
‘Yes.’
The sound of Alistair’s voice broke into her thoughts, startling her. She’d become so absorbed in her search that she’d forgotten about him. He was standing with one shoulder propped against the cement wall near the door, watching her intently.
‘Sorry? Yes . . . what?’
‘Yes, Solly’s Bagels has a back door, next to the customer loos. They leave it wedged open in the summer to let the air flow through.’
And, just like that, Josh Skelter’s alibi was gone.
Juliet imagined him strolling into the shop through the back door, exchanging pleasantries, buying bagels. The familiar customer whose presence barely registered. Then leaving through the front, turning onto Radich Avenue, his secretary unaware he’d ever left. Or that he’d later returned the same way.
A shot of adrenalin sent her jumping to her feet.
‘I need someone to get me the CCTV from Radich Avenue for the days Sofia and Zoe went missing.’
‘Radich Avenue,’ Alistair repeated slowly. ‘That’s right by Josh Skelter’s office, isn’t it?’ He puffed out a sigh, his face simultaneously puzzled and concerned. ‘Why are you still doing this, Juliet? We’ve solved the case. It’s Tara. There’s proof.’
‘I know that. I just need to check this one last thing.’
He scrubbed his face with his hands.
‘OK. If you’ve somehow managed to conjure up game-changing new evidence while walking down the back stairs, then we should probably let the others know. Shall I call another briefing?’
Juliet tapped a thumb against her bottom lip, feeling some of her excitement drain away at the thought of dragging everyone back from celebrating a job well done to second-guess their victory. And for what? Metal stairs and a bagel shop. She imagined the volley of facts they would fire at her.
Fact One: Even if Josh could have used the fire escape to leave the building unnoticed, that didn’t prove he actually had.
Fact Two: Tara Weldon had been placed at the scene of both abductions. Josh Skelter had not.
Fact Three: the Hamleys bear was a damning piece of evidence linking Tara directly to the second abduction.
Fact Four: Tara had lied (convincingly enough to fool Juliet) during the police interview.
Was she really prepared to stand up in front of her colleagues and instruct them to cast all these facts aside? To inform them that the abductor was driven, not by devastating, mind-warping grief, but by the desire to start dating a plain, socially awkward woman he had met only once, because she reminded him of his mother? Oh, and that a fire Surrey police had ruled accidental twenty years ago had actually been set by Josh, to take out the competition for his mother’s love?
No. She couldn’t say any of those things. It sounded far-fetched, preposterous.
‘No need for a briefing.’ She walked past Alistair, opened the door and stepped out into the exhaust-tainted heat. ‘I just want to make absolutely sure we haven’t overlooked anything.’
But as the door closed behind them, Alistair caught her wrist and gently drew her around to face him, eyes searching hers.
‘Look, if you’ve decided that we’re wrong about Tara, I really would like to know about it. And I’d like to know why.’
She snatched her arm away, feeling defensive. ‘I haven’t decided anything yet.’
And as soon as she said the words, she realised they were true. Because, right now, she honestly couldn’t say which one – Tara or Josh – she believed was guilty.
Thirty-four
Carrie had just put Sofia to bed and was tidying away toys in the living room when she glanced out the window and saw someone standing under the oak tree directly across the street, silhouetted by the sun’s dying rays. A figure in a thin plastic raincoat, holding a bag. The hood was raised, burying the face in shadow. Carrie’s heart lurched. Should she call Josh? He was in the study, working on his Editor’s Introduction. All she had to do was shout his name and he’d come running. But something stopped her from doing that. She had spent so much of the last month boxing shadows, waiting for unseen enemies to reveal themselves or be captured by police. This time, she wanted to be the one to take action, to seize control.
Carrie flung open the door, sending a fan of light spilling across the garden. The hooded figure moved closer, crossing the road to stand in front of her gate. Carrie blinked as she saw who it was.
‘What are you doing here?’
Tara pushed back the plastic hood, exposing her face. The streetlight hung shadows from her eye sockets and turned her skin sallow, making her appear older. She stood at the gate, holding her handbag by its strap.
‘I need to speak to you. There are some things I have to explain. Things I should have told you sooner.’
Carrie stood frozen, caught in the pull of opposing forces, running a mental risk assessment. Of course she couldn’t do anything that would endanger Sofia – even if the risk seemed small. But she also didn’t want to cut Tara out of her life when the DCI herself had admitted there was a good chance she’d done absolutely nothing wrong. And the fact that DCI Campbell had come by asking questions about Josh, of all people, who everyone knew had been in his office when Sofia was taken, proved that the police were still running in circles, taking shots in the dark.
Carrie arrived at a decision. She would listen to what Tara had to say . . . but not in the house, with Sofia asleep upstairs. She stepped out onto the doorstep.
‘OK. Tell me.’
Tara moved closer, stopping when she reached the bottom step, eyebrows dipping together.
‘Aren’t we going inside?’
‘No.’ Carrie shut the door behind her. ‘Let’s take a walk.’
‘Ah.’ Tara smiled with one side of her mouth. ‘You mean because Sofia is inside and you think . . . what, that I’m going to try and snatch her?’
‘As long as that remains even a remote possibility, I am not prepared to take the chance.’
‘Fine,’ Tara said quietly. She pulled her handbag up over her shoulder as she turned towards the street. ‘Let’s go.’
The day’s light had bled out by the time they reached the nearest park: an empty strip of grass with a giant cherry tree at one end and a wooden bench at the other. The gate was unlocked and they walked to the bench in silence. Carrie sat down. Tara hesitated for a moment before joining her. She drew in a deep breath, closing her eyes as she released it.
‘You asked me why you’ve never met Peter. And I want to tell you the truth.’
Carrie felt her heart beat faster without quite knowing why. ‘OK.’
‘Peter has . . . issues. Behavioural issues. He’s been excluded from Eleonore Primary – his school – seven times already. I seem to spend half my life in the head’s office, pleading with her not to make the exclusions permanent. But I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time.’
‘What kind of behavioural issues?’
‘He gets angry . . . beyond angry. He spins out of control, won’t stop screaming. And sometimes he gets violent and hurts people. Me. Other children – which, as you can imagine, puts a strain on my friendships with their mothers. They steer clear of us because they don’t want their children to get frightened or bitten. I’d probably do the same in their shoes.’ She kicked a pebble lying near her foot, sending it skidding into the grass. ‘I just . . . didn’t want that to happen with us.’
Carrie tipped her face to the darkened sky. Relief was coursing through her, making her body feel lighte
r and cleaner somehow: all the muddy confusion sluiced away.
‘Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?
‘I don’t know. Shame, I guess. Because the way he is . . . It’s my fault.’
‘Why?’
Tara undid the top button of her raincoat, making the plastic crackle. Heaved out a sigh.
‘When Peter was two, I had another baby. A daughter. Clarissa. She was . . . perfect. I adored her. I’d always wanted a girl.’ She began rubbing her hands together slowly, as though washing them. ‘The first time Peter bit her, I thought it was just jealousy. I hated that he did it.’ The hands stopped rubbing and retracted into tight fists. ‘I think I loved him less because of it.’
Carrie’s view of the park flickered in the flurry of blinks set off by this extraordinary revelation. Tara had a daughter? Why had she never mentioned her before? Perhaps the father had won sole custody? But then, wouldn’t she be entitled to some sort of visitation, maybe on alternate weekends? Questions were crowding Carrie’s head, jostling for space. But, in the end, she asked only one.
‘Where is Clarissa now?’
Tara pulled her knees up onto the bench and wrapped her arms around them so that she was sitting in an upright foetal position: an oddly girlish pose.
‘She died before her first birthday. Anaphylactic shock. We were in the park and she was sitting near a flower bed. And the next thing I knew, she’d been stung and . . .’ Her eyes squeezed shut. Carrie felt an unfolding inside her chest, a powerful tug of empathy. Because that could so easily have been her, watching helplessly as meningitis stole her child’s last breath. She looked at Tara, hunched over her knees, and wondered how she’d been able to keep going – to smile and hand out food at birthday parties, watching other people’s daughters turn three and four and five. Knowing that hers never would.
Slowly, tentatively, Carrie placed an arm around the bowed shoulders. Tara leaned towards her, dabbing her eyes with a fingertip before continuing.
‘I had no idea she was allergic to bee stings. It all happened so fast.’ She drew in a shaky breath. ‘Anyway, I was a mess after that. By the time I was able to function again, my marriage was over. My husband left and I threw myself into trying to be a good mother to Peter. But the damage had already been done.’