‘Well, we’ll leave you to do your schoolwork now,’ says Harriet. ‘I’ll pop up later to see how you’re getting on.’ She wags a finger. ‘Don’t expect me to be much help today, though. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, I really don’t.’
They leave her then, almost floating out of the room on the cloud they have created. She watches them go. Waits for the door to close. For the familiar noise that always comes next. The grating sound that seems to reverberate in the centre of her chest.
The sound of the bolts being drawn.
She is alone again. She spends so much of her time alone. Because of that, a part of her really does think that it will be wonderful to have another child here.
But she wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.
She looks around her bedroom. Sometimes she wonders how long it would take a visitor to work out the true purpose of this room were it not for the external locks. They would see the bed in the alcove across from the doorway. To the left of the door they would see the shelving unit containing books, toys and a flat-screen television. Next to that, the chest of drawers, on top of which sits a doll’s house and more toys. In the middle of the room, the foldaway table and stackable plastic chairs.
Nothing particularly unusual.
But then they might question the absence of bulky wardrobes. They might wonder why, instead of storage, there is a small washbasin in one corner and what looks like a shower curtain in another. And when they peered behind that curtain they would probably be surprised to find that it hides not a shower but a manky old commode.
And, in an effort to shed some natural light on the puzzling features of this gloomy room, they might wish to draw back the window curtains, only to discover the wooden boards screwed in place behind them.
At that point they might finally realise that this is not merely a bedroom, a room in which to sleep. It is a room for everything.
It is a prison cell.
Daisy has learnt not to complain to the adults about her situation. To the people she calls Mummy and Daddy, but who are not her real parents.
This is not the place to bring another child, she thinks.
It wasn’t the place to bring this child.
She is not sure precisely how long she has been here, but she has a rough idea. She was forced to celebrate her tenth birthday recently. And she knows she was seven when she was snatched.
That makes it about three years that she has been trapped inside this room.
2
‘Is this him?’
Detective Sergeant Nathan Cody follows Detective Constable Megan Webley’s pointing finger to its target. Through the grimy windscreen he sees a figure coming towards them along the pavement, hands deep in his pockets, collar up against the cold.
‘Nope. Nothing like him.’
Ed Sheeran is playing on the radio. Cody taps his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat. He looks into the shop window next to the car. It’s full of skimpy lingerie. He wishes he’d parked a bit further back.
‘What about this guy?’ says Webley.
Cody sighs. ‘No. Look, are you going to ask about every bloke who walks past?’
‘If I do, it’ll be your fault.’
‘Why is it my fault?’
‘Your idea, wasn’t it? Plus, you said he’d show up at five o’clock on the dot, and it’s already three minutes past.’
‘He’ll be here. Have patience.’
Webley indicates how much patience she has remaining with an emphatic folding of her arms.
‘I’m cold and I’m tired and I’m hungry. I had no lunch today.’
‘You’re not the only one. Bit of a mad dash to court, wasn’t it?’
‘You were very good, by the way. In court.’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah. That barrister met his match there. I could see the sweat running down from his wig, the arrogant git.’ She gestures towards him, raising her eyebrows. ‘I noticed you wore a new tie for the occasion.’
Smiling, Cody sits up and straightens it. ‘Yeah. Like it?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
After a short pause she says, ‘Do you ever miss the old days?’
Cody feels a hot flush coming on. He suspects she’s about to bring up the time when they were a couple. Back when she had a say in what ties he wore.
‘Which old days?’
‘When you were undercover. Do you miss that side of it?’
Phew, thinks Cody. ‘Yeah, sometimes. This is good too, though.’
‘Ever think of transferring back?’
‘Why? Fed up of me?’
‘No. Just wondering. It used to be such a big part of your life.’
He shakes his head. ‘Doubt it. I still like doing the occasional small job, but I don’t think I could do it full-time again.’
‘Because of what happened?’
Cody thinks carefully before answering. It’s a natural enough question. For most people, the experience of four men in clown masks forcibly removing parts of your body and then gruesomely murdering your partner would be enough to persuade you to seek other avenues of work.
‘Yeah, but not just for the obvious reasons. To be honest, I thought the move to Major Incidents would only be temporary, but it opened my eyes. I thought I’d miss the buzz of UC work, but I don’t. I like our team, and I like the work we do.’
‘Wouldn’t be the same if I wasn’t on it, though, would it?’ She smiles, and he sees her dimples appear.
Before he can reply, Webley’s phone rings. She glances at the screen. ‘Footlong,’ she announces, then answers the call.
Cody looks in his rear-view mirror at the unmarked car parked yards behind them. He can make out the face of DC Neil ‘Footlong’ Ferguson, lit by the glow from his own phone. Alongside him is another DC from the squad, Jason Oxburgh.
Webley listens, then turns to Cody. ‘He wants to know how long we’re expected to sit here. He wants to know if your CHIS for this op is reliable.’
CHIS is cop-speak for Covert Human Intelligence Source. An informant.
‘Tell him my intel is impeccable,’ says Cody, ‘and that he needs to have a bit more faith.’
Webley passes on the message, then listens for a few more seconds before ending the call.
‘What did he say?’ Cody asks.
‘Nothing.’
‘Go on, what did he say?’
‘He asked if you’re doing your best to keep me warm in here.’
Cody turns away, shaking his head in despair, but he thinks that the heat returning to his cheeks should be more than enough to keep both of them warm.
He’s glad of the distraction when he notices a movement through the car window.
‘Aye, aye,’ he says.
‘What?’ says Webley. ‘Is it him?’
Cody continues to observe. He sees a woman at the cash machine. She has her purse in her hand, but has left her bag wide open. A young man in a dark tracksuit has begun moving up behind her.
Cody lowers his window. ‘Fitzy, get over here!’
The young man jerks to attention. Hands in pockets, he saunters over to the car.
‘All right, Mr Cody. How’s it going?’ He bends to look across at the passenger. ‘All right, love.’
Cody has to stop himself from smiling. He knows that Webley will be bristling at being called ‘love’.
‘What are you up to, Fitzy?’
Fitzy shrugs. ‘Nothin’.’
‘Didn’t look like nothing. Looked to me like you took a very sudden interest in that woman at the ATM.’
‘Oh, her! No, I was just keeping an eye on her, like, you know what I mean? Doing my bit as a good citizen. I don’t think she realises there are certain types around here who might take advantage of a situation like that. Know what I mean?’
‘Yeah, right, Fitzy. Glad to hear it. I’ll put you in for the Pride of Britain Awards. Off you go, then. Chasing you through the streets is the last thing I wa
nt right now.’
Fitzy doesn’t budge. ‘What’s happening here, anyway?’
‘Nothing to concern you,’ says Cody.
Fitzy grins, revealing a gap where one of his front teeth should be. ‘Are you waiting for the coast to clear so you can take your missus in there?’ He points behind him at the lingerie shop. ‘It’s okay, you know. These are modern times. No need to feel embarrassed, know what I mean?’
Webley leans towards Cody’s open window. ‘I’m not his missus. Now do one, before we nick you.’
Fitzy puts his hands up in surrender. ‘All right, love. Just being friendly.’
It’s then that the wheels seem to start turning in Fitzy’s mind. He peers along the street towards the other unmarked car.
‘They’re with you, aren’t they? What’s going on? You gonna raid the frilly knickers place?’
‘Something like that,’ says Cody. ‘Now go and bother someone else, Fitzy. And stay out of trouble.’
Fitzy shrugs, then saunters away. As he goes past Footlong’s car, he gives the occupants a little wave.
Cody closes his window.
‘God,’ says Webley, ‘I could do with a drink after this. Fancy one?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s February. I don’t drink in February.’
‘You don’t drink any frigging month. I bet you didn’t even have a drink at Christmas.’
‘I’m sure you quaffed enough for the two of us,’ he answers. But she’s right: he didn’t drink at Christmas. He spent Christmas alone, in his flat. While everyone else was carving turkeys and pulling crackers and getting pissed, he was tucking into a microwaved curry and nursing an ankle sprained in the line of duty. He didn’t tell Webley that, of course. He told her that he spent time with his parents and with his ex-fiancée, when in reality neither seemed overly keen to spread the festive cheer in his direction.
‘Come on,’ Webley urges. ‘It’ll be fun.’
‘Nah, I’m knackered. I just want to put my feet up.’
‘Christ, Cody. You sound like my nan, and even she manages to get out to t’ai chi and bingo every week. Are you sure you’re not ninety-six beneath that boyish exterior?’
‘Another time, Megs. Okay?’
She smiles at him.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘Megs. You used to call me that all the time when we were going out.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No. It’s nice.’
Hot flush time again. Cody is grateful when Webley’s phone blares into life once more.
Webley answers the call. Listens. Says, ‘Footlong again. Thinks we should knock this on the head. His suggestion is—’
‘He’s here,’ says Cody.
‘What?’
Cody points. ‘He’s going in now.’
He watches as a dark-haired man puts a key into the door of a shop front to open up, then disappears inside. Cody starts to get out of the car.
‘We’re on!’ says Webley into her phone.
The four detectives assemble on the pavement, then head briskly in the direction of the shop.
Cody pushes open the door. Inside, the man he has been waiting for turns to stare at the new arrivals.
‘What can I do for you?’ the man asks.
Cody listens to the action taking place in the back room. He breathes in the odours.
His mouth waters in anticipation.
‘Fish and chips four times, please. And can you make my batter extra crispy?’
*
Cody pulls rank and insists they eat in Footlong’s car. The food is excellent, the company even better, but when the topic of a few beers is raised again, Cody declines. He drives back to his flat alone.
Home is the top floor of a Georgian building on Rodney Street, above a dental practice. The practice is closed now, so Cody has the building to himself. He could have invited his colleagues back here. He could have suggested they buy some alcohol on the way. Could have put on some music.
He did none of those things.
In his kitchen, he puts the kettle on, empties his pockets, and removes his jacket and tie. When he has brewed his tea, he takes a seat at the small breakfast bar.
He thinks about Webley. There have been a couple of occasions in recent weeks when she has suggested going for a drink. Sometimes he wonders if she has an agenda, but then he worries that he is being arrogant. She’s probably just being friendly.
Besides, there are barriers. Too many things in the way. The job, for one. Cody and Webley have to work together, to rely on each other.
Then there are the partners. Okay, ex-partners. Cody doesn’t think there is much chance of his own ex-fiancée taking him back, but he expects that Webley will hook up with her bloke again. They have been apart only since Christmas. Time yet for a reconciliation.
And then, of course, there is the other matter. The thing he can’t talk about.
Webley touched upon it earlier. The event that caused him to abandon undercover work. She knows how traumatic it was for him. How it led to horrific nightmares, hallucinations and a loss of control.
What she doesn’t know is that they are back in his life.
The clowns.
They have made contact. They have been sending him weird messages. They have even been here, in his flat.
They have been quiet since Christmas, but he knows they’ll come again. And when they do, it won’t be pretty.
That’s the real reason he can’t allow Webley, or anyone else for that matter, to get too close.
About the Author
David Jackson is the bestselling author of Cry Baby. His debut novel, Pariah, was Highly Commended in the Crime Writers’ Association Debut Dagger Awards. He lives on the Wirral peninsula with his wife and two daughters. Follow David on Twitter: @Author_Dave, or via his website davidjacksonbooks.com.
Also by David Jackson
The DS Nathan Cody Series
A Tapping at My Door
Hope to Die
Don’t Make A Sound
The Callum Doyle Series
Pariah
The Helper
Marked
Cry Baby
First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Zaffre
This ebook edition published in 2019 by
ZAFFRE
80-81 Wimpole St, London, W1G 9RE
Copyright © David Jackson, 2019
Cover design by Nick Stearn
The moral right of David Jackson to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978–1–78576–555–1
Hardback ISBN: 978–1–78576–553–7
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978–1–78576–554–4
This ebook was produced by IDSUK (Data Connection) Ltd
Zaffre is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK
www.bonnierbooks.co.uk
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