Flesh and Blood (A DI Amy Winter Thriller)

by Caroline Mitchell

  ‘Come in,’ she said, moving to one side to let Donovan in. ID was rarely asked for since his appearance on TV. He offered up a smile as Tasha closed the door behind her, and waited for her to lead the way. The cosy dormer property was filled with an array of house plants, and Donovan cast an eye over the school photographs on the wall as he followed her down the brightly lit hall: a catalogue of a little girl’s life from primary school upwards. They began with a brown-haired girl in pigtails sporting a gap-toothed smile. As the photos progressed, she was wearing braces and, later, a thin layer of make-up. Her uniform was oversized, most likely so she would get a ‘wear out of it’. Tasha was a single mother and he knew every penny would count. The last picture on the wall gave Donovan pause. Gone was the girl’s cheeky smile, and the brightness behind her eyes had dimmed. Her hair had been chopped short, her arms wrapped around herself as she scowled. Donovan guessed this was the last photo her mother had taken of her because there was no other earthly reason as to why it would be on display.

  She led him into the kitchen, which was narrow but long. Next to the sink was a peace lily with a spray bottle next to it.

  ‘I was just watering my plants.’ Tasha smiled, gesturing at him to sit.

  He cast a glance across the windowsill at the flowering plants lined in a row. In each corner of the room was a healthy-looking parlour palm. The addition of plants gave the narrow kitchen a tropical feel.

  ‘I work part-time down the garden centre,’ Tasha explained as she followed his gaze. ‘I rehomed these plants. They were withered when I took them in.’ She smiled proudly. ‘But look at them now.’

  Donovan declined her offer of a coffee as he took a seat at the table. An array of photographs were spread across it, and Tasha picked one up. ‘Shame I’m not as good at looking after my daughter. She’s fifteen next week. Fifteen and sleeping rough.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re doing your best,’ Donovan replied, his thoughts with his own daughter. Their relationship had been fractured by his divorce, but they had come out the other side.

  ‘You can take one if you like,’ Tasha said, her gaze vacant as she stared at the photographs. ‘The last time I saw April she’d chopped her hair short. I was gutted. It used to be down to her bum.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Donovan said, preferring a physical copy to digital. The girl was the image of her mother, her hair the same shade of brown.

  The shrill chime of an ice cream van rang through the kitchen as it drove through the estate. It sounded weirdly off-kilter, and Tasha rose to pull the window shut. ‘I wish he’d get that fucking thing fixed!’ She reddened at her outburst. ‘Sorry.’ She plopped back into her chair. ‘I feel so helpless.’

  She returned her gaze to the photographs, touching each one with care. ‘I dreamt last night that she was drowning in the bathtub. I pulled her out, but she was so heavy . . . I was too late.’ Her voice cracked as she spoke, sadness and desperation lacing each word.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Donovan asked. It was important to know what Tasha was capable of dealing with. She had lost a lot of weight, judging by her baggy tracksuit.

  ‘It was hard at first, but the chemo worked and I’m in remission now.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Donovan said, but they were meeting in less than cheery circumstances. He could see why Carla had become so involved in this case. Tasha was someone who deserved a break.

  ‘April would love this.’ Tasha forced a smile. ‘A real-life celebrity in my kitchen. It would be worth coming out of hiding just for that.’

  ‘Is that what you think she’s doing? Hiding?’

  Tasha responded with a nod. ‘It’s not her fault. None of this is. I blame myself. I took my eye off the ball.’

  ‘Fighting breast cancer is hardly taking your eye off the ball,’ Donovan retorted. He knew of Tasha’s backstory from their earlier phone call. She had split with her husband, who was a bad influence on April’s life. But she hadn’t realised how bad until it was too late. April had moved in with him while Tasha’s chemotherapy was underway. At the time, Tasha was grateful for his support, but she never imagined her fourteen-year-old daughter would return home with a drug habit. ‘I tried to get her clean,’ Tasha continued. ‘But she wasn’t having any of it. When I stopped her seeing her dad, she took off.’

  Tasha wasn’t the only parent whose child had fallen through the cracks. So how did Carla become involved in her case? He put the question to Tasha as she tidied the photographs.

  ‘She got in touch the first time April went to Clacton. Said she was working on cases of missing kids . . . the ones people forgot.’ Her eyes flicked up to Donovan. ‘I’m not rich, I don’t have a high-profile job or a handsome husband. The press isn’t interested in me. But Carla was. She said everyone deserved help.’

  Donovan nodded in recognition. That sounded exactly like her. Tasha’s head lowered as she sank into herself. ‘April didn’t get hooked on drugs of her own accord. Her dad’s low-life mates got her into it. And they . . .’ She picked at a photograph. She wouldn’t look at Donovan as she drew breath to speak. ‘Well, they took advantage of her. They knew when she was out of it, they could do what they liked. It nearly broke me when I found out. She left my house with her whole life ahead of her and came back a shadow of herself. That bastard . . .’ Her jaw set firm. ‘And the worst thing is, she wouldn’t tell me who it was.’ Tasha swiped at the tears tumbling down her face. She was crumbling before him. Donovan wanted to give her hand a squeeze, but Tasha was as vulnerable as her daughter, and contact was inappropriate.

  ‘I went around to her dad’s.’ Tasha sniffed. ‘Smashed every window of his precious car.’ A sour smile twisted her features. ‘He didn’t call the cops. He didn’t want them to know why.’

  ‘There’s no record of April having made a complaint of sexual assault,’ Donovan said softly. He had checked their history after their phone call.

  ‘Because she never made one. I was so ill back then. I tried to persuade her, but she blocked me out. That’s when she ran away. She had a friend. Her name was Tina. That’s all I know.’ Tasha glanced in Donovan’s direction, a sob catching in her throat. ‘She loved the kiddies . . . She babysat most of them around here. She wanted to be an au pair.’ Her chin wobbled as she continued. ‘We had our struggles, but so have most of the single mums on this street. How come my daughter’s the one who disappeared?’

  ‘Because she was vulnerable,’ Donovan replied truthfully. ‘Predators target kids going through a tough time, especially those who have been abused before. They offer them a safe haven. They pretend to understand. They spend money on them, so they feel indebted, then turn them against their families so they think there’s no way back.’ This was nothing new to Donovan. He’d seen it all before. What would start as them giving a ‘massage to a friend’ would soon end up with full-blown sex. ‘Where do you think April is now?’

  ‘Every few months she’ll ring me from a payphone. She doesn’t know, but I check the number every time. She’ll say that she’s fine, but I can hear it in her voice – deep down, she wants to come home. But she’s scared to come off the drugs.’

  Or maybe she’s scared of who she’s with, Donovan thought. As Tasha continued to blame herself, he could see she was being torn apart. ‘When was the last time you heard from Carla?’

  ‘About a week before she died. I told her April was back in Clacton, after she rang me to say she was OK.’ Tasha heaved a sigh. ‘It’s always the same. As soon as I ask to see her, she hangs up.’

  Or someone hangs up for her, Donovan thought. Perhaps the calls to home were carefully orchestrated to keep the police off their backs. A missing child who gave regular updates was less likely to be looked for than one who failed to keep in touch. ‘What makes you think she’s in trouble?’

  ‘Because she won’t tell me where she is.’ Tasha looked at Donovan in earnest. ‘Can you find her? Bring my girl home? She’s young. It’s not too late to turn things around.’

  ‘I d
on’t suppose you know what time she called you?’ Donovan said. He purposefully avoided her question. He wouldn’t make promises he could not keep.

  ‘Carla asked me that too. She wanted to see if she could catch it on CCTV. But I’ve been so wrapped up in my treatment, I didn’t think to write it down.’ She stared at Donovan glumly. ‘All this . . . it’s for nothing if I can’t bring her home. I may as well be dead.’

  ‘There’s always hope,’ Donovan said. ‘Don’t give up on your daughter yet.’

  As Donovan said his goodbyes, he felt weighted by the truth. Carla had died trying to save April. Tasha was barely living, despite her remission. April needed to come home. He could not let them down.

  The vibration of his mobile phone brought his thoughts to heel. It was Amy, and he strained to hear her as wind ruffled the phone line. ‘Sorry, boss, to interrupt you,’ she said, barely giving him time to speak. ‘But how quickly can you get back here?’

  ‘About three hours, providing we’re not stuck in traffic.’ Donovan’s pace quickened. He checked his watch. Time was running away with him. He would ring Steve in the pub and pick him up from the side of the road. He plucked his car keys from his pocket. ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘Another body has turned up – here in Clacton.’ Amy’s voice rose against the breeze. ‘I’m at the scene now.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  MO

  The resurrection of Mo’s memory brought forth many nightmares, but there were still a few gaps that needed to be filled. Ms Harkness had gone to great pains to tell her that while it was therapeutic to release repressed memories, they should also be taken with a pinch of salt. ‘Use hypnosis as a tool, a way of gaining closure, rather than a true narrative of your past life.’

  Mo rolled her eyes as she looked away. True narrative indeed. What the bleeding hell was she on about? She took a seat in silence, but her therapist seemed determined to drive the subject home.

  ‘It’s not uncommon for victims of childhood abuse to dissociate themselves from the experience. Sometimes they remember spontaneously and other times with intervention. In many cases, this can bring relief to the client and help them to move on.’ She looked at Mo from over her glasses. ‘However’ – she raised a finger – ‘and this bit is important . . . hypnosis is an altered state of consciousness. While it’s easier to access memories this way, it’s not always reliable. When hypnotised, the mind is highly suggestible, which is why I have to be careful when I ask questions about what you’re experiencing.’ Another flick of her eyes over her glasses as she checked for understanding. ‘Hypnotherapy has helped many victims of sexual abuse to overcome post-traumatic stress disorder. But past memories are like a scrapbook of emotions and senses, rather than, say, a film reel. It’s my job to help you gain a greater sense of control. We can then replace painful emotions and behaviours with positive ones.’ She tilted her head to one side, closely observing Mo’s face. ‘Do you understand? Not everything you recall may have happened; there may be moments when you fill in the blanks.’

  ‘I get it,’ Mo said, checking her watch. She hadn’t come here for a lecture. ‘Can we just get on with it?’ The therapist’s spiel was probably the same bullshit she gave to all her clients, to cover herself. But it didn’t apply to Mo. Her memories hadn’t been repressed, because she still recalled most of it. She was talking about her teenage years, not back when she was three or four. Had she told her therapist just how much she remembered, she may not have allowed her the luxury of revisiting the past. But she was right in one respect – her sharpened memories had helped her understand who she was. Mo inhaled deeply, feeling weightless as Ms Harkness counted back. Then she was there, barely a teenager, her eyes darting from side to side as Wes asked her to do the unthinkable.

  ‘Are you sure about this, babe?’ he said, his gaze intense as they locked eyes. Mo managed a slow nod. They were on the landing of a grubby flat, standing next to a bedroom door. Mo swallowed as Wes rested his hand on the doorknob, ready to show her inside. The truth was, she was not sure at all. She was only fourteen; what did she know about being nice to strange men? She tugged at the clothes Wes had given her. The shirt that was straining to stay buttoned and the short pleated skirt that barely covered her bum. It looked more like a shrunken school uniform than something she would wear to go out in. She knew nothing of how things should be between a boyfriend and girlfriend, but this felt all wrong. This wasn’t the setting she had imagined – the posh house with the hot tub. This grubby flat in Brixton was only marginally better than the squats in which they spent their time. ‘You . . . You won’t be jealous? You don’t mind?’ Mo said, grasping at straws.

  But Wes did not seem fazed. ‘How would I be jealous when I know you don’t want this?’ He gave her a patient smile. ‘It proves how much you love me. Nobody’s ever done that for me before.’

  Mo tried to understand his logic. So, it was better if she hated every minute of this? She forced a smile. ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘Whatever they want,’ he replied, his fingers curling around the nape of her neck. He leaned in and planted a kiss on her lips. ‘This way, we can stay together – forever.’

  ‘For . . . forever?’ Mo blinked.

  Wes drew a small white tablet from a baggy in his back pocket. ‘Take this. It’ll make you feel better.’

  Mo placed the pill on her tongue and swallowed. She was grateful for the drug, which would help her cope with what lay behind the bedroom door. Tears pricked her eyes. All she wanted was to be special. To be loved. For Wes to tell her that she didn’t need to do this. But Jen was coming up the stairs, right on cue. ‘Good girl,’ Wes said. ‘Jen will show you what to do.’

  Just like the changing of the guards, Wes marched down the stairs while Jen came up. Neither spoke to each other, but Jen looked matter-of-fact. Back then, Mo did not know it, but she had been played. ‘There’s two blokes in there,’ Jen whispered. ‘Be nice to them and do whatever they say. It shouldn’t take too long – an hour tops.’

  An hour sounded like forever. Mo knew this would be more than sweet talk. She remembered how quickly things had escalated with Wes. In this world, ‘being nice’ meant something else entirely, but she could not back out now.

  ‘Has it kicked in yet?’ Jen said, referring to the pill.

  Mo nodded as her world blurred around the edges. As Jen opened the bedroom door, Mo felt like she was walking on air. There were two men, much older than Wes, sitting on the edge of the bed. One had already stripped to his boxers. The other kicked off his trainers and began undoing the buttons of his plaid shirt. As soon as Mo saw the look on their faces, she knew what she had been brought there for. Like a lamb to the slaughter, Jen led her to the men. A nod of approval passed between them before Jen left the room.

  Both men were smiling. The taller one in the plaid shirt was chewing a wad of gum. The second one was more rotund, with eyes so dark they seemed black. But it was not the colour of his eyes that frightened Mo; it was the intent behind them. As he ran his fingers down her arm, Mo wanted to scream and run, but she was rooted to the spot. Her body seemed dissociated from her thoughts, her legs betraying her as the men led her to the bed. ‘You’re a nice bit of stuff,’ one of the men said, before spitting his gum into the corner of the room. She lay on the bed as instructed, hoping they would at least be quick. As they stripped off her scant clothing, the blanket was rough against her bare skin. She was enveloped by the smell of tobacco on the large man’s breath. The stink of his sweat. They were both naked now, directing her on to all fours. One grabbed at her breasts while the other one pushed into her from behind. Closing her eyes tightly, Mo began to sing a tune in her head. On and on it went as each man took turns with her. She didn’t know how long she had lain there afterwards. Jen came and got her because someone else wanted to use the room. She was grateful for the drug that blurred the worst of the horrors. Afterwards, she thought it was over. That Wes’s debt had been repaid. But there
had never been any debt, and this was just the beginning.

  Mo blinked as Ms Harkness brought her to the present day. She hated the sympathy she saw in her eyes. Hatred and rage raced through her, like fire in her bloodstream. Never again would she doubt herself. She knew what she had become as a result of her past, and she welcomed it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Amy entered the station, the back of her legs aching from standing at the scene for so long. Donovan would be back in about an hour, but there was no time to rest up now. The deceased was George Tobias Shaw, according to ID found in the back pocket of his jeans. The young man’s body had been found washed up on the beach by an elderly man out walking his dog.

  It grated on Amy that she had been socialising on the night another victim had died. She was here for work, not pleasure. Word of George’s suicide had spread, and a team known for investigating killers were about as welcome as the horsemen of the apocalypse. Their office phones rang persistently as they were inundated with calls from concerned locals asking if it was safe to venture outside.

  For now, the scene was cordoned off, although it was impossible to pitch a tent where the body had been found, partially submerged by the sea. It was a logistical nightmare, with onlookers at every turn, and she was grateful for CID’s manpower as she returned to chase up the latest lead.

  She headed into the witness interview room to speak to Alfie Johnson, who Shaw had sent his suicide text to. Like some of the previous victims, he had texted he was ‘done with life’. But was he? The case was a complex labyrinth and Amy would take her leads where she could.

  Alfie was already seated, frowning as he picked at his nails. His unruly blond hair and bloodshot eyes suggested he was a little worse for wear.

  ‘Thanks for taking the time to speak to me in person.’ Amy sat across from him, crossing her legs.

  According to early accounts, George was in his early thirties and worked as a supervisor in a book-manufacturing plant. His short-term girlfriend, Ciara, had filled local police in on his lifestyle, telling them George had driven to Clacton for Alfie’s stag do last night. So why had he wandered away from the crowd? Estranged from his family, George had emigrated from Australia to live in the UK. He had been with his girlfriend for just three weeks. Through her grief, Ciara had spoken highly of him, although she had not yet met his friends. Amy wanted to pick the bones of her story, which was too vague for her liking. She needed another perspective.