A movement behind him makes him spin round. A boy in school uniform is staring at him. ‘What the fuck’re you lookin’ at?’ Mark snarls. He shouldn’t even be here, this time of day.
The boy’s eyes widen and Mark takes a step, dripping icy water and soap suds onto the concrete floor. The boy turns and flees.
Mark wrings out the last of the suds and leans against the wall to pull on his trousers. His legs are stained with blood: thighs, knees, the tops of his crisp white trainer socks are crusted with it. He feels a wave of nausea, snatches up the sodden paper towels and rubs at the blood. Some has congealed, drying hard and black on the hairs of his legs.
‘Fuck.’ He scrubs at the mess. ‘Fuck.’
Hear hears footsteps approaching the toilets. The boy must have called someone. The police? Heart pounding, he flings the paper towels away from him, drags his trousers on, crams his feet into his trainers. A man blocks the entrance, but Mark cannons into him, knocks him flat.
He’s running. Crossing newly planted beds of chrysanthemums, crushing them underfoot. He leaps a barrow at the edge of the bed, his foot catches the lip and he stumbles, arms flailing. He regains his balance and sets off again. He hears a shout — they’re after him. He takes to the path, kicking up fallen leaves, convinced they’re within arm’s length, certain he can hear the steady thump of boots on tarmac.
Out through the gates. His lungs are screaming but he belts on, until the air burns his throat and chest, his legs give way, and he’s forced to stop.
The car is another twenty yards on. He staggers to it as a groundsman skids to a stop at the main gate and looks the wrong way. Mark grabs the door handle, wrenching his shoulder as it refuses to give. He tries again. It won’t open. The key!
The groundsman sees him and raises a shout.
Struggling for the key, his knuckles chafed and sore, at first Mark can’t force his fingers past the sodden fabric of his chinos, but finally the fob is in his hands and he’s behind the wheel.
The groundsman runs towards the car, his face red, his teeth bared. Mark pulls out as the man runs into the road. The groundsman raises his arm and Mark grins in terror and elation.
‘Too late, fucker!’
Something hits the windscreen and it cracks, a circular dent of opaque glass appears in Mark’s line of vision. Mark swerves. The groundsman leaps back, and Mark sees his rage turn to terror. He laughs wildly, screaming obscenities at the groundsman as he speeds away.
The baby is too quiet. He feels a stab of anxiety. He turns in his seat to get a look at her. She’s still, her eyes screwed shut. It’s cold in the car — so cold you can see your breath. Five minutes. I only left her five minutes. Then she sets up a wail, and he feels the pressure building again inside his skull.
Chapter 9
Black Wood Children’s Home was accessed by a drive that curved for a quarter of a mile through woodland and rhododendron scrub. The tarmac was pitted and weedy and the air of decay was reinforced by a glimpse of a derelict house just off to the right. Every window was secured with steel plates. Even the front door was clad in sheet metal.
‘Looks like the place is in decline,’ Rickman said.
‘That’s the old coach house — it was out of bounds even in my day.’ Foster turned to get a better look. ‘The big house is in better nick.’
Foster saw Rickman glance in the mirror and turned himself for a better look, but the little house had already been swallowed up by the press of overgrown shrubs.
‘The lads loved it,’ Foster carried on, in full reminiscence. ‘Bottle of cider and a couple of loosies each, we thought we were the biz.’
‘By “loosies”, I take it you mean cigs and not girls.’ Rickman said.
Foster gave him a withering look. ‘You’ve been around me too long, mate. Anyhow, you wouldn’t get a girl anywhere near the place. It’s supposed to be haunted.’ He smiled as they bumped along the last few yards of ruined tarmac. ‘Hilary used to call it our Wendy house, just to piss us off.’
Rickman drew to a stop.
Foster was first out. He spoke to Rickman across the roof of the car as he locked up. ‘Don’t let their cuddly-bear looks fool you,’ he said. ‘They’re sharp.’
* * *
The Hilary Shepherd who opened the door was quite different from the woman Foster had known. She retained the well-padded contours, and the creases around her eyes and mouth confirmed what he already knew: that this was a face more used to smiling than frowning, but Hilary had a harried look, out of sorts in a way he had never seen when he was a resident at Black Wood, nor during the two years that he volunteered for their mentoring scheme.
Flustered, he showed her his warrant card, making the introductions. Then her hand flew to her mouth and she laughed, shedding years. ‘For heaven’s sake!’ she exclaimed, taking his hand and drawing him into the house. ‘Ed!’ she called over her shoulder, ‘Ed, come and see — it’s Lee Foster!’
Foster felt a happy thud, of welcome and of anticipation. Ed Shepherd was the closest thing to a father he’d ever had.
Hilary turned back to her guests. ‘I’m so sorry. What must you think? As you can see, we’re in turmoil at the moment.’ She waved her hand to the boxes and bin bags cluttering the parquet flooring and stacked against the oak panelling of the rather grand hallway.
In the years since Foster had last seen her, Hilary’s dark brown hair had become streaked with grey, and some of the energy that had been a major factor in her success as a house parent seemed depleted.
‘Decluttering, or what?’ Foster asked.
‘Or what.’ Ed himself appeared at the top of the stairs, laden with a couple of boxes. In the shadow, Ed Shepherd seemed unaltered by the years — athletic, trim, high-shouldered and loose-limbed. But as he came down into the light, Foster saw that he too had aged. He was quite grey, and the quizzical frown that had often furrowed his forehead had become a permanent crease. He dumped his burden on the last riser of the broad sweep of stairs and dusted himself off.
‘Lee Foster . . .’ He offered his hand, grinning. ‘I knew you’d show up, sooner or later.’ He looked past Foster to Rickman, politely disguising his curiosity. ‘Forgive us,’ he said. ‘This is a visit we’ve been waiting on a good while.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Rickman,’ Foster said, ‘Ed Shepherd.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t a social call, Ed.’
Shepherd’s frown deepened. Evidently, he hadn’t heard their doorstep introductions.
‘Lee is here today as Detective Sergeant Foster,’ his wife said. Her expression was composed and pleasant, as always, but there was something in her voice that made Foster look at her more closely. Ed Shepherd’s grip slackened slightly, then he squeezed a little tighter before breaking the handshake and offering his hand to Rickman. Foster saw Rickman’s quick appraisal of Shepherd, and an uncomfortable silence followed.
‘Maybe we should . . .’ Hilary gestured vaguely along the hallway, and her husband led the way to a door on the left of the hall, into their private quarters. The room had been given a modern makeover: wood floors, plain marble fireplace, spotlights and an expensive-looking hi-fi. DIY and gadgets — Ed’s twin passions, Foster recalled.
This room, too, was in unusual disarray, with some of the bookshelves already cleared and several boxes stacked neatly in one corner.
Foster felt an unreasonable pang of alarm. They couldn’t be leaving? Hilary, attuned to her children, must have picked up on his bewilderment. ‘The diocese is closing us down,’ she explained.
‘But why?’
‘“Old facilities in need of costly upgrading,” they say.’ She sighed. ‘“Children need to be cared for within a nuclear family.”’
‘Bollocks,’ Foster said. He caught Hilary’s disapproving look and, annoyingly, felt a flush rise in his face. ‘Diocese in need of money, is it?’ he pushed on.
‘The developers are moving in as soon as we’ve packed up and left,’ said Ed. They’ve
had surveyors crawling all over the place for weeks already.’
‘Ed . . .’ Hilary said.
‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’ he challenged, and Hilary’s mouth tightened into a thin line, as though she was afraid that a direct criticism might escape her.
‘What’s the name of the company?’ Rickman asked.
‘Mersey Property Development,’ Ed said. ‘But they won’t help you. It’s all about the bottom line with that lot.’
Hilary, always the peacemaker, said, ‘It’s hardly their fault — they’re only trying to make a living.’ Hilary always was the peacemaker. Ed looked ready to give her an argument, but she changed the subject abruptly. ‘How’s your mum getting on, Lee?’
Foster glanced at Rickman, who spared him by showing a sudden interest in one of the framed collages of children and families on the wall next to the big bay window.
‘She died.’ He wanted to say more. It wasn’t enough, this bald statement, but the words wouldn’t come.
Hilary took his hand and held it. ‘I’m so sorry, Lee.’
Foster would have taken his hand away, but Hilary’s concern, her sincere regret for his loss prevented him. He met her gaze and felt again, in those green-flecked eyes, the warmth of her affection. He nodded and she released him. Nothing more needed to be said.
‘So,’ Hilary said, with a slight lift of an eyebrow. ‘This is your boss?’
Foster rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, so no getting the photo albums out — there’s a few snaps I remember could ruin me air of mystique.’
Hilary gave an easy, mirthful laugh, and Foster was reminded how she laughed often in the old days. ‘All right,’ she added with a twinkle. ‘We’ll leave the albums for another time. Now — how can we help?’
‘Mark Davis,’ Rickman said, leaving out any explanation. Foster knew that this was the best way to get an honest answer, rather than the one that people thought you wanted, but he felt uncomfortable, wanting to explain further. These two were friends — practically family — after all.
‘He was the boy you mentored, wasn’t he, Lee?’ Hilary said. ‘Insecure boy. Always taking the blame for mischief others had made.’
‘Easy led,’ Foster said, almost to himself. ‘Has he been in touch?’
‘Since he left?’ Shepherd asked.
‘Recently,’ Rickman said.
They looked at each other. ‘Not recently.’
Foster frowned. It wasn’t unusual for them to be vague about Davis, but he had expected an expression of concern.
‘When,’ Rickman said, ‘exactly?’
‘About six months after he left care,’ Hilary said promptly. ‘Ed set him up with an apprenticeship at a local garage. It went bust. After that . . .’ She shrugged.
‘Odd,’ Rickman said.
‘Not really.’ Hilary Shepherd smiled, but it lacked warmth. ‘We try to make Black Wood a real home, Chief Inspector. But most children can’t wait to get away. And they stay away.’
‘Not all of them.’ Rickman nodded towards the photomontages on the sitting room wall.
‘Not all, no.’
Foster got the strangest notion that she would’ve liked to tear the montage down to save it from Rickman’s scrutiny of her private collection.
Ed Shepherd had been quiet throughout this exchange, but now he spoke. ‘What kind of trouble has Mark got himself into?’
‘You haven’t heard the news?’
Hilary looked around them at the boxes, the signs of upheaval. ‘We’ve been dreadfully preoccupied. If you want the honest truth, the last two years have been hell. “Reorganisation,” they said at first. Then, “Closure.” For a time we thought we had a reprieve with the possibility of “downsizing” — the coach house was put forward as suitable accommodation. But the developers wouldn’t have it. I suspect they thought it would bring down the tone of their “gated community”.’
Now that she’d started to express her true feelings, Hilary seemed unable to stop her tirade. Foster glanced at Ed, wanting him to intervene, but he bowed his head, his hands clasped before him, as though he had heard this many times. Rickman, meanwhile, was watching her with quiet interest.
‘We’ve been through meetings, endless discussions, interviews, inspections,’ Hilary went on. ‘Most of the children have been placed with foster carers, and we’ve scarcely had time to check if they’re settled. We have to be out by the end of the month — we’ve lived here for thirty years and we’ve had two months’ notice to quit.’
She fell silent, and they stared at her for a moment. A strand of hair had come loose from her ponytail, and she pushed it back off her face in a defensive, defiant gesture.
‘They’ve been harassing us for a date, so they can move in and measure up,’ Ed said.
‘There’s someone snooping around the grounds already,’ Hilary added bitterly.
Ed leaned forward, holding her gaze. ‘We’ll be all right, Hilary.’
‘Of course we will,’ she said, impatient. ‘But what about the children?’
Her husband shook his head. This was a question he couldn’t answer. ‘You say Mark was on the news?’ he said, bringing the discussion back to the purpose of their visit.
‘Mark Davis is wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of Jasmine Elliott,’ Rickman said.
Ed’s face fell. ‘No.’
Foster glanced at his friend. Jeff Rickman was still, his expression unreadable, the blankness of it disconcerting.
Hilary shook her head emphatically. ‘No! Not Mark — he’s harmless. You know that, Lee.’
‘A man can change a lot in four years,’ Foster said, with an apologetic dip of his head.
Ed took a breath, as though he was about to say something, but instead, he took an inhaler from his pocket and took a blast from it.
‘Not Mark,’ Hilary repeated.
‘Jasmine’s baby daughter is missing,’ Rickman said, in the same quiet, insistent tone, and Foster felt another twinge of unease. ‘A man answering Mark Davis’s description was seen driving away from the scene of the murder.’
Hilary didn’t reply, and Ed seemed to be concentrating on his breathing.
‘We’re deeply concerned for the safety of the baby. If you have any information that might help us—’
‘We told you, we haven’t seen him since shortly after he left care,’ Hilary insisted.
Rickman waited a moment or two longer. ‘Well, if he should get in touch, you will contact me or Sergeant Foster?’ He handed her his card.
She took it with stiff formality. ‘Of course.’
‘And we’ll need contact addresses. Anyone who knew Mark, or might have stayed in touch with him. One of my officers will contact you later.’
* * *
‘I can’t believe they’re being kicked out, after all this time,’ Foster said as they walked to the car. ‘Them two put their hearts and souls into this place.’
‘Not our problem, Lee.’
Foster looked at his friend. ‘You don’t trust them?’ he said, voicing the niggling unease he had felt since the start of the interview.
Rickman evaded the question. ‘I think Mark has been in touch.’
‘No chance,’ Foster said, shocked at the notion. ‘They wouldn’t protect a killer, Jeff.’
‘I hope not.’
Foster saw then that Jeff Rickman didn’t trust Ed and Hilary Shepherd, didn’t like them. As far as he was concerned, they were suspects.
Chapter 10
The team assembled for their evening debrief in a conference room at Edge Hill. Rickman had requisitioned it as their Major Incident Room, there being no other suitable place for them at the station, and he was reluctant to move the team further from the murder location. Equipment had arrived ahead of schedule — the sergeant in charge of requisitions at Mather Avenue had red-stickered the request when Rickman explained the situation.
The room was in better condition than most at Edge Hill: carpet tiles in place and ta
bles in oak finish, rather than the standard-issue wood-effect melamine.
Tunstall was first to arrive. In his right hand he carried in a kettle — non-standard issue. Personnel were expected to pay fifty pence a cup for the swill dispensed by the machine in the basement. Hooked on the fingers of his left hand, four Merseyside Police mugs, branded with the authority badge. A supermarket carrier bag hung from his arm.
Rickman watched as the DC set up one of the spare desks as a tea table, plugged in the kettle and switched it on. As Tunstall spooned coffee into the mugs, Rickman realised he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and he guessed the rest of the team wouldn’t have thought about food either. The DC emptied the contents of the carrier bag onto the table, item by item, and when Rickman saw a packet of digestive biscuits, his mouth began to water. ‘Chris, you’ve thought of everything,’ he said.
Tunstall grinned.
Foster came in next, swooping on the tea table like a city gull. ‘Nice one, lad,’ he said. ‘Me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut.’
Hart arrived with a few folders tucked under her arm. She placed these and a couple of thumb drives side by side, before seeking refreshment. As Rickman called the meeting to order, she raised her coffee mug in toast to Tunstall.
Looking around at his team, Rickman read two things in their faces: disappointment and a low-level anxiety that they weren’t working fast enough. Bryony Elliott had been missing for a whole day, and her chances of survival diminished with every hour.
Rickman called on the big Widnesian to give his account first.
Tunstall hurriedly swallowed a mouthful of biscuit and brushed the crumbs from the front of his shirt. ‘ID confirmed, sir. Mr Stott said it were definitely Mark Davis he saw razzing it from the scene.’
Rickman Blu-tacked a copy of the photograph of Mark and Jasmine to the whiteboard at the front of the room and wrote their names below. The timeline had lengthened, and a couple more sightings of Mark Davis had been added. He made a note on the board that Davis was identified at the scene just before eleven fifty a.m.
‘What about the car?’
DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3) Page 7