The Child Catcher (A DI Erica Swift Thriller Book 4)

by M K Farrar

  She flicked to the next image.

  A car park ticket from ten days ago. The name of the car park, together with the time of entry and the amount paid, was also on the ticket. She scribbled onto her notes to check the security footage from the car park to get the licence plate number so they could figure out if they should look into the vehicle in more depth or rule it out from their enquiries.

  The next scrap of paper was a credit card receipt. Only the last four numbers of the credit card had been revealed, the remainder replaced by asterisks to protect the owner, but the rest of the print was too faded to give them any other information.

  It was impossible to know how long each of the items had been in the park for, though the one she was after would only have been a matter of hours. She had to assume most of them hadn’t been long, however, or the weather and general footfall would have left them in an illegible condition. Though the weather on the day of the attack had been good, the days leading up to it had been wet and windy. That was why having such a sudden, bright warm day had coaxed everyone out of their homes, like hibernating animals unfurling and poking their noses out of their burrows.

  Erica kept going.

  The next photograph was also a receipt, but this one was only for a small amount, and it was for a cash payment. The name of the shop was printed on the top of the receipt, together with the date and time it had been issued. It was only from a couple of days ago, and the shop wasn’t too far from here.

  Shawn was working at his desk, but she got his attention. “Fancy stretching your legs?”

  He lifted his chin. “What have you found?”

  “A receipt that’s only a few days old and is from a small, local shop. We can see if it has got any CCTV footage. With the time and date, we can narrow it down enough to see who made the purchase.”

  “You think this receipt might be the one that was dropped?”

  “I have no idea. It’s a shot in the dark, but it’s a possibility.”

  “We don’t even know that SOCO managed to collect whatever the attacker dropped. It could easily have blown away, outside of the cordon.”

  Erica pressed her lips together and nodded. “I know that. There are a couple of other leads, as well, but in the meantime, let’s find out where this shop is and pay the owners a visit.”

  THE SHOP WAS THE CONVERTED ground floor of a three-storey terraced house. A newspaper board stood outside with that day’s tabloid front page pasted across it. Inside the window, notices, faded with curled corners, advertised flat rentals that were most likely long gone, missing pets with rewards, ads for cleaners, and slightly more distasteful phone numbers offering other services. The pavement outside was also worn, old chewing gum discoloured and stuck in flattened patches, as though it was now simply a part of the paving. Cigarette butts, old crisp packets, and rusted cans. No one had taken pride in the shop. The yellow paint of the door, though currently propped open, the frame peeled and flaking.

  A couple of teenagers emerged from the shop, eyeing Erica’s car mistrustfully. One had his hair in cornrows, the other a shaved head, and baggy jeans hung halfway down the backs of his thighs. One jabbed an elbow into the side of the other, and the shorter one snorted and bent his head, tucking his neck down and lifting his shoulders, like a turtle sinking back into its shell.

  “Think I bought my first booze from a place like this,” Shawn said as he reached for the door handle of the car. “Probably looked exactly the same back then, too.”

  Erica snorted. “Except I doubt your jeans were hanging off your arse back then.”

  He chuckled. “I’m sure I had my fair share of fashion disasters.”

  Shawn wasn’t a stranger to rougher areas of East London, having grown up here. His life could have gone in a very different direction—the lure of gangs and drugs had been strong—but he’d made the decision he didn’t want that for his future. He’d told Erica in the past that he’d witnessed so many families being torn apart by their teenagers going to prison, or worse, ending up dead. He hadn’t wanted that for himself or for any future family he might one day have. It hadn’t been easy for him to break free of it all, but he hadn’t looked back.

  Erica got out of the car and joined him on the pavement. She checked her printout of the receipt. This was definitely the place.

  Erica led the way, and she stepped into the small, claustrophobic space. The smell reminded her of her old spice cupboard at home, musty and like it hadn’t had a good cleanout in a while. She knew without checking that she had pots of spices that probably expired two years ago, jars of honey that had turned hard and stuck to the bottom of the cupboard, together with a random scattering of unidentifiable dried herbs. The shelves were stacked high, almost to the ceiling, and the aisles they created were narrow and enclosed. Automatically, her gaze went to the corners, seeking out the much-needed security cameras. If there weren’t any cameras, it was going to be near impossible to figure out who the receipt belonged to. She highly doubted whoever was serving would remember something as innocuous as someone buying snacks.

  A young man—no, on second look, a teenager—worked behind the counter. A black girl, around the same sort of age, was talking to him from the shop side of the counter. She laughed at something he’d said, and his face lit up with pleasure. Then he spotted Erica and Shawn heading towards him, and the expression fell from his face, and he glanced back down, suddenly busy with something out of Erica’s line of sight. The girl must have noticed he’d seen something as she peered over her shoulder at Erica and Shawn. Without saying another word, she left the counter and passed Erica, exiting the shop.

  It wasn’t an unusual reaction. The police generally weren’t a welcome presence in this area, and both she and Shawn, in their smart suits and no-nonsense attitudes, were clearly authority of some kind.

  The young man lifted his head, his thick black hair falling in a lock across one deep-brown eye. He had a mole above his upper lip, and there was a graze beside his eye, the skin swollen around it. “Yeah? Can I help you?”

  Erica showed him her ID. “I hope so. We’re investigating a case and need access to the security footage from the shop.” She glanced up at the corners where cameras pointed at the counter. “We need the footage from Saturday at two fifty in the afternoon, as we believe a person of interest to us may have purchased something then.”

  He turned towards the cameras as well, and then looked back to her. “I only work here a few hours a week. I don’t have access to any camera footage. I don’t even know if there’s actually anything being recorded on them, or if they’re just for show.”

  “Right. Were you working last Saturday?”

  “No, I don’t work then.”

  “Do you know who does?”

  “No.”

  Erica tried to tamp down her irritation at the boy’s unwillingness to help. “Are you able to get your boss on the phone for us? Or let me have his contact details and we’ll contact him directly.”

  The boy picked up a mobile phone from behind the counter. “I’ll call him. See if he’s around.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.” Erica offered him a smile. “And what was your name?”

  “Yousef,” he said sullenly, “Yousef Dabiri.”

  “How old are you, Yousef?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “What happened to your eye?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I just got into a fight. It’s fine.”

  “Do you go to school around here?”

  “Yeah.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you want me to make that call or what?”

  Erica nodded. “Of course.”

  He swiped the phone screen a couple of times, then put it to his ear. They all waited, and then an answerphone must have clicked in.

  “There are a couple of police in the shop, and they want access to the security footage. Can you phone me back or come by and speak to them? Oh, it’s Yousef.” He hung up and shook his head. “No answer, sorry.”

 
“What’s your boss’s name?”

  “Farhad Khadem.”

  “Can we get his phone number so we can contact him ourselves?” Shawn asked.

  The boy’s cheeks flushed crimson. “I don’t think he’d want me giving out his phone number. I might get in trouble.”

  “You won’t get in trouble, Yousef,” she reassured him.

  “You don’t know that. I mean, you say you’re police, but that ID might be fake. How should I know?”

  “Why would people pretending to be the police want to get hold of your boss?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s some dodgy people around here.”

  “Is your boss involved with these dodgy people?”

  “That’s not what I said. I just don’t think I should be handing out his phone number to complete strangers, that’s all. I don’t want to lose my job.”

  They couldn’t force him to hand over his boss’s phone number or the security footage, for that matter. She’d hoped they’d have been able to speak to someone who’d have been cooperative, but that didn’t appear to be the case.

  “When do you think he’ll be back?” she tried instead.

  That same shrug. “Dunno.”

  Erica sighed and handed the boy one of her cards. “When he does come back, can you ask him to call me about the footage. It’s nothing to worry about, but it could be important in a case.”

  He nodded and reached for a card, pulling it towards him. “All right.”

  Erica paused and then pushed the printout of the photograph of Ellie Dempsey across the counter.

  “Do you recognise this girl?”

  He glanced at the picture, and his gaze instantly slid away. “No. Why should I?”

  “She’s missing.”

  “Right. Sorry. Hope you find her soon.”

  “So do I. So does her family. They miss her very much.”

  He shot her a look that said: ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  “We’ll leave you in peace,” she said, offering him a smile that he didn’t return.

  She and Shawn left the shop.

  Erica rolled her eyes. “Well, he was helpful.”

  “Typical teen,” said Shawn. “I wasn’t much better.”

  “I was. If a detective had been asking questions of me when I was that age, I’d have fallen over myself in an effort to help.”

  “You had a detective for a dad. You grew up in a different world to that boy.”

  “True.” Erica glanced over at him. “Did you see the boy’s face when I showed him the picture of Ellie Dempsey?”

  “Why? What did you see?”

  She frowned. “I’m not sure. Like he couldn’t look away quickly enough.”

  “He’s a sixteen-year-old boy who was confronted by two police officers. In this neighbourhood, it’s hardly surprising that he was anxious.”

  “He was anxious, wasn’t he?”

  “You think he might be protecting someone?”

  “I’m not sure.” Erica climbed into the car. “Do you think we’ll hear from his boss?”

  Shawn slid behind the wheel. “Not sure, but if we don’t, we’ll just have to do some digging and find another way to get hold of him.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Helen Bergersen checked the time on her phone and did her best to put a lid on her simmering anxiety. She was supposed to have left work fifteen minutes ago, but she was still on a call with a customer who’d phoned at two minutes to five, with a complex question she’d needed more time on. Why people insisted on waiting until right when they were due to close to contact them, she didn’t know. There were eight hours in the day when they were open, and yet it was guaranteed as it approached knocking off time, the phone lines would go crazy.

  She was running late. The children would be fine for a few minutes, but she still didn’t like leaving them for too long, unsupervised. It wasn’t easy, though. What else was she supposed to do? She was sure some other parents would judge her for expecting them to manage by themselves at all, but she didn’t have the luxury of having someone at home all the time. Anyway, she thought it did the kids good to have a little independence. There were teenagers out there who didn’t even know how to make a cup of tea or boil an egg.

  Knowing that didn’t change the guilt, though, or the sense of urgency that pushed at her back. She wanted to get this bloody person off the phone so she could get home.

  That was what motherhood was all about, wasn’t it? Guilt? She needed to work to pay the bills, but she still wished she could be at home with the children. It was even worse being a single mother. Those school gate mums who had partners at home but who still complained about how hard they had it made her want to slap them. They had no idea how tough it was when everything was on your shoulders. Absolutely everything. And it wasn’t just the bills and finances, it was all the little decisions, too, and being the one who had to do bedtime, night after night, with no break. If one of the kids got sick, she’d be the person who was up all hours, cleaning and soothing, and then still having to drag herself out of bed the following morning to get to work.

  “Let me make a note of that,” she told the person on the line, “and I’ll be sure to get back to you as soon as I have an answer.”

  The customer seemed content with that, and she exhaled a sigh of relief and ended the call, taking off her headset and leaving it next to her computer. She grabbed her jacket and handbag off the back of her chair.

  She caught Barbara’s eye across the office. The other woman was still on the phone. Barbara twirled her finger around the side of her face and rolled her eyes to demonstrate how the person on the other end of the line was going on and on. Helen threw her a sympathetic and half-apologetic smile that she was the one who’d got stuck with that caller. There was the guilt again, but with it came relief. She couldn’t stay any longer.

  Hurrying towards the exit, she let herself out of the building. Her little car was out in the car park. There were only a few vehicles left now, most of the office workers having already managed to escape for the evening. She crossed the car park at a brisk pace and came to a halt beside it. She rummaged in her handbag for her keys. What had she done with them? She hadn’t gone and left them inside the car all day, had she? It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d simply turned off the engine and climbed out of the car, leaving them sticking out of the ignition. She could be so scatterbrained at times.

  Helen leaned into the car to try to spot the missing keys, but her gaze landed on something else instead.

  Quickly, she looked away, though her heart rate jumped. Nausea swept over her in a rush of heat followed by a flood of cold. Finally, her fingers touched cool hard metal in her bag, and something jangled.

  She exhaled a breath. Her keys.

  Helen pulled them out and hit the button to unlock the doors. They opened with a clunk and a flash of the headlights, and she yanked on the handle and slid behind the wheel.

  Automatically, she lifted her line of sight to the rearview mirror and once more caught sight of the booster seat in the back.

  She gripped the steering wheel and hunched over it, breathing in and out, fast through her nose. The world swam around her, and her hold on the steering wheel was the only thing that kept her rooted. Her heart hammered, a physical feeling like someone was repeatedly punching from inside her rib cage.

  Get yourself together, Helen. You’re needed at home.

  It was just a panic attack, she knew that. She’d had them plenty of times before. But that didn’t stop each one making her feel as though she was going to lose her grip on reality, and she was terrified of the person she’d be when she came out of it.

  You need to get home. The children will wonder where you are.

  The thought of the kids calmed her, and gradually her heart slowed its pace. She felt shivery and weak but forced herself to lift her head and straighten in her seat. Her fingers had stiffened around the steering wheel, and when she managed to ease the
m off, she’d left sweaty handprints on the material.

  “Shit,” she whispered, blinking back tears.

  She wished she had someone to talk to, someone she could trust. If only she had a real friend who wouldn’t mind if she called them out of the blue and who would be willing to listen to her problems. She knew she was burying everything deep inside, and moments like that were her true feelings trying to come out. If she lived in America, she’d probably have a therapist by now, but that wasn’t really the British way. Instead, she felt the need to be stoic, to keep calm and carry on, when deep down she was balancing on a tightrope.

  Helen checked the clock on the dashboard. Damn it. It was almost five thirty now. She needed to get home and make dinner. The kids would be getting worried.

  With her fingers still trembling, she started the engine and drove the short distance home. That was one thing to be grateful for, it didn’t take her long to get to and from work, so if there ever was a problem, she could get back within twenty minutes, depending on traffic.

  She was lucky that day and pulled up outside her house within exactly eighteen minutes. The aftereffects of the panic attack had seeped away during the drive, and she shook off the final dregs and pasted on a smile. The children needed to see her strong and positive. It wasn’t their job to worry about her, and she didn’t want to give them anything to worry about either. It was important she put on a good front. She would save the panic attacks for when she was alone in the car, and the tears for when she was in the shower, with the door shut and the water running to hide the sounds of her sobs.

  “Hey, kids!” she called as she entered the house and threw the car keys onto the sideboard. “I’m home.”