Malcolm fixes his gaze on the wall opposite, his eyes glazing over. When he speaks, his voice is flat, emotionless.
‘You see, Poppy, there are rules here. We’re not hard parents. We’re here to help you. We want to love you. But you have to help us in return. You have to do what you’re told.’
Daisy’s eyes shift from Malcolm, in his almost hypnotic trance, down to Poppy. Malcolm’s huge palm is covering both her mouth and nose. Her struggles now are not in defiance, but to take a breath.
To Daisy’s left, Harriet silently leaves the room, closing the door softly behind her. She knows how much of a disciplinarian her husband can be. She doesn’t need to witness it.
‘Spare the rod and spoil the child, the saying goes. Do you know what that means, young Poppy? It means that letting children do what they want isn’t good for them. And we need to do what’s good for you, do you understand? It’ll hurt now, in these early days, but you’ll soon get used to it. You’ll soon come round to our way of thinking. And one day you’ll see how right we were.’
He continues with his monologue, seemingly unaware that Poppy is weakening rapidly in his arms. Her flailing has become mere aimless waving of floppy limbs. Her eyes have become unfocused and uncoordinated.
Daisy has seen Malcolm like this before. For the most part, he can act like a normal human being. In his own way he can be generous and helpful, albeit somewhat lacking in humour. But at times of stress it is as if his body is taken over by another force. He becomes a shell for some entity that is no respecter of the bounds of what is acceptable. At those times, the line between punishment and extreme violence becomes blurred.
Daisy knows exactly what Malcolm can do at times like that.
‘Yes, you’ll see,’ says Malcolm. ‘In a day or two we’ll all be getting along like a house on fire. You’ll be wondering what you made such a fuss about. We’re nice people, your mum and me. We want only the best for you. Only the best. You’ll see.’
But Poppy can see nothing. Her eyes have rolled back in her head. Her face has turned an alarming shade of blue. Her body has become as limp as a wet dishrag.
The need to act seems to hit Daisy’s legs before her brain can review it. Heedless of the danger zone she is entering, she rushes across the room to where Malcolm has the young child in a bear hug that seems to have crushed the life out of her.
Daisy touches her fingers tenderly to the back of Malcolm’s hand. ‘Daddy,’ she says, ‘let me have her now.’
Malcolm’s eyelids flutter. He drops his gaze slowly to Daisy. ‘What?’
‘She’s quiet now. Leave her with me. I’ll explain the rules to her. She won’t be naughty again. I promise.’
Malcolm looks at what he is holding, as if only just becoming aware of what he has done. He releases his grip, allowing Poppy to crumple to the floor. Then he raises his own arms above his head, as though trying to keep them as far away from the child as possible. An expression of pain contorts his face.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Talk to her. We won’t put up with that sort of behaviour in this house. You know that, don’t you, Daisy? Explain it to her.’
Daisy drops to the carpet. Puts a hand to Poppy’s face and begins to stroke it. She thinks it might be too late, and she wants to cry, but she holds her tears in. There has been enough emotion in this room this morning. She doesn’t want to push Malcolm over the edge he has just stepped back from.
‘Yes, I will, Daddy. I’ll make her understand. Don’t you worry.’
Still dazed, Malcolm lowers his arms and starts walking backwards towards the door. ‘Call us,’ he says. ‘When she’s better, and a bit calmer, press the button. Okay?’
‘Yes,’ says Daisy, but it’s hard to get the word out. Her voice is cracking. Her veneer is cracking. She desperately wants to wail, to scream, to command this monster to get out of her room, out of her life.
She continues to stare at Malcolm, her chest heaving, her eyes filling up. He seems to take an age to back out of the room.
It is only when she hears the bolts being put back into place that she allows herself to weep. Silently, of course.
She leans in close to Poppy, allowing her warm tears to drop onto the girl’s ice-blue flesh. She thinks of a fairy story she once read, where a single tear was enough to bring a princess back to life.
She prays for the same to happen here.
8
Cody hates children.
In his police cases, that is. Not generally. Kids per se are wonderful.
But not in his cases. Not when they become victims. There should be a line drawn there. Adults, with all their wisdom and understanding, can knock seven bells out of each other if they want. But keep children out of it. Let them enjoy life for a few years. Let them believe that the world is a peaceful, friendly place, at least for a short while.
He has a bad feeling about this one. He knows that Webley, now standing at his side, feels the same way. This isn’t going to end well.
He’s not going to say that to the couple currently inviting them into their home, of course. Not directly, anyway. But neither will he put on a show of unfounded optimism. He’s not going to raise any hopes, knowing full well that they are likely to be dashed again.
It’s a lovely home. Very tidy and clean. Parquet floors and modern furnishings. Freshly cut flowers in glass vases.
It seems inconceivable that a demon has visited this place. It feels to Cody that there ought to be signs of devastation from such a hellish visitor. A rank odour, perhaps, or claw marks on the wallpaper. A child snatcher should not be able to breeze in and out without leaving a clear signature from the underworld.
They sit down in the living room. Craig and Maria Devlin crush into each other at one end of the sofa, each needing the comfort of the other.
Through the bay window, Cody sees a uniformed officer stroll past, clipboard in hand. They are already knocking on doors, talking to neighbours.
One sighting, thinks Cody. That’s all they need. One glimpse of the abductor, or a vehicle. Something to go on.
But he has a feeling that luck won’t be on their side today.
He starts gently, taking the couple through the morning’s events. Stuff the uniforms have already asked them, but which needs to be confirmed. What time did they wake up? When did they notice that Poppy was missing? Where have they looked for her? Did they hear anything in the night? Have they noticed any strangers or unusual activity on the street in recent days?
His questions are standard, but this is not a run-of-the-mill kidnapping, and he’s going to have to bring that fact very much into focus.
‘This is going to sound like a really odd question,’ he says, ‘and you may feel as though you don’t want to answer it, but is there anyone you know – anyone at all – who you think might have wanted to take Poppy?’
The confusion on their faces comes as no surprise.
‘What?’ says Maria. ‘What do you mean, someone we know?’
Cody looks down at his notebook while he thinks about how best to rephrase his question.
‘I’ll be honest with you, this one’s pretty unusual. Most child abductions are by opportunists. They see a child left alone outside a shop, or in a park, or walking home from school by themselves, and they act on impulse. But here – it’s almost as if you have been targeted.’
Confusion turns to shock. ‘Targeted?’ says Craig. ‘I don’t . . . You mean somebody wanted Poppy specifically?’
‘I could be wrong, but that’s how it looks on the surface. Somebody went to a lot of trouble, and took a hell of a big risk, to break into your house in the middle of the night. Snapping that lock would have created some noise. The intruder was in danger of waking someone up – you two, Poppy, a neighbour – but they still went through with it. It’s almost as if not just any child would do, as if it had to be Poppy. That’s why I’m wondering if it’s someone who knows Poppy, and therefore someone you might know.’
Maria shake
s her head vigorously. ‘I’ve never come across anyone like that. I mean, I’d know, wouldn’t I? You’d have to be demented to break into a house and steal a child. Nobody normal would do that.’
Cody looks at her husband. ‘Mr Devlin?’
Craig seems almost surprised he has to answer. ‘No. Of course not. It’s a ridiculous question. Maria’s right. Nobody’s perfect – I mean, we’ve all done things we’re ashamed of, haven’t we? – but kidnapping a child . . . well, I mean, that’s several levels up again, isn’t it? That’s psycho territory.’
He seems to realise what he has just said – that his beloved daughter might now be in the clutches of a sadistic maniac – and he grasps Maria’s hand.
‘Okay,’ says Cody. ‘Maybe not a friend, then, but what about a stranger? Somebody who might have been in or around your home recently? A workman, perhaps? An estate agent? A gardener or a window cleaner? A decorator? Anyone like that who might have spent a little time in Poppy’s company?’
Craig shakes his head. He seems bewildered, and a little frightened.
Cody continues the line of questioning: ‘What about people you might have antagonised? Is there anyone you can think of who might have reason to hate you? Someone you’ve upset in the past, even if it was unintentional?’
The pair descend into a gloomy quiet. Cody senses he is wearing them down.
‘All right, look,’ he says. ‘I realise I’m giving you a lot to think about. You don’t have to do it now. Take your time. When we’re gone, cast your minds back to all the people you can think of who might have been in your house, or might have seen Poppy and found out where you live. Anyone who might want to get back at you for some reason. Make a list for us. Can you do that, please? And err on the side of caution. Unless you’re one hundred per cent sure about them, put them on the list. It’s better that we clear someone’s name than never consider them at all. Is that okay?’
The couple look at each other, then back at Cody. ‘Yes,’ says Maria. ‘But it’s a horrible thought. I mean, that someone we allowed into our home, someone who might have sat right where you are, could have had ideas about Poppy. And then the thought that they came back and . . . and . . .’
She loses control then. Brings a tissue to her eyes while she sobs quietly. Craig rubs a hand up and down her back.
‘What else can we do to help?’ he asks. ‘We need to find her.’
‘I know,’ says Cody. ‘We’ll do everything we can, I promise you.’ He gestures through the window. ‘Right now, we’re talking to all your neighbours about what they might have seen or heard last night, and also about strangers they might have witnessed in the area. Do you have somewhere you can go for a few hours?’
‘Why?’
‘We want to bring in a forensics team to search the place. The intruder may have left clues to his identity here. I know you’ve been running all over the house since then, but the longer you stay here, the more chance there is that you’ll contaminate vital evidence. Would you be okay with that?’
Maria sniffs and looks up at her husband. ‘We can go to my mum’s,’ she says. She turns to Cody. ‘She’s only in Grassendale.’
‘Great. We’ll be as quick as we can, but we have to be thorough. As soon as it’s done, you can come back.’
‘I need to look for her,’ says Craig. ‘I can’t just sit on my arse for the next few hours. I need to be out there, even if it’s just driving around.’
‘I understand how you feel,’ says Cody. ‘But it would be much better if you could leave the searching to us for now. One of the things we’ll do is call a press conference to alert local media. We’ll also bring in the dogs unit to see if we can pick up a trail from the house. We’ll need something with your daughter’s scent on. Her bedclothes, perhaps, or a toy she always kept close to her.’
Maria looks across to a sideboard. A teddy bear is sitting on top of it.
‘Is that hers?’ Cody asks.
Maria nods. She stands and walks across the room, then brings the bear back. Before handing it to Cody, she presses her face into it and breathes in its fragrance.
Cody realises then that the reason the toy is in this room is that Maria has been carrying it around with her, holding it close as if it were her daughter.
‘This is Huggles,’ she says. ‘She always kept him with her when she was in the house. She slept with him every night. She’ll be missing him.’
‘I understand.’
She reaches the bear out towards Cody. He takes hold of it, but she doesn’t release it immediately. She stares Cody directly in the eye.
‘I want to be the one to give this back to Poppy. I want to be there when her eyes light up at the sight of him. Promise me that you will do everything in your power to make that happen.’
‘I promise,’ he says. But this is a promise only to do his best. It is not a promise to return Poppy. He is already dreading the moment he may have to tell these loving parents that their only daughter is never coming home again.
Maria entrusts the bear to Cody’s safekeeping, then resumes her place on the sofa.
‘I don’t understand,’ says Craig. ‘Why would anyone do this? What possible reason could they have for taking our Poppy? We’re not rich, so . . .’ As he says this, he looks up at Cody with a glint of optimism in his eye. ‘Do you think that’s it? Do you think they want us to pay to get her back? Because I’ll do it. I’ll find the money somehow. If this is a ransom demand—’
‘I don’t think it’s that,’ Cody says. ‘Like you just said, you’re not rich. And, to be honest, I think they would have been in touch already if that were the case. They would have warned you not to involve the police.’
He watches the spark leave Craig, and it pains him to have been the one to extinguish it.
‘Then why? Why would they come for her?’
Cody shakes his head. ‘I have no idea.’
What he can’t voice is his suspicion that this is the work of someone not entirely rational. Someone who is willing to go to such lengths to obtain a particular child, to put his own liberty at risk to achieve that goal, must be driven by desire more than sense. And that makes the kidnapper highly dangerous.
He doesn’t want to think about what that might mean for poor Poppy.
And what he also cannot say here is that he already has some suspects in mind for this crime.
He’s looking at them right now.
He doesn’t want to believe it, of course. In any public forum he would be lynched for admitting such a notion. These people are victims, he would be told. Have you no sympathy, no shame?
But Cody is a police detective, and he has been trained well. The ABC of investigative work has been drilled into him: Accept nothing; Believe nobody; Challenge everything.
And so, as much as a very human part of him is determined to deny it, there is another part that has these two in his sights. He doesn’t know how much of their story to believe, how much of their distress is genuine. He has been fooled by such displays of emotion before, and will be again, no doubt. He looks at the Devlins now, crying and fretting, and he hates himself for distrusting them. But there it is: that’s what he has become. What salves his conscience is that it might just be the only thing that can save Poppy.
‘I have another question,’ says Maria. ‘But I’m not sure I want the answer.’
Cody has a feeling he knows what’s coming, but he waits it out.
‘What are the chances?’ she says. ‘When a child is taken like this, what are the odds of getting them back?’
Cody’s reply isn’t instantaneous, even though he realises that the couple will fill his silence with negativity. But there is no easy answer. When it comes, he could win a prize for dodging the issue.
‘The point is,’ he says, ‘I’ve never seen a situation like this. And because of that, I don’t know what we’re dealing with. I don’t understand the motive. We have to hope that such an extraordinary set of circu
mstances means that all the usual stats about child abduction go out the window.’
‘Meaning that the usual stats don’t offer much hope,’ says Maria.
You got me, thinks Cody. You saw through me.
He says nothing, and sees again how his silence cuts them.
9
Treble twenty.
Malcolm’s first dart beds into the red fibres with a satisfying thud. He moves a few inches to his right on the oche, takes aim, lets fly with his second arrow. It narrowly squeaks into the same small arc, clicking against the metal frame as it penetrates. He adjusts his stance once more, lines up his dart . . .
He knows it’s going low even as he releases it. A perfect throw can be felt. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him that it’s going into the black by several millimetres.
He’s not as good as he used to be. No chance of extending the line of trophies gleaming at him from the top of his bookcase. Doesn’t matter, though. He does it more for the hand-eye coordination now. Plus the mental arithmetic involved in working out how best to achieve his target score. All good for the brain. Even the doctors said so.
On his way to retrieve his darts, Malcolm makes a slight diversion and looks at himself in the mirror. Facing straight ahead, chin up, nobody would ever know.
But then he drops his head a little, and it becomes obvious.
If he had more hair it wouldn’t be so bad, but on a bald pate like his the deformity screams for attention.
The surgeon did a great job, but from the start he was honest about the outcome. A great big metal plate screwed onto your skull is never going to be quite as streamlined as the original bone.
He has almost forgotten what life was like before the accident. It changed him in so many ways.
Often he wishes he hadn’t been so ambitious. If only he had stayed a simple local plumber, picking and choosing his jobs, taking his time, not being pressurised . . .
But it’s easy to think like that now. When you’ve got a mortgage and bills to consider, and someone comes along and offers more money and regular work – well, you take it, don’t you?
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