He was only a year into the job with the new firm when they almost killed him.
His supervisor should never have sent him up that ladder. A proper scaffolding platform should have been erected.
The legs of the ladder were on the flat roof of an extension. It looked a sound enough support. Turned out it wasn’t. While he was at the top of the ladder, the roof gave way, and Malcolm plummeted onto the paved patio.
The hospital didn’t hold out much hope for survival. In fact, he died once on the operating table. And even when they started to believe they could keep him alive, they remained doubtful about his chances of leading a normal life ever again.
The problem was his head. They explained it to him later. Told him how his brain had been catapulted against the inside of his skull when his head impacted the stone paving. Bruised and battered, his brain began to swell up like a balloon, expanding to fill the confined space. The only way to give it more room to grow was to cut away a section of his skull.
He still remembers how he looked back then. A huge depression on one side of his head, as though some vicious animal had taken a bite out of it.
They fashioned the metal plate eventually. Screwed it into place during yet another operation. The medical experts seemed rather proud of what they managed to achieve.
Malcolm, on the other hand, felt like a freak. Some kind of cyborg. He noticed how people’s eyes tended to drift upwards when they were speaking to him.
What the doctors couldn’t tell him was how much damage had been done to his brain, and whether his personality might be affected.
He soon found out.
Before the accident he had always been a happy-go-lucky man. Nothing bothered him. But the bang on his head seemed to shake out his darker feelings.
He became morose, quick-tempered. He would suffer blackouts.
On a train from Carlisle one day, he became convinced that a gang of youths were talking about him. Analysing it afterwards, he wasn’t sure it was even true, but at the time he felt he had become the butt of their cruel jibes. He thought they were sneaking glances at the discoloured lump on top of his head, that they were making jokes about it. His anger growing, he could no longer concentrate on his newspaper or the picturesque scenery through the window. He wanted only to put a stop to the perceived mockery.
When the lads stood up to leave the train, he followed them with vengeful eyes. He should have felt relief that they were exiting his life, probably never to be seen again, but he couldn’t let them depart so easily. A few seconds after the last youth stepped onto the platform, so did Malcolm.
He doesn’t remember much of what happened next. He has vague memories of following three of them into a quiet side street, and then a blur of fists and shouts and blood. He came home with cuts and bruises, but also visions of the youths laid out on the ground, moaning and beaten.
For days afterwards he expected a call from the police, but none came. Presumably the lads were too embarrassed to admit to their thrashing. But still, it came as a shock to Malcolm to realise he was capable of such precipitous and violent action. He vowed then to avoid confrontation and stress as much as possible, for fear of what he might do.
But sometimes he is pushed too far. Sometimes the more rational part of his mind fails in its duty to intervene and calm him down.
Like this morning, for example.
He hopes he hasn’t damaged Poppy beyond repair. That would be terrible. Harriet would be so upset.
He didn’t plan it that way. He just needed the child to quieten down. But then it all went misty. Everything disappeared from view.
He moves back to the oche. Throws his next dart. Another treble twenty. That’s more like it.
It’s another reason he plays darts. It takes him away from his worries. Allows him to relax when his stress levels start to build.
He spends a lot of time up here in the back bedroom. It has become his study, his den, his fortress of solitude. Harriet doesn’t mind. She sees what a difference it makes to him.
Darts isn’t the only pastime that keeps him here. He has his computer, too. He often wishes he had been clever enough to study computing, but even without a formal qualification he is more expert than most. It’s another way of exercising his brain.
Plus, it has proven a fantastic tool for helping him plan his missions.
There were only so many times he could patrol the areas frequented by Poppy and her family without attracting attention. Using online maps, he was able to walk up and down her street as many times as he wished. He paid virtual visits to her school, her local park, her friends’ houses. In minute detail he plotted out all the places he could employ as observation posts or as possible bases for ambush.
Using search engines, he was able to find out what time the school opened and closed, what the term dates were, when outings were taking place. He found out when the bin collections were scheduled for Poppy’s road. He discovered the opening times of the hairdresser’s where Poppy’s mum works. He even managed to unearth an old listing from an estate agent, which contained a detailed floorplan and interior photographs of Poppy’s house.
He drew all of this information together into a comprehensive bank of data, each item cross-referenced with many others. He wanted to leave nothing to chance.
In the end, he decided that his best option was to go into the house itself. But it was a decision based on extensive background research that would have been impossible without his good friend the computer.
Treble one. Not one of his best efforts.
He thinks, What if she’s dead? Not just injured, but dead? Harriet will never forgive me. I will never forgive myself. We’re supposed to be providing a loving home for these kids.
I should’ve asked Harriet to give the girl another injection. Knock her out again.
Yes, but she has to learn some time, doesn’t she? We can’t keep her in a permanent coma. She needs to fit in. If she’s to live with us, she has to learn to abide by the rules.
He thinks he should go back to the girls’ bedroom and check, but a part of him doesn’t want to face up to what he might have done. He doesn’t want to deal with the consequences.
A five. A single five. Concentrate, man. You can do better than that.
He remembers when he first unveiled his grand scheme to Harriet. He wasn’t sure how she’d take it. He thought she might be mortified. Thought she might never want to speak to him again.
The accident led to a claim for injury, which in turn led to enough money for him to reduce his plumbing work to the minimum and think about how to spend the rest of his life.
Like starting a family, for instance.
They were unable to have children by natural means, and that had always been a source of great distress to Harriet. His injury and subsequent psychiatric problems also rendered him unsuitable for adopting.
But this . . .
This could work. This would solve a number of problems at a single stroke. Yes, there were risks involved, but another of the side effects of the brain injury was that he was less concerned about danger in all its forms. He was not frightened by anyone or anything. He wanted only to keep his wife happy.
He needn’t have worried. Harriet took one look at the photographs and instantly fell in love with Daisy. The idea of having her here as her own daughter wasn’t so much of a hard sell after that, especially when Malcolm described the research he had done.
It worked perfectly. Everything went precisely according to plan. Malcolm never believed that things would line up so seamlessly ever again.
But that was three whole years ago. He never gave up searching. Harriet, bless her, deserves the opportunity to extend her mothering skills.
He hopes he hasn’t given with one hand and taken back with the other. That would be a disaster. Especially after all that hard work.
Treble twenty again. Nice.
10
Daisy remembers too well the fear, the confusion, the ache
of separation. She sees it now all wrapped up in Poppy’s tiny body.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks.
Sitting on the bed, Poppy nods and sniffs.
Daisy hands her another tissue. ‘They don’t like it when we don’t do what we’re told. Malcolm can get very angry.’
‘He hurt me.’
‘I know. That’s why you can’t break things or make loud noises. If you’re good, they won’t hurt you again. Do you understand?’
Poppy nods again. ‘Yes, but . . . I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.’ She gestures towards the door. ‘Your mum and dad are horrible.’
‘They’re not my mum and dad.’
Poppy’s eyes widen. ‘What do you mean?’
‘They brought me here, just like they brought you.’
‘Why? Why did they take us?’
‘I think . . . I think they just want a family of their own.’
‘Well, they can’t just take children who aren’t theirs, and then be horrible to them.’
‘They can be nice. All you have to do is be nice back to them.’
Poppy raises her head and looks around the room, taking it all in. ‘Do you live here?’
Daisy nods. ‘Yes. Do you like it?’
‘No. When can I go?’
‘I don’t know. Would you like to play with my dolls? I’ve got a nice rabbit here.’
‘I’ve got my own toys. I’ve got a teddy bear called Huggles.’
‘That’s nice. Do you have a doll’s house like mine?’
‘Mine’s better,’ says Poppy. ‘Is it daytime or night-time?’
‘It’s daytime. It’s the morning.’
Poppy looks towards the window. ‘Then we should open the curtains. It’s too dark in here.’
‘No,’ says Daisy. ‘There’s really no—’
Before she can finish, Poppy jumps off the bed and runs around it to the window. She yanks the curtains aside.
Daisy’s heart sinks. She hates the sight of the tongue-and-groove panelling nailed over the window space.
Poppy runs her hand across the wood.
‘How do you open it?’
‘You can’t. It’s . . . They prefer it like this.’
‘What do you mean? How do you look at things outside?’
The question stabs at Daisy, making her want to cry. She hasn’t seen the outside for three years. She hasn’t seen the sun or a tree or a bird or even a blade of grass for almost a third of her lifetime.
She can’t tell Poppy this. She can’t make her aware of the extent of her imprisonment. Not before she has settled in a little.
‘I don’t need to see outside,’ she lies. ‘I have everything I want in here.’
‘But what about when you want to go out to play?’
‘I . . . I don’t play outside.’
She can see how stunned Poppy is. Not spending a part of each day in the fresh air is an alien concept to her. Just as it once was for Daisy.
Poppy and Daisy. Two flowers. They need sunshine and rain and the touch of soft earth so that they can grow and bloom. Otherwise they will wither.
‘What?’ says Poppy. ‘Never?’
‘No. It’s . . . It’s safer in here.’
A lie, but it seems such a necessary one. Best to make Poppy afraid of the outdoors, to quell her desire to escape.
She sees a look of worry on Poppy’s face, and immediately hates herself for scaring her.
‘Are there bad things out there?’ Poppy asks in a much quieter voice. ‘Is that why you have no windows – so that you don’t have to look at them?’
Daisy doesn’t want to utter another untruth. She wants to say instead that there is nothing to be frightened of out there. The monsters are here, in this house, and she would like nothing more than to run as far away from them as possible.
But instead she simply nods and says, ‘You’re better off in here.’
Poppy scans the room again. ‘What if I want to use the bathroom? How do I tell them?’
‘You don’t. Look . . .’
Daisy walks across to the small curtained area in the corner of the room. The metal rings scrape along the track as she draws back the curtain to reveal the commode.
‘Here’s the toilet,’ she says.
Poppy shakes her head. ‘That’s not a toilet. It’s just a chair.’
‘No, it’s a special kind of toilet. See – it has a container below the seat to catch everything.’
‘But where’s the handle? How do you flush it?’
‘You don’t. Malcolm comes and empties it twice a day.’
Poppy looks disgusted. ‘I’m not using that. I want a proper bathroom. How do I have a bath or a shower?’
Daisy points to the tiny basin. ‘We get washed there. I’ve got a big sponge and a—’
‘No, I am not doing that. They’ll have to let me use the bathroom. When are they going to unlock the door?’
It hits Daisy that Poppy still doesn’t get it, still doesn’t realise that these four walls are her impassable boundaries from now on.
But clearly she is starting to suspect. She looks to the door, then to the boarded-up window, then back to Daisy. Immense sadness tugs at the corners of her mouth.
‘Am I in prison?’ she asks. ‘Have I done something really, really bad?’
Daisy goes to her. Takes her by the shoulders, guides her to the bed and sits her down.
‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s not a prison, and you haven’t done anything wrong. Malcolm and Harriet just want to look after you for a while.’
‘How long?’
For ever, is the correct answer, but Daisy can’t say that. It took her a while to accept it for herself. Poppy needs to be allowed a sliver of hope if she is not to bring trouble to their door.
‘Maybe not very long at all. I think probably the best thing to do is to just go along with what they want. You don’t have to like them. Just obey their rules, keep them happy. Then maybe they’ll let you go back home again. How does that sound? Do you think you could be good for a while?’
‘Have you been good?’
‘Most of the time.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Not long. Tell you what, let’s both be extra good together. What do you think?’
Poppy looks down at her bare feet, swinging above the carpet. ‘I’ll try. As long as they don’t hurt me again.’
‘They won’t. Promise.’
Poppy takes hold of her pyjamas and twists the material between her fingers. ‘I can’t stay too long, though. My mummy and daddy will miss me.’
Daisy spreads her arms wide. ‘Would you like a hug?’
Poppy nods, and Daisy folds her arms around her. Looking over the young child’s shoulder, she wonders about her own parents. Wonders how worried they must have been.
Wonders, too, if they have now given up searching for her.
11
‘Right then. The subject of our search: Poppy Eliza Devlin.’
DCI Stella Blunt stands at the front of the Major Incident Room, clicking on a remote control to display photographs of Poppy on the monitor next to her. Blunt is unarguably a physically large woman, but her presence would be imposing even without that. Each member of the team, Cody included, hangs on her every word as she takes them through the picture gallery.
‘She is six years old,’ says Blunt. ‘Blonde hair and blue eyes. Imprint this face firmly in your minds, ladies and gents. I want you looking for her everywhere you go, even when you don’t have a file of photographs to consult.’
She moves on to another picture. Poppy standing on her bed, with Huggles the teddy bear clutched tightly in her arms. She is wearing pink pyjama bottoms and a white top with pink butterflies on it.
‘These are the very pyjamas that Poppy was wearing when she was put to bed last night. That doesn’t mean, of course, that she still has them on, but keep an eye out for them anyway.’
&
nbsp; Blunt keeps clicking. Two new figures appear on the monitor.
‘Poppy’s parents. Craig and Maria Devlin. Craig is thirty-four and works as a buyer for Boothroyd’s department store. Maria is thirty-two and works part-time as a hairdresser on Aigburth Road.’
Blunt turns to the faces in front of her. ‘One thing we need to make very sure of from the beginning is that we are not being made fools of. I do not want to see this team chasing ghosts. So, first question: Does this story hold water?’ She points to the faces on the monitor. ‘Do we believe them?’
‘If I had to call it,’ says Cody. ‘I’d say yes. Webley and I spent some time with them this morning, and they seemed genuine enough to me.’
Webley adds, ‘I’d second that. They were absolutely distraught. Why would they fake this?’
‘Why indeed,’ says Blunt. ‘But we all know that it wouldn’t be the first time. Perhaps the parents have murdered her and are trying to cover it up. Perhaps they just like being in the media spotlight. Who knows? I accept we’ve only just started this investigation, but so far nobody has offered any support for the claims being made by the Devlins. Nobody saw or heard anything during the night, and we’ve had no reports of any suspicious behaviour in their neighbourhood in recent weeks. Until someone comes up with proof positive that the Devlins are clean, we have to keep them in our sights.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’ asks Cody.
Blunt answers with a question of her own: ‘Where are the parents now?’
‘At Maria’s mother’s place while CSI do their stuff.’
‘Right. Intensify the search. I want that house scoured from top to bottom. Look at every scrap of paper they own. Examine their bank records, their phone records and their medical records. Take their computers and check every file they contain. Find out who they talk to, how they spend their time, how they vote, who they might have pissed off, who they owe money to, and why they haven’t had any more kids. I want to know if they’ve had so much as a parking fine or a demand letter for unpaid bills.’
One of the assembled detectives raises a point that is probably on everyone’s mind. ‘That’s going to take a long time, ma’am. The house search itself—’
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