‘Ma’am?’ says Cody.
She turns to him. Her eyes are dark, as though tinged with the evil she has encountered here.
‘Have either of you seen Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?’
The question sounds a bit like one of Mrs Morley’s: seemingly random and inappropriate.
‘Er . . .’ says Webley.
‘The Childcatcher. I had nightmares for years after I saw that film. I kept thinking someone was coming to get me while I was asleep. And now it’s come true. This is real. One kid was bad enough; how many others is he going to snatch? Did you see what he did in there? Did you see how determined he was to get that child? He will stop at nothing.’
Cody finds himself lost for words. His boss is almost always a shining example when it comes to staying in control of her emotions and her team. But right now she seems on the verge of losing it.
She gives him a look. He suspects it’s one that few others ever receive, and he wonders what must be going through Webley’s mind as she observes it. It’s a look of understanding, of sharing, of empathy. It’s a look that speaks to Cody of the truth of human misery.
‘Find him,’ she says. ‘Find those girls.’
25
There is something about today.
Daisy doesn’t know what it is, but something isn’t quite right. When Harriet came into the room earlier, she seemed suspiciously happy. She carried a warped smile that hinted at surprises to come.
And then Harriet did a curious thing. She started opening drawers and pulling out clothes until she was able to put a complete outfit together. It was from the stuff that had been bought for Poppy, but Harriet took the clothes away with her without even suggesting to Poppy that she might wear them.
That was half an hour ago. And now Daisy can hear them coming back upstairs.
She looks at Poppy, who is busy flicking through a comic. The cartoons are doing little to lighten her spirits. She seems so sad all the time, so serious, so in need of her real parents.
The bolts scrape back again. The door opens. Harriet pokes her head around, but doesn’t fully enter. She is wearing that stupid grin again.
‘Hello, girls. I’ve got a surprise for you, but first you must shut your eyes. Go on, then, close them.’
Daisy sees Poppy place her palms over her face. Then she clamps her own eyes shut. She wants to make a wish. Wants to wish for something happy. But she doesn’t, because she knows it won’t come true.
‘Okay,’ says Harriet. ‘You can open them again.’
Daisy does as she is told, and the sight in front of her makes her want the world to end. It is another girl, or rather, the pale imitation of one. She is tiny and fragile and trembling. Her long dark hair emphasises the whiteness of the face it frames. The girl’s lips are thin and purple. Even the modern clothes she’s wearing do not stop her from looking like one of the starving Victorian street urchins in Daisy’s books.
But above all, there is something about her eyes. Even Daisy can tell that these are eyes that have seen things no child should see.
‘This is Ellie,’ says Harriet, her hands on the girl’s shoulders.
Daisy and Poppy continue to stare, neither making a sound.
Harriet glances behind her at her husband now filling the doorway, then back to the children.
‘Well? Aren’t you going to say hello to your new sister?’
So that confirms it. Daisy guessed, of course, but now she is certain that this girl is here to stay. The Bensons have another prisoner. How many more will they take?
Daisy slides off the bed, walks across to Ellie. She attempts a smile.
‘Hello, Ellie,’ she says. ‘Would you like to come and play with us?’
She knows what the answer is. She knows that, even if the girl hears the question, the answer will be negative. Ellie doesn’t want to play. She doesn’t want to be here at all.
But Daisy doesn’t even get a ‘no’. Ellie doesn’t shrink away or shake her head or look down at the floor. She just stares straight ahead, right through Daisy. As if she sees things that nobody else can.
Harriet says, ‘We’ll leave you three to get acquainted. Ellie’s had nothing to eat this morning, so I’ll bring along a snack later when she feels a bit more relaxed. Make her feel at home, won’t you, Daisy?’
Daisy nods, but she suspects she’s got a job on her hands. Ellie doesn’t seem all there. It’s like she’s sleepwalking.
Harriet and Malcolm back out of the room, all smiles and cutesy little waves. Daisy waits for the locks to be put back in place, then turns her attention to the new arrival.
‘My name’s Daisy, and this is Poppy. We’re going to look after you.’
Poppy moves closer, her eyes fixed on Ellie’s unmoving form.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Daisy. ‘Maybe she’s just frightened.’ She looks again at Ellie. ‘Is that it, Ellie? Are you a bit frightened?’
But Ellie says nothing. She breathes and she blinks and she shivers, but these are the only signs she is alive.
Daisy reaches for Ellie’s hand. It’s like ice.
She leads her over to the play table. It’s like helping someone who’s really old or sick.
‘We’re looking at comics. Would you like to read one? Or draw a picture? You can sit down in my chair if you like.’
Again Ellie doesn’t budge, and Daisy has to apply gentle pressure to her shoulders to lower her to the seat. Daisy slides a piece of paper in front of her, but when she gives her a crayon she has to fold her fingers around it.
‘There you go. You can draw now if you like. How about some flowers? Or you could draw me?’
But there is still no response. Ellie is like a doll, capable of being pushed and pulled into position, but unable to do anything for herself.
Poppy comes up behind Daisy. Takes her hand.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ she asks again.
Daisy has no answer to give. She understood Poppy’s behaviour. Shouting and screaming and swearing and breaking things made perfect sense in a situation like this.
But Ellie is beyond her comprehension, beyond her experience.
The closest she can get to describing what she sees comes from something she read in a book once. Something about a character looking as though they had seen a ghost.
Yes, that would account for it, all right.
It’s as though Ellie has looked into the face of death.
26
Oxo gets to the Devlins’ house as fast as he can. They need to hear this from him, before the media get their greedy mitts on it and turn it into whichever contorted version of the truth will make them the most sales.
It’s much quieter outside the house now. With little progress on the case, the paparazzi have moved on to more salacious revelations elsewhere. They’ll be back imminently, though – as soon as the news breaks.
The Devlins greet him with expressions that reflect hopefulness held in check by the need to avoid crushing disappointment. He can see the struggle on their faces. One word from him could send their emotions soaring or plummeting. Such is the responsibility he carries.
It’s funny. His wife told him she had a feeling in her water (perhaps the baby telling her) that there would be a break in the case today.
This isn’t the kind of break he thought she meant.
He can see that the Devlins want to ask questions, but are afraid to. They are wondering whether this is just another regular update of no substance, or a matter of crucial importance. He tries not to give anything away until he feels they are ready to deal with what he has to deliver.
‘There’s been a development,’ he tells them.
A development. A solidly neutral word. Nothing to be misinterpreted there. At the same time, he is sure the Devlins are aware that he wouldn’t have shrouded the news they really want to hear in such camouflage.
‘What kind of development?’ Craig asks.
He t
akes a deep breath. ‘In the early hours of this morning, a young girl was abducted from her parents’ house in Crosby.’
He gives them a moment to absorb the information. He sees how their faces and their body language change as they filter the news, analyse it, formulate questions. Their sympathy for the victims will understandably be washed away by their need to comprehend what this means for their own case. Above all, is this good news or bad?
‘How young?’ says Maria.
‘She’s six.’
‘Like Poppy.’
‘Yes.’
‘Who . . . Who are they? Do we know them?’
‘At the moment, we have no reason to believe that you know the family concerned. I should also tell you that I can’t give out all the details right now, and that includes their names. A police statement will be made shortly, but there are checks we have to do first. We have to make sure we don’t get things wrong, or say anything that might jeopardise the investigation. The reason I’m telling you what I can now is so that you don’t hear it from a journalist first. I wanted you to be prepared.’
‘I . . . I don’t understand. Do you mean . . . Are you saying this is the same abductor? That he’s taken another child?’
‘It’s much too early to jump to that conclusion without a lot more evidence. But clearly there are similarities.’
Maria suddenly becomes ravenous for detail. Questions fly from her mouth.
‘What happened? Was he seen doing it? Do you have some promising leads? Has he made contact with the parents?’
Oxo raises his hands. ‘Please. I know this is difficult. Believe me, this is difficult for me, too, but—’
‘I don’t care how bloody difficult it is for you,’ she cries. ‘It’s not your child out there, is it? Come back in a few months’ time when your wife has had the baby and it gets snatched from its pram, and then you can tell me how difficult this is.’
A silence descends. A silence filled with embarrassment and regret and hurt.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean that. I don’t want you to suffer like we’re suffering. I just want . . . I want to know what this means. I just want my Poppy back. Please.’
Her final plea splinters Oxo’s heart. He wishes he could give them what they want. Wishes, too, that he didn’t have to make this so much harder for them.
‘Bastards!’
This from Craig, suddenly springing to his feet. He marches to the window, pulls aside the curtain, puts up two fingers to whatever press people are out there. He seems not to care that the image could be on the front pages tomorrow.
‘Craig!’ says Maria. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
He moves back into the centre of the room. ‘Them! The bastards. They’ll know now, won’t they? They’ll know it wasn’t us. All those nasty, spiteful little twats who said we must have had something to do with it. All the people who’ve been staring and pointing at us. Even so-called friends who smile to our faces, then stab us when our backs are turned.’
He rounds on Oxo. ‘And you lot! You know now as well, don’t you? You know this is the same fucking guy, even though you’re not saying it. How about finally crossing us off your suspect list, eh? Maybe even a word of apology? All that work you did looking into us when you should have been chasing after the real criminal. Shame on you!’
Oxo holds himself in check. It won’t do to become defensive now. What Craig has said is perfectly true. Although Oxo has gradually come to trust the Devlins since Poppy’s abduction, he has always tried to keep some cynicism in reserve. Just in case.
‘Craig!’ Maria says again. ‘Sit down. This isn’t a time to celebrate. It’s not about who’s right and who’s wrong. Another child has been taken. She could be with Poppy right now. We have to focus on what this means for finding them and setting them free.’
She turns to face Oxo. ‘Please, is there anything else you can tell us? Anything that this latest development might mean for us and for Poppy?’
There’s that word again: development. It hides so much.
‘This crime has some definite similarities to your own. We think it was carried out some time before four-thirty this morning. The house was broken into. A child, the same age as Poppy, was taken. There is a report of a white van being seen driven away from the house. Later, when you’ve got time, I’d like you to take another look at the list you gave us, and work out whether anyone on it might have access to a white van.’
‘Okay,’ says Maria. But she continues to stare at Oxo. She knows there is more. ‘What else?’
Oxo locks eyes with her. ‘Whoever took this girl was more determined than ever to get her. So determined, in fact, that he didn’t run when her parents discovered him in their house.’
‘Hang on. They saw him? They know what he looks like?’
‘Like I say, the intruder didn’t run away. There was a fight. Unfortunately, both of the parents were killed.’
It’s like the Devlins have both been punched in the stomach. Their mouths drop open, and they seem unable to breathe.
‘Oh, God,’ says Maria.
‘Shit,’ says Craig. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’
Maria brings a hand to her mouth. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
Craig stands up again. Pushes his hand through his hair. Blows out some air.
‘He killed them? Both of them?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘That could have been us,’ says Maria. ‘Oh, my God, that could have been us.’
And then the bigger thought hits her. ‘Oh, no. No, no, no. Poppy. Our Poppy. Please don’t let him hurt Poppy. Please, God. Please . . .’
Her words become drowned in sobs, and as these turn into heart-piercing wails, Jason Oxburgh thinks back to what she said about his own imminent parenthood and what he would do if his baby were to be taken from him.
27
Daisy doesn’t know what to do about Ellie. The girl seems lost in another world. What is left here is a mere shell. A dried-out husk that could be carried away by the slightest breeze.
She scares Poppy. Poppy won’t go anywhere near her.
She scares Daisy, too, but for different reasons. What Daisy sees when she looks at this tiny waif is severe disturbance. She guesses that Ellie hasn’t always been like this. She was probably a little bundle of fun and energy before she came here. She probably danced and played mischievous pranks with her parents, and laughed as she ran around the school playground with her friends.
So that means something happened to her. Something terrible. It makes Daisy fear that Malcolm is capable of behaviour far more terrifying than anything he has exhibited thus far.
Which means he could do it again. He could be getting worse, more unpredictable.
They have to keep him happy. They mustn’t do anything to push him over the edge again. The next time could be fatal for all of them.
Daisy realises that it’s down to her to ensure their collective safety. The others are too young to realise the danger they are in. Daisy must lead the way.
Which is easier said than done with this pair.
Poppy isn’t too bad now, but she is still prone to fits of bad temper. Only yesterday she threw a chocolate eclair on the floor and ground it into the carpet under her heel. Daisy spent ages cleaning up the mess while Poppy wailed on the bed.
But now there is Ellie, whose problems are altogether different. Her lack of communication is the least of Daisy’s worries. A far bigger one is that she refuses to eat and drink. She has gone all day without anything passing her lips.
There’s a meal in front of her now. Fish fingers, mashed potato and beans. Poppy wolfed hers down and went back to sit on the bed. Ellie’s is untouched.
‘Go on, Ellie,’ says Daisy. ‘Have a few beans. Everyone likes beans.’
But Ellie just sits and stares at the plate and its rapidly cooling contents.
Daisy takes another mouthful of her own food. S
he would normally polish off a meal like this without giving it much thought, but Ellie’s attitude is infectious. It makes Daisy wonder about the worth of staving off hunger. Why even bother to survive in a prison like this? Why not just starve to death and be done with it?
‘Please, Ellie. For me. It will make you feel much better.’
She doesn’t really believe that. Food isn’t going to cure whatever it is that ails Ellie.
Daisy hears Malcolm and Harriet coming up the stairs. She looks at the door, then at Ellie’s plate, then back to the door. She feels the need to do something to save the situation, but she doesn’t know what.
Harriet comes in first, holding the door wide while Malcolm bundles in with a new mattress.
‘Can’t have you all sleeping in one bed, can we?’ says Malcolm. ‘That would be a bit squished.’
He props the mattress up against the chimney breast. ‘When you’ve finished eating, we can put the table and chairs away, and that will leave room to put the mattress next to the bed. In the mornings, we can slide it away in the space between the bed and the window.’ He turns to Harriet. ‘Will you sort out the sheets and pillows, Mummy?’
Harriet beams. ‘I certainly will.’ She looks down at Ellie. ‘You’ll be as snug as a bug when I’ve finished. Don’t worry. This is just for now. We’ll get you a proper bed soon.’
And then Harriet’s smile droops.
‘You’ve not touched your food, Ellie. Is it all right for you? You’re not ill, are you?’
Ellie doesn’t even look up. It’s as though Harriet’s words have passed straight through her.
Daisy watches the adults exchange concerned glances. Sees how Malcolm’s mood begins to darken.
‘She’s been playing,’ says Daisy. ‘She’s been far too busy to eat.’
Her eyes dart to Poppy, warning her not to contradict.
‘Playing?’ says Harriet. ‘Really?’
I’ve gone too far, thinks Daisy. I shouldn’t have said she was playing. She doesn’t look anything like a kid who has just been playing. She looks exactly the same as she did when she first got here. She looks like a dead person.
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