by Jill McGown
“Social Services have got it in hand.”
“Will they let me visit Kayleigh? I mean—I’m not officially anything to her, but . . . well, I’d like to help.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be able to sort something out.” Lloyd looked at his watch. “Well, Mr. Roddam, I think we should get you and Kayleigh reunited, now that you know what to expect. It would be extremely helpful if you could get her to—”
“Chief Inspector?” A young woman was crossing the grass toward them. “Mr. Waring’s come round,” she said. “The doctor says you can have five minutes.”
It had been an odd sensation, not really like waking up, because he felt, in a way, as though he had been awake all along. As though he simply hadn’t been paying attention. It took him a moment to make out Theresa’s features; gradually, he realized he was in the hospital. He had absolutely no idea why. It hurt if he tried to move at all, and he felt physically tired. But mentally, apart from not knowing why he was there, he felt as though he’d had a good night’s sleep. He asked what he was doing there, and his voice was weak.
“You were hit by a car,” said Theresa.
“When? Where?”
“Yesterday morning. At the cottage. While you were moving in.”
He remembered then that it shouldn’t be Theresa at his bedside. Not now. Lesley wouldn’t like it if she knew. “Where’s Lesley?” he asked. “Was she hurt, too?”
Theresa nodded. “I’m afraid she was.” And she told him, gently, that Lesley had died.
He stared at her. “Died? Lesley’s dead?”
“I’m so sorry, Ian.”
He blinked. Lesley was dead.
“They said I shouldn’t tell you. But I wasn’t going to let you believe she was alive. I didn’t think you’d like that.”
Ian nodded. Theresa knew him better than anyone else ever had. He couldn’t really react to the news; he didn’t know how. He felt detached, a little unreal.
The nurse came in and told him that a Chief Inspector Lloyd would like to speak to him. “You can say no. But if you do see him, I’ll throw him out after five minutes, so don’t worry.”
“I’ll see him. But I don’t—” Ian looked back at Theresa as Chief Inspector Lloyd came into the room, assuring the nurse that he wanted only a few moments with her patient. “How did it happen? Where’s Kayleigh? Is someone looking after her?”
“Kayleigh’s fine,” said Theresa. “And the baby.”
Ian frowned. He couldn’t raise his voice above a whisper; he couldn’t move without pain; he couldn’t remember the accident, and he couldn’t really grasp that Lesley was dead. He felt a little as though he were watching all this being played out on a stage, but he did know how many beans made five.
“Baby?” he said. “What baby?”
* * *
CHAPTER TEN
Ian hadn’t been expecting the astonished reaction he got to his question; he followed Theresa’s apprehensive, questioning look toward the chief inspector.
“Mr. Waring?” The look on Lloyd’s face mirrored Theresa’s. “Are you saying that Kayleigh didn’t have a baby?”
Ian licked dry lips. “Of course not,” he said. “She only turned fourteen in February.”
“But if the baby isn’t Kayleigh’s . . .” Theresa said.
“You’re absolutely certain?” Lloyd was speaking through the rest of what Theresa was saying. “Your memory could be—”
Ian sighed. It was quite tiring, trying to talk, especially when he couldn’t make himself heard. He had no idea what they were talking about, but they were both speaking at once, and he waited for them to stop. When they did, they were looking at him, apparently expecting some sort of explanation from him, but he could only tell them what he’d already said.
“I don’t remember how I ended up like this, but I remember everything else. Of course Kayleigh doesn’t have a baby.”
Lloyd came and sat by the bed. “Mr. Waring, how much do you remember of yesterday morning?”
Ian thought. His last clear memory was of driving the Alfa back from Theresa’s new flat. He remembered everything up until then; indeed, he was finding it hard to believe that it was yesterday morning. He felt as though it was just a quarter of an hour ago that he had called up to Lesley, told her where he was going. He told them that.
“Where was Kayleigh?” Lloyd’s voice was quiet but urgent. “Was she at the cottage with her mother?”
Ian felt even more alarmed. Why couldn’t Kayleigh tell them herself what they wanted to know? He turned his head slowly, painfully, to look at Theresa. “What’s happened to Kayleigh? Is she all right? Has she been hurt, too?”
“No, she’s not been hurt. But the police think she could have seen what happened, and is too shocked to tell them.”
They didn’t know what had happened, either? Someone must know. Theresa said Lesley was dead. And he was . . . he tried to remember, but there was nothing. He was driving the Alfa home and then . . . nothing.
“Was Kayleigh at the cottage?” Lloyd asked again.
“Not when I left.” Ian’s mouth was dry. “Can I have some water?” Theresa poured some into a glass and held it for him as he sipped it; it was the most delicious drink he had ever had. “But she could have come back while I was gone.”
“Where was she?”
“She stayed behind at the house.” He saw his visitors exchange glances.
“She was in Malworth?” said Lloyd. “On her own?”
Ian nodded. “Lesley couldn’t find the keys. . . .” He stopped. Theresa had said Lesley was dead. He didn’t understand, and he turned his head again to look at Theresa. “What happened to Lesley? Why is she dead? Was she in the accident, too?”
Theresa shook her head, and Lloyd sat forward a little.
“Just one more question, Mr. Waring, and I’ll leave you and Miss Black to talk.”
Ian nodded tiredly, frowning with concentration as Lloyd asked his question.
“I understand that Mrs. Newton was going to Australia to get Kayleigh away from some man she was involved with. Was that Dean Fletcher, or was there someone else?”
Ian’s frown grew deeper. He didn’t know what Lloyd was talking about. Who was Dean Fletcher? There was no man. “Man?” he repeated uncomprehendingly.
“A boy, perhaps?”
“What?” Ian didn’t understand, and it was frustrating, not being able to talk above a whisper.
Theresa touched his arm. “You said that Kayleigh was in a relationship that Lesley didn’t like. That’s why she wanted to go to Australia.”
“Oh—no, no—not a man.” At last, something Ian understood. “It’s a girl—don’t think it was . . . you know, but Lesley was worried about it. She . . . she said Kayleigh was . . .” Words were beginning to escape him as the tiredness took hold. “. . . too involved with this girl. She was worried. Really worried. Never . . . never with anyone else, she said. Her name’s Andrea.”
He’d done it again. Suddenly Lloyd jumped up and was dialing out on a mobile, much to the annoyance of the nurse who had come in.
“You can’t use that in here. We’ve got sensitive equipment monitoring Mr. Waring’s condition.”
“Just this one call,” said Lloyd. “It’s very important.”
“Whatever it is, it can wait until you’re outside.” She bundled him out of the room as she spoke. “You, too, Miss Black. Mr. Waring must be allowed to rest now. No more talking, Mr. Waring. That’s an order.”
Ian turned his head and smiled tiredly at Theresa, then remembered again what she had told him about Lesley. She was dead, and he didn’t understand. He caught her hand. “Theresa? Please . . . tell me what happened to Lesley.”
“As soon as they let me back in again,” she said. “I promise.”
The nurse was fixing his pillows, checking the equipment, making notes, asking him if he needed anything.
Yes, he thought. He needed Theresa.
Tom had waited until the girl had
calmed down a little, and then had gone through her movements with Emma from when she had left the Crawfords’ house until the moment she went back to the car park for her phone, but he was barely listening to her, because what she had said before he’d even asked her any questions kept repeating itself in his head. It had been a very strange thing to say: something must have happened to Emma, or someone would have brought her back.
If she had somehow taken Emma herself, it made no sense at all, and if someone else had taken her, why would she imagine anyone would have brought her back? There seemed to him to be only one answer to that. She knew who had taken Emma. “Who did you think would have brought her back?” he asked.
“What?” She looked up at him, her face streaked with tears.
“You said that if she was all right, someone would have brought her back. What did you mean? Who would have brought her back?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“She’s been snatched, Andrea. No one’s going to bring her back. People don’t bring back babies they’ve abducted. They keep them.” He could see Sarah’s face, startled by his brutal statement. And it was brutal; he had intended it to be. “And she was snatched because you left her unattended.”
The girl began to cry again, and Sarah was looking anything but happy with him; it had taken her forever to calm Andrea down.
“Except that you didn’t leave her unattended, did you?”
The sobs stopped; Andrea looked at him with a mixture of fear and relief. And Tom knew he was right.
“Who did you leave her with, Andrea? Who did you think was going to bring her back?”
“Kayleigh,” she whispered. “Kayleigh Scott.”
Lloyd had been right, too. But then, as he was fond of pointing out himself, Lloyd was always right. “Does Kayleigh have a baby of her own?” he asked.
Andrea shook her head.
“Then I think there’s a good chance that Emma is safe, Andrea. Safe and well.”
Now the relief was entirely evident; Tom could see for the first time the girl the Crawfords had employed.
“Suppose you tell me what really happened.”
She looked worried, uncertain. She was still wondering where her loyalties lay, Tom presumed. He would help her out there, if she needed it, because there was no way he was letting her clam up on him now. But he saw her come to a decision.
“I took Emma to the park.” She wiped the tears with the back of her hand as she spoke. “I’d just got the carry-cot back on the wheels and had started walking along by the river when Kayleigh came over the bridge. It was her last day in Malworth—she said she’d come for a walk with us, but she ought to phone her mum, because she’d told her she was getting the next bus to Stansfield.”
The words were tumbling out, now that she was telling someone what she had been keeping to herself since it had happened, and Tom had to listen carefully to catch it all.
“There’s a phone in the car. I just leave it there, because I never use it, but the Crawfords got it so that I could get help if I ever broke down or anything. And Kayleigh asked if she could use it—she said she’d look after Emma while I went back and got it. She wouldn’t have been able to find the car, you see, so I had to go myself, but I thought it would be all right, leaving her with Kayleigh.”
“And when you came back, they were gone?”
“Yes. The pram was where I’d left them, by the willow tree. And I looked round for them, but they were nowhere. I panicked—I screamed. But then when the policewoman asked if I’d seen anyone, I couldn’t tell her about Kayleigh. I didn’t want to get her into trouble, and anyway, I thought she would bring her back; I really did.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone once you realized she wasn’t going to bring her back?”
“I thought . . . she’s got to go home, and someone’s bound to bring Emma straight back. But . . . but no one brought her back, and I thought maybe Kayleigh hadn’t taken her home. But no one was looking for Kayleigh, either, or they’d have asked me, because I’m her best friend, and then I didn’t dare tell anyone, because I thought something must have happened to Emma, and . . .”
No names had been released in the murder inquiry; Andrea had had no way of knowing why Emma hadn’t been brought back, thought Tom. She must have been frantic with worry. He took her back with him to the station, telling the Crawfords they needed her to give them more details of her movements, and left her making a statement while he reported back to Superintendent McArthur, who nodded grimly.
“DCI Lloyd’s just found out that there was no baby. Kayleigh was pregnant, but she probably had a termination, or miscarried or something.”
“She’s Andrea’s best friend.” Tom shook his head. “If we’d only mentioned her name to the Crawfords—”
“We’d have got it all sorted out by three o’clock yesterday afternoon.” McArthur stood up and ushered Tom to the door, walking with him down the corridor. “Ironic, isn’t it? The one thing we didn’t want them to know was that Lloyd had a mystery baby, in case it raised their hopes. And they’d have known straightaway that it had to be Emma.”
“So what happens now, sir?”
“Well—Kayleigh’s being taken to Highgrove Street for an interview, and I’m on my way there now. I want you to make sure Andrea’s kept here until Emma’s safely with the Crawfords—I don’t want her telling them that Emma’s been found until we’ve definitely got her back. Then advise her that there might be charges, and make sure she goes back to the Crawfords’ place, even if she doesn’t want to—I don’t want to find myself looking for her next.” He stopped at the top of the staircase. “Lloyd’s on his way to Highgrove Street—he’s got Kayleigh’s sort-of stepfather with him in the hope that he can help, because apparently she hasn’t spoken at all so far.”
No wonder, Tom thought, thinking of her troubled background and what had greeted her when she got to the cottage. Which was, of course, where she had taken the baby in the end, as Andrea had thought. She must have known that she couldn’t keep her, unless . . .
“You don’t think she really believes it is her baby, do you, sir?”
McArthur raised his eyebrows. “Who knows? But Andrea’s statement will make the interview a whole lot simpler than it might have been, so it shouldn’t be too long before we can pack up the incident room.” He turned to go downstairs, then turned back, with a grin. “I think this almost makes up for the baby-in-the-river fiasco.”
Tom was never going to live that down.
Phil had followed Lloyd back into the hospital, to the intensive care ward, and waited in the corridor while Lloyd went in to talk to Waring. The next thing Phil knew, Lloyd had come out and walked straight past him, heading toward the exit. He supposed he should have followed him back out, but he had seen the tall, dark woman who had left Waring’s room with Lloyd, and heard her speak to the doctor. He was listening, not to what she was saying but to the rise and fall of her voice.
She turned to go back into the room, and Phil approached her a little diffidently; he felt as though he knew her really well, but she might not be of the same mind. “Excuse me. I—I think I recognize your voice. It is Theresa, isn’t it?”
She smiled. “Phil?”
She didn’t look the way he’d imagined her; he had seen her as smaller, slimmer—more like Lesley, he supposed—and he wondered what her mind had conjured up for him. He was probably a grave disappointment to her, but he liked the friendly, intelligent face he saw and very much hoped that he wasn’t.
They shook hands a little self-consciously.
“It’s hard to take it all in.” Phil wished he could have thought of something more original, rather than what had to be the lamest understatement of the day. He felt a little shy, now that he was face-to-face with her, and not for the first time wished that he were smoother, more self-possessed, or at least something more appealing than an unemployed accountant who had taken up smoking again. “Do the police have any idea what happened?” he aske
d.
“I don’t think so. And Ian can’t remember anything. I’m . . . I’m very sorry about Lesley.”
Yes. So was he. There wasn’t much he could say; he just nodded acknowledgment of her condolences.
“I’m just going back in to sit with Ian. He wants me to explain what happened.” She looked troubled. “And I can’t. I only know what I heard on the radio. I don’t even know how she died.”
Phil did. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to rid himself of the image of her in the mortuary.
“Mr. Roddam?” Chief Inspector Lloyd came along the corridor. “I’ve been looking for you. If you could come with me? We have to speak to Kayleigh, and I’d like you to be there.”
“Yes, of course.” Phil ducked his head a little shyly as a farewell to Theresa. “Maybe . . . ,” he said haltingly, “maybe we can meet for a drink or something?”
Theresa smiled. “Yes, I’d like that. You’ve got my mobile number, haven’t you?”
Well, he might not be smooth and the circumstances might be far from ideal, but he’d got a date, and he was looking forward to it.
On the way out of the hospital, Phil listened, disbelieving, as Lloyd told him what had been happening with Kayleigh.
“You . . . you think she stole this baby?”
“I think she must have.”
Phil made an involuntary sound, a cross between a sigh and a groan. “At least now she’ll get professional help,” he said.
Lloyd looked at him sharply. “Now? Has she a history of this sort of thing?”
“In a way. Lesley wouldn’t hear of taking her to a doctor—thought she could handle it on her own. Whenever there was a problem, she just moved away from it. You have no idea how many times we’ve moved house—Lesley had it down to a fine art. She’d do a recce at the new house, work out exactly what was going where, what we needed to take, what we could sell with the old house. It was like being in a traveling circus or something. But running away from the problem was never going to work—I knew something like this would happen in the end. I tried to tell her—I tried.”