My leg felt stiff. I gave it a shake.
He turned, still in a crouch.
I slipped my shoe back on. "You need a hand?"
"I'm more than capable of standing up," he said.
I watched as he eased himself painfully to his feet.
"Is that all?" I asked.
"No," he said. "The Wilson case. Sergeant Dutton claims there was a mix-up and the right information didn't get through to you. That so?"
"No," I said. "It very much isn't."
"He was fucking with you, I know that," my uncle said. "And while you may be a fanny now and then, it doesn't mean Dutton should get to slip you a length."
He had a way with words, my uncle.
"Thanks," I said. This kind of support was most unexpected. He was usually harder on me than anyone else. Just in case there were any cries of favouritism.
"I've sent DS Dutton home as well." He cleared his throat. "But I don't want to lose him. I promised I wouldn't say anything, but there's something you should know."
"Tell me," I said.
"His wife left him."
I felt myself smile. I said, "I'm sorry to hear that," but I knew I didn't sound like I meant it.
"Don't be a shite, sunshine. Look, I don't want to lose Dutton. Any more than I want to lose Erica. They're good cops."
"One of them is."
"I'll be the judge of that. My job, not yours."
I nodded. "What's Erica saying?"
"She says Dutton could be right," he said. "There was a bit of a mix-up."
That was unexpected too.
"She wasn't so sure at first but I convinced her after a while, " he said. He stretched, pulled a face. "Do you think I can convince you?"
"I doubt it."
"Bad reception, maybe? And you missed hearing about the kid having died seven years ago?"
"I don't think so."
"It's a possibility, though?"
"No."
"Pity. Cause if that were the case," he said, "then we could resolve this situation fairly easily. You don't want Erica to lose her job, do you?"
"She struck a superior officer. Not much I can do about that."
"She's apologised. Dutton's accepted. We'll find a way back for her."
"And Dutton gets off the hook for wasting police time?"
"With a warning," my uncle said. "The threat of demotion. And if he fucks with you again, I'll punch him myself."
"Okay." I nodded. "That seems fair."
"Super."
"Is that it?" I asked.
"Just one more thing. It's your Aunt Sarah's birthday next week. Any idea what I could get the old bag?" He stretched, winced. "Nothing too expensive."
13.
That evening, I was at the kitchen table with Holly, topping up her glass of expensive French white. We were having a late dinner, which I'd cooked. When I say 'cooked', the truth is I'd stuck two packets of pre-prepared chicken tikka in the oven and boiled some extra rice. Tasted pretty good, anyway. The boys had eaten earlier with their friends and were out playing football.
Holly and I had the house to ourselves for a while.
I'd just finished telling her about Bruce Wilson and his crazy mum. About Dutton. About how he'd made me feel. I'd hoped Holly might be sympathetic.
But she just gave me a blank stare. Hazel eyes. Caramel skin, which the boys had inherited from her. My family all tanned. I burned.
She took a sip of her wine, licked her lips.
I was sticking with beer. Wine and curry didn't work for me.
Holly said, "Is Erica going to lose her job?"
The reason I hadn't worked a case with Erica for a while was because we had some history between us. Me, Erica and Holly, that is. The three of us had slept together. First time was when Holly suggested a threesome one drunken night, and Erica said okay, it'd be a giggle. No need to ask what I said. But I can't say I'd enjoyed it much. It wasn't much fun being ignored.
Those two were right into it, though.
Second time, they slept together without me. Didn't ask or let me know.
I don't think Holly would have said anything about it if she hadn't got drunk and angry one night. She gave me more details than I needed. I'd never said anything to Erica but I could tell that she knew I knew. Holly must have told her.
Sex had never been the same between me and Holly since. In fact, these days we hardly slept together. And when we did, half the time she fell asleep part-way through. The other half of the time, I did.
"You like to go to bed with her again?" I said.
"Oh, for crying out loud." She leaned her head back, her eyes squeezed shut.
"I'm only asking."
Her head snapped forward, eyes open, shining. "Why won't you shut up about it?"
"I don't know," I said. I didn't.
"Just let it rest," Holly said. "I've said sorry till I'm hoarse. What more do you want from me?"
I reached across the table and took hold of her hand.
"Would you like to sleep with her again?" I asked. "Answer me."
"Would you?" She pulled her hand away.
THURSDAY
14.
Mrs Wilson's shrink was called Dr Snow. She greeted me at the door to her office with a walking stick and a cute smile. Twenty years younger and I'd have said she was flirting with me. Maybe she was.
She limped over to one of the two chairs in front of her desk. "Please," she said, pointing with her walking stick.
I took the free seat.
"Thanks for coming." She swept her stringy grey hair out of her eyes. "It's kind of you." She smoothed her skirt.
"Wasn't my decision to make," I said. "But I admit I'm curious."
"Indeed, Mrs Wilson's is a curious case." She smiled again, the skin around her eyes creasing. "She called me this morning in a terrible state."
"Bruce not returned?" I grinned but Dr Snow didn't grin back.
"You know, officer, that Bruce has gone missing before?"
"Twice," I said. Oh, yeah. I'd been told all about it.
"And you know he turned up after a couple of days?"
I nodded. The information had been there at Dutton's fingertips. He knew Mrs Wilson was a nutjob. All he'd done was send around a couple of uniforms to pacify her and then when I'd walked past his desk, he'd decided to have some fun at my expense.
I doubt he thought it would get as far as it did, though. Never expected he'd get to make such a monumental fool out of me.
"This time it's different," Dr Snow said. "There's been a development."
I waited, wondering what was coming. My uncle had just told me to get over here pronto, that the shrink would provide the details. And that I was to report to him afterwards.
"Mrs Wilson has received a demand for money." Dr Snow paused. "Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, to be precise."
"Oh, that's beautiful," I said. The crazy woman had written herself a ransom note. "She's let her imagination run riot."
"Well, I think it's a natural progression. And if you think about it, it's not a bad thing."
"How can that be?" I asked. "She's getting worse, surely."
"On the surface, that's how it might look. But I think it might be her way of finally letting go." The shrink leaned towards me as if she was going to tell me a secret. She even lowered her voice. "I believe she's tried before." Her breath smelled of strawberries. "The previous disappearances of her son were an attempt to let go of the illusion that he was still alive. But it was too easy for him to come back. Maybe it's necessary for her to add a kidnapping and ransom demand. Maybe if she doesn't pay it, something happens to Bruce and …" She spread her fingers.
"And this time he doesn't come back?" I asked.
She nodded, sat upright.
"I can appreciate all this," I said. "But why did you want to speak to me?"
"It's important that Mrs Wilson follows this through. She mentioned your colleague, DC Mason."
"Erica, yes."
"And you did and he sent me along," I said. "I'm second best, then."
"We have to use what we're given." She smiled again. "He spoke very highly of you."
"That's because he's my uncle."
She started to laugh.
"Honestly," I said. "He is. And he has to say nice things about me or my mum gets angry."
"Quite," she said. "But joking aside, none of us want Mrs Wilson to pay the ransom."
"Can she afford to?"
"She's a wealthy woman. Her husband was a partner in a major law firm. And he had some nice investments. When he died, he left her quite a bit. The house was paid off. And there was insurance money. I've no doubt Mrs Wilson could pay the ransom several times over."
"I'm a cop, Dr Snow," I said. "And I'm not sure this is police work."
"Despite what your uncle says?"
I nodded. "I solve crimes. That's my job."
"Then at least check it out," Dr Snow said.
"But there's no crime."
"Mrs Wilson says she has a ransom note. Is it not a crime to demand money from someone?"
"We know she wrote it herself."
"Do we?" Dr Snow asked.
"If she didn't, then who did?"
Dr Snow smiled. "Like I said, you should at least check it out."
15.
Fifteen minutes later I was in Mrs Wilson's sitting room.
"Can I see the ransom note?" I asked her.
"No."
Her response surprised me. She'd seemed pleased to see me when she answered the door. She looked older, the tension in her face more obvious. The twitch in her eye was regular now, every few seconds.
"It's evidence, Mrs Wilson." I dug in my pocket, took out my notebook. "I need to see it."
"You can't." She looked through the bay windows at the empty street outside. "I destroyed it."
I couldn't control myself. I said, "For God's sake."
She turned her attention away from the peaceful scene outside. Placed her right hand on her left shoulder and squeezed as if the muscle was sore.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"He told me to."
"Who did?" I asked.
"The man who took Bruce."
"Mrs Wilson, are you sure there was a note?"
She put her hands on her head and pressed down. She rocked backwards and forwards a few times. "It was on a sheet of A4," she said. "Folded in three. The words were made out of letters cut out of magazines. Or newspapers."
Just like the movies. These days, most ransom notes were typed up and printed. But Mrs Wilson wasn't to know that.
"How did you destroy it?" I asked.
She lowered her hands. Crossed her arms. "Set fire to it."
"Where?"
"I burned it in the sink," she said. "Then I washed the ashes away."
"So there's no trace of it?"
"None."
I said, "Do you mind if I sit down?"
She shook her head, sat down in the armchair and crossed her ankles. I sat opposite. She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward.
I didn't know where to go with this. "Can you tell me anything about the ransom note?"
"The envelope was white," she said. "There was no name, no address, no postmark. He must have popped it in the letterbox."
"This morning?"
"Maybe last night. I don't know."
"What time did you go to bed?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said again. "I was out late, looking for Bruce. It wasn't here then. I had a couple of drinks after that." She shrugged. "Only way I can get to sleep."
"Do you still have the envelope?"
She shook her head. "I thought I should burn it too."
"Pity," I said. "What did the note say? Do you remember?"
"Every word."
"Slowly, if you don't mind."
I noted down the words as she spoke them:
Mrs Wilson,
Sorry about this but I need the money.
250 grand in cash by Friday night.
Deliver the money and I will deliver your son.
I'll tell you where.
Burn this letter after you've read it.
"That's it?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Word for word?"
"Yes. I knew I was going to have to destroy it so I memorised it."
"He didn't use Bruce's name?"
She shook her head.
That was interesting. And authentic. Most kidnappers didn't refer to the victim by name.
"And there was no warning about you contacting the police?" I asked.
"Nothing," she said. "Otherwise I wouldn't have allowed Dr Snow to call you."
Unusual. Most ransom notes, even if they didn't mention the police specifically, said to tell no one. It would have seemed like an oversight for Mrs Wilson to leave that out, but there must be some point to it in her mind. She must have wanted Dr Snow to get in touch with us. Could be the shrink was right and Mrs Wilson was looking for help to accept her son's death.
"When I spoke to Dr Snow," I said, "she had the feeling you were going to pay up."
"Of course. I've contacted the bank. I'm picking up the money tomorrow."
"They were okay with that?"
"I spoke to the manager. Told him it was a family emergency."
"Still, I'm surprised."
"He wasn't keen," she said. "Told me it couldn't be done. But I'm a good customer. I let him know that he didn't want to upset me or I'd withdraw all my money and deposit it elsewhere. His attitude changed. Suddenly he couldn't be more helpful."
Yeah, losing an account like Mrs Wilson's in the current financial climate would be more than his job was worth. "I'd advise you against paying up," I said.
"You can't stop me."
"That's right," I said. "If you want to give your money away, that's up to you."
"It doesn't matter to me." She got to her feet. "I want my son back, whatever the cost."
"Okay," I said. "I know you do."
I could have used Erica's help right now. It was unfair of my uncle to send me here on my own. What made him think I was capable of dealing with crazy people, I don't know. I found sane people hard enough.
"I know what you're thinking," Mrs Wilson said.
I doubted it. "What's that?"
"What if I pay the ransom and Bruce still doesn't come back?"
"That's a strong possibility," I said. It really did sound as if she was trying to find a way to get rid of him.
"It's a chance I have to take."
What annoyed me was that she'd probably go and deliver the money to a random spot in the middle of nowhere and some passing tramp would pick it up. Screw that. If she was determined to give her money away, there were other people who could use it. Me, for instance.
Oh, it crossed my mind, I admit it. But only for a second or two.
But then it crossed my mind that it might have crossed someone else's mind too.
As Dr Snow had said, supposing a ransom note existed, we didn't know that Mrs Wilson had written it herself. Why go to the bother of writing a note and then burning it?
God, this was a mess.
If Mrs Wilson was determined to hand over her cash, there was only one way I could think of to keep her and her money from parting for good.
"Mrs Wilson," I said. "When you're told where to deliver the money, let me know. Could be dangerous. I'll deliver it for you."
"That's very kind," she said. "But I've already had an offer."
16.
"What can I do for you, officer?" Les Green asked.
I liked to think I kept an open mind, but I'd already decided Mrs Wilson's boyfriend was an utter scumbag before I met him.
He looked harmless enough. An inch or two over six feet, friendly smile, relaxed. He had strange hands, though. I noticed when he held one out for me to shake. His fingers were crooked, as if they'
d been broken and not re-set. As if someone had given his hands a few hard smacks with a hammer.
Not the sort of hands you'd expect a photographer to have.
Mrs Wilson had given me his address and enough background information to explain why she was sending me to an artist's studio in Stockbridge.
They'd made up last night, she'd said. Their relationship was back on.
Les Green's studio was the end one of five. It was a small space, and it looked even smaller because of the clutter. The walls were covered in framed photographs. Mainly portraits. There was one of Mrs Wilson, looking lost.
The studio floor was carpeted in an industrial grey. There were a couple of big lights on tripods and a black umbrella thing and a reflector disc. A wide strip of white material ran down from a ten-foot-high board and draped across the floor for another ten feet or so. Various cameras and lenses lay about the place. A dozen empty frames leaned against the wall and magazines littered the floor.
I tightened my grip on Les's hand. "What do you call that big white sheet?" I asked.
"An infinity backdrop." He tried to pull his hand away. "It blends the foreground and the background. Makes it seem as if the subject is standing in space."
"Interesting. And is this your job or your hobby?" I already knew the answer. Mrs Wilson had told me. But Les didn't know that.
I squeezed his fingers.
His expression didn't change. "I worked for the local rag for a few years," he said. "Got laid off a couple of months back. Decided to take some time out. Work on my own projects. Wanted to see what I could do if I had a bit of time."
I let go of his hand.
He held his hands out, fanned his fingers. Each one was twisted to the side, or backwards, at the tip or middle joint. Freaky as hell.
"You'd need to squeeze a lot harder," he said, "if you want to hurt me."
"Why would I want to hurt you?"
"I was wondering the same thing."
I stared at him for a bit, then said "Listen, I don't mean to be rude. But, your fingers. Is that some kind of bone condition?"
He laughed. "Playing cricket. I used to be a wicket keeper."
"You must have been pretty bad."
Bye Bye Baby Page 3