by Louise Voss
He heard Sean walk through the house and into the kitchen, listened to the unmistakable sound of ice clinking in a glass, the rattling of bottles as Sean opened the fridge.
Patrick closed the door behind him and walked down the front path.
There was a stout woman standing on the other side of the wall, smoking a cigarette, a couple of supermarket carrier bags at her feet. It was Sean’s mother. She was wearing smartish clothes, the sort of clothes that Pat’s own mum wore – M&S or BHS or Next – but looked as though she would be more comfortable in a shell suit. What was her name? Eileen, that was it. Watching her smoke made him crave a real cigarette and he had to use all his willpower, and a couple of sucks on his e-fag, to stop himself from cadging one off her.
‘Mrs Philips?’
She scrutinised him. ‘You’re that detective.’
‘That’s me.’
‘Are you any closer to finding her yet?’ She coughed and took another drag, the wrinkles around her lips deepening.
He didn’t want to get her hopes up; there was still plenty of opportunity for this all to go wrong.
‘Not yet.’
The older woman frowned and dropped her cigarette, grinding it out with her toe. ‘Do you believe that people can be cursed, detective?’
He was taken aback by the question. ‘Cursed?’
‘Yes. Like a family, I mean. Cursed by bad luck. People might look at Sean’s nice house and think he’s been lucky. He came from nothing, you know. We were so poor you couldn’t imagine it. But he’s worked bleedin’ hard to get all this.’ She gestured around her. ‘And now look what’s happened. Poor little Frankie snatched by god knows who, Alice gone off the rails …’
Patrick wondered how much Eileen knew about what Alice had been up to, or if she knew about the arrest, and that Alice had chosen not to come home after the police had released her.
‘I don’t believe in curses, Mrs Philips. But I get how people can start to feel like that, that everything has gone wrong for them.’
Eileen picked up her shopping. ‘I’m wondering if anything’s ever going to go right.’
‘Hold on, before you go.’ Patrick produced his phone. ‘Can you take a look at this picture for me, see if you recognise the woman?’
She rolled her eyes like it was a terrible hardship. At first she glanced at the photo. Then she snapped her head back to look at it again. After that, she stared, her mouth open, her yellow teeth on full display.
‘Oh my word,’ she said, her voice deep with shock.
Patrick tried to contain his excitement. ‘You recognise her?’
Eileen Philips fumbled in her bag for another cigarette and lit it. Like her son five minutes before, her hands shook.
‘That’s Sean’s ex-wife.’
‘What?’
‘That’s Alice’s mum.’
‘Are you alright, Mrs Philips?’
The older woman grimaced. ‘I need to sit down. When was that picture taken?’
‘Last week.’
‘In … in London?’
‘Yes. Very close to here.’
She shuddered. ‘And you think she’s got something to do with Frankie’s disappearance?’
Patrick was itching to get back inside to talk to Sean. Why had he lied about recognising the woman? But he wanted to get as much out of Eileen as he could. He was holding a box full of family secrets here, and in her shock Eileen was allowing him a glimpse inside. He needed to take a proper look before the woman became guarded and slammed the lid shut.
‘I thought Sean’s first wife died when Alice was three,’ Patrick said. It suddenly occurred to him that this was the same age as Frankie was now.
Eileen puffed on her cigarette. The way her mouth puckered made him glad he’d quit.
‘That’s what he told Alice. He didn’t want her to know her mum had run off and abandoned her.’
Patrick studied her as she took a magazine out of one of her shopping bags and fanned herself with it. She was lying about something. But before he could quiz her further, she said, ‘I really do need to sit down. And I think you should talk to Sean about this. Oh my Lord, he’s going to … I don’t know how he’s going to react when he finds out Penny is …’ She trailed off.
‘That’s her name?’
She nodded.
‘Let’s go inside,’ he said.
Eileen used her key to unlock the door. The house was silent, the TV turned off. Patrick stuck his head in the kitchen but it was empty, a half-drunk bottle of vodka on the worktop.
‘Sean?’ Eileen called. There was no reply.
Patrick checked the living room and dining room. A feeling of unease slid into his veins, the same kind of sick tingle he’d felt that day he’d come home and found Gill sitting on the stairs.
‘Sean?’ he called. Again, there was no answer. ‘He was here just now – wait here,’ he commanded Eileen.
He jogged up the stairs. The first room was Frankie’s. He walked straight past it and knocked on the door of the master bedroom before pushing it open. No one there. He called Sean’s name again. Had he slipped out the back door while Patrick was talking to Eileen? He checked the bathroom, then the office and Alice’s room. All empty.
One more room to check. Frankie’s. Patrick went inside.
‘No!’
Sean Philips was hanging from the light fitting, his belt tied around his neck. His feet swung a couple of inches above his daughter’s little bed.
Patrick jumped onto the bed, threw his arms around Sean and hefted him up, grunting with exertion. But it was impossible to reach the belt while holding Sean, who was hanging limp. Patrick let go and reached up with both hands to detach the belt from the light fitting. Sean’s body dropped and landed with his lower half on the bed, his head and shoulders on the floor. He wasn’t breathing. Patrick knelt beside the body just as Eileen entered the room, saw her son and started screaming.
Fifteen minutes later, after a futile attempt at CPR, with Eileen’s screams drilling into his skull as he tried to bring her son back to life, Patrick had managed to get Eileen out of the room and onto the sofa, where she sat staring into space. Patrick called the station and told them what had happened.
Sean Philips had lied about recognising his ex-wife, then immediately hanged himself. What was he hiding? Was he somehow involved in Frankie’s disappearance? Patrick had looked around the house but there was no sign of a suicide note. No explanation other than the one that turned Patrick’s insides to ice. That seeing the picture of his ex-wife on Patrick’s phone had pushed Sean over the edge.
Patrick needed to talk to Eileen more, and he also had to urgently find out where Helen was.
He went back into the living room. Eileen was in deep shock. He sat down opposite her and reached out a hand. She looked catatonic, barely breathing. She held her cigarettes in her hand, as if she intended to light one but was frozen. For a moment Patrick was afraid she might have had a stroke. She was in no fit state to talk now.
Do you believe that people can be cursed?
Frustration gnawed at his insides. He now knew who had taken Frankie, but not if the little girl was alive or dead, or why Sean’s ex-wife, Penny, had done it. Where the hell were they?
Too many questions. Did Helen know the truth, that she wasn’t really dead? Was it only Alice who had been kept in the dark?
He needed to talk to Helen urgently. For one thing, she needed to know what had happened here. But he also had a feeling she held a vital piece of the puzzle.
He heard cars pull up outside, the slamming of doors, heavy footsteps coming towards the house. Soon, this house of horror would be sealed off for the second time in a week, and Sean’s body would be taken away.
Where was Helen? He was about to try to call her again when it struck him. Sean had said Helen sat on Facebook all day, that it was the last thing he’d seen her do last night. Helen had told Winkler last week that a woman had been in touch with her saying she knew where Fr
ankie was, but Patrick had dismissed it out of hand, assumed it was a troll.
What if it hadn’t been a troll?
A fresh wave of nausea hit him. He knew who he needed to talk to.
Chapter 42
Patrick – Day 7
‘Where’s Winkler?’
Carmella looked up from her computer. ‘Patrick! I’ve just heard about Sean Philips …’
‘Later. I need to talk to Winkler right now.’
She cupped her mouth with her hand and yelled out. ‘Hey – anyone seen Fonzie?’
Patrick suppressed a smile. He’d forgotten that was Winkler’s nickname, one which wasn’t meant affectionately. One of the PCs at the other end of the room called back, ‘I think he went to the gym.’
‘Of course he bloody has,’ Patrick hissed. He stamped across to Winkler’s desk and sat down. It was the most clutter-free desk he’d ever seen, not a scrap of loose paper, no science experiments in mugs like on Patrick’s own desk. Anyone would think Winkler never did any work. The computer was locked and Patrick started typing in random password guesses:
ilovemyself
happydays
winkler
None of them worked. He started to type in another when a familiar voice said, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
It was Winkler, his thick hair still damp from the shower, his skin gleaming with sweat, biceps bulging.
‘You’ve got access to Helen Philips’ Facebook account. I need to take a look at it, now.’
Winkler’s eyes twinkled. ‘Uh-uh. I don’t think I should do that.’
‘Why the hell not?’ Patrick felt hot and prickly; he could actually picture his temper fraying.
‘It’s private, isn’t it? Besides, there’s nothing else useful on there. I’ve been through it all.’
Patrick took a deep breath. ‘When was the last time you checked it?’
Winkler shrugged. ‘Dunno. A couple of days ago. All she’s done is like dozens of posts on the “Find Frankie Philips” pages.’
‘She was on it last night. Sean told me. I need to take a look – now.’
Winkler waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’ll check it out later.’
That was it. Patrick saw a flash of red and, barely knowing what he was doing, grabbed the front of Winkler’s shirt with both fists, two buttons popping as he yanked him forward so their noses were almost touching.
‘Give me the log-in,’ Patrick said in a low voice.
Winkler brought his hands up and apart, breaking Patrick’s grip. ‘You arsehole. This is a fucking Ralph Lauren shirt …’
Patrick threw himself at the other man, catching Winkler off balance so they both tumbled to the floor. Patrick rolled on top and grabbed Winkler’s shirtfront again, getting a fistful of chest hair.
Winkler cried out and brought his knees up fast, connecting with Patrick’s thigh. Patrick loosened his grip and Winkler pulled away, getting up into a crouching position and aiming a punch at Patrick’s ear. Pain seared across his head but he was able to block the second punch, balling his own fists, ready to throw a punch of his own.
He felt hands on his upper arms, pulling him backwards, shouts, Carmella whispering to him, though he couldn’t hear what she was saying through the roar in his ears. Two other cops had grabbed Winkler and were pulling him off.
‘What the hell?’
It was Suzanne. From Patrick’s place on the floor she appeared eight feet tall.
‘Get up. Both of you.’
Patrick slowly pushed himself to his feet, panting, and Winkler did the same. With one hand, Winkler held his gaping shirt together; with the other he jabbed a finger towards Patrick.
‘This dick attacked me.’
Patrick counted to five in his head. He wasn’t going to sink to the level of a schoolboy. But he felt like one when Suzanne snapped, ‘Both of you. In my office, now.’
As soon as the door shut behind them, Suzanne demanded, ‘What the hell was going on out there?’
Winkler said in a loud voice, ‘Lennon went for me, ma’am. He grabbed me, pushed me to the floor, attacked a fellow …’
‘Why?’ she interrupted.
Taken aback, Winkler said, ‘Huh?’
‘Why did he do that? I am guessing he had a very good reason.’
Winkler’s expression shifted. ‘Oh, I see. Taking the side of your boyfriend. I should have fucking known.’
‘Shut up,’ Suzanne shouted. ‘I am sick of listening to you.’
Winkler looked like a dog who’d been told off for trying to steal its master’s dinner.
‘Patrick, tell me what happened.’
He explained, as calmly and evenly as he could manage, about Winkler’s refusal to hand over the log-in to Helen’s Facebook account.
‘Give it to him,’ she ordered Winkler, who sighed and huffed before finally scribbling it down on a piece of paper and holding it out so Patrick could take it without the two men having to look at each other.
‘This,’ Suzanne said, gesturing to the two of them, ‘is to be continued. I can’t have two colleagues on the MIT acting like bloody Tom and Jerry. But right now, there are more important things to concentrate on. Adrian, go home, change your shirt, then get back here. Patrick, sit down.’
Winkler left the room, grumbling to himself.
As soon as he’d left, Patrick said, ‘Which one am I?’
‘What?’
‘Tom or Jerry?’
She didn’t smile, so he quickly rearranged his own face.
‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a look at this Facebook account.’
Patrick went behind her desk and brought up the Facebook site, typing in the email and password Winkler had given him. He found himself on Helen’s wall. He quickly scrolled up and down but couldn’t see anything interesting. As Winkler had said, she had done nothing but like and share posts about Frankie in the past few days.
Then he went to her inbox and read her most recent messages, Suzanne reading over his shoulder.
‘Oh my god,’ she breathed in his ear.
They stared at each other and Suzanne said, ‘Go. Now.’
Chapter 43
Jerome – Day 7
Jerome had the new Chase and Status album turned down low on the car stereo, not wanting to draw attention to himself, not wanting to hurt Rihanna’s sensitive ears either. He turned and looked at the dog, sleeping like a baby on the backseat. She’d been all sensitive and twitchy since yesterday, after ripping that little bitch’s face off. If Georgia survived – and Jerome needed to keep an eye on that situation, though he was pretty damn sure she wouldn’t dare rat on him – she had better get used to doing it doggy style, because no guy was going to want to look at that wreckage of a face while he was banging her.
Last night, soon as he’d got home, he’d called up his boy Snowglobe – named because he had the worst case of dandruff in TW11 – and instructed him to put the word out that he was looking for a VW Camper Van with the registration number that could clearly be seen in the photo Georgia had taken.
‘A VW Camper?’ Snowglobe said. ‘That’s like that fucking thing that Benny had on the front of his T-shirt?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Nice. What, is it like a mobile meth lab or something?’
‘Just put the word out to everybody. This is priority one, you get me? Five hundred to the person who spots it and reports back. But I don’t want no one going near it, alright?’
He thought it might take days for someone to spot the van, but he got lucky. This morning he’d got the call. Some muppet mate of Snowglobe’s called Niall had spent the night in Richmond Park with some piece of ass who was well into outdoor sex. As Niall had staggered off into the morning light at the crack of dawn he’d spotted the camper. It took the twat three hours to get round to reporting back, which meant his reward was going to be halved, but what the fuck. Jerome had a sighting – it was outside the Grant’s Hotel by the park gates – and he was
on his way to check it out.
£100k. What would he spend the money on? He had his eye on a black Jeep that he saw most mornings when he was walking RiRi. Or he could take the boys to Ibiza for a few months, live it large, fuck some models and shit.
Except he wasn’t going to blow it. Guys like Snowglobe would do that, spend the lot on beer and trainers. Jerome was smarter than that. This £100k was going to be seed capital for his new venture. £100k could buy a lot of drugs, enough product to get Jerome properly into the game. Fuck messing around with a bunch of kids, the smalltime weed-dealing he’d been planning. Even before Georgia told him about the reward he’d decided against using Larry and the other posh kids; they were too much of a liability, although the posh-kid market was highly lucrative. He could make a fortune selling skunk and coke to the middle-class schoolkids of TW9. He could turn £100k into £500k easy. And then …
‘This time next year, RiRi,’ he said, ‘we’ll be millionaires.’
The dog groaned.
Jerome pulled up on the edge of the car park and looked up at the hotel. This place was alright, but when he was a millionaire he’d have a suite at the motherfucking Savoy.
There was the VW camper, right in the corner of the car park. He said, ‘Wait here, alright,’ to Rihanna and strode over to the van, weaving between the Beamers and Mercs and Audis – a lot of fucking Audis – and finally approaching the camper cautiously. The curtains were drawn across the back windows and the front cabin was empty. He peered around. There was a guy out front of the hotel lobby but his view of Jerome was blocked by the van. No one else around. He pressed his face against the glass and tried to peek behind the curtains but couldn’t see a thing. He tried the door, just in case the crazy bitch had accidentally left it open – which happened a lot in his experience – but it was locked up tighter than a nun’s pussy.
Was the kid in the camper now? He tried to think what he’d do if he’d snatched a little kid, which was not the kind of thing he’d ever do, no way. Though if it came down to it today, snatching this brat from the crazy kidnapper woman might be necessary. He had a pleasing vision of himself as a one-man liberating army, storming the hotel in a Call of Duty stylee, grabbing the kid and busting out of there, straight to the police station where he would collect his one hundred K and be a hero, all those feds standing slack-jawed and stunned that Jerome Smith had done what none of those lame motherfuckers could manage.