Bye Bye Baby

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘No, I’m very sorry to say, but not for lack of effort. Anne disappeared as though she’d never existed, her mother was dead, and there were no other relatives that we could find. She never contacted anyone from the bakery. I kept her file open for two years, hoping I’d get a lead from somewhere, but she’d covered her tracks well. I retired in ‘77.’

  ‘You did everything you could by the sounds of things,’ Jack said. ‘If these murders are Anne’s work then at least you get to close that file now, Colin.’

  The older man nodded. ‘What a sad life she’s had.’

  Jack looked at Sarah. ‘You go through that file and pick out anything that we can work with. Colin, are you comfortable about DS Jones staying in touch with you?’

  ‘Anything to save me from touring with my inlaws,’ he offered, smiling at Sarah.

  ‘Good,’ Jack said. ‘I also want you working on that blue paint, Sarah. Use the database — see if there have been any incidents with blue paint previously.’ Her expression said it was unlikely but he persisted. ‘There’s a clue in there somewhere, even if she didn’t mean for it to be important to us.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Can I just check something on that?’ Sarah pushed her glasses back up her nose. ‘Colin, I don’t suppose there was any blue paint found at the scene that isn’t mentioned here on the list?’

  Moss frowned and shook his head.

  ‘I mean, I realise it was 1975, and I’m not having a go at the policework,’ Sarah went on, ‘I’m just wondering if you’re able to recall any cans of paint.’

  ‘Well, the pier was a sort of greeny blue, but I’d think it highly unlikely there were any cans of paint lying around.’

  ‘This is a very bright blue,’ Hawksworth said, pointing to the ghoulish photos behind them.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Moss said. ‘Then, no, definitely not. I walked the whole concert hall, looking for something that would give me answers to Anne’s abduction and her disappearance. Definitely no cans of paint, and no splotches or signs of that colour anywhere. What does it mean?’

  Jack looked to Sarah — it was her theory after all.

  She shrugged. ‘Well, the closest we can get to something of a macabre nature is that clowns are deeply suspicious of the colour — afraid of it, in fact. It signifies bad luck, death on stage — meaning their act bombs — but I reckon it could be even more sinister than that, as in death itself. That’s why we’re hoping to make a link between that and the blue paint on our victims. The fact that it’s smeared on their faces is significant, especially that it was applied by their own fingers.’

  ‘Like clown make-up,’ Colin finished.

  ‘Exactly,’ Sarah said. ‘Although it’s still only a theory.’

  ‘I’ll think on it, something might surface.’ He looked around at the other members of the team. ‘So, let me get this clear: you are now working on the supposition that Anne McEvoy has re-emerged to stalk and kill two of the boys, now men, who raped her?’

  Everyone bar Jack sat back and shared sheepish, awkward glances. There was a pause before the answer finally came. ‘Yes,’ Jack said.

  ‘And that she’s now likely hunting down the other two from this photo?’ Moss added, gesturing at the picture of the four grinning boys that was pinned to the board nearby.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that it’s plausible she would hold this grudge thirty years on?’

  Jack leaned forward, his fingers entwined on the table in front of him. ‘I’m going to leave that to the clinical psychologist we’re working with, but he thinks it’s plausible. And listening to your tale of what Anne McEvoy suffered, I’m of the belief that no woman forgives the slaughter of her child — if that’s what occurred. She’ll take that hate to the grave. And if these are the men that raped her and then attacked her again with the intention of killing the child they inflicted upon her, I don’t feel much pity for them.’

  Jack felt the atmosphere thicken around him. He knew he shouldn’t have revealed his feelings quite so openly.

  Moss stared at Hawksworth, betraying nothing of his own thoughts. ‘I heard you were one to move whole cases forward on gut instinct, DCI Hawksworth, but I’d caution that you may need some facts to back this one. Anne, if she’s alive, is forty-four.’

  ‘Have you checked into me?’ Jack said, his t one smooth.

  ‘Yes, I did. I don’t care to work with people I don’t know much about. You come with glowing praise.’

  There was a pause before Jack gave a twitch of a smile. He didn’t care much for being investigated but he also knew he needed to show respect to this stillsharp former policeman. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us about Anne?’ he said.

  Moss finished his coffee. ‘It was a long time ago and I probably spent little more than five minutes in her company. She’d been beaten up, she was frightened and angry, and silent. There’s very little else I can give you on her, other than she had long dark hair and her eyes were an intense blue.’

  ‘She sounds striking,’ Jack said.

  ‘No, not at all,’ Moss countered. ‘Apart from her eyes, Anne had the plainest of features and, although the word probably isn’t politically correct enough for New Scotland Yard these days, the girl was fat. She wore heavy glasses with thick lenses as I recall — they found them broken in one of her pockets, along with a little change and a door key when she was first picked up. We’ve presumed she stole the money for a taxi from the hospital to her house, discovered her dead mother — a drug overdose — and then she was gone. Vanished.’

  ‘What happened to everything?’ Cam asked.

  ‘The house, you mean?’

  Cam nodded.

  ‘You know, I don’t have the answer to that. The father — a local GP — and her younger brother were killed in an accident when Anne was very young. After her mother’s death, it all probably went to Anne.’

  ‘What a miserable life,’ Kate said.

  Moss nodded. ‘It’s why I always felt so badly about this case. We didn’t do enough for Anne. She’d already had a sad life, and our ineptitude in looking after her made it worse — apparently turned her into a killer.’

  Moss’s final words bit deep and Jack was reminded of his Super’s caution. He wondered if he should heed that warning now, stop himself taking too great a leap of faith.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Cam, why don’t you look into the house and family belongings? See if you can find out more.’

  ‘Right, Hawk.’

  ‘Well,’ Jack said, leaning back, ‘this has been valuable. Thank you, Colin, for all the information and especially for your time and being kind enough to come down to London. I’ll organise for you to be driven back now, if that’s okay? Bill’s offered to take you as he’s got an early morning meeting with Sussex Police over at Lewes.’

  Moss nodded. ‘Say hello to Lou Stanton from me,’ he said to Bill before returning his gaze to Jack. ‘It was my pleasure to help, DCI Hawskworth. If you find her, will you let me know?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jack said. ‘Although I have a feeling she’ll find us.’

  ‘If it is her,’ Moss cautioned again quietly.

  He and Bill departed after a round of handshakes and further thanks to Kate and Sarah, leaving the others to stare at the debris of their supper.

  ‘I think it’s her, sir,’ Kate reassured.

  ‘We’ve only got two bodies, a theory and a cold case to go on,’ he replied.

  Kate tried harder. ‘We have stains at the West Pier scene that the police file says were birthing fluids. We know Anne has very good reason for hating these men.’

  Jack sighed.

  ‘Sir, there are too many coincidences,’ Sarah persisted. ‘Moss is being cautious because that’s probably how he is in life.’

  ‘And I’m not?’ Jack asked, no accusation in his tone.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that, sir. I simply meant that

  you’re prepared to go out on a limb, which may save someone’s life bec
ause you don’t wait for all the answers. You make the bigger leaps.’

  Jack wondered which of his critics, or indeed his supporters, Sarah had been listening to. ‘And if we’re way off track, I could be as good as killing someone right now.’ He rubbed his face to rid himself of doubts and then sat up straight, arching his back. ‘What time is it anyway?’

  His watch told him it was nearing six-forty-five, and his instincts told him he should be worried about that for some reason.

  ‘Right, you’ve all put in a big day, so thanks, everyone. It will all still be waiting for you in the morning,’ he said.

  ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday, sir,’ Kate reminded.

  A phone began ringing.

  ‘Saturday? Blimey, I’m losing it,’ Jack admitted and stood, stretching again as Kate reached for the phone. ‘Cam, you’re working tonight, right?’

  Brodie nodded. ‘I’ll be here.’

  ‘Who’s on tomorrow?’

  ‘Me again, and Swamp’s in Brighton. Sarah’s in, I believe.’ Sarah nodded.

  ‘It’s your extension lighting up, sir,’ Kate called to Jack before answering. She paused, then said, ‘Yes, he’s here.’ She turned to Jack as the rest of the team began packing up for the night. ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘Who?’ he mouthed as he took the phone.

  ‘Someone called Sophie,’ she said sweetly. ‘She’s wondering if you’re planning on standing her up tonight.’

  ‘Oh bugger! It’s Friday!’ Jack said, wincing as he covered the phone. Everyone but Kate laughed.

  ‘Hot date?’ Cam asked.

  ‘Shit!’ Jack exclaimed again and realised he couldn’t move away from Kate’s desk. She packed up around him. ‘Hello,’ he said into the phone, awaiting a barrage of abuse.

  ‘Hi there. It’s quite cold out, you know, and if you don’t hurry I’m going to take this guy up on his offer to go clubbing. His name’s Andy and he smells and doesn’t seem to mind my wheelchair.’

  ‘Sophie, I’m so sorry,’ he groaned. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Where we arranged to meet fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘And where was that again?’

  He put a plea in his voice and noted Kate’s look of disdain as she reached beneath his arm for her bag. ‘Good night, sir,’ she said crisply, but all he could do was nod because Sophie was speaking again. Why did Kate look so angry?

  ‘I’m outside the Chinese restaurant you booked,’ Sophie said. ‘I don’t mind going to the theatre alone, Jack, but I refuse to sit at a table alone, especially if I don’t have a guarantee you’re on the way.’ Again her voice held only amusement.

  He couldn’t believe she was being so decent about this. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ he assured. ‘Give me twenty minutes. Please, go inside, order a drink — order one for me too — and some food. I’ll be there before the ice melts in your glass, I promise.’

  He heard her deep chuckle and liked her all the more for that laidback attitude. Any other woman, in his experience, would have been screeching at him by now.

  ‘You’re being fantastic about this, Sophie. I can explain, but thank you.’

  ‘I’m a doctor’s daughter; it’s in my blood to understand other people coming first,’ she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. ‘Hurry up!’

  22

  The vintage ‘63 MG pulled up outside an old terraced house in Rottingdean, just three miles from the Brighton city centre. Its driver nimbly jumped out, ran up the front steps and eased his door key into the lock. He smiled as a familiar aroma greeted him.

  ‘Helloooo. It’s me!’ he called.

  Clare Flynn emerged from the kitchen. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? I could have cooked for you.’

  He grinned again. His mother had lived in England since she was nine, but still had that hint of an Irish lilt to her voice. ‘I didn’t know I was coming, Mum, until I got off work early. And anyway, you always cook enough for an extra person.’ He kissed her, gave her a hug and the flowers he’d brought.

  ‘Oh, thank you, darling. Why do you spend your money on me and not that young woman of yours? I —’

  She couldn’t miss his wry expression as he cut across her words.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘In his shed. Where else would he be when I’m serving up dinner?’

  He sniffed. ‘What’s cooking?’

  ‘A lamb stew. We’re cleaning up from the weekend when your aunts and uncles were here. You should have been here too, Peter.’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘You were missed.’

  ‘I know. I told you, I had to do an installation at Burgess Hill. It was important, Mum, they’ll have understood. I’ll see them all next weekend at Michael’s christening anyway.’

  She touched his face affectionately. ‘When are you going to give me grandchildren, Peter?’ He grimaced and she knew when to stop. ‘Go wash your hands.’

  ‘Are you doing champ?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said over her shoulder.

  ‘Let me just say hello to Dad.’

  He walked through the familiar rooms of his childhood home and paused briefly to lift the lid of the pot on the stove and inhale the smell of onions mixed into the buttery mash. His mouth was already watering. He let himself out the back door.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yeah?’ came the muffled call. His father stepped out of the shed. ‘Peter! Are you staying for dinner, lad?’

  ‘Of course. What are you doing?’

  His father bent down to pick up some fishing tackle and Peter noticed how he winced as he straightened. He hated to think of either of his parents as getting old.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  His father sighed. ‘Oh, I’m just getting some stuff together. I thought I’d go fishing next weekend with Uncle Dougie, want to come?’

  ‘Sure, if I’m not working. You haven’t been fishing for years.’

  ‘No, but I’ve promised myself to start up again. I used to bring fish home for the table twice a week before you came along.’

  ‘You never told me that.’

  ‘Didn’t I? Well, I’ve only just realised how much I miss it. And life’s too short not to do the things that please us, son. Your mother can make fish pie for us.’

  Father and son grinned and both made lipsmacking noises.

  ‘Is she screaming at me for dinner yet?’

  Peter shook his head, feeling a fresh rush of affection for his parents. They talked about each other as though they were combatants sometimes, and yet couldn’t bear to be apart. ‘She told me to wash my hands. That’s usually the prelude to the scream.’

  ‘Pah! She knows I like to watch the news.’

  ‘Well, I’m here now, so you won’t get told off if you eat your dinner on your lap like a peasant.’

  It was an old family saying and his father laughed as they walked towards the house.

  ‘How’s business?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s why I’m here. I have some good news.’

  Garvan paused, stared at his boy. ‘The contract?’

  ‘Let me tell you both together.’

  ‘No, tell me now. I want to savour it myself.’

  Peter grinned. His father could be quirky at times. Another reason to love him. ‘I got the government account.’

  He thought for an instant that his father was going to weep but saw him rein back the tears.

  ‘Peter, that makes me very proud, son,’ he said, his voice trembling.

  He reached for his boy and pulled him close, hugging him hard. Peter’s dark brown hair wasn’t black like his father’s and his skin wasn’t as pale, but they had matching bright blue eyes. They were unmistakeably father and son.

  ‘Let’s have a drink,’ Garvan said. ‘We should have a toast.’

  Inside, Clare was ladling the stew into a big dish, the champ steaming on a plate, a well of melted butter in its centre. ‘Come on,’ she said, waving a hand in exasperation. ‘This’ll go cold. Now don’t say you want
to watch the news.’

  ‘Just the opening minutes, love, please.’

  Clare sighed. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll bring it into the lounge. Just go and sit down.’

  ‘I’ll help,’ Peter said, winking at his dad and wiping his newly rinsed hands on the kitchen towel. ‘You go, Dad, or you’ll miss the headlines.’

  His father smiled conspiratorially and disappeared into another room.

  ‘Your father gets a bee in his bonnet at times, I tell you.’ Clare began setting up trays so they could eat off their laps. ‘He’s obsessed with those murders.’

  ‘Which murders?’ Peter asked, fetching cutlery and napkins.

  She gave him a look of surprise. ‘You can’t be so busy you don’t know about the two murders?’ He frowned and she attempted to jog his memory. ‘The one in London. Then they discovered it was identical to the killing up north of some poor fellow.’

  ‘Oh, that — the murder in Lincoln, you mean?’ Clare nodded as she put their plates onto the trays. ‘Why is it so important to Dad, though?’

  ‘Search me. They’re saying it’s a serial killer.’

  ‘Two murders in two different counties gives us a serial killer?’ Peter scoffed, placing glasses on each tray. ‘Dad wants wine.’

  ‘Wine? You know what the doctor said.’

  ‘Mum, a glass of wine never hurt anyone and I’ve brought something special to go with your dinner.’

  ‘You and your fancy stuff. I don’t know where you get it from, son. We never had all this when you were growing up.’

  ‘No.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘But if you didn’t want me to enjoy the finer things in life, you shouldn’t have given me such a good education or pushed me so hard.’

  ‘Oh, go on with you. You were just clever. Take this to your father. Tell him to go ahead and eat like a peasant,’ she said, handing Peter a tray.

  He took it, noticing how she’d neatly folded the ordinary paper napkin on his father’s tray but not on his, or her own. For all their gentle bickering, he knew how much they loved each other and it made him feel safe.