Child's Play

by Maureen Carter

  ‘Mrs Reynolds, are—’

  ‘Sorry. I’m still here, Lauren.’ And miles away. She glanced towards the bay window, caught her reflection in the glass. The frazzled features were nothing new but were the lines on her face deeper? Don’t be so bloody melodramatic, woman. That was the trouble with an overactive imagination. Not the only one, given some of the scenarios running through her mind.

  ‘Millie might know something,’ Lauren suggested. ‘Have you had a word with her? I’ve got a number if—’

  ‘No, she doesn’t. I’ve tried.’ And Charlie and Liz. Caitlin’s best friend Millie had been top of the list. She’d not even been in school today, flu or something. The other two had stayed behind for chess club and said they’d seen Caitlin around four o’clock packing books into her school bag.

  ‘What about Chloe?’

  Nicola suppressed an impatient sigh. And Uncle Tom Cobbly. The grandfather clock in the hall started chiming the hour. As if she needed a reminder.

  ‘No one knows anything, Lauren.’ She’d even phoned Caitlin’s granny over in Small Heath, hoped the call hadn’t worried her too much. ‘Tell me, love, is Luke back on the scene? I’ll not give her a hard time again.’ Caitlin had kept the fledgling romance a secret until she’d been casually dumped and needed a mum’s shoulder to cry on.

  ‘Not as far as I know, Mrs Reynolds. Could you hold on a minute, please?’ The girl had used a similar expression before. Significant? Nicola had no idea, nor had anyone else she’d spoken to: the clueless state must be catching. She heard muffled voices, a snatch of telly then Lauren was back. ‘I’m really sorry but Mum says dinner’s on the table.’

  ‘No worries, love. But, hey, if you hear anything?’

  No worries? Was she out of her mind? Nicola raked both hands through light brown shoulder-length hair before resting them briefly on top of her head. What now, for crying out loud? A message alert beeped on her mobile. Thank God. She scrabbled in her coat pocket but cursed under her breath when she saw a workmate’s name. She double checked her messages: still nothing. No response either from the two voicemails she’d left on Caitlin’s iPhone: the fact it was switched off was alarming enough in itself. She bit her lip. What about the police? Was it too early to call?

  Yes. Better to hang fire an hour or so. She strode to the front door, scanned both sides of the tree-lined street: Edwardian villas, satellite dishes, shiny cars. She liked Moseley, reckoned if you had to live in Birmingham … Stepping further out, Nicola stood in the middle of the pavement, willing Caitlin to appear, longed to see her familiar figure heading home, sheepish smile on her lovely face. Tall and shapely with long dark hair, Caitlin was a knockout, could easily pass for eighteen, nineteen.

  The young mother who lived across the road flashed a smile as she drew the curtains. Nicola managed a token wave, her focus elsewhere. She and Caitlin were close – occasionally it crossed Nicola’s mind they were too close. Hardly surprising given the girl had never known her dad. Brian had passed away before Caitlin even drew breath. Until relatively recently, it had been just the two of them. And though Nicola had been seeing Neil for a while now, neither was in an all-fired rush to live together. It would be time enough when Caitlin left for college.

  Nicola screamed when something cold touched the back of her leg.

  ‘Sorry ’bout that, missus. He’s a bit too friendly for his own good sometimes. Come here, Frodo. There’s a good lad.’

  She glared at the portly middle-aged man struggling to control a chocolate Labrador that was still trying to get pally with her thigh. The man’s name was Ronald. Ronald Gibson if she remembered right; he lived a few doors down the street and was nosy with a capital N. She gave a thin smile before stepping aside. His corresponding manoeuvre – and the dog’s – mirrored hers three or four times and they ended up in some sort of weird Excuse Me street dance.

  ‘By ’eck, love.’ Gibson’s beam showcased a dental graveyard of sepia tombstones. ‘They’ll have us on Strictly next.’ Tapping the brow of his trilby, he made to move off. ‘By the way, how’s that lovely girl of yours?’

  Innocent enough remark, so why were her hackles rising? ‘Fine. Why?’

  ‘Just wondered why she wasn’t at school today.’

  ‘Sorry?’ She felt a trickle of ice down her spine.

  ‘Oops. I don’t want to get her into Mum’s bad books or anything, but I saw her with some chap down the—’

  ‘Hang on there one minute, will you?’ A phone was ringing inside the house. She was already halfway to the door, a desperate mantra on a mental loop: don’t hang up, don’t hang up, don’t hang up. ‘Caitlin?’ Her gasping breath must be God’s way of telling her to stop smoking. ‘Is that—?’

  ‘This call is urgent. Within the last six months, have you been sold …’ Tinny voice, taped message.

  ‘Get lost, damn you!’ she screamed, slammed down the receiver, took a deep, calming breath, lost in thought for several seconds, until: ‘Gibson. Bugger.’

  The old boy had gone, but Frodo’s faecal legacy lay steaming on the pavement. Gibson’s sly innuendo rang in her ears. Had Caitlin wagged off school? And was she still messing around with that loser? If so, the minute she got home she’d find herself in the doo-doo, up to the neck in it.

  Anger now mixed with concern, Nicola slung her coat on a hook in the hall and headed for the drinks’ trolley. She’d earned a stiff one, poured a generous measure of Gordon’s into a glass and ferried it through to the kitchen. It was when she stooped to tackle the first couple of shopping bags that she noticed it. A white envelope slipped under the back door. She frowned, would have sworn it hadn’t been there earlier. She stood to open it, found a photograph and a message. Nicola almost fainted, felt her legs give way. No, it wasn’t too early to call the police. In fact, with every fibre of her being, she prayed it wasn’t too late.

  THREE

  Caitlin had stopped crying hours ago. At least she guessed it was hours: keeping track of time was difficult, counting away the seconds only possible when conscious. Her water must have been spiked because she’d never have fallen asleep willingly. She blinked then winced when the blindfold scratched her eyes again. She had only the vaguest idea how she’d got here; no idea where ‘here’ was. Nor, more pressing, how she’d get out. Not with her ankles lashed to wooden chair legs, the tight white cable cutting into her flesh. More cable bound her wrists at the small of her back. She’d stopped struggling too; movement only exacerbated the pain.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she croaked, her throat sore.

  ‘Button it, girlie, or the gag goes back.’ The soft mocking voice sounded sibilant, slightly muffled. She had a sudden vision of Hannibal Lecter in that god-awful mask in Silence of the Lambs. If her abductor’s aim was to increase tension, hike the fear factor, it so wasn’t needed.

  Caitlin licked already dry, cracked lips. God knows what the cloth had been used for before, but the inside of her mouth tasted vile; bits of fluff stuck to her tongue, lodged between her teeth. She felt a slight movement of air. He must be closer. Yes, his breathing sounded louder, more laboured. Something touched her face. A finger. Now slowly tracing her jaw line, then her neck. She stiffened but the stink made her flinch: stale smoke, vinegar, something rank she couldn’t pin down.

  Warm breath near her ear and the soft humming started again, the harmless tune creepier than his direct threats. She pictured him crouched over her, ogling, mentally stripping her, all the while hum, hum, humming.

  ‘De-dum-de-dumdum-de-dum-de-dum. Dum-dum-dum-de-dum-de-dum.’

  The damn thing rang a distant bell, a kids’ song she thought, couldn’t remember what it was called. Christ on a bike. As if it mattered. She sighed, impatient, tried blanking it out, concentrated instead on why he’d brought her here. What he intended doing. She’d caught no more than a glimpse of his face; he’d gone out of his way not to show it. Surely that was a good sign? If she couldn’t describe him, he was more likely to release her.
Wasn’t he?

  ‘Please … tell me …’

  He pressed his finger hard against her lips. ‘When I’m good and ready, girlie. De-dum-de-dumdum …’

  The tune ran in her head now; she doubted she’d ever get it out. ‘Please, look, my mum …’ Will be going out of her mind.

  ‘Don’t you worry about a thing, babe. Momma knows you’ve been – how shall I put it – detained?’ He’d contacted her? Had she called the police? ‘I let her know you’re … tied up, as it were.’ His snigger in her face released a wave of toxic breath that made her gag. ‘What’s up, missie? Feeling a bit queasy, are we?’

  She nodded, retched violently, this time for effect. Hopes rising, she made to straighten in the chair. The restraints cut deeper but the pain would be a small price if he untied her, removed the blindfold. At the very least she’d be able to scope out the place, work on a way of getting out.

  ‘Please. I need the bathroom fast.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing. If you barf, you can sit in it and stink. I don’t give a monkey’s. Momma won’t be too happy though. She’ll think we’re not looking after her pretty little girl, won’t she?’

  Caitlin frowned, myriad thoughts racing. Why was he doing this? Did she know him? Did he know her? Or had she just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? For once, she was glad of the blindfold; it concealed her confusion and concern. More than that, her increasing terror.

  ‘Lost your tongue, missie?’ She recoiled when his fingers chucked her chin. ‘Hope not. You’re gonna need it in a minute.’

  Her tongue? Why? His voice was still muffled, but sounded further away. She heard a zip? Opening? Then clicks, metallic clicks. What the hell was he doing? ‘Please, please, I need the loo.’ This was no act.

  ‘De-dum-de-dum-de …’

  ‘For God’s sake, tell me what you’re doing.’

  ‘… de-de-de-dum-de-dum-de …’

  ‘Please!’ she screamed. No way could she hide the panic now. ‘Let me go, I won’t tell—’

  ‘Ready? Steady?’ Trembling, she braced herself, eyes squeezed tight. ‘Go!’ Her head snapped back when he snatched the blindfold. She stayed completely still, whimpering. ‘Open your eyes.’

  If she saw his face …

  ‘Open your fucking eyes.’ Saliva hit her cheek. She gasped when he grabbed a handful of her hair, yanked it back.

  ‘Please, no.’ The intended scream lodged in her throat, she stared wide-eyed, open-mouthed. The mask hid all but dark pupils glinting through holes in thick black fur. Had she not been scared beyond belief, the gorilla mask might almost have been funny.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Watch the birdie, little girlie and say … cheese. A snap for the family album, eh? Another little surprise for momma.’

  FOUR

  ‘And you’re absolutely certain it wasn’t here when you got home, Mrs Reynolds?’ ‘It’ was a black and white print now inside a clear plastic envelope that lay on the tacky Formica kitchen table. Detective Inspector Sarah Quinn’s cool grey eyes focused on the woman slouched in the chair opposite, hoping the body language might give away more than she’d so far said. Since the detectives’ arrival, Nicola Reynolds had barely torn her gaze from her daughter’s image.

  ‘What part of the word “no” don’t you understand? I’ve told you and the other lot three times now.’ She tossed a head in the direction of the door. Two uniformed officers were currently ensconced in a patrol car waiting on the DI’s orders. As a matter of course, the attending officers had checked the premises before asking for plain clothes’ back-up.

  ‘Is it remotely possible you just didn’t notice it?’ Sarah tapped her lip. Risking the woman’s wrath was worth it: establishing a time-line could be important.

  ‘Christ Almighty.’ Nicola’s voice dripped contempt. ‘Do I look stupid?’

  Sarah glanced up at DC Dave Harries who leaned against the sink thankfully out of the woman’s eye-line. She doubted his nod would have gone down well. As to ‘stupid’, the DI’s jury was out. On the other hand she had no doubt that Reynolds looked like a woman on the edge, teetering on a greased cheese-wire over hot coals. Grey-faced and gaunt-featured, she compulsively raked trembling fingers through a bad dye job. The other hand clutched a mobile phone as if it had life-saving properties. She seemed to be ageing before Sarah’s eyes.

  ‘I didn’t say that, Mrs Reynolds.’ Still watching closely, she waited for the woman – as far as she could – to collect herself. ‘Tell me about the photograph. What disturbs you so much?’ Sarah regarded the shot as fairly innocuous. It showed Caitlin Reynolds in school uniform mid-stride walking along a street. It looked like a snatched shot, the girl probably unaware of the camera. The typed message attached was less clear: Hey momma, you’re in for a big surprise. More surprising to Sarah? DCS Baker asking her to turn out on what could be some sort of routine domestic. She might be wrong but the chief’s calls seemed increasingly erratic these days.

  Mrs Reynolds raised her head, finally met Sarah’s gaze. ‘You’ve not said much at all, have you? Coming here, making judgements, disapproving. I can see it in your eyes.’

  Unlikely. Sarah’s face rarely showed emotion. It was one reason the station clowns called her the Ice Queen – among other things – always behind her back. She suspected the woman’s hostility stemmed from several sources: fear, for sure; concern, of course. Guilt certainly couldn’t be ruled out. And not just at the disaster area surrounding them. The small tatty kitchen was a tip, ashtrays overflowed on several surfaces and the empties stacked by the bin could’ve been props for a rendition of ‘Ten Green Bottles’. Though going on Reynolds’ breath, she’d been hitting the mother’s ruin tonight. The woman’s alcohol consumption wasn’t high on Sarah’s priorities.

  ‘It’s not my job to judge you.’ Unless the woman knew more about her daughter’s apparent disappearance than she’d let on. Sarah waited as Nicola checked the damn phone yet again. Either she was distracted or it was a distraction technique. ‘OK. You were telling me about the photograph.’

  ‘What is your job then?’ Nicola grabbed the crumpled pack of Marlboro, twisted her mouth when she realised the contents had already gone up in smoke. ‘Shouldn’t you be organizing a search, calling the papers and the telly? Caitlin’s out there somewhere and you’re just sitting on your backside asking me stupid questions.’

  Media friendly already? Sarah gave a thin smile. ‘It’s my job to ask questions, Mrs Reynolds. We need to know what we’re dealing with, how best to go about sorting it.’ So far, they’d learned that Caitlin went to Queen’s Ridge comprehensive, that she was an A* pupil who worked hard and had lots of friends. At this stage it might be nothing more sinister than a headstrong girl and a family row. And the mother still hadn’t answered the last question. Sarah’s cocked head acted as a cue to Harries to record the omission.

  ‘What we’re dealing with? You make it sound like a game of cards. My daughter’s life could be at stake here.’

  ‘Could’ being the operative word. Surely giving parents grief was part of a teenager’s job description? The girl was sixteen going on seventeen and had only been absent a few hours. ‘Why are you so convinced she’s at risk, Mrs Reynolds?’

  ‘For God’s sake, I don’t know where she is. She never stays out, not without calling me.’ Her fingers tightened round the phone.

  ‘So she has stayed out before?’ The woman’s flapped hand was no answer, but sent a signal to Sarah. The silence, bar dripping water and ticking clock, lasted ten seconds. Nicola jumped a mile when Harries shifted to tighten the tap. ‘Well, has she?’ Sarah persisted.

  ‘Trust me. She wouldn’t do this to me.’ Wouldn’t she? Besides, it was only half-nine, at Caitlin’s age it was hardly ‘staying out’. Sarah shuffled slightly in her seat. Nicola was swift to interpret the movement. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

  Realistically, she’d
no way of knowing. At the moment Nicola Reynolds, like her daughter, was little more than a blank sheet to the DI. And like most cops, Sarah’s experience taught her to suspect her own granny. ‘Is Caitlin’s father around, Mrs Reynolds?’

  ‘Only if you’ve got a Ouija board.’ Unnecessary and over-the-top antagonism. And Harries was getting more cocked-head prompts from Sarah than an amnesiac actor. This time she threw in a barely perceptible tightening of the lips as well. ‘OK, do you have a current partner?’

  ‘What’s it to you? I’m her mother. Are you saying I’m not good enough?’

  ‘Stop putting words in my mouth, Mrs Reynolds. We’ll get nowhere if you don’t cooperate. You called us in, right?’ She paused, let the point hit home. ‘Have you a recent picture of Caitlin?’ Something they could use, just in case.

  She nodded, hauled herself up, ambled out of the kitchen. Sarah rolled her eyes at Harries. As it happened, she thought it too early for alarm bells. What teenager hanging out with mates religiously remembered to call home? Caitlin’s phone could have been nicked; it could be out of credit. The girl may have just lost track of time. Or for once might not want her mother to know where she was or who she was with.

  ‘This is a good one.’ With the ghost of a smile on her lips, Mrs Reynolds handed the pic to Sarah. Dark, glossy hair framed an oval-shaped face, flawless complexion. It was the sort of image that sold toothpaste, or skincare products.

  Harries strolled across to take a look over Sarah’s shoulder. ‘Has Caitlin got a boyfriend, Mrs Reynolds?’ His smile and chatty delivery were deceptively casual.

  ‘What sort of question’s that?’ she snapped.

  Sarah glanced up, now knew what was meant by a steely glare. As for the question, it was perfectly reasonable, patently obvious. And if Reynolds couldn’t see that she was either dense, in denial, or both.