Child's Play

by Maureen Carter

  Sarah had shot out of her seat to open the door. ‘Mrs Reynolds. Come in, sit down.’

  ‘You again?’

  The DI caught a whiff of sour flesh and eau de smoke as Reynolds brushed past, headed straight for the chief. God help her if she thought he’d be a softer touch. ‘What’s this all about? I was on the verge of putting in a call when your lot turn up and drag me down here.’

  The chief held out a chair, gave her his name and rank, and a tight smile. ‘Call us about what, Mrs Reynolds?’

  ‘Caitlin, of course.’ Still standing, she tugged a fleshy ear lobe. ‘She’s absolutely fine.’

  ‘OK.’ Baker stretched the two syllables. ‘Take a seat please.’ Sarah would give a lot to see his expression but her brief was to watch Reynolds and she hadn’t shifted her gaze from the woman’s face. The lines appeared deeper and the red-rimmed amber eyes looked sore.

  ‘So where is she?’ Baker laced podgy fingers in his lap.

  ‘I … I’m … not sure.’ Head down, she picked a bit of loose skin near her thumb.

  ‘But you know she’s fine?’ The smile was not warm. ‘How does that work then?’

  ‘She rang.’

  ‘Course she did.’ Like it went without saying. ‘And when was this?’

  She glanced up, mouth turned down. ‘Couple of hours ago?’

  ‘You’re asking me?’

  ‘I never wear a watch, like, but it’d be around seven.’

  ‘Right.’ The grating noise was the scratching of stubble, the chief clearly not in a hurry. ‘Remind me, DI Quinn, what time did Caitlin call us?’

  Sarah held the woman’s wide-eyed gaze. ‘A little after seven.’ She saw shock for sure and something that could have been fear. ‘Thirteen minutes past, to be precise. And quite frankly, “fine” isn’t a word that springs to mind.’

  Reynolds dropped her head in her hands, kneaded the scalp with her nails. Through her jagged sobs and heaving breaths, Sarah caught muffled words: God. Help. Forgive.

  The big man in the sky might, she thought, but the big man at the desk would need a hell of a lot more persuading.

  ‘You’re not just wasting my valuable time; your daughter’s is at a premium too.’ A puce-faced Baker paced the floor, hands jammed in trouser pockets. Sarah reckoned the distancing was deliberate: it kept Nicola Reynolds out of arm’s – and harm’s – way. Even the DI itched to shake some sense into the woman. Baker had suspended the earlier session, had to wait until Reynolds calmed down: PACE had a lot to answer for in the chief’s book. The Police and Criminal Evidence Act, not the speed of his questioning. After being brought back to the interview room, Reynolds had slumped in the chair and, almost without prompting, opened her mouth and belatedly handed over her mobile. Comms were now examining the phone; copies of the photographs and emails lay on the scuffed desktop.

  Reynolds wiped snot from her nose with a crumpled tissue. ‘Please believe me. I’ve told you everything now.’ The self-pitying wail grated on Sarah. It was Caitlin who needed the pity and a parent who wasn’t a congenital liar.

  ‘Like you told DI Quinn everything last night?’ Baker re-inforced the remark by pointing at his watch. ‘More than twelve hours ago.

  ‘I was scared.’

  ‘You were scared?’ Lifting the pic of a cowed, shackled Caitlin, he studied it for a few seconds then slid it across the table. Enough said. But not by Reynolds. If Caitlin was correct, her mother knew more, knew everything. She’d already been caught out withholding crucial evidence and could face charges down the line. Baker had guessed correctly that if the woman wasn’t under arrest she’d not feel the need for a lawyer or, as Baker invariably put it, a bollocking time-waster wig-wearing brief. He’d trotted out the old ‘helping police inquiries line’ – not to keep Reynolds sweet but because he wanted full disclosure soonest. And Sarah knew that if the woman continued holding back, he’d play the tape of her daughter’s voice.

  ‘I was protecting her. Can’t you see that?’ Reynolds, perhaps unwittingly, was shredding the tissue, and white flecks of paper joined ground-in ash on her skirt. ‘He said I’d never see her again if I showed you the stuff he sent.’

  ‘Said?’ Sarah snapped. ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

  She waved what was left of the tissue. ‘Figure of speech.’

  ‘Slip of the tongue?’

  ‘You’re twisting my words.’ She jabbed a finger at the printout. ‘I meant what he says in that.’

  Baker picked up the paper, read the last part of the message aloud: ‘The pictures are our secret. Savvy? Play ball with me, and I might play ball … or something … with Caitlin. Mum’s the word, eh, Nicola?’

  Going by Reynolds’ reaction, it could have been a shopping list, or a phone book. Sarah played a pen between her fingers. Incongruous laughter from the corridor broke the near silence.

  ‘He calls you Nicola,’ Baker mused. ‘Sounds pretty pally to me.’ Her shrug provoked his jaw’s tell-tale twitch. ‘Are you sure you’ve no idea who sent it? Why he’s doing this?’

  ‘I wish.’ The tone sounded glib.

  ‘So do I, love.’ Mr Nice Guy, but the twitch in his jaw was like a burrowing maggot. He leaned in as close as he could get, lowered his voice even further. ‘I wish your daughter wasn’t being held by a psycho. And I wish you had the sense you were born with.’

  ‘That’s not fair. I want to help, but—’

  ‘Good. Here’s your starter for ten: where’s your daughter being held?’

  ‘Here we go again.’ She sighed, shook her head. ‘Do you not think I’d tell you?’

  ‘Got it in one, Mrs Reynolds. It’s a bad habit. Lying.’ Bane of a cop’s life, Sarah reckoned. Like a lot of people, Reynolds had looked them in the eye and lied through her bridgework. Hardly surprising their trust in the woman was in short supply. ‘And for the life of me, love, I don’t know why you’re doing it.’

  Nor Sarah. If it were her child, there was nothing she wouldn’t do to help.

  ‘I’m not lying.’

  ‘Easy for you to say.’ Baker sighed, sat down again, smoothed his tie.

  ‘Look, I know I should’ve been straight before, but—’

  ‘You weren’t.’ He pulled a file closer. ‘What if I tell you I have evidence from someone who says you know where Caitlin is?’

  ‘Bollocks to that.’ She clamped her arms across her chest. ‘Whoever it is, they’re lying.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Baker tilted his head. ‘Let’s hear it, inspector.’ Both detectives had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but Reynolds’ intransigence plus a ticking clock limited their options. The edited version contained only Caitlin’s voice. Even without the scream, Sarah had found it distressing. God knew what it would do to the mother.

  ‘My name’s Caitlin Reynolds. The man. He’s holding me prisoner. I’ve sneaked his phone. I’ve not got long. He says he’s going to kill me. He says he’s contacted my mum. He says she knows everything. I’m really scared. Please, come and get me.’

  Nothing. Then Reynolds’ breathing became more laboured as her eyes narrowed to dark slits. Shit. She was about to pass out. Sarah half rose, ready to grab her before she hit the tiles. ‘Keep away from me.’ She spat out the order, dragged the back of her hand across her mouth. ‘What are you trying to do?’ Saliva glistened on the desk.

  Baker shifted in his seat. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘That’s not Caitlin. I’ve never heard that voice before in my life.’

  ‘She’s still a lying bastard, Quinn.’ En route to their cars, Sarah had to lengthen her not-inconsiderable stride to keep up with the chief’s single-minded strut across the tarmac. The rattling pace would do him no harm if the size of his paunch showcased by the flapping jacket was anything to go by. ‘If she’d not withheld the emails and the photos …’ He jabbed a finger in the DI’s direction.

  Sarah nodded. No need to spell it out. With Reynolds’ co-operation from the get-go, conceivably the inquiry would be further forward. As i
t stood, Operation Vixen wasn’t even back to square one: the shock revelation pointed to a whole new board game. Less Clue-do, more Clue-less. It seemed now as if the perpetrator wasn’t just pulling Reynolds’ strings, he clearly believed he could jerk the police round as well. Quite the comedian. And part of a double act? No wonder the girl on the tape didn’t sound scared: if she’d been reading his script cracking a laugh would be a bigger fear. Mind, if the cops decided to release the tape to the media, joker man and his straight girl might laugh on the other side of their faces.

  What concerned Sarah most was the use of a stand-in to make the call. Did it mean the original was no longer available? Was Caitlin not up to it? Had she – God forbid – already been silenced? She’d certainly not phoned home. After further questioning Nicola had broken down again, admitted the call from Caitlin had been a fabrication, another cack-handed attempt to buy time to protect her daughter.

  ‘What kind of mother is she, for fuck’s sake, Quinn?’ Finding out everything they could about Nicola Reynolds, plus background on other players – main or not – were lines being actively pursued by the squad. Given that motive was key to most cases, they needed to put flesh on these people’s bones to establish why Caitlin had been abducted. It was almost inconceivable the perp had just picked the Reynolds’ name out of a hat.

  For her part, Nicola had at last supplied a few of the names they’d asked for: Neil Lomas, her current partner; Luke Holden, Caitlin’s one-time boyfriend; a whole bunch of school besties plus the girl’s grannie, Linda Walker. Of her own volition, Nicola had offered up the name of a neighbour who claimed he’d spotted Caitlin on the day she disappeared. Ronald Gibson reckoned the girl had been on the wag but according to witnesses at the school she’d been there all day. It was a loose end that needed tying.

  ‘Stupid sodding woman,’ Baker muttered, opening the Merc door, chucking in his briefcase. Give it a rest, man. Nicola Reynolds had certainly rattled the chief’s cage but Sarah reckoned his anger was down to more than that. She sensed he blamed himself for letting the woman wrong-foot – back-foot – the inquiry. What did they say about the best form of defence? Sarah knew the feeling: been there, done that, shrunk the t-shirts. Course, it might have something to do with the imminent PCC meeting. New developments meant Sarah couldn’t sit in for him this afternoon.

  She held the driver’s door as he struggled into his seat belt. ‘Yeah, well, Shona won’t take any shit, chief.’ At Sarah’s suggestion, DC Shona Bruce would pick up the Nicola Reynolds’ interview where they’d left off. Apart from Baker and the DI having fresh fish to grill, squad legend had it that Brucie could get a corpse talking. Beth Lally’s interview technique wasn’t in the same class; hers was a watching brief. Sarah smiled to herself. Bruce and Lally. Sounded like the next TV cop show. Eat your hearts out, Scott and Bailey, Cagney and Lacey. Scrub the last one, it showed her age.

  Baker pulled the door to, wound down the window. ‘Something amusing us, Quinn?’

  ‘You know me, chief.’ She wiped the smile off her face. ‘Always looking on the bright side.’

  ‘Regular ray of sunshine you, missus.’ The wink meant he knew he was pushing his luck.

  ‘Yeah, well, I can’t see Reynolds pulling another fast one.’

  ‘Fast one?’ He started the motor. ‘Over my dead body. And get that bloody news conference sorted, will you?’

  TEN

  Caroline King knew how to give good sound bite. Live TV interviews beat recorded every way, every time: the adrenaline buzz, the immediacy, the margin for on-air error and all that. But beggars can’t be choosers and for once, network journo Caroline wasn’t calling the shots. The not-so-big gun today was Colin Ford, a BBC regional reporter who, Caroline suspected, harboured delusions of adequacy. Still, needs must. She’d smile, be a good girl and say all the right things for the wannabe. But then Caroline, an award-winning journalist as the back flap trumpeted, would do almost anything to promote her first book. Pressing an artless slender finger against her expertly painted lips, she thought she just might baulk at selling her soul. But renting parts out? What’s not to like?

  Her wandering notions prompted a wry smile, though soon as Ford got his act together, she’d sharpen hers. Shiny-suited, shifty and a touch shambolic, Ford was tailor-made for a part on Drop the Dead Donkey: he even looked a bit like hapless hack Dave.

  ‘Sorry, ’bout that, Caz.’ Rolling conspiratorial tawny eyes, Ford stowed a smart phone in his single-breasted jacket pocket. ‘News desk. Still, you know all about that, don’t you?’

  A damn sight better than you, sunshine. ‘Not a problem, Col,’ she gushed, flashing a beam that could put Blackpool illuminations in the shade. Glancing round she wished it could work its magic on a grey gloomy Friday in Birmingham New Street. Waterstones’ Georgian façade provided a decent enough back-drop for the interview, but in Caroline’s metaphorical book, Ford’s choice of location was lazy and predictable. As for her actual book, well, Bad Men hadn’t yet set the world alight. The signing she’d just done inside had gone OK, probably down to the posters plastered across town. Even if she did say so herself, she looked pretty damn hot in the Armani suit and author pose. That plus a simpatico piece on the telly could only grab more readers and kick-start sales. She’d inveigled Ford’s boss for the airtime: Eddie owed her a favour or five.

  ‘Lucky you’re a Birmingham girl, eh? Born and bred? Home grown?’ Ford winked. Cocky sod. Caroline could probably give him ten years and from what she’d seen he’d be lucky to set foot out of the place. She’d fled the family nest at eighteen, only to inherit it from her mum two years back. Fed up with trying and failing to flog a Selly Oak redbrick, she’d taken it off the market and now acted as mostly absentee landlady to lodger Nat, another old mate in the news trade.

  ‘Why’s that then, Col?’ She cast a surreptitious glance at her reflection in the lens. Yep, the red jacket teamed brilliantly with the jet top, the glossy black-ink bob was still silk-smooth. The reporter cocked an eyebrow, like he was about to let her in on a state secret.

  ‘Local interest, isn’t it? We don’t do plugs as a rule.’ He made the money sign, rubbing together grubby thumb and fingers. ‘Free advert for you, isn’t it?’

  Bloody nerve. Her fulsome fake smile very nearly faltered. In his shoes, scuffed desert boots as it happened, she’d probably feel similar cynicism: ‘author writes book’ wasn’t going global any time soon. On the other hand, she needed all the coverage she could get and she had the sort of industry clout Ford could only dream of. ‘No worries, Col. If you have a problem interviewing writers about their work, let’s call it a day, cut our losses, eh?’ She made scissor motions with two fingers then turned away, left a two-second gap before calling over her shoulder. ‘Oh, and tell Ed I’ll pick him up at seven.’ Eddie the editor. Sounded like something out of Thomas the Tank. Caroline smiled. She’d teased Ed about it a few times; they went back a very long way. If she’d read Ford right, she’d not be going anywhere any time soon.

  ‘Hey, Caz, stop, I didn’t mean …’

  Slowly, she retraced her steps, licked her lips. He had the look of a one-legged rabbit caught in a laser beam. She sashayed closer, very close, in-your-face close. ‘Word of advice.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘Say what you mean. Mean what you say. Don’t try and be clever. And don’t ever call me Caz.’

  The interview lasted ten minutes; it wasn’t Ford’s finest hour. Caroline knew she’d have elicited twice as much in half the time. She was editing it mentally as she strode towards the station car park, simultaneously hoping her BMW would still be there, preferably with a full complement of wheels.

  She’d already told Ford which bits of chat were worth using and which dumb-ass questions to drop. Where’d you get your ideas? Pur-lease. Are your characters based on real people? Really? Bad Men was a hard-edged exposé of street groomers featuring rare interviews with schoolgirl victims and input from senior cops, social workers et al. She glanced at the copy peepin
g from her shoulder bag, stupid really but she carried the book everywhere. It was the first she’d seen in print, and held in her hands, it gave her huge professional pride. Ford hadn’t even read it, the little shit. Reckoned he could write one though. She shook her head. As a parting shot, he’d bragged about turning out a blockbuster soon as he ‘had the time’.

  Yeah right. Chuckling, she unlocked the motor. Her mirth wasn’t entirely down to the fact the car was still in one piece. She was recalling the look on Ford’s face when she’d delivered her final not-so bons mots: For you, hun, there’s not enough time in the world.

  She slid behind the wheel, checked her face in the mirror. Yeah, the lippie was still good. She aimed the bag at the passenger seat but misjudged and as it toppled over, Bad Men slipped to the floor. She might have left it there – you could eat dinner off the carpet – but she spotted a loose page sticking out. Shit. The damn thing wasn’t falling to pieces already, was it? She leaned across, lifted the book and frowned. It wasn’t a page from Bad Men. It was an envelope with her name on. And it hadn’t been there when she left the house. So how and when did it get there and who’d played postman? Her frown had deepened. Christ, she’d need Botox if she didn’t open the bloody thing soon.

  Hey Ms Ace Reporter

  A Birmingham schoolgirl’s been snatched off the street. Why no police hunt? Why isn’t it all over the news? Why aren’t you giving the cops a hard time? The tip-off’s free – this time.

  From a secret admirer.

  ‘Flattery will get you nowhere, pal,’ she muttered. After reading the note a second time, she tapped it against her teeth, brow still in ploughed-field mode. No matter how much she loathed being manipulated, the content begged a bunch of questions and piqued her reporter’s curiosity. Not least, how and who had gained access to her tote? Still pensive, she slipped the note back in the envelope, fired the engine, reversed the motor. She’d been meaning to give the Snow Queen a buzz anyway, ask if she liked the book; might as well drop by the Ice Palace. As for giving a cop a hard time, she’d been there, done that with dishy Dave Harries. Shagging almost on your own doorstep wasn’t good news. Like a lot of other actions in her past, it had pissed Quinn off royally.