Child's Play

by Maureen Carter

  ‘There’s no regular pattern, dear. She turns up as and when, usually with a little gift. A bunch of flowers or a puzzle book, nothing flashy. We have a natter, maybe a game of cards, or just watch a bit of telly. Caitlin and me love all the soaps and the detective series.’ Her smile showcased sepia dentures that had a life of their own. ‘We always try and guess who the killer is.’ She pressed a liver-spotted hand to her mouth. ‘Caitlin won’t come to any harm will she, dear?’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can, Mrs Walker.’ Sarah placed the cup and saucer back on the tray. ‘Tell me, when did you last see her?’

  ‘Let me think. My memory’s not what it was.’ Seemingly ill at ease, she patted her bun, glanced away. Sarah hoped she wasn’t looking for her marbles. Nicola Reynolds had warned about her mother’s failing health, physical and mental. She was mid-sixties, looked late seventies. ‘I’m pretty sure it was Monday. No, Tuesday.’

  ‘This week?’

  She shook her head. ‘Last month. She had a lot of schoolwork on, said she might not be able to visit for a while. She wants to go to university, you know. Very bright is Caitlin.’ The old woman’s smiling gaze had settled on a photograph of Caitlin standing in pride of place on the mantelpiece. Sarah guessed it had been taken three or four years ago. Mind it looked as if every photo Linda had ever owned was on display somewhere in the room – the walls were covered, every dusty surface crowded.

  ‘Have you spoken on the phone at all?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘No … I … don’t think so.’

  Sarah’s high hopes the old woman could show Caitlin in a different light were beginning to take a dive. A penchant for Corrie and Colombo was hardly revelatory. She also doubted Linda Walker’s ability to recall what she’d had for breakfast let alone any confidences Caitlin might have shared.

  Harries was clearly on the same page. When he casually showed her his notebook, she saw the words ‘losses’ and ‘cut?’ She was surprised he’d not drawn a pair of scissors. Sarah asked about Caitlin’s relationship with her mother, whether there’d been any problems at home. According to Linda, all was sweetness and light, Caitlin and Nicola so close they were more like sisters.

  ‘And what about Nicola’s partner?’

  ‘More tea, dear?’ Sarah shook her head. Heaven forbid. Was the diversion deliberate? Apart from snapping a biscuit in half, the old woman wasn’t going anywhere.

  ‘Neil Lomas?’ Sarah prompted. ‘How does he fit in?’

  ‘I’m sure he’s a very nice man.’ What was the saying? Damning with faint praise. The puckered lips and disparaging tone were telling too. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  Sarah frowned. ‘You’ve not met him?’

  ‘Just the once.’ She brushed crumbs off her chest.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He sat where you are. Stayed five minutes. I’ve not laid eyes on him since.’

  Nose out of joint? Hurt feelings? ‘Any idea why?’

  She snorted. ‘Nicola says he’s allergic to cats.’

  Given the animal had chronic flatulence as well as halitosis, Sarah could maybe see his point. ‘But?’

  ‘I got the feeling I wasn’t good enough for the likes of Mr High and Mighty Lomas.’

  No love lost there then. ‘What about Caitlin? How does she get on with him?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her that.’ Her withered face crumpled further as she realised what she’d said, remembered why the detectives were here. ‘You will find her, won’t you?’

  FOURTEEN

  ‘I take it you’ve found her then?’ Caroline took the tongue from her cheek as she pictured Sarah Quinn’s expression: gormless meets clueless? The reporter had dispensed with social niceties, laid on the insouciance with an industrial trowel. The silence on the line stretched so long that for a few seconds, she thought Sarah had hung up. Like any journo, she’d have preferred a face-to-face encounter but the Ice Queen had been out doing her thing when Caroline dropped by Police HQ. Now back in Selly Oak, the reporter had done a little homework, poured a drink then put in the call.

  ‘Found who?’ Sarah’s sigh was audible, so were the drumming fingers. In her mind’s eye, Caroline saw the cool blonde’s finely arched eyebrow, steely grey stare, tight school ma’am bun. She curved a lip. At least DI Deep Freeze was only in hedging mode; she’d not gone down the faux disingenuous ‘Who is this?’ path. Given their history, it wouldn’t have got the detective very far, plus the fact the reporter’s voice was virtually a distinguishing feature.

  ‘The missing girl, of course,’ Caroline said. ‘Hold on, I’ve got her name in my notebook somewhere.’ She reached across the kitchen table for a newspaper. Would rifling its kite-flying pages do the trick?

  ‘Course you have,’ Sarah drawled. ‘Stop pissing around, eh?’

  She sniffed. Win some, lose some. Mind, if Quinn had already resorted to swearing maybe Caroline had touched a nerve. She ditched the paper, reached for her gin and tonic. ‘Pissing around?’ Her bemusement was faked. ‘You can talk. The inquiry’s not exactly hot off the mark, is it?’ Caroline’s opening gambit had been heavy on the sarcasm. That the girl was still missing was an assumption on her part, her point being why – still – hadn’t the cops released details to the media? A girl snatched off the street? The story should’ve been all over the news. Caroline had trawled the web, the local rags, but not a sniff. The cops’ dilatoriness could become a story in its own right. Either way, hard news was Caroline’s professional first love, what she did best, and breaking it was even better.

  ‘I don’t do riddles, Caroline. What do you want?’

  ‘You know what I want – who, why, where.’ Depending how the story panned out Caroline could well decide it wasn’t worth covering personally, but keeping her hand in with the odd tip-off to an editor or two never did any harm. ‘I want everything you’ve got. I assume she’s still out there somewhere?’ The question went unanswered. Mind, Quinn rarely showed her hand. ‘What I can’t get my head round,’ Caroline persisted, ‘is why you’re keeping the story under wraps.’

  ‘As it happens, we’re releasing it any time now,’ Sarah said. ‘So your little heads-up has gone down the pan.’ Damn. Caroline couldn’t have put it better herself. March, stolen. Even so, the gloating was out of order.

  ‘You surprise me, DI Quinn. A girl’s missing – and you’re scoring points?’

  ‘Don’t come that bollocks with me, Caroline. Tell me, this steer, where did you get it?’

  Wouldn’t you like to know? Hearing a muffled knock at Sarah’s end of the line, she paused a second or two. ‘As you well know, a journalist never—’

  ‘Reveals a source, yeah.’ Sarah sighed heavily again. ‘Anyway, Caroline, pleasant though it always is to chat, time’s pressing.’

  Shit. She was losing her. ‘’Specially when it’s running out, inspector. And even more so if you’ve already left it too late.’

  Caroline suspected she’d just given the dialling tone the benefit of her wisdom. She raised her glass. ‘Well that went well.’

  For the first time in living history, Baker hadn’t just barged in. Standing now in front of Sarah’s desk, casual hand in trouser pocket, he tilted his head at the phone. ‘What’s Kingie after? She was sniffing round reception earlier.’

  Sarah stiffened. ‘You spoke to her?’ Surely to God he hadn’t tipped King the wink?

  ‘Keep your hair on, woman. She’d buggered off by the time I got back.’ Sarah winced as he did the usual thing of dragging a chair round so he could mount it like a horse. Why couldn’t he just take a perch like anyone else? Oh yes. More reason to thank the holidays.

  ‘Got back from where?’

  ‘The little boys’ room.’

  She rolled her eyes, so glad she’d asked. Mind, it had been pretty dumb to think the chief had divulged anything to a reporter, even Caroline King who, Sarah suspected, Baker had taken a recent shine to. In Baker’s book hacks were all granny-selling vultures in wolf’s clothing. Besides, i
t had been the chief’s call to delay a release in the first place. Word had gone out to the media in the last hour or so about a news conference they’d regret missing but no details had been disclosed. The delay and build-up were calculated risks on Baker’s part; he was banking on the bait ensuring maximum turnout, saturation coverage on the major bulletins. Sarah hadn’t been so convinced; they’d had crossed words on the phone earlier. Maybe he’d dropped by to apologize prior to facing the press pack. The old boy was cutting it fine given kick-off was at five.

  ‘Is she on her way in then?’ He nodded at the phone again, a smile playing across his lips. ‘Your mate?’

  Mate? Don’t push it. Mutual daggers may no longer be unsheathed but they wouldn’t be sharing girlie nights out any time soon. ‘No, she’s not.’ Sarah dropped her glance, fiddled in a drawer. ‘I was about to tell her but she threw a strop.’ The heat, she knew, was rising on her cheeks.

  ‘Funny that.’ His voice held a smirk.

  Still rummaging in the drawer, she said, ‘Not really. She’s a law—’

  ‘Not Kingie.’ He flapped a hand. ‘You. I’ve seen post boxes with less colour. Not keeping King out of the loop are we, Quinn?’

  She looked up. ‘Hardly.’ Baker’s glib expression turned granite as Sarah told him the gist of the conversation with King, her apparent head start.

  ‘So where’s she getting the info from, for fuck’s sake? Has the squad sprung another leak?’ He cracked a knuckle, then another. The last mole at HQ had been booted out of the police after selling intelligence to King. But that was before Leveson and Filkin. ‘Surely to God no one here’s stupid enough to go down that route?’ he said.

  Route? Frowning, Sarah glanced at the notes she’d jotted during the call. Three words sprang out: street, broad daylight. She drummed the desk with her fingers.

  ‘Sorry. Am I boring you, Quinn?’

  ‘Caroline has it that a girl was snatched off the street in broad daylight.’ She met Baker’s gaze. ‘We don’t even know that ourselves.’

  His nod said he didn’t need telling. The info made a police leak look even less likely. Baker scratched his stubble. ‘I suppose she could be taking a punt?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Sarah shrugged. ‘But she knows we’re investigating an abduction. She didn’t pluck that out of the air. Someone’s told her something for sure.’

  ‘I take it she spouted the usual line? Protecting her sources and all that?’

  ‘Natch.’

  ‘You’re gonna have to—’

  ‘Get back to her.’ She nodded. What joy.

  The odds were minuscule but both detectives knew if the tip hadn’t come from someone close to Caitlin, or anyone the police had interviewed, then the reporter could have been targeted by someone who’d witnessed the crime, or who’d committed it.

  Monkey man was beginning to ring a faint bell with Caitlin. She wasn’t sure if she’d come across him before or if he just had one of those faces, like some jobbing actor who popped up every five minutes on the box. She certainly wouldn’t forget monkey man’s mug in a hurry. Since the dramatic unmasking, she’d seen enough of it to last a lifetime. Christ. What a thought. She bit her lip to stop it quivering. Showing fear would get her nowhere. The constant uncertainty was the worst aspect; she couldn’t work him out. One minute he’d be chatting away as if they were buddies, the next he’d go ape-shit as if he’d suddenly remembered why she was there. Which was real? Which was an act? He’d definitely shown more interest in stroppy Caitlin than pathetic victim Caitlin. Maybe her spur-of-the-moment strategy was paying off, or he was lulling her into a false sense of security. Either way, the call was impossible to make when she still didn’t have a clue why he’d abducted her. At least the only time he tethered and gagged her now was when he went out. She spent most of the day lying on an old mattress, listening to a radio he’d brought in. It had been her ‘present’ for the nine-nine-nine call he’d forced her to make. With a knife held to her throat it hadn’t been difficult to stick to the script and maintain the thick Birmingham accent. The scream had been genuine enough; so had the stinging slap the bastard had meted out.

  She cast a covert glance to where he sat cross-legged on the floor, nose down in a magazine; a bit of light reading maybe after the stack of newspapers he’d been through. Or he was leering at the pictures. He must’ve sensed he had an audience, as he raised his head. ‘You hungry?’

  Caitlin smiled and gave a tentative nod. ‘Starving.’

  ‘I’ll nip out in a min. Fish and chips do you?’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Any idea when the late editions hit the streets?’ He toed the nearest redtop.

  Christ. Hadn’t he got enough of the sodding things? ‘Not my baby, sorry.’

  Shrugging, he dropped his head again. He was an odd mix: dark hair, posh boy looks, nasal estuary delivery. He was probably in his thirties but today was dressed like a middle-aged anorak. She was pretty certain he slept on the premises. There was a loo but she’d not heard a shower running which could explain why he smelled bad sometimes. Not that she wrinkled her nose every time he came near any more; she’d tell him he smelled like cut grass if it got her out of here. Tell him anything really. And she reckoned if anything would help her escape it would be sweet talk, not brute force. Caitlin knew she was little match for the guy physically; she’d weighed the odds several times in her head. She also suspected he had company now and again. She could have imagined the muffled voices and laughter late at night, or the noises may have drifted in from the street. But what if he had an accomplice? Worse. What if he was just carrying out someone else’s orders? Someone who made monkey man look like a teddy bear? She breathed in deeply, realized her own odour wasn’t exactly fragrant either.

  ‘OK.’ He slung the magazine to the floor, sprang to his feet. ‘Back in the chair.’ She eyed the cable still in situ round the wooden legs and the slats; her wrists had only just stopped stinging from the last time.

  ‘Do I have to? I won’t try anything, honest.’

  ‘Course you won’t.’ Grabbing her upper arm, he hauled her to her feet. ‘Chair. Now. Don’t force me to hurt you.’

  ‘I really wouldn’t, you know.’ She sat down meekly. ‘There must be a reason why you’re doing this. Maybe if you told me, I could …’

  He smiled. ‘What?’ Genuine interest? Bemused incredulity?

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. Hadn’t got a fucking clue. ‘Help? Understand? I don’t want to get you into trouble. If you let me go now I swear I won’t breathe a word—’

  ‘Got that right.’ He slapped on the gag, tied it tighter than before. ‘You won’t breathe, period, if you try that shit again. I wasn’t born yesterday, Caitlin.’

  She nodded, eyes brimming. It was the only time he’d used her name. She told herself the tears had nothing to do with the personal touch.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘I presume it’s a professional job?’ The thin grey-haired guy on the front row had introduced himself as Seth Fielding, crime correspondent on one of the one-size-fits-all redtops. His lugubrious eyebrow and drawled delivery was a down-market Paxman, the natty grey suit and gold-framed specs owed more to John Humphrys. Axe-man meets Rottweiler. Great.

  ‘What makes you say that, Mr Fielding?’ Sarah’s delivery was cool but her lips tightened when she slipped off her jacket. Little wonder she was feeling the heat. From the head of a horseshoe-shaped mahogany table, she faced a dozen or so reporters, acutely aware that on the screen behind, Caitlin’s smiling image loomed large. Not for the first time, Sarah silently cursed the chief for leaving her in the metaphorical firing line. As a foil to hardened newshounds, the newbie press officer to her right appeared to be less use than a glass truncheon. Naomi-nice-but-dim had barely opened her mouth let alone uttered anything sound. Head down, she was scribbling away like there was no tomorrow – probably a shopping list, Sarah thought. The chief always had hacks eating out of his hand but he’d cried off, when he saw the low
turnout. He’d passed the Q&A reins to Sarah. It felt more like a toxic chalice.

  ‘It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?’ Fielding crossed leg over knee, ran finger and thumb down a razor-sharp crease in his black trousers. She struggled to see how he’d made the mental leap given the few facts she’d divulged.

  ‘You tell me.’ Holding the reporter’s gaze, she tapped a pen against her teeth, suspected he was fishing for an even sharper angle. The media invariably seized on hooks, always attached catchy handles to major inquiries, preferably alliterative, invariably simplistic: Moors Murderers, Doctor Death, Suffolk Strangler, House of Horrors.

  ‘Let’s see, inspector. Caitlin Reynolds has been missing for more than twenty-four hours; she’s abducted apparently off the street on her way home from school.’ He glanced round, presumably making sure the pack was on-side. ‘One might almost say she vanishes into thin air.’

  One might? ‘You might, Mr Fielding. I think the answer’s rather more down to earth. And to find it, I need hard evidence from reliable witnesses.’ She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth: there was never any mileage in rising to a bait.

  ‘And you didn’t need help yesterday?’ He traced an index finger along a now sardonic eyebrow. She’d not be surprised if he practised poses in the mirror. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, DI Quinn, but the inquiry into Caitlin’s abduction is now entering its second day and the police have no sightings, let alone leads.’ Thanks for the reminder. It did seem weird though, not a single pointer from the scores of people who’d been interviewed.

  ‘It strikes me,’ Fielding said, ‘that whoever snatched her is either a jolly lucky man or knows exactly what he’s doing, i.e. a professional.’ The pompous twat didn’t actually say ‘unlike you lot’. But the implication the cops were doing a Keystone was clear.