Child's Play

by Maureen Carter

  ‘You OK?’ He traced a finger down her profile.

  Jerking her head away, she muttered, ‘What do you care?’ Yawning open-mouthed she hauled herself upright then sat on the mattress hugging her knees.

  ‘Don’t be like that. I bought you a pressie.’ Smiling, he whipped a Primark bag from behind his back. ‘Da-dah.’

  Despite misgivings, she curved a lip. She’d seen good cops, bad cops in action – monkey man staged good-guy-bad-guy routines single-handedly. The kindness was almost harder to bear than the cruelty, and he could switch in a heartbeat.

  Head down, she delved into the bag and found skinny jeans, clean underwear, face wipes. ‘Guilt complex kicking in, is it?’ She glanced up, deadpan. He’d been so late last night, she’d soiled herself. He’d found her sobbing, stinking in shit. He’d been sorry enough to help her sort it but then pissed off again, leaving her alone. The empty building’s weird creaks and rustlings had scared the life out of her. But the place wasn’t in the middle of nowhere: traffic noise and muffled voices floating up from the street told her that. If she could only …

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He made to snatch the bag away. ‘Shame, though. You can hardly go out wearing that. Punk’s so last century.’

  ‘Big ho.’ The black bin liner was better than nothing. But not for go— Frowning, she narrowed her eyes. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Punk’s so—’

  She shook an impatient head. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be long now, Caitlin.’ He placed a finger under her chin. ‘Things are moving on.’

  ‘What things, for Christ’s sake?’

  He held her gaze for several seconds. ‘Do you really want to know?’

  She nodded.

  So he told her – and she wished he hadn’t.

  TWENTY

  The small brown envelope was lying on the mat when a yawning Nicola came downstairs belting her dressing gown. The contents now lay across the kitchen table vying for space with dirty plates, her phone and the Nokia. Maybe it was sleep deprivation, but she couldn’t fathom the significance. Eyes creased against the cigarette smoke, she took the occasional sip of tepid tea as she reread the cutting.

  BABES IN THE WOOD

  Leicestershire police have launched a murder inquiry after the discovery of a child’s body near her home in the village of Moss Pit. Five-year-old Pauline Bolton (pictured) had been picnicking with a friend when the assailant struck. Ten-year-old Susan Bailey, who sustained minor injuries, is believed to have witnessed the brutal attack on her young playmate. Susan is currently under police guard in hospital where detectives are waiting to question her.

  DCI Ken Southern told the Mercury that Susan had had a lucky escape. “It’s conceivable that had she not raised the alarm, we could have a double murder on our hands.”

  Susan’s screams alerted concerned villagers who raced to the scene of the tragedy. Badger’s Copse is within sight of both girls’ homes and had become a favourite place to play during the school holidays.

  DCI Southern warned parents to keep a close eye on their children. “A dangerous killer is still at large,” he said. “I’m appealing for anyone with information to come forward before he strikes again.”

  Frowning, Nicola stubbed the baccy in an ashtray, picked up the cutting. In pristine condition, it had to be a photocopy – it was dated 13 August 1960. Nicola hadn’t been born then. As she studied Pauline’s photograph, her lip curved unwittingly. What a little doll. All sundress and sandals with a teddy bear tucked under her arm. She had a mop of – presumably – blonde curls and a smile to die for. Nicola grimaced. For God’s sake, there had to be better phrases: the kid had been brutally murdered.

  But what the hell had any of it to do with her? Unlike the Moors Murders and the Cannock Chase killings, she couldn’t recall a thing about the Moss Pit case. Easy enough to find out though, a few clicks should do it. She half rose before remembering the cops had removed both the desktop and Caitlin’s laptop. Neil would Google it for her. The phone rang as she reached for the handset.

  ‘Neil Lomas here. I believe you wanted a word?’ Sarah scooted the chair back from the desk a few inches. She’d been at it since before seven, trying to keep on top of the admin, bringing the action book up to date, reviewing some of the eighty plus statements the squad had taken. Her flask of coffee, now half empty, had been brewed at home; the canteen toast was now mere crumbs on a paper plate. She’d have brought the food in too but her bread had turned a fetching shade of green. Nothing new there then. As for butter? Fresh out. Domestic stuff went by the stale bread board when she was working a big case. Actually, make that any case.

  ‘Mr Lomas. Good of you to phone.’ Her voice was clipped, the corollary tacit: better late than never. The guy couldn’t fail to appreciate the call’s importance.

  ‘Sorry. I’d have got back sooner but you know how it is.’

  ‘Not really.’ She knew he’d not been at his father’s Derby address last night. Lomas senior had told the visiting uniforms his son was out walking. According to one officer, Frank Lomas had either made a miraculous recovery or he’d not been knocking at heaven’s door in the first place. Lucky either way, because Neil had apparently forgotten to take a phone on his nocturnal ramblings. She tapped her pen on the desk. He’d had ample time to elaborate. ‘So do tell.’

  ‘I needed a bit of space.’ To find himself? Pur-lease. ‘You must know how it is, inspector?’ She heard an exaggerated sigh, imagined him soothing a furrowed brow. She stuck a mental finger down her throat.

  ‘No. I don’t find it a great necessity, Mr Lomas.’

  ‘Lucky you.’ Tetchy all of a sudden. Default mode or defence mechanism? ‘But it’s Caitlin you’re meant to be finding, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘How long’s she been missing now?’ His follow-up came more quickly than she’d expected. ‘Sorry, that was below the belt. But what with Caitlin gone and my dad’s collapse, it’s been a crap few days.’

  Tell someone who gives a shit. ‘It’s Caitlin I want to talk about. Where are you?’

  ‘Yeah, your people mentioned it to Dad. I’m on the way back to Birmingham. It’s easier if he stays with me. Until we know how things stand. Why don’t you drop by about midday?’

  Who did he think she was? Lady sodding Penelope? It didn’t take long to put him straight. Unsmiling, she hung up a minute later. Lomas would be at Lloyd House. Twelve sharp.

  ‘I need to see you. Please. Can you come round, Nicola?’ Mrs Walker heard a sigh.

  ‘Can it wait, Mum? I’m … tied up at the mo.’

  ‘No, I’m begging you.’ The old woman darted a wary glance over her shoulder.

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘I’d rather not say over the phone.’ Not when the voice had as good as told her to keep her mouth shut. Standing in the kitchen now, she trembled as she recalled the low whisper in her ear last night: speak no evil. Had she imagined that, too?

  ‘But Mum …’

  Eight hours after the incident, Linda Walker had woken fully clothed in her bed, had no recollection of getting there. She’d searched everywhere, turned the place upside down, even looked in the dustbin outside. In her mind’s eye she could see the tongue clear as day. The dish had vanished, too. And Ginger was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Nicola, please …’

  ‘Someone must have seen something.’ Sarah held out empty palms. Wished she had a penny for every time she’d trotted out the line. It was a cop cliché in the same vein as ‘you’re nicked’; ‘make my day’ and ‘anything you say will be taken down’. But apart from one neighbour, no one had said anything. Well, anything worth hearing. Including, this morning, the squad. The DI ran her gaze over a dozen officers. Twelve pairs of eyes stared back. She’d known livelier briefs. She’d known livelier wakes. Which reminded her: the chief was at a funeral this morning. He’d called twice to insist he wanted filling in later. And rumour had it he was taking early retirement. Yeah, right. As for th
e troops? Still nothing.

  ‘It’s the route home from Queen’s Ridge that’s bugging me.’ She turned her head to the whiteboard, traced an index finger along a street map, the picture of a smiling Caitlin was pinned next to an aerial shot. ‘Shops, houses, lock-ups. It’s hardly Ghostville yet she’s not on a single frame of CCTV. We’ve not had so much as a whisper after the media appeal. Why did no one see her there?’ Sarah narrowed her eyes. Unless she wasn’t on it?

  ‘What if she never left the school, boss? We’ve only heard from one source she was snatched off the street and that could’ve been deliberately to put us off the trail.’ Sarah nodded. Harries, not for the first time, had voiced her thoughts.

  ‘Nice try, Dave, but …’ Head down, Beth Lally was rifling her notebook. ‘A girl waved to her from the bus. Yeah, Lauren Bleasdale. Said she was Caitlin’s best friend.’

  ‘True, Beth, but Caitlin was still on the grounds. What if she went back in the building?’ Shona Bruce was clearly on the same page headed: ‘long shot’. OK, no one expected to find Caitlin on site, but had they missed a pointer to her disappearance?

  ‘Right. We’ll search the premises again,’ Sarah said. ‘And re-interview.’ She caught a groan or two from the floor: few cops relished going over old ground. Tough. Needs must when the devil drives a stalled motor. Obviously they wouldn’t need to talk again to everyone at Queen’s Ridge. The inquiry had neither time nor budget for a scattergun approach. The majority of students and staff could probably be eliminated immediately anyway. They couldn’t afford to wait until Monday, so the rest would have to be interviewed at home. ‘Dave, can you and Shona draw up a list?’

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’ He smiled. ‘The usual suspects.’

  Talking of suspects. She brought them up to speed on Lomas and told them she’d be doing the interview when he arrived. ‘By the way, Shona, have you had a chance to look through Caitlin’s diary?’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am.’ A slightly flustered DC Bruce? Rarer than a snake chiropodist.

  ‘No worries.’ Genuinely. Shona – unlike some on the squad – was a grafter; didn’t watch clocks. Sarah knew the younger woman couldn’t have got home much before ten, and the last thing she needed then was to take work to bed. ‘Leave it on my desk, yes?’ There’d be time to flick through before interviewing Lomas.

  ‘What about Luke Holden, ma’am?’ DC Lally asked. ‘He’s still AWOL.’

  She nodded. ‘I’d like you and Shona to call round later. Talk to the neighbours again if he’s still not shown.’

  Paul Wood, who’d been keeping a low profile, glanced up all innocent from a monitor. ‘Didn’t one of them report a gas leak, inspector?’ Wood knew as well as every cop in the station that entering premises on dodgy grounds was a no-go. Without a warrant, any evidence they found would be inadmissible even if they located the crown jewels.

  She gathered her files, eyebrow arched. ‘I didn’t hear that, Twig.’

  ‘Course not, ma’am.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘It’s the truth. Please don’t look at me like that.’ Had she been standing, Linda Walker might have stamped a foot. Slumped in a kitchen chair, her tightly folded arms were signal enough.

  ‘Like what?’ Nicola stifled a sigh, chucked a teabag in the sink. Please, let her have misheard the old dear.

  ‘Like I’m a total stranger or a mad old bat.’ The old woman ran fluttering fingers down a sallow raddled cheek; hanks of steel-grey hair had escaped the moorings of her bun. Nicola hadn’t a clue how her mother could focus through the smears on her glasses. Mind, that could explain a lot.

  ‘Here you go.’ Liquid sloshed over the rim when she banged the mug on the table. She’d dropped everything to drive over to Small Heath and listen to what sounded like the verbal equivalent of a steaming pile of horse manure. ‘So you found a tongue there,’ pointing, ‘and you fainted. Next thing you’re in bed and this … this … tongue’s … disappeared.’

  ‘I know it sounds daft … but there was a man in here.’

  Nicola had considered briefly whether it could be true, of course she had. Given Caitlin’s disappearance, she’d have been mad not to. But she knew her mother well and just didn’t buy it: the old dear was lonely and had played the emotional blackmail card before. ‘Mum, when you fell, did you hit your head?’

  ‘I might have.’ Her dentures shifted and left faint marks when she bit her bottom lip. ‘But I’m sure it’s true, Nicola. There was a man. He whispered in my ear.’ Jesus Christ, Nicola thought. My daughter’s missing, a mad bastard’s playing me like an orchestra and it looks as if my mother’s losing her mind.

  ‘The same man you thought you saw over the road?’ She leant across to redo the buttons on her mum’s old lilac cardigan.

  ‘No. I don’t think it could have been.’

  ‘OK.’ Nicola glanced at her phone, breathed a sigh of relief. ‘So this man in the kitchen? What did he look like?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He came up from behind. I just saw a dark shape out of the corner of my eye.’

  She nodded. ‘Drink your tea, Mum. I need the loo.’ Despite her better judgement, Nicola carried out a quick search of the house, checked doors and windows, rummaged through the bin outside. When Nicola returned, the older woman was staring into space, wringing her hands. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost, but the shakes could have a more prosaic explanation.

  Leaning against the dresser, Nicola lit a cigarette, took a deep drag. ‘How much did you have to drink last night, Mum?’

  ‘One small sherry.’ Her mouth tightened as far as shrivelled lips allowed. ‘That’s nothing to do with it. I was stone cold—’

  ‘Mum, it stinks in here.’ Booze, boiled cabbage, cat pee.

  ‘I know. I dropped the bottle.’ She frowned. ‘That’s another thing. When I came down, the mess had been cleaned up.’

  ‘I see.’ Like hell. ‘Must be a first, that. A house-proud burglar.’

  ‘If you’re going to be sarky …’ She turned her head.

  ‘Didn’t nick your Marigolds, did he?’ Masking a smile, she doused the butt under the tap and dropped it in the pedal bin before sitting next to her mum. ‘Look, if you’re sure about all this, we’ll call the police.’

  ‘No, not that. Please, Nic. I’m scared.’

  ‘All the more reason—’

  ‘He as good as warned me not to.’ She glanced round before whispering, ‘His mouth was right by my ear and he said, “Speak no evil”.’

  Dear Lord. Was she hearing voices as well as hallucinating? ‘Is anything missing, Mum? Have you checked?’

  ‘I had a quick scout round.’ She traced a finger round the rim of her mug. ‘I don’t think anything’s gone.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ The old woman still seemed preoccupied but eventually she nodded.

  ‘OK, what do you want to do?’

  ‘Maybe, just for a day or two … I could …’ The words petered out and she dropped her head. Nicola briefly closed her eyes. Knew where this was going. It had probably been heading there all along. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. You can’t stay with me at the moment. It’s difficult. Caitlin’s missing. The police are in and out.’

  ‘But what if he comes back?’ Her fingers clawed her neck and behind the glasses, her eyes were wide with fear.

  She took one of her mother’s hands, held it between her own. ‘He’s not going to, Mum. Trust me.’ Her smile faded. She let go of the hand. The Nokia had beeped an alert.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, love.’ Mrs Walker struggled to her feet. ‘You get off home. I understand.’

  ‘Understand what?’ Only half-listening, she read the message again, struggled to make sense of it.

  ‘You have your own life now.’ She halted in the doorway, hand visibly trembling on the frame. ‘And when Ginger shows up he won’t know where I’m gone. Next door won’t look out for him, that’s for sure. Not with that Alsatian of theirs. Mind, the dog’s run off, she come round this morning in bits, asking if
—’

  ‘Mum.’ Nicola looked up from the phone. ‘What do you know about Badger’s Copse?’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Pauline’s sky-blue eyes shone as she shot a skinny arm in the air. ‘Miss! Miss! I know, I know. Let me, let me. Please, Miss!’ Susan reckoned if the silly little beggar wriggled any harder she’d slip off the tree stump and land in a heap on the prickly grass. Her bum must be full of splinters as it was. Not that the stump was a real chair, or the fallen trunk more than a make-believe desk. Like the rest of the classroom, a lively imagination was all the girls needed. The cane was real enough though. Susan pointed it at her liveliest pupil who sat cross-legged, still waving her arm.

  ‘Pauline Bolton. You’re showing your knickers again. How many times do I have to tell you?’

  ‘Sorry, Miss.’ Focussed on her role as teacher’s pet, her distracted tugs on the hem of the sundress were pretty ineffectual. ‘Let me answer, Miss, please, Miss.’

  Susan glowered, pursed pantomime lips, pretended to give the request serious consideration just like Miss Morris at school. ‘All right, Pauline. But be very careful.’ Fragments of rotting bark flew as she whacked the log with her cane. ‘You know what happened last time you made a mistake.’

  They both glanced at the angry red mark on the little girl’s leg. Going home with that on show was a complete no-no. Pauline’s mum would kill Susan. She’d have to keep the kid happy for at least another hour before it faded. Unless they lied, told Mrs B that Pauline had fallen or something. It had been an accident of sorts after all. She couldn’t have known Pauline would be dumb enough to walk in the way just as she was dishing out six of the best to the naughtiest boy in the class.