Child's Play

by Maureen Carter

  ‘Well? Go on, girl.’ Susan had almost perfected Miss’s tone of voice and turn of phrase. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  Frowning, Pauline turned her mouth down, her lips still blood-red with juice from the illicit lolly. ‘Sorry, Miss. You took so long, I forgot the question.’

  ‘Blaming someone else?’ Whoosh went the cane. ‘When you’re at fault?’ Thwack. ‘That’ll never do.’

  ‘Not so.’ The skirt rode up as she squirmed. Susan caught another flash of pink cotton. ‘Ask it again. Ask it again.’

  ‘’Kay. What’s six times seven?’

  ‘That’s not the question,’ she wailed.

  ‘How do you know, missie? You said you couldn’t remember.’ Course it wasn’t. Even Susan struggled with the seven times table and she’d be at big school next year. Pauline didn’t stand a chance. ‘It’s really not good enough, young lady.’ The skin chafed on Susan’s lardy thighs as she struggled to her feet. ‘Come on, think about it. One times seven is seven …’ She continued reciting as she padded round the tree stump, poking and prodding Pauline’s tiny body with the cane then halted, hands on hips, her shadow almost obliterating the little girl. ‘And six times seven is …?’

  ‘I dunno. ’Snot fair.’ Tears glistened as they ran down Pauline’s face, dripped from her chin.

  ‘All right. Who’s going to help Little Miss Smarty Pants? I said who’s—’ Eyes wide, Susan froze, cane pressed against Pauline’s chest. She’d heard something. Could swear it was a voice.

  ‘What is it, Sukie?’ Pauline whispered.

  ‘Shush!’ Ears pricked, Susan cocked her head. Sounded like it came from the copse. Somebody spying on them?

  Spooked as well now, Pauline said, ‘Sukie, stop it.’

  ‘Shush, I said.’ She drew back the cane. A dog barked, a branch snapped.

  ‘Please don’t, Sukie,’ she whimpered, then put her thumb in her mouth, sucked it like a teat.

  Still straining her ears, Susan counted to ten. Nothing but the trickling stream, wood pigeons cooing, the faint drone of a tractor. Could she have imagined it? She dropped the cane, lowered her voice. ‘Did you hear anything, Paulie?’

  She shook her head. ‘Like what?’

  ‘A voice. A man’s voice.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  Susan dithered for a few seconds, wondering if she should tell. ‘I couldn’t make it out.’ She tousled Pauline’s curls. ‘Forget it.’

  The little girl stood on the tree stump, gently removed her friend’s glasses, stared into her eyes. ‘What did it say, Sukie?’

  ‘I told you – nothing. Come on, let’s—’

  She stamped her foot. ‘Were you just trying to scare me?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  Not initially anyway. Now she saw a way of using the little girl’s fear to get at the truth and hopefully allay her own unease. Because Susan really didn’t think she’d imagined the voice or the words. And if Pauline had been telling the truth about the lolly …

  ‘On your mother’s life, Paulie. Where’d you get the lolly?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die, a man give it me.’

  Pauline hadn’t been making it up then. Susan felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. She grabbed both of Pauline’s arms, forced her to make eye contact. ‘Did you get it from a stranger, Pauline?’

  ‘That hurts. Stop it.’ She struggled free, rubbed the tender flesh. In the tussle, Susan didn’t even notice the glasses fall from Pauline’s grasp.

  ‘I won’t ask you again, Pauline Bolton. Did you take it from a stranger?’

  ‘No,’ she shouted, red-faced.

  ‘So you know him?’

  The little girl looked down, started picking at the grass wedged in the soles of her sandals. ‘A bit. I seen him before. You know him too. I seen you with him in the copse.’

  ‘When? Who did you see?’ She shook her hard.

  ‘Let me go or I’ll tell on you.’

  ‘What did you see, you little liar?’

  ‘Nothin’.’

  ‘If you don’t tell me—’

  ‘Sukie.’ Eyes wide, Pauline pointed a finger over Susan’s shoulder. ‘He’s there.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘I’m sorry. Say again.’ Sarah’s biro stalled mid-hover over an almost full page of notes: name, age, address, alibis that would have to be checked, yada yada, then: wham. Had she heard him right? A quick glance to her left suggested Harries was experiencing a credibility gap too – he seemed to be having trouble swallowing. Sarah leaned back, laid down the pen, studied Neil Lomas even more closely, certainly more than he reciprocated.

  The criminology lecturer lounged in the chair opposite, skinny ankle lodged across bony knee, eau de pong wafted from a scuffed Hush Puppy. Part-bemused, she watched as he plucked a sandy hair from his brown cord jacket, held it to the light then dropped it on her carpet. In your own time, sunshine. Considering the guy had turned up early, he was certainly wasting it now. Shame the interview rooms downstairs were full; more formal surroundings often provided a kick up a cocky bum.

  ‘Which part can’t you grasp, DI Quinn?’ Finally meeting her gaze, Lomas flashed an emaciated smile at her and what looked like a wink at Harries. ‘That Caitlin hit on me? Or that I had to let her down gently.’

  Both, actually. Sarah hadn’t seen Caitlin in the flesh but found it almost inconceivable that the striking girl in the photograph would have the hots for the tosspot facing her. It was difficult enough believing the sparse ginger hair and skin like undercooked dough ticked even Nicola Reynolds’ boxes. Like Sarah’s mum used to say, looks aren’t everything. But to compensate for the shortcomings, Lomas must have a bloody big … personality. Sarah reckoned he hid it well.

  Harries was up to something, too. She heard a rustle, glanced down, so wished she hadn’t. He was miming a hand-job under the desk. The gesture’s timing was unfortunate, given her next question. ‘Define “came on to me”, Mr Lomas.’

  ‘Do I really have to spell it out, inspector?’ Pursed prissy lips.

  She wondered if an expression could be simultaneously both pitying and patronizing, decided Lomas had perfected the art. Maybe it worked on his students. ‘Let’s think. Yes.’

  He gave a laboured sigh and ran both hands through the thinning hair before revealing that he’d started spending less time at the Reynolds’ house because Caitlin seemed to have developed some sort of crush. Apparently she made a lot of eye contact, gave lingering pecks on the cheek and indulged in suggestive wordplay. Big deal. A lot of people might interpret Caitlin’s actions as being warm and friendly. As for suggestive wordplay? It sounded to Sarah like weasel speak for talk dirty. Why didn’t he just say what he meant? Harries leaned forward; he’d clearly had enough of the guy’s crap. ‘Did she or didn’t she ask for a shag?’

  That was certainly one way of putting it. She masked a smile.

  ‘Screw you, constable.’ Lomas scraped back the chair, flecks of spittle on his lip. ‘I came here freely of my own volition. I don’t have to tolerate language like that or the offensive nature of the slur.’

  ‘Please sit down, Mr Lomas,’ Sarah said evenly. ‘We’re not finished.’ She felt like pointing out the tautology but didn’t think he’d appreciate the lecture. ‘And you’ve not answered the question. Did she explicitly proposition you?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’

  ‘Did her alleged flirting go any further than looks and innuendo?’

  The bristling was almost laughable. ‘There was nothing alleged about it, DI Quinn. And it would’ve – if I’d let it.’

  ‘So why didn’t you?’ Harries asked. ‘Most men—’

  ‘I’m not most men. Some of us don’t take advantage of pretty needy girls. And more to the point, I’m in a relationship with Nicola.’

  Needy? Sarah made another note. ‘Is Caitlin’s mother aware of what you say was going on?’ Under her nose.

  ‘Good God, no. Nic thinks the sun shines out of
Caitlin’s ar— Pardon the French, Caitlin’s posterior.’ The guy’s arched eyebrow was so knowing, she wouldn’t be surprised to see it on Mastermind. Specialist subject: arrogant twats.

  She unscrewed the cap on a bottle of water, took a few sips. ‘Let’s say for a minute Nicola had found out. How would she react?’

  ‘I’d get the blame.’ He threw his hands in the air. ‘I’d be out on my ear, my feet wouldn’t touch.’

  ‘Would Nicola feel betrayed, angry even?’ Sarah asked.

  He snorted. ‘Surely you must’ve picked up by now that Caitlin can do no wrong in her mother’s eyes?’ She shrugged. Like some ham actor, he narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you trying to suggest Nicola’s got something to do with Caitlin’s disappearance?’

  No, she wasn’t. But she found it interesting that Lomas had mooted the possibility.

  ‘If Caitlin Reynolds fancies that knob-end … sod the hat, boss.’ Harries glanced in the wing mirror, pulled out to overtake. ‘I’d scoff the effing wardrobe.’

  The lilac-rinse wrinkly in the car ahead – a pristine powder-blue Morris Minor – was tootling along at tortoise pace. ‘Watch your speed, Dave.’ They were in a thirty limit: penalty points on a cop’s licence weren’t a good look, and besides Sarah wanted to get there in one piece. ‘There’ being Queen’s Ridge comprehensive. The premises had been opened up by a caretaker and the deputy head would be on site too. Apart from touching base with the search team, Sarah wanted to check out call-me-Jude-my-body’s-a-temple-Fox. The teacher’s name didn’t figure on the list drawn up by Dave and Shona but Dave just happened to mention she’d be in school painting scenery for the end of term play. Sarah hadn’t asked how he knew.

  ‘You see it the same way, don’t you, boss? A girl like Caitlin isn’t gonna be that desperate.’

  ‘Sure.’ She took a green apple from a pocket, started polishing it on her coat sleeve. ‘But why’d he put it out there at all?’ She remembered the thought bugging her at the time. Lomas had already denied being what Dave called the snogger at the bus stop, claimed he’d been lunching in the canteen when Caitlin was indulging in a tongue sandwich. If the alibi checked, he’d be in the clear. So why mention Caitlin’s so-called crush? If he’d kept his mouth shut, they’d have been none the wiser.

  ‘Come on, boss. He was blowing smoke up his arse.’

  ‘Charming.’ She took a bite, pulled a face, turned to gaze at the Saturday shoppers out in force on Kings Heath high street. That reminded her, she’d have to hit a supermarket today; she was down to her last loo roll. Back to bums then. She raised a wry eyebrow – did Dave have a point? Lomas probably had a Masters in ego-aggrandisement. He’d certainly not featured yet in Caitlin’s diary. The lecturer’s early arrival at the station had bitten into Sarah’s reading time. She’d considered passing the book/buck back to Shona but on second thoughts decided against, hoping the girl’s own words might give some insight into her character. Sarah hated admitting she was little nearer knowing what made Caitlin tick now than on day one of Operation Vixen.

  ‘You heard about the sweepstake, boss?’

  Face screwed, she looked at the apple: God it was tart. Shame she’d not grabbed a banana. Mind, she’d just clocked a bloke shuffling past shoving burger and chips down his bull neck. Why did it always seem to be lard-arses who ate on the hoof? Couldn’t they wait to get home before topping up the fat levels? School kids weren’t much better – every lunchtime all over the city, queues outside Greggs spilled onto the pavement. Not as bad as Glasgow though. She’d spent a month there on a case some years back and the first time she’d witnessed it she thought a riot had broken out.

  ‘Hello? Is anybody there? Knock once for yes.’ Dave hadn’t done his Madame Arcati act for a while.

  She smiled. ‘Sorry. I was miles away.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Good one though, Dave.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was like being in the same room.’

  ‘With?’

  ‘Margaret Rutherford.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Forget it.’ She flapped a hand.

  ‘Anyway I was saying … the sweepstake. Are you in?’

  ‘What sweepstake?’

  She took another nibble of apple, listened as he told her one of the custody sergeants had it on good authority Baker was taking an early bath. The sweepstake was a fiver a go and winner pockets the lot. ‘All you have to do is pick a date, boss.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Come on, Dave, if the chief gets wind … he’d put in for promotion.’

  Harries glanced across and smiled. ‘What date you going for then?’

  ‘Fourth of July.’

  They drove in an easy silence for a while. Juggling the apple, she scrolled through a few emails on her phone, put in a call to the squad room, left another message for Baker, who’d still not got back to her. When she glanced up, the school was in sight. Dave indicated left, turned into the gates.

  She took another tentative nibble. ‘Course, it could have been a pre-emptive strike.’

  ‘Are we back on Lomas?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Well spotted, that man. ‘You know what they say, Dave: attack’s the best kind of defence.’

  The knotted eyebrows meant he wasn’t convinced. Thinking it through while he parked the motor, he switched off the engine, turned to face her. ‘You think he tried it on? Not Caitlin. And Casanova was getting his version in first?’

  She shrugged a shoulder. ‘Could be.’

  ‘If that’s the case, I bet she told him to take a running jump.’

  ‘Off a motorway bridge. And he wouldn’t have liked that, would he?’ They held eye contact for a few seconds.

  ‘That’s food for thought, boss.’

  Nodding, she offered him the apple. ‘Fancy a bite?’

  He flashed a smile. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Why did you never tell me, Mum?’ Forget stranger or mad old bat; Nicola thought her mother looked haunted. After hearing the name Badger’s Copse, she’d had to be gently led into the next room. She sat in the wing chair now, clutching her chest, struggling to get her breath.

  Nicola had left the news cutting at home but it was beginning to make sense. Her mother must’ve been one of the children in the wood, the ten-year-old who’d been attacked by a stranger and witnessed the murder of her best friend. No wonder she’d taken Nicola’s question so badly.

  ‘I don’t talk about it. It happened a long time ago.’ She never talked about her family either, Nicola realized. Or her upbringing, schooling, teen years. No old photos survived; none of her children’s books or toys had been passed down. What do they say about the past? In her mum’s case, foreign country barely covered it. More like faraway galaxy.

  Nicola leaned forward in her seat. ‘But you saw the man who killed her. You helped the police and everything.’ Her mum must have been quite a heroine at the time. She’d had her fifteen minutes of fame before Nicola was born, before Warhol even coined the phrase. Maybe that was why she changed her name. She gave her mum a warm smile. After all these years she saw the old dear in a new light. ‘Was it exciting? Did you have to go to court? Give evidence?’

  ‘Tommy rot,’ she snapped. ‘You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t be shy, Mum. I read a newspaper article. Somebody pushed it through the—’ Nicola froze, felt her blood run cold. Not just somebody. The psycho holding Caitlin. Her confused thoughts raced. What did her mother’s part in a fifty-year-old crime have to do with Caitlin’s abduction? Unless … Had her testament led to the killer being sent down? Was he free now and seeking to exact some kind of sick revenge?

  ‘Tell me, Mum.’ Nicola willed her mother to make eye contact. The old woman continued staring into the distance, biting her lip. ‘Why did you change your name?’

  Was she staring at the past as well as into the distance? ‘Becau
se.’ A tear slithered down the wizened cheek.

  ‘Because what, goddamnit?’

  ‘Because they said I did it.’

  ‘And did you?’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Caroline gave a lazy smile, licked her slightly swollen lips. Boy did she need a drink and a pee. Not necessarily in that order. Hardly surprising given a quick glance at the bedside clock showed it was mid-morning and she’d yet to rise let alone shine. It had been a busy night but … Her erstwhile editor had by no means fallen down on the job. Though neither of them, as she recalled, had been what you’d call a sleeping partner.

  The ceiling mirror had certainly seen some action. She laughed out loud as she admired her reflection. Yep. You could definitely say Eddie had come good, and not just with the rushes. In fact, compared with the high-octane sex, the surplus footage had been a bit of an anti-climax. A potential tipster hadn’t exactly leapt off the screen screaming, ‘Bang to rights, governor, it’s a fair cop.’ Mind, she’d been a tad tipsy by the time they got round to a viewing. Eddie’s bedroom athleticism had at least provided bonus features, and what’s more he’d picked up the tab at the Thai restaurant.

  Yawning, she threw off the duvet, caught a trace of his Aramis. She smoothed the black satin sheet where he’d lain, plucked a blond hair from the pillow. He was a decent bloke, and Caro occasionally needed the exercise, but out of sight, out of …

  When he’d leaned over to peck her cheek goodbye, she’d feigned sleep, watched his exit through bleary eyes. Even if he’d not had to leave, she knew she’d have found some excuse to turf him out. Home territory and all that.

  Barefoot she padded to the sash window, peered through the blind at the pewter sky. Same old. Christ, she could barely remember what the sun looked like. Grabbing her dressing gown, she headed for the bathroom, still pondering the irony: she made a damn good living invading other people’s space while guarding her own like the recipe for Coke. She rarely invited a man back for a nightcap, let alone into her bed. Exchanging bodily fluids was no sweat, but she drew the line at home addresses. No big secret. It was a question of who called the shots. And when it boiled down to it, Caroline recognized she was as much a control freak as the Ice Queen. No wonder they had such a warm relationship.