Child's Play

by Maureen Carter

  ‘You as good as accused her of lying about being on the phone in the kitchen.’

  ‘I know what I heard, Dave.’ Two voices. She’d swear on it.

  ‘Ways and means, boss.’ He was digging in a pocket. ‘I think you rub her up the wrong way.’

  ‘Thanks for the valuable insight. Now shut up.’ She didn’t need the lecture. Asking if Caitlin and Neil Lomas were close, perhaps too close, had very nearly got them thrown out, but the question had to be posed. Nicola’s apoplectic denial was as predictable as Dave’s verdict on the session. Neither was helpful. ‘Where d’you want dropping?’

  ‘Back at the ranch? If that’s OK?’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ She peered at the screen through wipers that were barely coping. ‘That reminds me. The chief. Reckon we should organize a card, bottle of Scotch or something?’

  ‘Thought you said it’d only be a few days.’ Could he sound less interested?

  ‘Even so. He sounded well down on the phone, Dave. The guy never takes time off.’

  ‘What’s up with him?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say.’ She cut him another glance. ‘What are you doing?’ He’d been fidgeting like a kid with fleas since getting in the car.

  ‘Checking Nicola’s litter.’

  ‘Litter?’ Of course, the balled-up paper around the bin. He smoothed out the sheet, blew off flecks of ash. ‘Well?’

  ‘Amazing what you can pick up,’ he said. ‘Nicola Reynolds’ kid’s missing, right? Why do you suppose she’s taking an interest in a child murder from 1960?’ As a throwaway line, it took some beating. ‘Fancy thrashing it out over a drink, boss?’

  Sod Tesco. ‘Your shout?’ She smiled. He could put some of that overtime to good use.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Nicola Reynolds opened the door and wordlessly gestured Caroline into the sitting room.

  ‘Bad timing or what?’ The reporter gave her now tight-lipped hostess a tentative smile as she slipped past. Like Nicola, she’d certainly not expected Sarah Quinn and the boy David to come calling. Not when she and Nicola had been getting on so well. No worries; they’d just have to pick up where they left off.

  Nicola headed straight for the drinks trolley. ‘I won’t have that woman in this house again. Who the hell does she think she is?’ She flashed a bottle at Caroline. Gordon’s. ‘I’ve a damn good mind to slap in a complaint.’

  ‘A small one, thanks.’ The reporter sank back on the settee, the leather still warm from one of the cops’ backsides. Caroline had skulked in the kitchen knowing just how ecstatic Sarah Quinn would have been to see her cosying up to Caitlin’s mum. Fortunately the reporter had already played her ace before the Ice Queen showed. The top card – make that cards – was letting Nicola see the photos on her phone, the macabre mural in wide shot and close-up. The fact she and Nicola obviously shared the same mystery correspondent had helped forge a bond of sorts. ‘Cheers. The inspector’s not everyone’s cup of tea.’ She tipped her tumbler at Nicola. ‘I wouldn’t underestimate her though.’

  Nicola’s snort suggested otherwise. But Caroline knew Quinn wouldn’t take long to put two and two together – once the inquiry established the Reynolds-Bailey link. The reporter had elicited it within minutes. She’d taken along a couple of cuttings and could’ve played snap with Nicola’s collection. Snap, not Happy Families, given Nicola Reynolds was the daughter of a child killer. On top of that, the poor bloody woman had only just found out.

  Talk about right place, right time – Caroline could hardly believe her luck. What’s more, as soon as Nicola saw Caitlin’s initials on the pic, she seemed almost eager to tell her tale. And what a tale. The more background that emerged, the more Caroline had to play down her growing excitement. She’d covered just about every sort of story in her journalistic career. This was unprecedented. To die for. A child killer’s granddaughter abducted fifty years after the crime. And someone seeking retribution? The news potential was huge, margin for error massive: Caitlin Reynolds’ life hung in the balance. Even Caroline felt an unaccustomed caution, a tad out of her depth.

  ‘I really think you should tell DI Quinn what you know.’ She studied Nicola over the rim of her glass. With so much at stake the reporter had already decided to bring the cops in. Eventually. That didn’t stop her wanting to get as much material as she could first.

  ‘No way.’ Nicola shook her head. ‘I’ve told you why. He says he’ll kill Caitlin.’

  The guy could top Caitlin anyway but Caroline kept that thought back. ‘And you’ve absolutely no idea who’s holding her?’

  ‘Believe me, I’d tell you if I did.’

  Would she? Caroline wasn’t sure. ‘What about a member of the murdered girl’s family?’ she asked. ‘The parents would be getting on a bit now, but I wonder if she had siblings, cousins?’ The way Caroline saw it, anyone bearing a grudge was fair game.

  ‘How would I know, Miss King?’ She put down her empty glass. ‘It happened years before I was born.’

  Thinking of grudges. ‘The builder’s a possibility. Ted Crawford? Your mother falsely accused him of the killing.’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ She picked a loose thread from the dressing gown, rolled it between her fingers.

  ‘Guesswork’s not going to do it, Nicola.’ Logic dictated it had to be someone who was around at the time. Caroline knew how to dig, but the police had instant access to records and the resources and officers to follow trails. ‘Time’s passing, Mrs Reynolds. The police—’

  ‘No. No. No.’ She clamped her hands over her ears.

  OK, OK, I get the picture. Caroline leaned forward, softened her voice. ‘So what are you going to do, Nicola?’ Conciliatory. Solicitous. She didn’t want to lose the woman, or risk the exclusive.

  Nicola needed a refill. She strode across the room, topped up the glass then turned to face Caroline. ‘You’ve asked all the questions so far. Let me ask you one. Whoever this … this … sadist is who’s holding Caitlin … why’s he involved you?’

  As much as she once thought she’d been singled out, Caroline had changed her mind. ‘I don’t think it’s me, per se. I imagine he’s just after press coverage, any high-profile journalist will do. He wants me to deliver.’ She just wasn’t sure what yet. ‘When was he last in contact?’

  Slight hesitation. ‘Yesterday?’ Quick sip of drink. ‘Yes. Yesterday.’ She walked back to her chair. Cagey and evasive.

  Caroline wondered why the woman had lied, what else she might be keeping back. ‘Do you know why he’s holding Caitlin?’ Reynolds’ shrug seemed too casual. ‘Surely he’s told you what he wants out of this?’

  ‘Nothing. No.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Look, Miss King, I’ve had a rough day. I need—’

  ‘Of course. Thanks for your time. We’ll talk again.’ Caroline grabbed her bag, rose to her feet. ‘Just one thing, Nicola.’ She waited until the woman was standing. ‘When did your mother die?’

  ‘Die? What makes you think she’s dead?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She felt her colour rise. ‘I assumed from what you said—’

  ‘You misunderstood, Miss King. She has Alzheimer’s, her mind’s failing. I suppose you could call it as good as dead.’

  The Alzheimer’s was stretching it a bit but so what? Nicola didn’t particularly want a nosy hack knocking on her mother’s door. God knows what the old crone might come out with. Nicola wouldn’t have been so forthcoming herself but for the pictures on King’s phone. It was shock more than anything that had led her to invite the reporter in. Like the look on King’s face when she realized the main player was still alive. Lying in bed now, Nicola sighed as she stared at the ceiling. Not giving King the old woman’s name and address had only delayed the inevitable. King was a reporter. She’d find out sooner or later. Hopefully, by then it would be too late anyway.

  ‘Try and sleep, Nic.’ She stiffened as Neil laid a proprietary arm across her naked stomach. He’d slipped back to the house after midnight. She
was aware of where he’d been, what he’d been doing. She’d begged him to help: a few drinks in a few pubs, words in the right – or wrong – people’s ears. Everybody hates child killers – even more than paedos. Neil’s father, an ex-Fleet Street reporter, had covered the original case. He’d kept tabs on Susan Bailey for years thinking he might write a book about child killers, recognized a photograph Neil had shown him months back of Nicola and her mother. She and Neil had discussed tipping off the press: child killer in our midst, that kind of thing. But Neil said the media wouldn’t dare touch a story like that these days. Besides, it would have taken too long and Nicola wanted her daughter back as soon as humanly possible.

  ‘Don’t worry, Nic.’ She tried not to recoil when Neil traced the curve of her belly with his finger. ‘We’ll have Caitlin home before you know it.’

  ‘It’s the last one on the right, boss.’ Slurring just a touch, Harries leaned across her, pointing out the house. His finger was none too steady and pretty superfluous given the street had only one end-terrace. ‘’S good of you to drop me off.’

  Sarah masked a smile, gently nudged him back into place. She blamed his squiffy state on the grappa. Not to mention the beers and wine. DI Virtuous had downed one glass of Sauvignon then switched to tonic water, and they’d split the bill. Mind, they had moved on from a quick jar in the Queen’s Head to the full works at Giovanni’s. For Sarah, it hadn’t been a tough call, they both had to eat and the supermarket wasn’t going anywhere. Besides, Dave had been on good form: she couldn’t remember when she’d laughed so much. Mind, he’d thought her suggestion about the sergeant’s exam had been a joke. At first, anyway.

  ‘A lift’s the least I could do, considering.’ She braked as a fox shot across the road.

  ‘Considering what?’ Dave made to straighten the tie he’d removed hours ago. She saw the end sticking out of his pocket.

  ‘The paper trail?’

  ‘Paper what?’ How much had he had to drink? Either he’d taken a drop more than she realized or he’d adopted a new speech pattern.

  ‘Are all your pronouncements going to end in “what”, Dave?’ She cut a glance in the mirror, nudged the Audi into a parking space.

  ‘Wh—?’ The penny dropped and his smile spread slowly. ‘With you. Paper trail, huh?’

  In his current state, he’d have cottoned on quicker if she’d said ‘litter lead’. Sarah had a feeling that Nicola’s cast-offs could contain metaphorical gold dust. The printout had been badly creased and covered in ash but enough of the story remained to intrigue. After a bit of net-surfing on Dave’s phone in the pub, Sarah had called the squad room, tasked a couple of officers with carrying out more stringent background checks. Someone else would get on to Leicester, ask colleagues there to delve into records. If Nicola’s interest in the babe-in-the-wood killing turned out to be more than morbid curiosity, the inquiry needed to know. Like, yesterday.

  ‘Is it a habit of yours then, Dave? Ferreting round in people’s bins?’

  ‘It is now.’ He cocked his head, suddenly serious. ‘Calling me nosy, DI Quinn?’

  ‘Daft sod.’ She rolled her eyes.

  ‘Anyway, strictly speaking the paper wasn’t in her bin.’

  ‘Splitting hairs? Time to call it a night I think.’

  ‘Day.’ He nodded at the clock on the dash: 00.05. ‘Strictly speaking.’

  ‘Out!’ Smiling, she leaned across, opened his door.

  ‘Hey, boss.’ His head re-appeared. She’d bet he was holding on to the roof for support. ‘Fancy a coffee?’

  You are joking. ‘I’d best be off. Early start and all that.’

  ‘Instant’s quick.’

  The gag was glib, but she’d rarely seen him look so serious. ‘Dave, I really have to—’

  ‘Sarah. Please.’

  ‘Black. One sugar. Make it snappy.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  ‘Come in, sit down.’ Unsmiling, Sarah looked up from her desk, played a pen between her fingers. She could only remember entertaining Caroline King in her office once before. It hadn’t been a social call. Back then the DI had accused the reporter of screwing privileged police information out of Harries. Screw being the operative word. Harries, who’d shown King up from reception, still hovered just behind her in the doorway. Sarah dismissed him with a smile. ‘Thanks, Dave.’

  ‘Ditto. Davy.’ Caroline flashed him a wink before sauntering in and taking a seat. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’ Her smile was perfunctory. She took her time crossing slender legs, smoothing an imaginary crease in a tight skirt. It seemed to Sarah that the reporter, who rarely looked less than immaculate, had gone out of her way to make a statement. The tailored black suit was definitely Armani and she’d teamed it with a crisp white shirt and black stilettos. The get-up shouted: business.

  ‘So, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ Sarah leaned back, loosely laced her fingers. It had better be good. The desk sergeant who’d alerted her to the reporter’s arrival had made it sound as if she’d turned up hand-in-hand with Lord Lucan clutching the Holy Grail. Mind, it was first thing Sunday: maybe Caroline had dropped by on her way to church. Not. Either way, Sarah’s more pressing priority was a face-to-face meeting with Nicola Reynolds to establish what exactly interested her in the babe-in-the-wood case.

  ‘You seem very … laid-back this morning, DI Quinn?’ King pursed her lips as she studied Sarah’s face. ‘Is there something we should know?’

  Even Sarah struggled to keep a straight face. Surely to God, Dave hadn’t given the game away about last night. Sarah couldn’t even blame it on the drink. Unless instant coffee counted. Anyway, sod it. She was a grown woman; her conscience was clear. Ish. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know …’ Caroline flapped a casual hand. ‘I thought you might have an opening. In the case.’

  Bullshit. Yes, the early brief had been a breeze compared with recent ones and Sarah now had a newly energised squad working Dave’s paper trail, but King wasn’t privy to that. The reporter was on the wind-up. Sarah couldn’t be doing with stupid games.

  ‘My mistake, Caroline. I was told you had important information.’ Half rising, she rolled the chair back. ‘I’ll see you out.’

  ‘That would be your mistake, DI Quinn. I’d not be here wasting my time if I didn’t have something big to share. It’s quality intelligence, pukka.’ Another meaningful silence. ‘And it could be the breakthrough in Caitlin Reynolds’ abduction.’

  Sarah had an idea where she was coming from and sensed a ‘but’. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Quid pro quo.’

  The DI stifled a sigh; the reporter had more pauses than a Pinter play. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I want something from you in exchange.’

  Nothing new there then.

  Caroline delivered the facts concisely, convincingly. Top line: Caitlin Reynolds’ grandmother had killed a child in the 1960s, the abductor wanted revenge. Before the recital, Caroline had carefully laid out two cuttings on the desk in front of the DI. Tilting her head now at the display she said, ‘The dish isn’t cold. It’s absolute zero.’

  Continuing silence from the other side of the desk.

  ‘Well?’ Caroline gazed at Sarah, still waiting for reaction. She’d already tried mind-reading because Sarah’s face sure as hell hadn’t given anything away as she heard Caroline out. Frowning, she watched as the DI rolled back the chair again. This time she headed for the window, perched on the sill. For a few seconds she stared at the reporter, then: ‘So what is it you want from me?’

  Was that it? A miffed Caroline masked her disappointment. On the proverbial plate, she’d handed over the key Reynolds-Bailey connection. OK, Caroline regarded it as a bargaining chip but by rights the detective should be waving her arms yelling Hallelujah not looking like it was yesterday’s news.

  ‘Actually, first.’ Sarah folded her arms. ‘Tell me what you intend doing with the story.’

  ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing.’ Mock horror. ‘Not until Caitli
n’s released and you’ve got whoever’s holding her banged up.’

  ‘Quite sure about that?’ She cocked an eyebrow. ‘Because if this got out—’

  ‘It’s a no-brainer. I’m hardly likely to risk someone’s life.’ Caroline resented the DI’s shrugged shoulder but knew when to hold back. Securing a deal outweighed scoring a point.

  ‘No.’ Sarah’s smile held no warmth. ‘I suppose you’re saving it to go towards the king-sized scoop when it’s all over?’

  You bet. And there’d be a book in it. Quinn was nobody’s fool, though. ‘Actually that’s where you come in, DI Quinn.’ Caroline leaned forward, eyes shining as she told Sarah she wanted access all areas, exclusive access. She’d provided the lead, she argued; it was only fair she worked it – within reason – with the police. ‘Observing mostly, natch,’ she added, ‘though with me being a skilled interviewer …’

  ‘You’re offering your services? How kind.’

  ‘I’m a pro, Sarah. I know what I’m doing. I won’t get in the way. Besides, I think you owe me, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re right, I do.’ Nodding, she bit her lip.

  Strike while the copper’s hot. ‘Oh and I need the grandmother’s details. Better still, maybe I could tag along when you go see her?’

  ‘Sure. Anything else?’ She strolled back to her seat, took some papers out of a drawer. ‘Expense account? Police driver? Shrink?’

  Shrink? ‘Oh very funny. Big laugh.’ Caroline jabbed a finger in the DI’s direction. ‘Take the piss all you like but until I walked in here your inquiry was going precisely no—’

  ‘Enough.’ Sarah raised a palm. Her other hand held a cutting which she positioned carefully over Caroline’s. ‘Snap.’

  The reporter snorted. The line was hardly original. And if the snooty bitch wanted to play, Caroline preferred poker any day. Keeping her gaze on the detective, Caroline reached into her bag for her phone. ‘I’ll raise you.’ She brought the abductor’s artwork up on screen, slid the phone across the desk. ‘I prefer playing big girls’ games.’