‘No. I don’t think so, dear. I think you’d better go now.’
‘That is such a shame.’ Caroline’s mock concern masked impatience. She knew she’d get there in the end, she always did. Boy had she been right about the place stinking. It wasn’t just cat pee making her journo nose wrinkle. She sniffed news like there was no tomorrow. The murder of a child told by the killer fifty-something years on? Even without the abduction it was sensational stuff. If – no, when – she got this woman to open up, she’d have a story to die for. ‘You see, I really think I can help the police find Caitlin.’
Walker rubbed a hand over her face. Plain, unprepossessing, anyone looking less like a child killer Caroline couldn’t imagine. But that was part of the beauty. This woman could pass unnoticed in every street, every gathering, yet she had a unique story. Caroline didn’t just want to get inside her sodding sitting room; she wanted temporary residence inside her head. Then tell the world what secrets, thoughts and emotions lurked there.
‘Look, if you don’t mind, I’ve had a rather trying time of late.’
Had quite a few trying times if you asked Caroline. ‘Of course, Mrs Walker.’ Mentally bracing herself, she gave the woman’s arm a gentle squeeze. ‘I was only thinking of Caitlin … being at the mercy of a man like that.’
‘Like what?’ The voice snapped; her gaze locked on to Caroline. Alzheimer’s? No way. Caroline reckoned Nicola had been telling porkies. Fleetingly she registered something in the woman’s eyes that sent a shiver down her spine. The pause it gave was momentary, she told herself not to be stupid. Glancing round conspiratorially, she lowered her voice. ‘I shouldn’t really tell you this, Mrs Walker, but … the abductor’s been sending me messages. He wants me … Are you—?’ She shot out both arms to steady the woman. ‘There you go. Look, forget I said a word. I’ll just wait until you’ve got your breath back and I’ll be on my way.’ Another pat, another concerned smile. If that didn’t open more doors, Caroline would begin to suspect she was losing her touch.
‘You’d better come through, dear. I need to sit down.’
Bingo. Full house – well, bungalow.
‘Let me help.’ Caroline linked arms with the woman. ‘Lean on me, Mrs Walker.’
Losing her touch? Yeah right.
‘Come sit next to me when you’re done?’ Caitlin pulled a face behind his back as she patted the mattress. ‘I hate being on my own.’
‘You’ve changed your tune all of a sudden.’ Monkey man, still divvying up fish and chips, turned his head, flicked her a casual glance. ‘Hungry?’
‘Starving.’ Switching on a smile, she circled a hand over her stomach. Its wild churning meant even keeping water down would be a big ask. Nerves not nausea. Given the size of the challenge she’d set herself. Changing the tune was part of it. From screw-you to screw-me. Only the segue had to be a lot subtler, her performance faultless.
‘Why don’t you give me a name I can call you?’ She twisted a strand of hair between her fingers. ‘Monkey man’s so lame. And it’s not very nice, is it?’
He stood gazing down for a few seconds before handing over her share. ‘You want to play nice now, eh?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ She held his gaze as she nibbled a chip. ‘No sense biting the hand that feeds you, is there?’ It wasn’t the greatest line, but she giggled anyway. ‘Not to mention clothes.’ She stroked her fingers down a slender thigh. ‘The jeans fit great by the way. I should’ve said thanks. You taking a pew, or what?’
He shrugged. ‘Shove over a bit then.’
She did, but not too far. ‘Go on then. What shall I call you?’
‘Stick with monkey man. I kinda like it.’
Weirdo. ‘I wouldn’t tell the police or anything, y’know.’ His shrug said ‘who-gives-a-fuck?’ Caitlin interpreted it as another sign he had no intention of letting her go. ‘Hey, it’s not fair. You’ve got more than me.’ Playful, teasing, she leaned across to snatch a chip, made sure a boob brushed against his arm.
He batted her hand. ‘Life’s not fair, is it? I thought the cuttings made that clear.’ She knew what he meant but a discussion of crime and punishment would hardly lead to bedtime stories.
‘Sorry.’ Licking grease off her fingers. ‘It was only a little joke.’ She caught the smell of fish on his breath. The guy was gross. How could anyone make so much noise eating? She hoped to God she’d be able to go through with it when the time came.
‘Lighten up a bit, hey?’ Very gently she tapped him on the forearm. ‘It’s OK for you. You get to go out. I’m stuck here with only the walls for company.’ And the odd spider. Hop-along was still doing the not-so-rounds up there. ‘What’s happening in the world?
‘Don’t worry, it’s still spinning.’
‘Time goes so slow though. Any chance you could bring some DVDs in? I love movies. How about you?’ He turned his mouth down, non committal. She ploughed on regardless as they ate, reeling off favourite films, actors, précised the Twilight plot: man bites girl. She played to her audience with verve, threw in impersonations and extravagant hand gestures, all the while casting covert glances at his face. He cracked the occasional smile, made the odd comment. He seemed edgier than of late though. ‘Hey.’ She laid her hand on his shoulder. ‘How about you grab popcorn, hot dogs, ice cream?’
‘I shouldn’t get your hopes up if I were you.’ He screwed the wrappings, tossed them in a corner.
‘Why not?’ Casual but his words had sent a chill down her spine.
‘You might not be here much longer.’
Shit. ‘Great. That means I’ll get to see Mum again.’
‘Course you will.’ Smiling, he got to his feet, patted her shoulder. She saw a flake of fish lodged in the lying bastard’s teeth. ‘Laters, babe. I’ve got a few things need sorting.’
‘You’re not going, are you? I hate being on my own in this place. Gives me the creeps.’
‘And I care because?’
Knob end. She dropped her head. ‘I thought you did, just a little.’ Could she force a tear or two? Oh, yes. And a shudder.
‘Come on, Caitlin, don’t cry.’ He reached out a hand but didn’t touch her this time. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Go then. Leave me. You don’t care.’
‘Look, I’ll try and pick up a film for you, OK?’
‘Promise?’ She counted five before lifting her head, meeting his gaze. ‘Is there any chance I could clean up a bit? I know I’d feel better. The wipes are almost gone and—’
‘I’ll bring you a bowl, heat some water. Next time I’m back.’ He smiled. ‘That do you?’
‘Ace.’ She pursed her lips. ‘A mirror, too?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll see.’
You bet you will, arse wipe. She heard the key in the lock, his footsteps fade. Finally relaxed. Thank God, he’d gone, hopefully he’d shower, smarten up a bit before getting back. She’d seen the gleam in his eye, the way he ran his gaze over her body. She had no doubt he was warming to her, but he hadn’t yet got the hots. No point going off half-cock.
Caitlin smiled. The performance had only been a curtain raiser for the second act.
Slowly, slowly catchy fucking monkey man.
Nicola Reynolds opened the front door wearing a winter coat and a face like thunder. ‘I was just on the way out.’
‘No worries.’ Sarah gave a tight smile. ‘I’ll give you—’
‘I’ve got transport, thanks all the same.’ She made to close the door. Difficult with Harries’ size ten in the frame.
‘A lift to the station. Do it there.’ Sarah folded her arms. ‘You’ve got ten seconds to change your mind.’
Without a word she stepped back, flung the coat on the stairs, stormed down the hall. Sarah and Dave shrugged in sync before tailing through to the kitchen. He muttered some sarky line about Rizlas. Sarah glanced at the luridly stained dishes in the sink, didn’t need detective powers to suss Reynolds’ partiality to Indian food. She was already slumped at the table,
legs crossed, arms clamped. Sarah and Dave took the same seats they’d used the first night. The DI picked a hair off her skirt. Dave opened his notebook. Sarah was curious to see how or if Reynolds would break the silence as well as how long it would take. Twelve seconds.
‘Get on with it then.’ Snarling, Reynolds reached for the inevitable nicotine hit. Sarah stifled a sigh then breathed one of relief. The smoker was fresh out of fags. She screwed the pack, chucked it across the room. If deprivation made her any jumpier, God help them. She was like a human pressure cooker with no safety valve. Her current heightened state made those first-night nerves look laid back and she’d been on a knife edge then.
Again, Sarah was surprised Reynolds hadn’t asked about developments, her seeming indifference to the inquiry. ‘Why didn’t you tell us about the message?’ If she’d not been looking out for it, she’d have missed the momentary darkening in Reynolds’ eyes, the tightening of the lips. The question had hit home and then some.
‘What message?’ She twisted a silver ring round her wedding finger. The tremor in her hands made her apparent nonchalance risible.
‘Coat. Now.’ Sarah pushed back the chair. ‘I’m not playing games; we’ll do this at the nick.’
‘Please. No.’ Her voice was very near a scream of fear. She’d raised both palms to back up the plea. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘Damn right, I don’t.’ The cooler the tone, the closer Sarah was to snapping. Right now, arctic was an under-statement. ‘I don’t understand why you’re obstructing my inquiry into your daughter’s disappearance. I don’t understand why you rarely answer my questions and I don’t understand why – when you do – you seem incapable of telling the truth.’
Glaring, Reynolds balled her fists on her thighs. A few tense seconds passed then her defiance – and defences – crumpled. She hunched over, shoulders heaving. Inevitable really. Days of stress, not helped by the recent discovery of her mother’s past, something had to give. Sarah made a T with her fingers, Harries took the hint. By the time the brew was on the table, Reynolds had calmed enough.
‘Right.’ Sarah slipped her BlackBerry in a pocket, a quick check had revealed the earth was still intact. ‘Who sent the message?’
‘I don’t know. Honest to God I’d tell you if I did.’
Sarah held out a hand. ‘Give me the phone. Now.’
‘No way.’ Her eyes widened. ‘What if—’
‘Now.’ She’d no intention of taking it away. Cutting the perp’s line of communication would be risky, could be fatal. Besides, he was no fool, the mobile was probably a pay-as-you-go registered to a Mr M Mouse. Whatever, she’d lay bets they’d not be able to trace the owner. Sarah scrolled through texts checking whether Reynolds had kept anything else close to her chest. Assuming she hadn’t deleted anything, there was just the one: Ask your old lady about Badger’s Copse.
‘Have you actually spoken to the guy?’
‘Just the once.’
‘And?’ Reynolds couldn’t be that dense surely? ‘Come on, give. Does he sound young, old? High pitch? Low? Lisp? Accent?’
Reynolds turned her mouth down. ‘Young-ish? Quite softly spoken but creepy if you know what I mean?’
Not a clue. ‘Would you recognize it again?’
‘Definitely.’
Thank God for small mercies. ‘If and when he contacts you, I’ll be the second person to know. Right?’ She slid the phone across the table but kept hold, waited for Reynolds to make eye contact. ‘Right?’
‘I want to cooperate, really I do, but how can I?’ The palms she held out were empty. ‘He says he’ll kill her if I have anything to do with you.’ Her voice was softer, body language slightly less stressed but she was still singing from the same can’t-help hymn sheet.
Sarah sighed, shook her head. ‘What you have to understand, Mrs Reynolds, is he could kill Caitlin anyway.’ Reynolds slapped a hand to her mouth. Harries turned his sharp intake of breath into an unconvincing cough. Tough. Pussy-footing hadn’t worked. ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on in his head or what his agenda is, but he clearly enjoys toying with you. We have to draw him into the open, get to him before he does any more harm.’
‘I see that, inspector.’ She pushed away the mug. ‘But it’s not your daughter he’s holding.’
‘If it was …’ Sarah paused, held the woman’s gaze. ‘I know damn sure what I’d do. And it wouldn’t be playing mouse to a psycho cat.’
She nodded, pensive, then wandered to the sink, poured and drank a glass of water before turning to face Sarah. ‘If it helps Caitlin – I’ll do whatever you say.’
Sarah secured various promises from Reynolds, prime being she’d call the minute she heard from the abductor. She’d also consider having an experienced detective in the house, someone skilled in communication, negotiation. Theory being, he could help Reynolds lead the conversation, tease out information. In practice, he’d act as minder too.
‘Tell me, has he been in direct contact with your mother?’
She shook her head. ‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Would she tell you?’
‘Tell me?’ Reynolds snorted. ‘Course she would; her life’s an open book, isn’t it? Oh, no, wait. It isn’t. She forgot to mention one or two minor points.’
Like killing a child and spending ten years in prison. What could Sarah say that wouldn’t sound trite? She took a sip of tea, grimaced. No wonder the woman was on water: Dave’s PG was on a par with his coffee.
‘It has to be connected, Mrs Reynolds. You do see that?’
‘Not one word in all these years.’ Staring at the floor, Reynolds could have been talking to herself. ‘How could she do that?’
‘With the inquiry on-going I’m not sure she should be left on her own,’ Sarah said. The woman still stared at the lino, circling her toe. ‘Mrs Reynolds?’
She lifted her glance. ‘Yes, you’re right. I’ll have her stay here a few days. To be on the safe side.’
‘Has he told you why he’s holding Caitlin, Mrs Reynolds? What he wants out of this?’
‘I wish I knew.’
‘Maybe next time he gets in touch.’ Sarah nodded at Dave. As they walked to the door, she told Reynolds there’d be a news conference late afternoon, the cameras would be there, she’d make a direct appeal to the abductor. ‘I’m hoping it’ll have the desired effect. I want to smoke him out.’
‘Smoke him out? For what he’s doing, I’d like to see him burn in hell.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
‘Can I get you anything, Mrs Walker?’ Iced water, cold shower, industrial fan? How the old girl could sit so close to the fire was beyond Caroline. Just helping Walker settle in the wing chair had brought the reporter out in a sweat. The small space was like a furnace on full blast, airless and odorous to a stultifying degree. Still, looking on the bright side. ‘Would you mind awfully if I slip off my jacket?’ One arm was already on its way out. The unwitting hostess stared into the flames. Caroline doubted she’d even taken the request on board.
Smiling solicitously, she perched on the settee as close as she could get bar taking up berth in Walker’s lap. Perish the thought. Caroline found the woman’s stale odour abhorrent but the art of persuasion called for close proximity. Soon she’d start mirroring Walker’s posture, pick up the speech patterns. It was in the journalist’s DNA: insinuate, ingratiate, imitate then extricate the truth. God, she thought, mentally tossing back a theatrical head, how I suffer for my art.
Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on her knees. ‘How about I rustle you up a cup of tea? I’m sure I can find my way around the kitchen.’
‘No,’ she snapped. Behind the smeared lenses her eyes looked huge, unfocused. ‘All I want to know before you go is what this man’s game is? He’s sending you messages, you say?’
‘That’s right.’ Caroline hugged her knees. The Manolos weren’t under the coffee table yet. ‘He came to my house once, too. I wasn’t in but he left a note.’ Of sorts.
> Walker gasped as her liver-spotted maw grasped Caroline’s small delicate hand. ‘Surely you’ve been in touch with the police?’
‘You bet I have.’ How she didn’t flinch, Caroline would never know. ‘In fact I met with the senior investigating officer first thing. DI Sarah Quinn?’
Walker frowned, gave an uncertain smile. ‘So it’ll all be over soon?’
Caroline sighed her regret, gently removed her hand from the woman’s clammy grip. ‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple.’ The messages, she said, hadn’t been explicit. The cops still had no clue where Caitlin was being held or by whom. ‘But they think they know why.’ Girding mental loins, she took a deep breath. ‘And I do too, Mrs Walker.’
She gazed at her lap. ‘You know about my past, don’t you? Did he tell you?’
‘Not in so many words.’ Caroline described the crude painting on her kitchen wall, the instruction about Badger’s Copse. When Walker heard about Caitlin’s initials, she closed her eyes, murmured what sounded like ‘dear God’.
‘He’s getting back at you through your granddaughter, isn’t he?’ The woman held her face in her hands as if it was about to fall apart. Caroline shook her head. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Mrs Walker, but I think you’ve suffered enough. I think he’s a cruel, callous coward.’ Ingratiate, ingratiate. Christ she sounded like a dyslexic Dalek.
‘But what will he do to her? And why contact you and not the police?’
‘Assuming he’s punishing you because he believes you got off lightly, I shouldn’t imagine he holds the law in high regard. Which is a shame because DI Quinn’s a good detective. She’s given me her blessing to help with the inquiry.’ The endorsement could go either way: Walker’s past dealings with the cops couldn’t have been great. On the other hand, anything that added gravitas and credence to what Caroline now saw as her increasingly less precarious position was worth the risk.
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