Child's Play

by Maureen Carter

  The DI saw a woman in danger of losing it, a woman who’d consistently misled the inquiry, a woman whose failure to tell the truth – forced or not – had led to the arson attack at Linda Walker’s home, a woman who’d been told by the abductor he wanted to spit on her mother’s grave. ‘But she’s not dead, is she?’

  Reynolds turned away, murmured something that sounded like ‘she is to me’. Sarah and Harries exchanged glances. If she’d read his right it said, ‘charge her now’. Reynolds took a few deep breaths, tried composing herself, came back with the same tune as if there had been no break. ‘I don’t understand why you won’t do it. He’s not to know she’s alive.’

  Reynolds wanted Sarah to issue a news release reporting a woman’s death in a house fire. It would name the victim as Linda Walker, give age, address and contain an appeal for witnesses. And, hey presto, according to Reynolds, Caitlin would walk free.

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ Sarah said. She’d no intention of letting the perp get away with it. Her brief was to put the bad guys away, not give them a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  Reynolds tightened her mouth. ‘If your daughter’s life depends on it, anything’s simple, inspector.’

  Anything? Hasten your own mother’s death? The chances of the arson being a random attack were so infinitesimal that Sarah wouldn’t even give the thought house room. What she had to establish was if Reynolds was in any way implicated.

  ‘Please, inspector, if you back me up on this, I’ll do whatever you want.’

  ‘The fire was started deliberately.’ Sarah stared at Reynolds. ‘What I want is you to tell me what you know.’ Because without that – no chance, don’t even think about a deal.

  ‘Honest to God, I …’ Maybe she was sick of lying; maybe she’d heard the tacit corollary; maybe she really would do anything to help Caitlin. Sarah struggled not to wince as she watched Reynolds rake her hair with her fingers. ‘OK, inspector. I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘How could she do it, boss?’

  Nicola Reynolds had put the word out round the Monkshead estate. No names, no pack drill, just ‘the woman at number 22 is a child killer’. Pass it on. Rough justice. Lynch-mob mentality. Faceless vigilantes. The estate had no end of likely suspects but they’d close ranks, plead ignorance, and if the squad couldn’t gather the evidence, they’d get away with attempted murder as well as arson. If she wasn’t a cop, Sarah could almost admire the woman’s duplicity.

  ‘You heard her, Dave. When she said anything …’ Sarah pointed the fob at the Audi. ‘Is your motor here?’ She wanted them travelling together.

  ‘It’ll be OK.’ Harries nodded at the police business notice in the MG’s window. ‘Y’know you’re wrong, boss,’ he said, fastening the seat belt. ‘It wasn’t absolutely anything. Reynolds drew the line at murder.’

  ‘Only by her own fair hand, Dave.’ Reynolds had learned from a puppet master: the abductor had ordered her to do his dirty work, and she’d passed on the assignment. ‘I can’t see the courts making any distinction.’

  Incitement was just one of the charges Reynolds would face, in addition to obstruction, perverting the course of justice, withholding evidence, plus a few more. But ‘would’ was the operative word. She was at liberty but under police guard for a while. The DI had decided to issue a bogus news release announcing Walker’s death. Last night’s appeal had signally failed to flush out the bastard. Maybe Walker’s obituary notice would do the trick. Meantime, Beth Lally and Jed Holmes were sticking to Reynolds like super-glued honey. There’d be no more secret sweet talking with the abductor.

  ‘Actually, boss, when I say how could she do it …?’

  She picked up a telling inflection, cut him a glance. ‘You’re thinking she had help?’

  He shrugged. Said he couldn’t see Reynolds bonding with the Monkshead lowlife somehow. ‘You need to know how to approach people like that, how to connect.’

  She nodded, pensive. ‘The descriptions she came up with were crap too.’ Totally worthless in terms of identifying anyone. Because she couldn’t? ‘Let’s hang fire an hour or two with the news release. Apply a bit more pressure on her.’ Switching on the engine, she told him to give the press office a bell then have a word with Beth. Reynolds needed to be pushed on the accomplice angle. ‘Good thinking, Dave.’ Her smile faded as a BMW with its lights flashing headed down the parking bays, blocked the Audi’s exit. She caught a glimpse of the driver. ‘Tell me it isn’t, Dave.’

  ‘It isn’t Brad Pitt, boss, but …’

  It was Caroline King. Sarah lowered the window. ‘I could probably do you for speeding.’

  ‘Please, Sarah, no dicking round. Is Linda Walker dead?’

  There was something in King’s voice, the look in her eye that made Sarah ditch the obvious comeback. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t think she killed anyone.’

  FORTY-TWO

  ‘This is on condition you keep it buttoned. Clear?’ Sarah glanced in the mirror at the back-seat passenger.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Caroline gave a mock salute.

  ‘I’m serious. One word out of place and that’s it.’ Letting King hop in had seemed like a plan back at the hospital. The DI and Harries had already been pushing it to get to Worcester for nine-thirty. The reporter appeared to be sitting on a story that for once Sarah thought worth hearing. They’d discussed Walker’s shock retraction en route but with only the one line to go on – apart from speculating – they couldn’t really take it any further. That wasn’t the case with the yobs that had milled round outside Walker’s home. Caroline had half-decent descriptions and Harries had phoned in the details. By now they would have been circulated to door-to-door teams and patrol cars on the estate. Rightly or wrongly, Sarah had reluctantly yielded to King’s request: the reporter was being allowed to keep a watching brief on the Crawford interview.

  ‘Nice pad.’ King gazed up at a pristine terrace in a Worcester side street a stone’s throw from the cathedral. The black door looked as if it had just had a paint job; the brass lion knocker glinted as Harries did the needful.

  ‘Remember what I said,’ Sarah warned. The reporter pulled an imaginary zip across her lips.

  For a man in his eighties, Ted Crawford wasn’t in bad shape. Around six-two and with a rangy frame, his slight stoop could be habitual rather than down to age. He ran a spade-like hand through a shock of white hair. ‘Police? The wife said. Come in, come in. She’s out shopping as per.’ He led them down a narrow hall to a sun room at the back of the house, lots of wicker furniture, padded floral cushions, plants on every surface. A pair of wire-framed glasses lay on an opened newspaper. ‘Doreen left a pot of coffee.’ Crawford pointed to a tray on a table with three cups and saucers. ‘I’ll go and grab anoth—’

  ‘Not for me, Mr Crawford,’ Caroline said. ‘I’ve already drunk my own weight in the stuff. In fact …’

  He smiled. ‘Upstairs, last door on the right.’

  Once she’d got the intros over, Sarah elaborated on why they were there. That a Birmingham teenager’s abduction could be linked to the babe-in-the-wood murder. A woman in Small Heath had been outed as Pauline Bolton’s killer and arsonists had fire-bombed the house. Watching Crawford carefully, she let the silence ride for a while. He flexed his jaw a couple of times before wiping his eyes with a hankie. Sarah thought the moistness was down to age rather than emotion.

  ‘Well, inspector, if anyone should bear a grudge, then I guess you’ve come to the right place.’ She was intrigued it was the first thought in his head, or at least the first he voiced. Her raised eyebrow asked for more. He blew ripples on the surface of his drink, all the while holding Sarah’s gaze. When King re-entered, no one reacted. Muttering an apology, she took the seat next to Harries.

  ‘However,’ he said, ‘I can assure you the fire’s nothing to do with me. If you really want to know, even back then I felt sort of sorry for Susan Bailey. It was clear from the start that she’d killed little Pauline.
Like a cornered rat, she was desperate for a way out and thought I’d do.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘I can see you’re having difficulty with that, inspector. But trust me, I was there.’

  Unsmiling, Sarah nodded. ‘Tell me about it.’

  He placed the cup on the tray. Apart from adding colour and a sense of place and the blazing summer heat, his account didn’t differ with anything she’d read. God knew what she’d hoped for. A mad axe murderer hiding up a tree wearing a name badge?

  ‘Was there never any suggestion that someone else could have carried out the killing?’

  ‘Apart from me?’ He stroked finger and thumb down his chin. ‘Not as far as I know.’

  She asked about other people around at the time, whether he thought any of them could be seeking revenge after all these years. Chin cupped in hand, Crawford shook his head. ‘What I do know, inspector, is that Pauline’s murder damn nearly killed her parents. They had to keep going, of course, because of the other kids, but …’ His spread palms invited her to fill in the blanks.

  Sarah nodded. ‘We’ve spoken to the surviving siblings.’ And eliminated them from the inquiry. ‘The eldest daughter, Grace, died twenty years ago.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The inquest recorded an open verdict.’

  ‘Top herself, did she?’ He didn’t wait for an answer she wouldn’t give anyway. ‘Poor kid went off the rails after the murder. I always reckoned she blamed herself, being the big sister and that. Grace doted on Pauline.’

  ‘Define “off the rails”.’

  ‘Drinking, smoking, hanging round with lads. Left home at sixteen. Last I heard she’d got herself pregnant.’

  ‘You seem very well-informed, Mr Crawford.’

  ‘Village life, inspector. People knew their neighbours in them days. Not like now when—’

  ‘You lived there?’ She was surprised, assumed the workforce travelled to the site each day. The question also stemmed a lecture she could do without.

  ‘Eventually. I moved in to one of the new houses.’ He gave a lop-sided smile. ‘Least I knew it was well built.’

  In Crawford’s shoes – given the proximity of the girls’ families – it would have been the last place Sarah would choose. ‘That couldn’t have been easy?’

  ‘Didn’t worry me. The Baileys did a moonlight flit before the case even got to trial. I think the Boltons saw me as a victim too.’ He eased a finger round his collar. Sarah doubted the gesture was unwitting.

  ‘OK, I think that’s it for now, Mr Crawford. If you could just give us your sons’ details we’ll leave you in peace.’ He baulked at first, eventually gave Dave the names then slipped the glasses on to read their numbers off his phone. Two lived in the States, a third in Manchester. As Sarah gathered her bits, Crawford half rose in his chair.

  ‘Why did you feel sorry for Susan?’ Caroline had other ideas. The question prompted a puzzled frown from Crawford. Sarah’s was more pissed off than nonplussed. ‘You were saying when I came in?’ Caroline helped out.

  He opened his mouth twice before words emerged. ‘Do you know the expression spare the rod, spoil the child?’ She nodded. ‘Well, the Baileys never spared it. Or the belt, or the fist. Great role models, eh? With parents like that, it’s no surprise she lashed out at someone smaller.’

  ‘That’s not how she remembers it,’ Caroline said. ‘And besides—’

  ‘Thanks for your time.’ Sarah handed him a card.

  ‘I’ll see you out, inspector.’ As they walked down the hall he asked about the fire, whether Walker had died.

  ‘The place was a death trap, Mr Crawford.’ She might as well get used to bending the truth: once the news release was issued there’d be no turning back.

  ‘What part of “button it” don’t you understand, Caroline?’

  Caroline shrugged as she slipped into the back seat. ‘Condescending git.’

  Sarah’s hand stilled on the way to the ignition. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Crawford, not you.’

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ Harries said. ‘I thought he was full of shit too.’

  ‘That’s another thing.’ Sarah glanced in the mirror. ‘What took you so long?’

  King held up her phone. ‘I took a call.’

  ‘All that “right from the word go” stuff.’ Harries hadn’t finished. ‘I thought he was a builder not a bloody trick cyclist.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask who from?’ King again, another flash of the phone. Her straight face and pointed delivery were answer enough. ‘He wants an end to it. He’s set a deadline – twelve hours.’

  FORTY-THREE

  Short and not sweet. The abductor’s call had been so brief King hadn’t had time even to think about recording his voice. Half an hour later, Nicola Reynolds received the same warning in a text. Both were enough for Sarah to green light the release. Success wasn’t guaranteed but what else had they got? The lie surfaced first on the police Twitter account. Small Heath fire death, woman named as Linda Walker, 64. Facebook’s slightly longer version was posted a minute later. Local radio was broadcasting the fairy story on the hour and half-hour. First paper to carry it was the Birmingham News. Sarah held the lunch edition in her hands.

  FIRE DEATH

  A woman’s died in an arson attack at her home on the Monkshead estate in Small Heath, Birmingham. The victim’s been named as 64-year-old Linda Walker. Mrs Walker suffered extensive burns and was dead on arrival at hospital. The fire broke out in the early hours of this morning. West Midlands police are appealing for witnesses.

  Short and not sweet times two. In fact it sucked. Shaking her head, the DI tossed the paper in the bin next to Harries’ desk. It had been a tough call. Sarah Quinn had never deliberately crossed the line ferrying a bent rule book. Releasing false information went against everything she believed in. Having made the decision, she’d kept very few people in the loop: hospital authorities, a handful of squad members, news chiefs. She’d discussed ethics with only one detective.

  ‘Come on, boss. Baker would’ve done it without a second thought.’ Though the squad room was fairly quiet, Harries kept his voice down. He’d intuited her thinking or read her face because Dave wasn’t the officer she’d discussed it with. And he was dead right about the chief. Sarah heard his voice again: What you waiting for, Quinn? It’s a no-brainer. She’d put in a quick call to see how he was doing as much as anything. She’d already known what his take would be. Had she also expected his typically brash offer? If it goes tits-up, I’ll carry the can. It’s not like I’m going to miss out on my pension is it, lass?

  And if she let him, wouldn’t that push her so far over the line there’d be no way back?

  ‘Boss. I said—’

  ‘I heard what you said, Dave. Just get on with it, eh?’ He was still trying to track down Jack Bolton. Grace’s son hadn’t just slipped the net. After absconding from the care home, he appeared to have gone off the radar. Not even the twins – his aunts – had been able to shed any light. Sarah wandered over to the water cooler, nodded at Hunt who was talking on the phone. He and Twig were on standby taking calls. Beth Lally and Holmes were still at the Reynolds’ place. Nicola had named Neil Lomas as her muck-spreading go-between on the estate. She’d been warned the release wouldn’t be issued if she didn’t give up a name. The abductor’s deadline had proved a more powerful spur than Sarah’s threats. Lomas would soon be helping with inquiries. The hero driver who’d raised the alarm was proving elusive too. She hoped he’d respond to the witness appeal – that was genuine if nothing else.

  Sighing, she crushed the paper cup in her hand, jettisoned it in another bin. She wondered too about King’s current whereabouts. Last seen, the reporter had been getting into her car at the hospital. Didn’t mean she’d driven away though. Sarah knew King wanted the interview with Linda Walker more than she’d ever wanted anything in her career. Knew too there wasn’t much to which King wouldn’t stoop. Sarah gave a crooked smile. The reporter used to keep
a white coat and stethoscope in the BMW, just in case. It wouldn’t work this time; the medics had been tipped off.

  Restless, she strolled over to the window. With most of the squad out working the estate, she reckoned all the inquiry irons were in the fire. Whoops. What an analogy. Either way, right now it was a waiting game. The wall clock read 13:00. Given the deadline expired in around nine hours, they didn’t have long to play. Pressing her forehead against the glass, she murmured, ‘Make a move, you bastard.’

  ‘Come on, boss.’ Dave must have heard. ‘You said it yourself; he’s only got to see it once.’

  ‘Victim?’ Monkey man thrust a newspaper in Caitlin’s face. She felt his spittle land on her cheek. ‘Victim? That is so fucking rich.’

  She grabbed the local rag out of his hands, scanned the front page with narrowed eyes. She hadn’t a clue what his problem was but boy was he in a strop. ‘I can’t—’

  His jabbing finger pointed out the item, an affected newsreader voice provided backup. ‘The victim’s been named as Linda Walker. Bitch is no more vic—’

  Gran’s dead? Caitlin frowned as she read the few short lines. Arson attack? Extensive burns? Poor bloody woman. What a god-awful way to die. Tears welled but she couldn’t risk him seeing her distress. Letting the paper drop to the floor, she walked away. ‘Where’s the champagne then?’

  ‘Victim.’ He snorted. ‘Fucking killer is what she is.’

  ‘Was.’ She made heavy weather of a yawn. ‘So when are we celebrating?’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You’ve got your revenge.’ She lay on the mattress, legs slightly splayed. ‘I get to go.’

  ‘Yeah, course you do, babe.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Let the heat die down a bit, eh?’

  He’d never let her go, she knew that. Like him, she had nothing left to lose. ‘Why don’t we make a night of it then? Champagne, DVD, Indian.’ She licked her lips. ‘The Raj is just over the road, isn’t it?’