Child's Play

by Maureen Carter

  ‘Main entrance. Don’t be late.’

  Caroline had a head start. She was there already. Nothing ventured, nothing blah-blah. She’d turned up halfway through visiting time and tried – again – to blag her way in. The reporter had moved on by now from just seeing Walker as her ticket to the top; she was genuinely fascinated by the story, convinced she could do it and the woman justice.

  She’d actually given up the blag as a bad job – just for the night – and was sitting in her car when she checked the cops’ Twitter feed. Portman was a dead ringer for a pic she had on her phone. What you might call a snatch shot. One of several taken during her comfort break at Crawford’s pad. The landing walls held more family snaps than the National Portrait Gallery. It’s not just old habits that die hard; Caroline never missed a digital trick these days. One of her mantras being: you never know …

  She didn’t know what Jake Portman was doing posing with Ted Crawford at a barbecue but the picture would be worth a lot to Sarah. Far more than a thousand words with Linda Walker.

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you let me see this earlier?’ Sarah snapped, handing back the reporter’s phone. The question was stupid – she knew that. Until this evening, the cops themselves had no idea of Portman’s POI status. King had only realized twenty minutes ago, couldn’t have contacted Sarah any quicker if she’d tried. Harries was back in the car calling in the new intelligence to the squad room; soon every available detective would be working the angle. Even as she stood here arguing the toss with King an unmarked car should be en route to Worcester to pick up Crawford. Initially at least, he’d be helping police inquiries.

  Caroline’s tapping foot echoed in the hospital corridor. ‘You just can’t stand the fact I’ve bailed you out yet again, can you?’

  ‘Bailed me …?’ The DI wasn’t often speechless. With Caitlin Reynolds’ life still at stake and the deadline ever closer, bailed out was the last thing Sarah felt. Floundering up a creek with a paper paddle maybe. She watched Caroline raise a finger, knew what was coming.

  ‘I hand you the Reynolds-Bailey link on a plate.’ A second finger. ‘I tell you Walker’s retracted her confession.’ A third. ‘I pass on info from the abductor.’ A fourth. ‘I place Portman with Crawford. Four-nil, DI Quinn. Strikes me a bit of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.’

  Sarah tightened her mouth. Loathed feeling beholden to the bloody woman. King’s smug superiority didn’t help either. Fact was her words held a grain of truth. The DI had already made up her mind on the score. King just had to shut up and listen. ‘This gratitude? It wouldn’t be in the form of letting you come in with me to see Linda Walker, would it?’

  The reporter shrugged. ‘Could be.’

  Sarah turned on her heel, called over her shoulder. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘You’re serious?’ The killer heels clacked as she power-walked to keep pace.

  Of course. A mental clock was ticking. ‘If Walker agrees, it’s OK with me. One condition, Caroline.’ She cut her a glance. ‘I talk, she talks, you—’

  ‘Listen.’ Caroline nodded.

  Sarah stifled a sigh. Bloody woman still hadn’t got the hang of it.

  Caitlin’s piss-take comments on the movie had long since dried up. They’d not been funny in the first place, more a means of making him think she was happy. She was dead serious now. For what seemed hours, she’d made not the slightest sound. She’d even matched her breathing to his, the frequency, the depth, every rise and fall in complete harmony. As fucking if. She curled a lip. Mind, there was nothing she wouldn’t do to get out of the place. The foul stickiness between her thighs proved that.

  Had the bastard dropped off yet? Gently, so very gently she moved her hand an inch towards the floor. What was it she’d said? Slowly, slowly catchy monkey man. She daren’t rush anything anyway; she knew she’d only get one crack at it.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Linda Walker lay propped on a mound of pillows, her hair hung loose like twists of steel cable; the finger and thumb on her right hand picked compulsively at the top sheet. Sarah and Caroline perched on armchairs either side of the bed. Walker had almost seemed to welcome the reporter’s presence. The sooner people knew the truth, she’d said, the sooner Caitlin would be released. Sarah hadn’t disillusioned the woman or filled her in on the current state of play. Dave would call from the car the second anything changed.

  ‘You told Miss King you didn’t kill Pauline?’ Sarah coaxed gently, itched to still Walker’s fidgeting, force her to look up. Perhaps she found it difficult without the glasses to hide behind?

  ‘I did kill her … in a way.’

  ‘In a way?’ Sarah exchanged glances with Caroline.

  ‘I ran off. Left her. I was a coward. If I hadn’t fallen … got knocked out … maybe Pauline would be here now.’

  Sarah tapped a finger against her lips. ‘But you confessed to her murder, Mrs Walker.’

  ‘Not at first. I was confused. When I came round there was blood all over my dress, my hands. I suppose I was concussed. I told them about the shouty man. Then the ambulance came and took me away.’

  ‘The shouty man?’

  Walker shuddered. ‘The builder. He used to give Pauline sweets and lollies. He chased us into the copse. Thing is, I didn’t see him hurt her and they said it couldn’t have been him who killed her.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The police, his boss, his work mates.’ She nodded towards a glass of water on the cabinet. Sarah passed her the drink, registered the tremor in her hand. Registered, too, that King wasn’t taking any notes. Either the reporter had total recall or she had a recorder on her. Sarah sighed, opted for the latter. ‘I still don’t understand why you confessed, Mrs Walker,’ she said.

  ‘I did hit her. With the cane. We were playing schools. But it was an accident. Then there was this detective. He didn’t believe me. He twisted my words. Kept saying I did it. It got so I couldn’t think straight. He said I had her blood on me and the murder weapon had my hairs on it. I was confused, scared. I just wanted him to shut up, leave me alone.’

  ‘But you were jailed,’ Sarah said. ‘Sent away from your family.’

  For the first time, she made eye contact. ‘My father was a monster, DI Quinn. I didn’t even know what he did to me was wrong. I’d never heard the word “incest”.’ Water spilled down her chin as she held the glass to her mouth.

  Sarah handed her a tissue. ‘You could’ve tried to get the conviction quashed when you were released.’

  ‘What would’ve been the point? Why stir it up? You know what people say: no smoke without fire. They didn’t believe me when I was a kid, why believe me ten, twenty years later? Besides, if I’d raked it up, everything would have come out. I didn’t want Nicola to know. I wanted to protect her from all that.’

  Sarah bit her lip. So Walker had lied and the killer got away. Maybe she’d read the silence.

  ‘I swear if there’d been another murder I’d have come forward.’

  Sarah glanced at the wall clock. 21:05. ‘So who do you think killed Pauline?’

  ‘I always thought it was the builder. That he hanged himself out of guilt.’

  Sarah waited for Walker to make eye contact. ‘Ted Crawford didn’t hang himself, Mrs Walker.’

  The colour drained from her face. Sarah had to relieve her of the glass. ‘But they told me he was dead. Why would anyone do that?’

  She shrugged. To stop her seeking redress? If she thought Crawford had killed himself …

  ‘Oh my God. Speak no evil.’ She placed a hand across her mouth.

  ‘I think you need to explain.’ Sarah listened impassive as Walker told her about the intruder in her kitchen, the tongue. Why the hell hadn’t the woman spoken sooner?

  ‘I thought he meant the lies I told in the past. But it was a warning to keep my mouth shut now.’ Her voice – and panic – was rising. ‘I shouldn’t be speaking to you. He’s scared I’ll say I didn’t do it. It’s why he’s holding Caitli
n, isn’t it? No, no, ridiculous.’ She shook her head. ‘He’s an old man now.’

  Sarah nodded at Caroline. ‘I’d like you to look at a photograph, Mrs Walker.’

  Squinting, she held the screen inches from her face. ‘Holy Mother of God.’ The voice was barely a whisper; the phone fell on the bed as she shrank into the pillows. ‘He’s the spit of Grace.’

  Sarah reckoned it was a bloody good job the woman was already lying down. Walker looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

  They were at the door when she called: ‘Miss King. A word before you go?’

  FORTY-EIGHT

  One banana, two banana, three banana … Caitlin counted the seconds in her head: monkey man hadn’t moved for twenty-three minutes. Not so much as an eyelash. Not since he’d asked what the fuck was going on.

  Slowly, cautiously, as the film played, she’d inched away from his sweaty musky embrace. The last tiny shift had clearly disturbed the bastard but not enough to rouse him. She’d murmured sweet nothings and hadn’t budged since: nor had he. Twenty-four minutes now. But she had to act soon: the DVD hadn’t long to run, and in what would be a sudden silence, Caitlin reckoned she’d have even less chance.

  Gently, she turned her head on the pillow, eyed the phone. By now it was well within reach. It wouldn’t be her first port of call. God knows what planet she’d been on, imagining she could summon help with monkey man in earshot. Planet of the Apes? She allowed herself the thinnest smile: an action movie was more what she had in mind.

  Mentally, she’d run through the scene a couple of times, worked out the moves, calculated the distances, clocked the props. Timing was all.

  No, she thought, the phone was a bad idea. Besides the glass was nearer.

  She reached out a hand. ‘Just grabbing some wine, babe.’ Sleepy murmur. She even took a sip. Did he know what hit him when she smashed it in his face? Oh, yes. She saw the look of pain and terror that spread when she rammed the ragged stem in his eye. Screaming in agony, he made a fumbling grab for her, glass still embedded in both eyeballs, blood poured from deep cuts.

  ‘Fucking bitch.’ He caught her a glancing blow with his fist – more by luck than judgement. ‘What the fuck have you done?’

  ‘Nowhere near enough.’ Standing now, Caitlin watched as he staggered to his knees. Swaying and sobbing, he could barely see through a veil of blood and tears. Shame. Holding the bottle over her head in both hands, she wondered if he wanted more wine. The noise when the glass shattered his skull was one she thought she’d never forget. She knew she’d remember the sound of the laptop: the DVD was still playing when she brought it down on his face. Again and again and again …

  Then she reached for the phone.

  The call came in at 21:50.

  ‘Triple nine, ma’am. Body in that disused cinema in Kings Heath?’

  ‘And you’re telling me why, Huntie?’ Like Sarah didn’t have enough on her plate. She and Harries were in the motor heading back to Nicola Reynolds’ house. If the abductor could be believed, he was cutting it fine.

  ‘Caitlin Reynolds called it in, ma’am. She’s still there.’

  The scene that greeted Sarah put new meaning into deadline. Jake Portman had been battered almost beyond recognition. Drenched in his blood, Caitlin Reynolds was near catatonic. Irony was: soon as the girl was fit, she’d be charged with murder.

  FORTY-NINE

  CUTS days, Sarah thought of them. Cleaning up the shit. Some inquiries left more than others. After seventy-odd hours of shovelling, the Caitlin Reynolds case was still mired in the stuff. The leaning stack of files on the desk was testament to that. Sarah circled her shoulders, eased a crick in her neck. Definitely time to call it a day. Resting her head against the chair she gazed at the far wall. Pictured a row of vertical penises. Cock-up didn’t do it justice. Justice? She snorted. What was that when it was at home?

  And why hadn’t she seen the crucial link before? The case keys should have been staring her in the face. Without sightings of Caitlin, the thrust of the inquiry should always have been at the school. A school where a caretaker had access to every room, every outbuilding. A caretaker with a warped mind who’d fabricated an utterly fictitious background, biding his time before moving in for the …

  Sarah had gleaned some of Portman’s thinking during lengthy interviews with Caitlin. As he saw it Susan Bailey hadn’t just killed Pauline, the bitch had destroyed his mother and devastated his life. Grace had only turned to drugs to cope with the pain of her sister’s murder. Her increasing addiction meant Jack/Jake had spent much of his youth in care. As he grew older, so did his scalding hatred and thirst for payback. Eighteen months ago, he’d sought out Ted Crawford desperate to learn more about the tragedy that happened long before he was born. Maybe Crawford had fuelled Portman’s resentment? Maybe Crawford felt partly responsible? Either way, he’d made Portman welcome, invited him back for the odd family event. Sarah strongly suspected there was more to it than that but Crawford vigorously denied involvement.

  Caitlin maintained throughout that Portman’s motive was revenge; it was certainly Nicola’s belief. How ironic, given the only person Linda Walker had killed was herself. On what would turn out to be her deathbed, Walker had confessed to lying all those years ago. Two days after opening up to Sarah, she’d taken her own life. Had the news about Caitlin driven her over the edge? Sarah sighed: should she have seen that coming too? Whatever. Walker had been found with a plastic bag over her head. With her breathing laboured anyway after the fire, the medics had been unable to save her. They were having better luck with Luke Holden, who still clung to life in intensive care. Caitlin had revealed Portman’s role in the apparent suicide attempt. The rough justice he’d meted out had been for Holden too. Sarah shook her head.

  Ripple upon ripple upon …

  Move on, damn it. She strolled to the window, checked if Dave’s car was back. She didn’t really fancy going out tonight but a promise is a promise. Her aim was to get quietly hammered. She’d not had a drink all week. Operation Vixen was the only investigation she’d ever worked when there’d been no piss-up at the end. Not that the end had been pretty. The savagery of the attack on Portman had been appalling. Even with extenuating circumstances, Caitlin was looking at years behind bars. Nicola Reynolds and Neil Lomas had already been charged with incitement, perverting the course of justice. Whatever punishment the courts dished out, it wouldn’t touch what Nicola would go through seeing her daughter jailed.

  The squad had been sober in more ways than one since finding out about Baker’s health. The chief had yet to show his face at the station but she’d spoken to him on the phone a few times. She hoped he’d make it tonight.

  Smiling wryly she wandered back to the desk, surveyed the day’s detritus: empty crisp packets, KitKat wrappers, six coffee-stained polystyrene cups. She swept everything into the bin, wished she could do the same with the fallout from the case.

  The wall clock showed half-seven. Time enough to touch up the mascara, finger comb the hair. She told herself that ditching the bun had nothing to do with Walker’s version, but the pixie crop still came as a shock every time she looked in the mirror. Ten minutes later she was drumming the desk with her fingers. Sod it, she’d meet Dave out back; a bit of fresh air wouldn’t go amiss. Her phone rang as she reached the door. After glancing at the caller display, she almost didn’t answer. King had kept a low profile since Monday night.

  ‘Caroline?’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Finished the book yet?’

  ‘You missed your vocation, Sarah,’ King drawled. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘What?’ She stepped to one side as a mop-wielding cleaner passed in the corridor.

  ‘Walker. Is she dead?’

  What? ‘How do you—?’

  ‘She is then. There’s something you need to see, Sarah.’ The voice brooked no argument; the DI didn’t even try.

  ‘This had better be good,’ was Sarah’s opening gambit when King turned up in reception twenty minutes
later. ‘Follow me.’

  The reporter pulled a face as she clocked the surroundings. ‘An interview room?’

  ‘Just want you to feel at home, Caroline,’ she quipped deadpan. Hopefully the ambience and eau de Jeyes meant the reporter wouldn’t hang around. Sarah had already called Dave, said she’d see him at the gig.

  ‘That night in the hospital.’ Caroline reached into her tote bag. ‘When I was leaving? And Walker called me back? She gave me this.’

  Sarah studied the envelope, read the writing. ‘Have you re-sealed this by any chance?’

  ‘How dare you? She narrowed her eyes. ‘It says quite clearly—’

  She flapped a hand. ‘I see what it says, Caroline.’

  Only to be opened after my death.

  Walker’s last words covered barely one side of the unlined sheet of paper. Sarah read them in silence.

  I had to kill Pauline. She saw me and Ted Crawford in the copse. The nosy little beggar didn’t even know what we were doing but she threatened to tell my dad. He’d have killed me if he thought I’d done them things with someone else. Crawford helped me, held her down. He was always nice to me, gave me sweets and stuff, told me I was a good girl. Said he’d look after me. I thought when I came out of prison he’d be waiting. Fat lot I knew. I can’t live with the lies any more.

  Sarah folded the paper, slipped it back in the envelope. ‘Knocks your story on the head, doesn’t it? Miscarriage of justice, false imprisonment and all that.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth?’ Caroline grimaced. ‘Still I—’

  ‘Fell into that?’ Sarah shook her head. ‘Despicable woman.’

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Not you. Walker.’ She stood, held the door. ‘Let’s go.’ Back in reception she faced the reporter. ‘You know, Caroline, I’m not sure it’s worth the paper it’s written on.’ Crawford would be dragged in for further questioning but given it was his word against Walker’s, Sarah wouldn’t be counting chickens. ‘She only ever said one thing I actually believe.’