by Mark Hill
‘Please!’
‘Listen to me.’ Connor shook his arm. ‘You’re gonna go in there and talk to the judge and tell him you’re going home.’
He pushed Toby to the office. Gordon scowled when he saw the boy, but bit down on his anger in front of the visitors. He’d made an effort with his appearance, but the long hair slicked neatly inside his collar jarred with the clammy sheen on his forehead.
Connor had never met anyone like Leonard Drake. A giant of a man in a three-piece suit, he dominated the room, towering over the other adults despite a stoop. A thick mane of hair surged back from his heavy brow, as he looked around him in barely concealed disgust. Myra Drake was scarcely shorter than her husband and stood stiffly, looking down the slope of her nose at the children.
‘Raymond is very attached to his cousin,’ she said, ‘and he’s concerned about her whereabouts.’
‘As we all are.’ Gordon pressed his hands together, as if in prayer. ‘I’m afraid Sally stole money from me, so I would very much like to know where she is.’
‘Have you told the police?’
‘I’m very fond of Sal and would rather not get the local constabulary involved. Despite everything, she’s always welcome here. Ain’t that right, kids?’ He wiped his slick forehead with a sleeve. ‘But she’s a handful, that lass, so who knows where she’s got herself off to.’
‘What is your name?’ Myra asked each of the children in turn. When she came to Connor, she eyed him curiously, perhaps because he brazenly stared right back. ‘And who are you?’
‘Connor Laird,’ he said, and her attention lingered on him.
Gordon gestured at the photographer’s camera. ‘Many of our children lack confidence, and you’ll give them a fright with that thing, Mr …?’
‘Sutherland,’ said the man, cleaning the camera lens. ‘Trevor.’
‘Why don’t you stay here, Trevor, and relax. We’ll be back soon.’
Leaving Sutherland in the office, the group walked around the house. The kids trailed behind the adults as Gordon stammered his excuses about the state of the home. The judge and his wife listened solemnly as he explained that, despite the homely nature of the place – ‘it could do with the odd nail here and there!’ – the children adored the Longacre.
But even Connor could see there was a huge gulf between the praise Gordon heaped on the home and the reality of the squalid, characterless rooms. Children were positioned carefully in front of some of the worst patches of damp, or sat on beds to hide ripped mattresses. All the best furniture had been moved hastily to the two or three bedrooms Gordon allowed Myra to see inside. Unable to climb the stairs, her husband waited at the bottom with the Dents, who watched beneath the banisters like trolls beneath a bridge.
The judge took the time to survey each ground-floor room carefully, despite Gordon’s desperate efforts to hurry him. Aside from asking a few terse questions, he said little. Every now and then, Connor would catch Myra looking at him.
‘Why are there no doors?’ asked Leonard Drake.
‘The children get scared when they bang in the night.’ Gordon smiled. ‘So we thought it best to remove them.’
The tour lasted less than fifteen minutes. When they returned to the office, the photographer jumped up, asking to get some quick shots before he rushed to another job. He was in a hurry, he said, because the paper was going to press that evening. He placed them in a line, the kids and the adults, on the very spot where Sally had died.
Connor didn’t want to be photographed. Call it instinct, call it some innate protective urge, he positioned himself at the very edge of the group.
As the camera flash whined and popped, and the room was soaked in a fluttering light – ‘Let’s have some big smiles from the little ones!’ – he swung away from the others. The photographer frowned, disappointed with the framing of his shots. But he was late for his next job, he said, and after getting brief quotes from Gordon and Leonard Drake, and jotting down everyone’s name, he left.
‘A glass of wine, perhaps?’ Gordon asked the judge.
Leonard Drake leaned grimly on his cane. ‘Of course not, it’s midday.’
‘You must understand, my son was very insistent that we come here, Mr Tallis,’ said Myra Drake. ‘To see … the work that you do.’
‘And what about you children?’ The judge’s eyes swept around the room. ‘Are you happy here?’
Seeing Gordon’s expression, Jason, Amelia and Kenny nodded.
‘Don’t look at him,’ Myra told Jason. ‘My husband asked you the question.’
‘I just want to go home,’ whined Toby. Tears fell down his cheeks.
Myra turned to him. ‘You have a home, child?’
Gordon stepped between them. ‘Connor! Toby’s not feeling well, why don’t you take the poor mite up to bed?’
Toby wrung his hands together. ‘We dug in the garden.’
‘Why don’t—’
‘Wait.’ Myra Drake spoke over Gordon. ‘You’ve a home, child?’
The other kids became agitated at Toby’s weeping. Kenny and Jason looked like they would do anything to get away. Elliot couldn’t tear his eyes from the spot where Sally had laid, blood blooming from the crown of her head across the floorboards.
‘He’s upset, aren’t you Toby, lad?’ Gordon tousled the boy’s hair. ‘I think this momentous occasion has been too much for him.’
‘We dug a hole,’ said Toby, between sobs.
‘Connor, take—’
‘Be quiet,’ Myra told Gordon. ‘And why did you do that, boy?’
Toby stared at her, dismally. ‘We buried a rug.’
‘What a curious thing to say.’
‘Take him away,’ Gordon hissed at Connor, but the boy didn’t move.
‘He’s going home soon, ain’t that right, Gordon?’ Connor said. ‘You promised him he’d be going home to his folks.’
‘The boy doesn’t belong here?’ asked Myra Drake.
Gordon pressed a handkerchief to his forehead. ‘He’s staying with us, temporarily.’
‘Toby wants to see his people again,’ said Connor. ‘His parents.’
‘Temporarily?’ Leonard Drake scowled. ‘That sounds very unorthodox.’
Connor met Gordon’s stare. ‘He’s going home.’
‘That’s right; the lad’s soon to go home.’ Gordon swallowed. ‘To his folks. And we’ll miss him, because we’re a happy family here.’
‘I doubt that very much.’ The rubber tip of Leonard Drake’s cane squeaked on the floor as he bore down on Gordon. ‘I think we’ve seen enough. This home is a disgrace.’
‘Let me—’
‘You are an absolute disgrace. I shall ensure that this cesspit is closed.’
‘Your Honour …’
The judge stood close to Gordon, who cringed beneath his steady gaze. ‘And you will inform us where Sally is as soon as you hear from her.’
Gordon frantically followed Leonard Drake outside.
‘You’re a spirited one,’ said Myra to Connor. Something caught her eye at the skirting as she turned to leave, and she bent to pick up the paperweight. She placed it on the desk, chipping at a stain on its glass surface with a thumbnail. Then she plucked at his T-shirt to pull him closer.
He felt her hot breath on his ear when she whispered: ‘This place deserves to burn.’
When she left, Connor joined the others at the window to watch the manager circle the judge as he reached the pavement, while Myra went to her son. Ray Drake listened while his mother spoke to him, slowly, firmly. His face was red with rage, but she wouldn’t allow him to speak, and when she finished, he flung up his arms in impotent fury and ran off down the street. His mother watched him go, impassive. A chauffeur jumped out of the car to open the rear doors. Leonard and Myra climbed in, ignoring Gordon’s panicked protestations.
Connor dropped the curtain and turned to see the others – Kenny, Jason, Elliot, Amelia and Toby – staring tensely at him.
Moments later, Gordon stepped back in the room. Hoping to disappear back amongst all the other kids, Kenny went to leave, but the manager blocked his way.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Eyes jerking in their sockets, Gordon slammed the door. ‘Let’s not break up the party, not while the day’s still young!’
51
Flick had never seen anything like it. She always presumed gardens were drab places in the winter but the grass was lush and green. The plants packed in the borders were colourful and vibrant in the dusk, and water trickled in a pretty pond. The wind was blowing hard now, but she couldn’t spot a single leaf on the lawn, or on the rippling surface of the water.
‘The wife’s the gardener.’ Trevor Sutherland stepped carefully across the neat paving embedded in the lawn towards a garden shed. ‘I hardly set foot out here if I can help it. My life wouldn’t be worth living if I damaged the grass.’
He was a sprightly man, with one shoulder hunched lower than the other. From carrying a heavy camera bag for half his life, he said. Keys of all shapes and sizes jangled at his waist, hanging from a solid brass ring a medieval jailer might fear too sinister. He lived in a quiet street in Barnet, in a modest two-up, two-down, with his wife and a pair of yapping dogs. Reaching the shed he considered the keys beneath tangled eyebrows, while Flick waited impatiently.
In the circumstances, this was the last place she should be. She should have washed her hands of the whole thing, should be at home with her feet up, writing notes about Ray Drake’s conduct, not standing outside a stranger’s shed in the suburbs.
‘This used to be my darkroom,’ he said. ‘Now it’s Shirley’s Gardening HQ.’
‘Do you miss it?’ asked Flick. ‘The job?’
‘Not much, but these days it’s a lot easier. You take a picture, and bang, the images are sent electronically to the news desk.’ Trevor’s fingers slipped from the key he’d finally located on the ring, and to Flick’s frustration he began his search all over again. ‘In my day you spent hours in the dark fiddling with chemicals – what a palaver! But it weren’t all bad, back then all the journalists loved to drink and swap stories.’ He winked. ‘So it was a good excuse to snatch a few hours down the pub.’
‘I’m amazed you remember the Longacre,’ she said, fishing for detail.
‘I didn’t work local papers for long. I had a talent, you see. Not for photography, any monkey can point a camera, but for getting in people’s faces. Lizzie Taylor, Princess Margaret, Stallone.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘They all knew me. I’ve always kept scrapbooks of my work. So when Diane from the Argent rang and said you were looking for something, I knew I could help.’
Her phone rang and she checked the screen: Peter Holloway. Wanting to discuss what happened in Ray Drake’s office, no doubt. It could wait.
‘I could have gone to Iraq and Afghanistan, trotted the globe winning awards.’ Trevor fumbled keys against the padlock. ‘But I don’t care for crocodiles or war zones.’
Flick waited, anxious to intervene. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I can manage, luv, it’s one of these little ones, and my motor skills ain’t what they used to be.’ He peered for a long time at a small silver key and then inserted it. The padlock bar pinged open. ‘Been a while since I’ve been in here.’
When Trevor snapped a switch inside the door, the shed was bathed in red light. Gardening equipment was stacked against the walls, a lawnmower, a shovel and hoe. Bottles of weed killer and lawn feed sat on a shelf. At the back was a makeshift darkroom. Two sinks set into a counter, trays piled with brushes and stained Marigolds and plastic tubs.
Trevor looked around in wonder, as if he’d found the Holy Grail. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many hours I spent in here.’ He picked up a chipped mug. ‘I wondered where that’d got to.’
Flick’s attention was grabbed by box files piled on top of a filing cabinet. ‘In one of these?’
‘Nah. That far back, it’ll be in the cabinet.’
Flick tugged at the cabinet’s handle but it was locked, and she had to stifle a groan when Trevor frowned at the key ring.
‘Here we go again.’ He held the keys close to his face beneath the soft red light, and by some miracle managed to quickly find a tiny key, turn it in the slot. The top drawer opened with a metallic shiver.
‘When I was younger, I’d cut out my photos from the paper, stick ’em in a book. Let’s take a look.’
He took out an old scrapbook, bloated by damp, the thick reams of paper stuck into it decades ago. Licking a forefinger, Trevor turned the pages, lingering nostalgically over articles and images. School fêtes; the opening of municipal buildings; long-dead authors giving talks in long-closed libraries.
‘There you are.’ He tapped at a page and handed the book to Flick. She read: JUDGE VISITS LOCAL CHILDREN’S HOME.
Noted High Court judge Leonard Drake dropped in to meet the kids at the Longacre Children’s Home, this week.
Mr Drake and his wife Myra visited in his role as Chairman of the Hackney Children’s Protection League to meet manager Gordon Tallis and his dedicated staff.
Her eyes dropped to the photograph beneath, and she grabbed the cabinet.
‘You all right, love?’
She barely heard him, as she matched faces to names from the caption.
A tall man stood in the middle of the group lined up in a nondescript office, a thick mane of hair swept back over his head. Leonard Drake. Died of natural causes years ago.
Beside him stood a snooty-looking woman, Myra Drake, tall and rigid, dressed in a frumpy frock. But no locket around her neck, Flick noticed. That penetrating gaze was unmistakable.
At the far left was a man with a lopsided smile, Gordon Tallis. Fists clenched in a threadbare corduroy suit and flared-collared shirt, lank hair sliding to his shoulders. His face, hidden behind a scruffy beard, was bloated and shifty. Tallis died hours after this photo was taken.
The smiles of the children between them were strained. Kenny Overton, a plump, red-headed boy with an awkward smile. Tied to a chair and slaughtered with his family only days ago.
Next to him was another small boy, Toby Turrell, his expression blank, and then came Jason Burgess, who stared aggressively into the camera lens. He was murdered decades later with his family, the deaths recorded as a murder–suicide.
Beside Jason was Elliot Juniper, a sullen boy with surly, reproachful eyes, and then Amelia Troy, her fingers tugging at his sleeve.
And – finally – there was the last boy, rearing back at the edge of the shot. Caught in swift movement. A single pixelated eye, angry and intense, flashing at the camera. That night he would use the chaos caused by the blaze to disappear into the night.
The one that got away.
She knew now, with gut-wrenching certainty, that Connor Laird was very much alive.
Jason, Ricky, David, Karen, God knows how many others, dead …
‘Yeah, you see, that’s the kind of mistake an inexperienced photographer makes.’ Trevor pointed at the shadows edging the image. ‘But I ain’t done so badly in the years, considering.’
Flick pushed past him to stumble into the garden. The red light still pulsed in her vision when she propped her hands on her knees to vomit into a flowerbed.
‘I’m not going to enjoy explaining this to the wife,’ said Trevor, watching. ‘But at least you didn’t do it over the koi. Would you like a glass of water?’
She nodded. ‘Please.’
Trevor hopped back up the pathway while Flick felt hot needles of sweat on her forehead cool in the wind.
Connor Laird was alive.
Men, women and children. Burned, shot, drowned, stabbed.
Her mobile rang and she fumbled it from her pocket. Holloway again. When she hit the button she did her best to sound alert and engaged.
‘Peter, what can I do for you?’
‘I’m outside Ray Drake’s house,’ he said. ‘I was worried about him after your … altercation tonight. But, DS
Crowley … I think there’s something terribly wrong.’
52
Emotion scraped in Ray Drake’s chest like a nail. He had his daughter back. He didn’t understand how, he didn’t understand why, but she was with him and that was all that mattered. April gripped his hand as staff stacked tables and chairs in the café on the cavernous concourse of St Pancras train station, preparing to close for the night.
‘Tell me again.’
Bewildered, April looked from her father to Amelia, who stared at the table. ‘He dropped me off at Susie’s house.’
‘And he never touched you?’
‘He helped me out of the cab. I thought it was a bit weird,’ she said. ‘That’s when he must have taken my mobile.’
‘Did he talk to you?’
‘He asked me in the car why I was sad.’ April glanced at Amelia again. ‘I was upset, I’d just been talking to Flick about … Jordan.’
Drake saw the engagement ring was gone from her finger. ‘Did you tell him anything about yourself?’
‘No.’
She was going to call him, until she realised her phone was gone. Drake had received her call, from her friend’s number, at Amelia’s warehouse. April put a finger to her cheek. Her face was puffy with tears. She was more beautiful, more precious, to him than ever.
The girl looked at Amelia, confused as to why her father was with this strange woman. ‘Why are you asking me about the cab driver?’
Drake’s gaze restlessly swept the concourse. A steady flow of people passed, even at this late hour. He’d have liked to spend time with April, but time was the one thing neither of them had. Both women were lucky to be alive. Their safety was paramount. His reconciliation with his daughter, all the things he wanted to say, would have to wait.
‘I think he may be linked to an investigation I’m working on.’
‘An investigation?’ April shook her head, uncomprehending.
The less she knew about the situation the better. ‘It’s … complicated. Threats have been made to officers involved in the case.’
She looked at the cuts on Amelia’s face. ‘What happened to you?’