Silent Playgrounds

by Danuta Reah

  She took down a packet of cereal, realized that she didn’t have a clean bowl, and in the end she ate a handful of the cereal dry. It was the sort of thing that drove Jane mad. ‘You should respect what you eat,’ she’d told Suzanne once. ‘It’s what you are.’ Well, that was OK. Dry cornflakes just about summed it up really. She ate another handful and switched on the kettle.

  She needed something to do, and none of the things she needed to do seemed possible. She ought to work, ought not to assume that the whole thing was over – but the idea of working seemed overwhelmingly difficult. She could wash the dishes, that would be something, but even that seemed impossible. Irritated by her own indecisiveness, she wandered through towards the front room. The dark of the little entrance lobby and the stairs matched her depression. The stairs and landing got no natural light if the doors were shut. She’d been meaning to decorate, at least to get rid of the uninspired and dingy cream paint that she’d slapped on over the old wallpaper when she’d moved in.

  She turned the light on and looked at the walls. The old paper was peeling off. The whole area looked dull and shabby. OK, that was something to do. She needed something hard and tiring. She’d strip off all the wallpaper and spend the weekend painting the walls.

  In theory, it was McCarthy’s day off. In practice, he knew he’d be lucky to get any kind of break until the case was over, or until the investigation ran into the ground. He’d arranged to meet Richard Kean up at the university – Kean hadn’t seemed particularly enthused at the idea of McCarthy coming to the Alpha Centre – and they had spent a futile half-hour going over all the information they had in relation to Ashley Reid. ‘Ashley isn’t typical of the kind of lad we see at the Alpha. The kind that gets into trouble, sure, but not persistently serious trouble. Ashley did get into some serious stuff. It was his mental state that kept him out of prison last time. And then this latest thing.’

  To McCarthy, this was so much waffle. He wanted to know about Reid’s contacts, the places he went, the things he did. ‘That’s for the courts,’ he said. ‘I just want Reid. Who did he hang out with, who can tell us where to find him?’

  Kean shook his head. McCarthy knew that Kean didn’t like him, but he also knew that the other man would co-operate. The office that they were in was a bit away from the main campus, in a modern block that was built back from the road and screened by trees. The office itself was nothing out of the ordinary – a cubicle, almost, with a desk, a terminal, a filing cabinet. But the window looked out over the tops of the trees as the hill dropped down into the valley below them. McCarthy looked at the sky – a deep blue with wisps of cloud – and then at the green tumbling away down the hillside. He was reminded of the tranquillity of the place where he’d had coffee with Suzanne, that time she’d described Richard Kean and the other Alpha workers to him in less than flattering terms. The thought made him want to smile and he suppressed it.

  ‘Our first records of him are from when he came into care when he was nine. His parents divorced when he was three.’ Kean shuffled through his papers. ‘What’s interesting is he was born in America. His mother was a nurse, worked in San Francisco for a couple of years. She seems to have brought him and his brother back here after the divorce, when Ashley was four, and left them with her brother. No sign of the father. It was all unofficial.’ But within five years, both children had been in care. ‘It was voluntary care – the family said they couldn’t cope,’ Kean explained.

  McCarthy knew most of this from the notes Tina Barraclough had put together. He’d been hoping that Ashley had talked to one of the workers at the Alpha and told someone a bit more about his background. ‘Did he stay in touch with his brother? Were they kept together?’

  Kean shook his head. ‘I don’t know much, but the brother went into care before Ashley. He’s autistic. He needed special care, so he wouldn’t have gone into an ordinary children’s home.’

  ‘And Reid never talked about it?’

  ‘Not to me. And I was his case worker.’ Kean frowned, thinking. ‘He never mentioned his brother. If you want to know about that, you’ll need to talk to the family.’

  McCarthy made a note. He knew that Corvin and Barraclough had spoken to the aunt. He wanted someone to talk to the rest of the family. There was an uncle and a daughter, and there was this brother. He was certain that Reid didn’t have the resources to lie low without someone helping him. His aunt and uncle looked like long shots. They’d put the child into care and had, apparently, had no contact with him since then. But the cousin and the brother needed more checking.

  Kean was talking. ‘Ashley’s been pretty isolated at the Alpha. He gets on OK with the others, but he’s got a talent for not being noticed.’ Kean frowned as if he’d only just realized that. ‘I don’t think he has any friends there. He played snooker with Lee Bradley sometimes, but I doubt there’s any more to it than that. Lee’s very bright. He’d have no time for Ashley.’

  ‘He’s, what, educationally subnormal, Reid?’

  McCarthy ignored Kean’s frown. He couldn’t remember the proper labels, what term you currently used for ‘thick’.

  ‘He was identified as special needs by his last school,’ Kean said after a moment. ‘I’ve only been working with him for about ten weeks. I’m not so sure, now. He’s functionally illiterate, but that could be because he wasn’t much given to attending school. But he’s … You don’t notice Ashley, not if he doesn’t want you to, that’s his talent. When he first started at the Alpha, I thought he was one of those lads who was easily led – you’d ask him to do something and he’d do it. No questions, no argument. But that made it difficult to get to know him – you’d think you had a nice, co-operative character on your hands, and then, well, I’ve worked with him for nearly three months now, and I couldn’t tell you much more about him than I could at the beginning. You can’t keep yourself hidden like that if you’re …’ He hunted for the word.

  Thick, McCarthy supplied, mentally. ‘What do the other centre workers think?’

  ‘They’re beginning to think the same as me,’ Kean said. ‘Somehow, he’s managed to keep everyone at bay, give nothing away; in fact, not co-operate at all. But no one noticed until he went missing. That’s the point I’m trying to make. You don’t notice Ashley if he doesn’t want you to. I think we’ve made some bad mistakes with that lad.’

  McCarthy considered this. If Reid was brighter than they thought – if he was bright enough to run rings round the Alpha staff – then he was bright enough to be their intelligent killer. The scheme with the water-wheel had been too elaborate, but if it had worked, they probably wouldn’t have found Emma yet – might not even be looking for her, as they hadn’t been looking for Sophie. That was bright.

  Richard Kean spoke again. ‘The only person who seemed to make any real contact was Sue Milner. Ashley talked to her.’

  Suzanne. That odd defensiveness when he’d talked to her about Ashley. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, when she was with us, he’d quite often make a point of talking to her, sitting with her in the coffee bar. The other lads used to tease him, say that he fancied her, things like that.’

  McCarthy heard his voice sounding colder than he’d meant. ‘And did he?’

  Kean thought about it. ‘Probably,’ he conceded.

  McCarthy didn’t like the idea of Reid on the loose, interested in Suzanne Milner. He was reminded of his earlier misgivings. ‘And the other lads, do any of them talk to her?’

  Kean looked suddenly evasive. McCarthy came alert. ‘I don’t know …’ Kean was looking more uncomfortable. ‘It’s not really an issue,’ he said. ‘Sue doesn’t work at the Alpha any more.’

  McCarthy raised an eyebrow. He could see that Kean was wrestling with a decision. He waited, and slowly the story of Suzanne’s somewhat unceremonious dismissal from the centre came out. McCarthy kept his face impassive, but his mind was turning this information over. He couldn’t see what it had to do with the investigation,
though he felt some kind of vicarious responsibility. No wonder she’d been hostile towards him. But he needed to keep his mind on the job. The rest really wasn’t his business. One thing that did interest him, though. Suzanne obviously knew Ashley Reid better than she’d let on – well enough to know if she’d seen him in the park or not. He needed to talk to her again, but this time, he wanted her co-operation.

  McCarthy put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the banister watching Suzanne as she scraped paper off the wall, pulling large strips off with angry strength, peeling the walls down to the bare plaster. She must have been working at the same frenetic rate for a while, because she had stripped the stairwell and most of the landing. She’d called him through when he’d knocked at her door, and looked at him without comment when he stood at the bottom of the stairs. She continued with her work, waiting for him to tell her why he was there. ‘Want any help with that?’ he offered after a moment.

  She gave him a guarded look, assessing the sincerity of his offer, then said, ‘You can make a cup of tea if you want,’ and returned to scraping at a stubborn bit of paper. McCarthy went into the kitchen and switched the kettle on. He looked round for cups, and ended up washing two from the sink that was overflowing with unwashed dishes. He was about to make the tea when he went back to the sink, refilled it with hot water and set to washing the whole lot.

  Then he took the two cups back to the landing. She took a drink and put her cup on the floor, assessing the wall with her eyes. ‘Thanks,’ she said as an afterthought.

  He sat down on the stairs, after brushing the worst of the mess off with his hand. ‘I didn’t make that for you to leave it to go cold. Or for you to drop plaster into it.’ He retrieved the cup. ‘Sit down. Have a break.’

  She went on pulling at strips of paper, then dropped the scraper on the floor and came and sat next to him on the stairs. ‘So what did you want to see me about?’ she said after a minute.

  ‘Nothing. I wanted to see if you were all right.’

  She gave him a look of open scepticism. ‘You mean you’ve got some more questions.’ She went on drinking her tea.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ve got one.’ She turned his own technique on him and waited him out. ‘Are you still certain that it wasn’t Ashley Reid you saw in the park that day?’

  She opened her mouth to answer, then stopped. She ran her hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face. She seemed genuinely uncertain. ‘I can’t remember what I saw any more. If I try to picture it, I don’t see it the way it was. I remember that I was certain at the time.’ She looked at him. ‘I told you.’

  He nodded in acceptance. He hadn’t expected anything else, but he was pretty sure, now, that she was telling him what she thought she had seen, as best she could. ‘I heard what happened about your job.’ The landing was dark, the doors to the rooms closed, keeping out the natural light. But even in the dim light of the bare bulb, he could see she looked washed out. Her hair was untidy and kept falling in her face. There were pale circles under her eyes, and she kept biting her lip nervously. He glanced down at her hands. He remembered carefully manicured nails the first time he interviewed her – now they were bitten down and unpainted. She reached for her cigarettes, and he got out his own packet and offered it to her. She took one, and leant forward for him to light it. No bra again.

  She put her hand against his to steady the lighter, and he let his awareness of her touch show in his face. She held his eyes for a moment. ‘I should be giving this up.’ she said after inhaling deeply.

  ‘Why does everyone say that when they have a cigarette? If you want to give up, give up. If you don’t, just enjoy it.’ Lynne’s anti-smoking rhetoric had turned him into a militant pro-smoker.

  ‘I suppose so …’ She didn’t sound too convinced. They sat in silence for a while, then she pinched out her cigarette and slipped the half-smoked end into her packet. The broke smoker’s economy. ‘I suppose I ought to get back to this.’ She looked at the mess without enthusiasm.

  ‘Why the rush? It’s a beautiful day out there. This is rainy-day work.’ He found it ironic that he was the one preaching the carpe diem philosophy.

  She bit her lip. ‘I’ve got a free weekend. I thought I’d pass the time …’ She looked at him. ‘Michael, my little boy, he was supposed to be coming this weekend, but there’s been a change of plans, so …’ She rested her chin on her hand, suddenly looking defeated.

  McCarthy surprised himself. ‘Come on, I’ll take you out for the afternoon. It’s my day off.’ Which he hadn’t planned to take, in the middle of the investigation. ‘We can go out into Derbyshire for a couple of hours, go for a drive or something.’

  She looked surprised. ‘I’m too scruffy to go anywhere,’

  He looked at her and grinned in agreement. ‘You are a bit. I can stand it. Or take some time – no rush.’

  She thought about it for a moment, then said slowly, ‘OK …’

  He put his hands up. ‘No tapes, no hidden agenda.’ That made her smile. She tried to hide it, then caught his eye and laughed. He went outside into the sun and leant against the car waiting for her.

  Twenty minutes later, she emerged, her hair still damp from the shower. She’d put on a skirt and a loose cotton top. She looked cool in the bright sunlight. He opened the car door to let her in.

  He headed out along Ecclesall Road South. He thought they could go via Ringinglow, maybe walk up a short way where the ground was easy. She was quiet for a while, not quite sure of him, not relaxed in his company. Then she said, ‘Why are you doing this?’

  He kept his eyes ahead, though the traffic was light, swinging the car round onto Ringinglow Road. ‘Any reason why I shouldn’t?’

  ‘Why does a policeman always answer a question with a question?’ she shot back. That made him laugh, and he felt her relax in the seat beside him. He was glad she didn’t press it, because he didn’t know why he was doing this, when the work was piled up on his desk and his team was working flat out.

  He drove past Burbage Rocks which, even on a weekday, had its share of parked cars, and went on past Higger Tor and Carl Wark. He pulled off the road where it began to wind down the side of the valley, fields and trees tumbling away on one side, grey rocks on the other. There was a gate where a path ran through some trees and up onto the moorland. The sign on the gate said PRIVATE LAND, but McCarthy knew from past experience that you could walk there undisturbed.

  The path wound up a short way, then they were walking in the heather and the bilberries. The ground was uneven, and she stumbled once or twice. Once he held her arm to steady her but otherwise they walked in single file, following the narrow sheep track towards the top of the hill. Once they had reached the top, they sat in the heather looking out across the valley. A breeze had started up that ruffled their hair and cooled them down after the climb.

  McCarthy’s mind was a blank. He lay back beside her and looked up at the sky. She stayed sitting up, looking across the valley to the rocks on the other side, resting her chin on her knees. ‘You can’t devote the whole of your life to it.’ he said after a moment.

  ‘To what?’ she said. ‘Scraping wallpaper?’

  The slightly bitter humour encouraged him to go on. ‘Feeling guilty,’ he said.

  ‘What do I feel guilty about?’ She sounded genuinely curious.

  ‘You tell me,’ he said.

  She looked down at him where he was lying in the heather. ‘Why do you think I feel guilty?’ she persisted.

  He looked up at the clouds and thought about it. ‘I don’t think you feel guilty. I know you feel guilty. What I don’t know is why.’

  She put her chin on her knees again and went back to her contemplation of the valley. He watched her. Her shoulders looked tense, and her position no longer looked relaxed, indifferent, but protective, as though she was shielding herself from an anticipated blow. ‘Where shall I start?’ she said, surprising him. He’d thought she wasn’t going to answer. ‘Shall
I start with being an unnatural mother?’

  ‘No. Start with your brother. Start with Adam.’

  She whipped round in shock as though he had hit her. ‘What are you trying … ?’ He knew she was looking at him, and he made himself stay relaxed, staring up at the sky, watching the clouds. It probably hadn’t been the best time to use interview tactics. ‘How did you know about that? Who told you?’ She was kneeling up now, facing him. Her voice was agitated, but he couldn’t tell if she was angry or not.

  ‘No one told me. I found out.’

  She was quiet for so long he thought she’d decided not to say any more, but eventually she said in a rather muffled voice, ‘How long have you known about Adam?’ She lay forward in the heather, supporting herself on her elbows. She had a heather flower in her hands and was slowly picking it to pieces.

  ‘Only a day. I looked it up.’

  She was frowning in concentration, studying the flower in an effort, he thought, to keep her mind off things she didn’t want to think about. ‘Why?’

  He rolled onto his side, facing her, propping his head on his hand. ‘I wondered why it was a battlefield every time I talked to you.’ He took hold of her wrist lightly, running his fingers a little way up and down her arm. ‘What happened to your brother was criminal negligence – but not yours, Suzanne. You did everything you could. Who else did anything?’

  ‘Adam, he …’ The tone of calm rationality she’d adopted cracked a bit. She coughed. ‘Adam, he … I … didn’t … I could have …’