‘You’re over the speed limit,’ Scott pointed out.
‘So arrest me.’
‘Trouble in paradise? That didn’t take long.’
Of course Scott would guess it had been Lucy he stopped in to see. In spite of his teasing words there was a concern in his tone that touched Matt. Forcing himself to relax, he eased off the gas until the dial crept back under the required limit.
‘Let’s go and find Ben Armstrong,’ he said with more confidence than he felt.
When they got back to the station, the investigation was in full swing. The alert that Lucy had seen had gone out on the mid-morning news and the social media pages already had comments regarding possible sightings. One – anonymous – claimed to have seen a boy fitting the exact description of Ben Armstrong with a young man wearing a cap, a few streets away from the Armstrong residence. They were holding hands.
‘So he could know whoever it is who’s taken him,’ Scott said. Matt was pacing, the statement Response had taken from Mrs Armstrong in one hand and his own notes from questioning her in the other as he looked for discrepancies. He sighed, placing them on his desk and leaning on it as he answered Scott.
‘Not necessarily. He’s a little kid – they’re way too trusting at that age. But it’s possible, after all something enticed him out of his own garden. Assuming the information isn’t wrong or deliberately bogus. We need to know who volunteered the information. Surely his details were on their social media profile?’
‘The DC said it was a new profile. No picture, no info. Set up just to give that information, by the look of things. Seems dodgy.’
‘Get the IT guy on it, see if he can trace our anonymous tipper. If it’s accurate, we could do with a better description of the man he was with.’
‘Yeah. “Young guy in a cap” hardly narrows it down.’
It didn’t, but nevertheless it didn’t put Prince out of the picture either. Matt looked at the clock, ticking inexorably towards midday. That crucial first few hours were nearly up, and it could take IT hours or even days to track down their anonymous helper. By tomorrow, if the kid hadn’t turned up, Matt knew he would be looking for a body.
WPC Kaur, the Family Liaison Officer assigned to the Armstrongs, put her head around the door just as Matt straightened up in frustration.
‘What is it?’ he asked, then apologised as his voice came out more brusque than he had intended. The FLO – a middle-aged woman with a recognised knack for getting information out of people where many hardened detectives had failed – handed Matt a thin wallet file.
‘Copy of the Children’s Social Services report on David Armstrong,’ she clarified as Matt flicked through the report then whistled low under his breath. Scott came over and looked over his shoulder.
‘Seems as though Mr Armstrong may have a history of child abuse,’ Matt said.
‘Suspected,’ the FLO cut in, ‘Children’s Services closed the file. Nevertheless, his ex-wife accused him of domestic violence against her and their son, who was then aged eight, and even though CS closed the case, the courts refused him access to the son after she divorced him.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘The maternal grandmother. She said that at first she thought it was lies fabricated by the ex-wife, after David apparently left her for her daughter – now of course Ben’s mother.’
‘And now? Has there been any violence?’
‘Not that she’s seen. But she did say he’s very controlling, and seems to think he’s a lot stricter with Ben than Mrs Armstrong would like, but she’s too afraid of her husband to say anything. This is just the grandmother’s opinion, of course, but it might be worth my speaking to Mrs Armstrong again, on her own this time.’
Matt placed the report down and looked at Scott, who nodded and voiced Matt’s own thoughts.
‘Maybe we can persuade the father to come down to the station to answer a few questions, and WPC Kaur can speak to the mother?’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Matt said, feeling relieved to finally have a lead, especially one that didn’t lead right to Terry Prince. ‘We’ll go back now. See if we can get a handle on this before it goes to a press conference this afternoon.’
As hopeful as this new information had seemed, Mr Armstrong flatly refused to go anywhere, or to leave his wife alone.
‘What if Ben comes back, and we’re not here?’ Not wanting to question him about the Social Services report in front of the mother, they left and retraced their steps back to the station in shared frustration.
These cases were the worst. Not knowing what it was you were looking for, or where. Hoping against hope it wouldn’t turn into a murder case, all the while knowing that once it did, things would at least become clearer. With the wishful thinking that the child would come back safe and sound removed, the investigation had a clear goal – find the killer. As it was, there wasn’t yet even a crime.
‘We could ask Dailey for a warrant to bring him in?’ Scott suggested.
‘I don’t think it will hold water. Armstrong wasn’t convicted – or even arrested – it’s all hearsay. His alibi for this morning is pretty tight too, though it’s possible he could have slipped out from work. If the boy turns up, then maybe.’
‘If he turns up, we won’t need to question him,’ Scott pointed out. Matt paused before he answered him.
‘I meant, if a body turns up.’
Scott was silent.
After Matt left Lucy went upstairs, still hugging herself. Keeping herself upright. She had stared at the local news channel all morning, studying the missing boy’s face. He didn’t look like Jack really, she had thought, no more than that all young boys with blond hair and blue eyes would look alike. Benjamin Armstrong’s face was chubbier, and he was taller and his eyes smaller, his nose a different shape.
She hoped Matt found him alive, if only for his own sake. She thought about the parents, tried to feel sympathy although strangely all she could think was how cruel and unfair it would be if the child returned safe and sound, while Jack was forever lost to her. Then of course she felt awful for thinking like that. No mother deserved to go through what Ben’s would be going through right now. What Lucy had been through.
Was still going through, she finally admitted to herself. All of her defences had been blown away these past ten days. First by Prince’s release, which still felt like a betrayal, though there was no single betrayer to point the finger of blame at, then in a shockingly joyful way by her liaison with Matt and now, most brutally, by what seemed to be history repeating itself.
She had thought about following Matt’s suggestion and going to her mother’s. To Ricky. To hold him, reassure herself that he at least was still hers. But the memory of his words to her the other night and the fear that she would see that look of disgust in his eyes again was more than she was able to cope with right now. After all, they hadn’t bothered to ring her, and her mum of all people must know how it would be affecting her.
Lucy meant to go into her bedroom for a lie down, on sheets still rumpled from last night’s love-making, but even that memory now seemed torrid. Instead, not fully understanding what she was going to do until she had done it, she found herself in the spare room, opening the wardrobe and rummaging among boxes until she found the one she was looking for, that had so far remained untouched since they had moved in.
Jack’s things.
Not everything had been kept; some of his clothes and toys she had eventually let go, for Danielle to sort out and take to the charity shops, though not any too local. Instead just one small box remained, of the sort of things that many parents kept, for children that remained but had grown up. His first babygro and blanket, his tag from the hospital. A favourite teddy bear; his first ‘brum brum car’ as he had called it – a Matchbox Mini that Ricky had used his own pocket money to buy him – even a plaster cast wall mount of his hands and feet. A photograph of her holding him, a smile of calm joy on her face. Madonna and child, albeit in a ho
spital gown and with bleary eyes.
Strange, she realised, but there was no box for Ricky. She had been too anxious, too terrified of the new role cast on her so young to worry about keepsakes when Ricky was a baby.
Lucy sifted through Jack’s things, lifting the white babygro, so small in her hands, to her face, as if she could breathe in the smell of him even though in truth it smelled only of washing powder and disuse. She clutched it to her, the way she would clutch her baby if she could have one more moment with him. Just one more.
A high sound, like an animal in pain, came from Lucy’s mouth and she sank to her knees, still clutching the scrap of material to her face. Loss stabbed her like a knife, made all the more painful by the years that blunted it’s edge.
Lucy gave in, after years of locking away the pain that always hovered like a waiting intruder around the edges of her consciousness. The tears came, so thick she could barely see in front of her, her sobs heart-breaking against the silence of the room.
Chapter Ten
Wednesday Afternoon
‘So, you suspect the father?’ Dailey asked Matt, his face impassive as he sat behind his desk. Matt shook his head.
‘Honestly? My gut tells me no. But it’s an angle we can’t afford to ignore. Have East Midlands got back to us yet?’ He was anxious for news of Prince; wanted him either in the frame or out of it. Already the Twitter feed asking for information on sightings of Ben had been inundated by either angry or fearful citizens calling for Prince’s blood. If they could rule him out, disentangle the disappearance of Benjamin Armstrong from the murder of Jack Randall – which by now had reached mythical proportions in the social consciousness of residents of the West Midlands – it would make the picture a lot clearer. Not least for Matt himself. He didn’t want his own professional history with Terry Prince and his personal involvement with Lucy to colour the way he handled the search for the Armstrong boy, even if his intuition still screamed at him that they were in some way connected.
‘Not yet. You have to understand it’s a sensitive issue – we can’t just go barging in demanding they investigate Prince when we have absolutely no evidence to suggest he even has anything to do with it. Because if it turns out – as it most likely will – that Prince has absolutely no connection to the Armstrong boy whatsoever, then his identity has been compromised for nothing. Home Office may even suggest he be relocated again. More taxpayer’s money.’
Matt curled his lip in disgust.
‘So we have to tiptoe around and possibly jeopardise our chances of finding a missing child so that we don’t “compromise” the safety of a convicted killer? It makes me sick.’
‘Terry Prince has served his debt to society. We can’t go knocking down his door every time a child goes missing. He’s been released and whether you approve or not, has a right to live his life, providing he lives it on the right side of the law.’ Dailey seemed intent on playing devil’s advocate, but Matt knew his superior too well.
‘With respect, sir, that’s a load of bollocks, and you don’t believe that any more than I do.’
Dailey inclined his chin, acknowledging Matt’s words with a glint of amusement in his eye. Then his face turned serious and he waved Matt into a chair.
‘Sit down will you? You’re as jumpy as a flea. So what’s your next move; where do you want to go with this?’ Although it would ultimately be Dailey who made any final decisions, Matt was the investigating officer and Dailey had faith in him. It was a faith that Matt was beginning to worry was misplaced. He had brought in serial killers, cracked organised crime rings, and yet he was unravelling over a missing boy. He had to get a grip.
If he made a false step, if the boy turned up dead when he could have been saved, Matt knew that rightly or wrongly he would never forgive himself. Again he saw the body of Lucy’s boy, on the post-mortem slab this time, his tiny body covered in cuts and bruises, his cherubic face almost obliterated by the killing blow Prince had delivered.
‘I think the father might be a dead end; nevertheless I’m going to send Scott to talk to his ex-wife, try and determine the nature of her previous allegations against him and if there’s any truth to them. Personally I think our biggest lead is the anonymous sighting of a boy that matches the description with a man, apparently leading him by the hand a few blocks from his house. We’ve got the IT specialist working on uncovering the anonymous tipper; but that could take days. So we need to consider releasing this information to the public. Another reason we need to rule out Prince – the man in question could easily be him.’
‘Or not. But I take your point. Is there no suggestion of who this man might be?’
Matt shook his head with impatience.
‘None. Neither the parents nor grandparents could suggest anyone Jack might have come into contact with that fits, and neighbours have reported no sightings of anyone hanging around. Although the entrance to the back garden is pretty much obscured from sight.’
‘If it’s an abduction, it’s most likely planned. Someone could have been watching him for a while. Anywhere the boy regularly goes where he might have come into contact with someone? Parents and toddlers groups?’
‘He goes to a childminder’s two mornings a week while the mother goes to the spa, apparently. WPC Kaur has just gone over there.’
Dailey regarded Matt for a long moment.
‘You’re doing everything as I would expect you to, Matt. Don’t beat yourself up about this.’
‘Sir?’
‘Don’t make it personal.’ Matt didn’t need the superintendent to clarify his meaning.
‘I’m trying not to. But what if the obvious assumption turns out to be right? If it is Prince?’
‘Then we’ll arrest him. And hopefully this time, he’ll be locked up until he takes his last breath.’
‘Amen to that,’ Matt said quietly. Then he left to start preparing for the inevitable press conference, and the questions that he wouldn’t be able to answer. Halfway out of the door he paused and said over his shoulder,
‘Sir? If the Search team don’t uncover anything around the immediate area I think we should widen the search parameters and consider searching Baginton Woods. Just a suggestion.’
Dailey looked grim, but nodded, and Matt knew the thought had occurred to him too. Unbidden, the memories of that first search in the woods smashed into his consciousness.
‘Sir! There’s something over here!’ Then Detective Sergeant Matt Winston had swung round, nearly blinding the young Detective Constable with his torch, and hurried over to the shallow gorge he was pointing at excitedly. On the other side of it one of the Search and Rescue dogs was whining and clawing at the ground frantically. The officer handling him looked up at Matt, his face eerie in the half light.
‘Looks like a young boy, sarge,’ he said, and a wild hope flared up in Matt then; that the little boy they were searching for was still alive. Wandered off and had an accident perhaps, but still alive.
When he knelt down and shone his torch on the pitiful, broken body of Jack Randall all hope died along with the rolling of his stomach. He swallowed down his nausea as he leaned in for a closer look. As he moved the light of the torch to illuminate the boy’s face, the young constable turned and vomited unceremoniously into the bushes. The Search Officer grimaced. ‘They’re always the worst; kids. It seems unnatural, like.’
Matt said nothing, fighting tears he was too proud to shed. In public anyway. He wanted to reach down and touch the boy’s cheek, the side of his face that remained unmarked, and stroke the blood-streaked hair. Instead he coughed and stood up, reaching for his radio to call in the DI. It was a crime scene now; the boy’s body a piece of evidence. The area needed to be cordoned off so forensics could do their work; so the pathologists could take the body and ready it for post mortem, so they could find out exactly what had happened to Jack Randall.
‘Maybe he just fell and banged his head?’ the constable said beside him, his voice shaky and sounding as if
he was about to throw up again any second. Clutching at straws. Not wanting to believe that any part of humanity could inflict such a brutal death on another part, especially not one so young. So innocent.
No, they were looking for a murderer. The question of course was who? Who was sick enough to do this to a child?
Of course at that point no one on the investigation team could have dreamed they were looking for a murderer who was barely more than a child himself. Later on, when the body – he couldn’t think of it as ‘Jack’ – had been removed from the crime scene and taken in for the post mortem, Matt had felt something inside him, a lingering faith in the goodness of human nature perhaps, shrivel up and wither away.
The corpse of Jack Randall lay on the pathologist’s slab like a broken doll, a macabre sculpture that made a mockery of everything innocent. It was impossible to reconcile the dead flesh in front of him with the pictures he had seen of the boy alive; a cherub-cheeked, happy-looking child who, according to the mother, ‘never cried’.
Had he cried when his head was being caved in; screamed for a mother he would never see again? A cold rage had crept into the recesses of Matt’s soul that he knew would never quite leave him. Watching the pathologist open the boy up, listen to him catalogue his wounds, solidified that rage into something he could work with – a burning desire to find the culprit.
Post mortems were never anyone’s idea of a good day out and there was often some teasing among the officers present as to who would vomit or have to leave the room. Not out of any disrespect for the dead but more as a coping mechanism, a bit of camaraderie that served to bond the team together. It was an unspoken rule however that such teasing never went on when it was a child lying on the slab. When the young DC turned and vomited into a pristine basin, neither Matt nor the DI in charge batted an eyelid or even acknowledged his weakness.
When I Wasn't Watching Page 14