by Alex Smith
“Mousehold Heath?”
He nodded, looking back at Kett.
“Selling cigarettes?” Kett asked.
It seemed impossible for a man so small to shrink any further, but shrink he did, so much that his little head only just peeked out over the counter.
“Was that your doing?” Kett asked. “A bit of extra cash?”
“I…” said the old man, shaking his head. He looked at Kett, then glanced up to the ceiling again, to the camera mounted above the DCI’s head. Gradually, his shaking head turned to a nod. “Yes. It was me.”
“Bit silly, don’t you think?” Kett said. “How long for?”
“Not long,” he said, sniffing. Kett looked to the side to see the other customer approach holding a newspaper and a can of Coke.
“Take it,” Kett told him. “It’s on me.”
The man nodded in surprise then walked out of the shop. He paused as he reached the door, eyeing up the DVDs on a rack.
“Don’t push your luck,” Kett told him, sending him on his way. He turned back to Walker, who was shaking so much he looked ready to fall to pieces. “Not long as in a year? Two?”
“A year, yes,” the old man said. “I’m sorry, it was stupid. I kept telling… I knew it was stupid.”
That glance to the ceiling again, something about it was making Kett’s Spidey sense tingle. He looked up to see the little camera watching them.
“Any of the girls ever mention something about who they sold cigarettes to up there? Any parents have a problem with it? Anyone hound them?”
Walker shook his head.
“Half of those kids were buying cheap smokes for their folks,” he replied, sniffing. “They never had any trouble.”
Kett sighed, jiggling the buggy. Moira was still out of it, her velvet snores the loudest thing in the shop other than the hum of the ancient fridges. Chances were Walker’s illicit operation had nothing at all to do with the missing girls, but he’d still have to come down to the station and give a statement.
“How much do I owe you?” he asked, but Walker waved it away.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t be here much longer, not after this. Nobody’s been in, they all think I’m… I’m a…” He doubled over, his forehead almost on the counter. “It’s a godawful way to end it all, don’t you think?”
Kett didn’t know how to reply, so he wheeled the buggy around in a tight circle, looking once again at the camera. What was he missing? The feeling gnawed at him, made him pause. Walker had glanced up every time there was a difficult question. It was a bad tell, almost as bad as Bingo’s moustache stroking. Was it because somebody was watching him, maybe?
Or because somebody was above him.
“Mr Walker, are you renting here?” Kett asked, following the hunch.
“No, bought it in ’73 when the whole parade was ten years old, mortgage paid off twenty years later, right on the dot.”
“Just the shop? Not the flat?”
Walker swallowed again, his eyes darting skyward. There it is.
“All of it,” he replied. “A couple of the flats upstairs are mine, but I live out in Costessey.”
“Anyone up there now?”
“No,” Walker said, a little too quickly. “It’s sealed. Asbestos, I think. Nobody’s been in for years. I should do something about it, really.”
“You should,” said Kett, pushing the buggy to the door. Savage was waiting for him, and she held it open as he walked through. The buzzer sounded again, and this time Moira stirred. Kett looked back, almost feeling sorry for the shrivelled ghost of a man behind the counter. “Take care, Mr Walker. We’ll be in touch.”
“Anything useful?” asked Savage when the door had closed.
“I’m not sure,” said Kett.
He peeked into the buggy to see a pair of bright eyes and a very grumpy face looking back at him.
“Hey gorgeous girl, welcome back.”
He left the grouching baby, running back to the door that led to the flat above the shop. He peeked through the letterbox again, just to confirm what he’d seen before, then he walked back. Unclipping the straps, he hoisted Moira to his chest where she proceeded to scream a needle of sound right into his ear.
“Have you ever seen an empty flat without a mountain of mail by the letterbox?” he said to PC Savage. She shook her head. “Me neither. Which means David Walker is lying to us.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kett checked his mirrors then steered the Volvo off the dual carriageway, easing on the brakes as he neared the roundabout at the bottom of the hill. Ahead of him was the impressive bulk of the Norfolk Police headquarters, which wasn’t in the Norwich city centre station but ten minutes away in a small satellite town with an unpronounceable name.
“Gen!” squealed Moira from the back seat, her feet drumming the chair. “Gen!”
“Again, I know,” he replied. “I’ll grab you something as soon as I can.”
He’d bribed the baby into the car with the apple and banana pouch, but Moira had hoovered it up in less than a minute and had been howling for more ever since. He checked his watch as he parked the car, seeing that it was coming up for eleven. He felt bad for not picking Evie up from nursery as early as he’d promised, but technically he could leave her there until one, and the chances were she was enjoying it.
“Better get a wriggle on, eh?” he said as he clambered out, hauling Moira out of the back door. She threw the empty pouch at him and he bent down to scoop it up, tossing it in the footwell. “They’ll do you for littering, you know. Supercop or not. The law’s the law, Moira.”
“No!” she replied.
“Fair enough.”
He walked into the reception, flashing his warrant card to the woman behind the counter. He expected her to buzz him through but she didn’t, nodding instead to a row of chairs at the back of the room.
“Somebody will come for you in a minute,” she said, flashing a bemused look at Moira. Kett kept his mouth sealed before he said something he might regret, waiting for considerably longer than a minute for DI Porter to emerge from the back.
Sorry! the big man mouthed as he buzzed the gate and ushered them through. They were halfway down the spartan corridor beyond before it was safe enough for him to continue.
“She’s a dragon, that one. I’ve seen her reduce grown police to tears.” He laughed, but in a way that made Kett think he wasn’t actually joking. “You okay? Get much from the old man?”
“I don’t think he did it, if that’s what you mean,” Kett said, shifting Moira to his other arm. “But I think he’s hiding something. I left Savage there, told her to keep an eye on the flats above the shop.”
“Yeah?” Porter said. They reached a set of double doors and he shouldered through them, guiding Kett through the bustling headquarters. “It’s crazy in here. We’ve got a few forces helping out on the case. We’re in here.”
He opened a door into the major incident room. A large table occupied the centre of the space, and the far wall was groaning under the weight of what had to be a hundred photographs and documents and busy whiteboards. A few people glanced up, doing some classic doubletakes when they spotted the wriggling, squealing shape of Moira.
“Yeah,” Kett said, nodding to them. “He owns a couple of the flats, claims they haven’t been used in years, but there’s definitely been somebody in there. Recently too. What do you know about him? Have you done a friends and family check?”
“Four kids,” said Porter. “All in their fifties and sixties. The youngest one’s been in the nick a couple of times, robberies mainly. A few grandkids and friends, but nobody pinging the radar.”
“The one with the sheet, is he local?”
“Not according to Walker. We’re having trouble pinning him down. Why?”
“Let me think on it,” said Kett. “I’ll let you know if it’s important.”
Porter nodded, then clapped his giant hands together. The room fell quiet.
“Okay, everyone. Some of you met DCI Robert Kett earlier, at the Malone place. For those who didn’t, here he is.” Porter gestured at Kett, and at Moira, who was halfway onto his head again. Kett did his best to smile at them through the baby’s legs. Porter laughed. “Robbie’s the big’un, the little one’s his daughter.”
“Head!” Moira replied, slapping Kett on his forehead.
“I know Robbie from way back, going on twenty years now,” said Porter. “He’s a good man, and a great detective. He’s not here officially.”
“No shit,” said a female detective sitting at the table. She was in her thirties, her black trouser suit looking brand new, her blonde hair tied back so tightly it made her forehead look huge. She wore a thin smile on her face. Detective Sergeant Spalding, Kett remembered from Clare’s introduction earlier. “Are we even allowed kids in here?”
“We are,” said Porter. “Just so long as none of the brass find out. So yeah, Kett hasn’t been seconded, he’s technically on compassionate leave. Uh, some of you will know why.”
“Oh, shit, yeah,” said another detective, one Kett hadn’t met yet. He was in his fifties and so grey it looked like he’d laundered himself in the washing machine with his cheap suit one too many times. He clicked his yellow fingers. “I remember, it was all over the news. Your wife, right?”
“Do you know what compassionate means, Dunst?” Porter said. “It’s the opposite of thoughtless asshole who can’t keep his mouth shut.”
Dunst sat back, raising his arms in surrender.
“That’s DI Keith Dunst,” Porter said. He nodded at the woman who had spoken earlier. “DS Alison Spalding. And last but not least.” Porter pointed to an older woman at the back of the room. “Head of Specialist Operations, DCI Kate Pearson.”
The woman waved without looking up from whatever she was reading.
“Oh, and Figg,” said Porter, nodding at the FLO across the room. “Who you already know from London.”
Figg waved.
“There are others, you’ll meet the whole team eventually.”
“Thank you,” said Kett. “It’s good to meet you all. I know this isn’t exactly a normal situation…”
“Head!” screeched Moira, slapping him on the ear hard enough to make it ring. Kett peeled her loose, plonking her on the floor. She immediately made a bid for the middle of the room, trying to climb onto the chair next to Dunst. He helped her up with his cigarette-stained fingers and she grinned at him like butter wouldn’t melt.
“But I’m here to help in any way I can,” Kett went on, massaging his ear. “I’ve worked a lot of missing kid cases, so if you need my advice, I’m here.”
DS Spalding sneered, returning to her work.
“And if you don’t need my advice,” he went on, directing the words at her. “Feel free to completely ignore me.”
“Good,” said Porter. He clapped his hands together again and the room returned to work. “Superintendent Clare will be in soon. He’s running the operation.” Kett pulled a face, and Porter laughed. “Yeah, he’s not everybody’s cup of tea. Abrasive as hell, and he’ll put the fear of god into you when he wants to. But he knows what he’s doing. Spent a lot of time with the National Crime Squad before coming here, a lot of covert operations and gang stuff. Not a man to be underestimated, even with that nose hair. So that’s the team. Any questions?”
“Yeah,” said Kett. Moira was doing her best to fall off the chair and faceplant onto the floor, so he picked her up. He turned to Porter. “Please tell me you’re not the guy who makes the tea?”
“See, it’s fine.”
Porter slapped a mug of tea onto the desk, hard enough that some of it sluiced over the rim. Kett smudged a hand on it before it hit the papers in front of him, then stared into its horrifically milky depths.
“Pete,” he said. “You do know what a teabag looks like, right?”
“What are you talking about?” the DCI replied, looking genuinely offended.
“The little paper things with brown stuff in. Teabags.”
“I used two,” Porter replied, jabbing his finger at the tea.
“How?” Kett replied. “This tea’s the colour of my wife’s grandmother, and she’s had four heart attacks. Did a cow’s udder explode in it?”
“Don’t drink it then,” Porter said, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“It’s not just me, is it?” Kett said, looking up. “It can’t be. Does anyone else think Porter’s tea looks like, well, camel pee?”
“It’s the worst,” said Dunst. “It’s like he makes a cup of tea then somehow sucks the soul right out of it.”
“Fuck off,” grumbled Porter. “Make your own bloody tea then, philistines.”
“Watch your mouth,” said Kett, nodding across the room. Moira was sitting in a corner with a dozen sheets of paper from the copy machine and a pack of restaurant crayons that DCI Pearson had found in her handbag. A soggy digestive was clutched in her fingers, another one already fused with the thin carpet. It wouldn’t keep her occupied for long, but she seemed content for the moment. Porter pretended to zip his lips.
“Fudge off,” he said instead. “You bunch of fudging winkers.”
Laughter rippled across the room, but it was short lived. The atmosphere was heavy, oppressive. The clock above the central whiteboard said it was 11:28, which meant that Maisie Malone had been missing for going on forty-four hours. For Connie it was even longer. Every single second that clock counted out was a second more those poor girls were away from their homes, away from their families. Every single second was one they were spending in terror and pain.
If they were still alive, of course.
“Bring me up to speed,” Kett said, grimacing as he took a sip of tea. “You’ve searched any other empty properties around both paper delivery routes? Ones that have been recently vacated.”
“Yeah,” said Porter. “We’ve had a few deaths in the last couple of weeks, old people can’t handle the heat. No sign of any illegal entry in any recently vacated property other than those two houses.”
“CCTV?” Kett asked.
“Maisie was caught on three cameras as she started her route, plus the ones in the shop. We’ve been through them, but the rain was so heavy they’re practically useless. Only the shop cameras caught Connie, plus a traffic camera on the ringroad. Nothing suspicious. We’ve put a call out to the public for dashcam footage and witnesses, but nothing so far.”
“Anyone known to both girls?” Kett asked. “Any mutual friends?”
“Other than Walker, none,” said Porter. “Hey, Figg, you pick anything up from your visits with the families?”
Across the room, the FLO shook his head.
“Nothing that raised a red flag,” Figg called back. “The Byrne family had some serious problems, but nothing that would lead us to believe they’d deliberately put Connie in danger.”
“Okay,” said Kett. “Known offenders?”
Porter looked over at DS Spalding, who must have had one ear on the conversation. She sighed dramatically as she pored through a folder in front of her.
“I’ve been going through the worst offenders currently out of prison or on release,” she said. “Most of the people on file are your typical, run-of-the-mill, family-member-molesting arseholes.”
Kett cleared his throat, nodding across the room to the baby.
“Seriously?” Spalding said.
“Spalding,” warned Pearson, and the DS rolled her eyes.
“Arm… holes,” she corrected herself. “But the system spat out a couple of suspects who are more dangerous. Both have form for kidnapping.” She slid a file over the desk and Kett found himself staring into the dark eyes of a man who looked every part the classic villain from a Charles Dickens novel. “Neil Dorey. He got eighteen years back in 1992 for the kidnap and assault of his six-year-old niece. Snatched her from school and took her to a boat house on the Broads, kept her there for three days before she managed to escape.
”
“Where is he now?” Kett asked, scanning the file to see a litter of smaller charges next to the big one.
“Sheltered accommodation,” she replied. “Been quiet since he was released, but a monster’s a monster till the day they die, right? We’ve already had him in for questioning, but his alibi checks out, he’s been in hospital with gallstones. Hang on.” She shuffled her papers, then passed the second file. A handsome man in his twenties flashed a shark-like, sociopathic smile at Kett. “This one’s sneakier, and he’s almost too good to be true. Christian Stillwater.”
“Christian Stillwater?” said Kett. “Is he a Mid-West Gospel singer or something?”
“No. He was arrested in 2014 for abducting a child from a playpark.”
“And he’s out?” Kett asked in shock.
“Good lawyer. They argued that he thought the kid was in danger, that he’d seen the mother shoot up and that he thought he was doing the right thing by getting her the hell out of there. The girl was eight, slight learning difficulties, and technically Stillwater was right. When they spoke to the mum she was off her head on heroin. Hadn’t even noticed that her kid was missing. It was the gran who called it in. Besides, the whole Lochy Percival thing had just happened.”
“Lucky Percival?” Kett asked. The name rang a bell, but he couldn’t quite place it. He was fairly sure he heard Spalding tut beneath her breath. She pulled her phone from her pocket and took a moment to find something, then she slid it across the table. Kett saw a press photo of a man in his thirties being led away by police, his eyes full of tears and his mouth warped by grief.
“Lochy,” said Figg, who was listening in. “This guy definitely isn’t lucky.”
Spalding took her phone back as she spoke.
“Percival was a local man accused of the murder of a tourist from Liverpool, Jenny O’Rourke, in late 2013. She was fourteen. Witnesses described him perfectly, said they saw him snatch her in broad daylight from Wroxham Barns, a kind of farm attraction. By the time anyone had managed to do anything about it he’d vanished along with the girl. They found her a week later, what was left of her anyway, beneath a rotting boat on the riverside less than a mile from Percival’s house. His DNA was found on the boat too.”