by Alex Smith
“You bet, stark naked, washing my arse crack as we speak.”
Porter made a vomiting noise.
“That’s it. I quit.”
They shared a laugh, and it felt good.
“We’ve got every spare officer out scouring the city,” Porter said after a moment. “Clare made the decision to go public with Stillwater, the media have been briefed that he’s a POI, not a suspect.”
“Risky,” said Kett, wondering why the boss hadn’t mentioned it. “It might make him panic, which might make him ditch the girls.”
“Agreed,” said Porter.
“But if Stillwater’s a genuine psychopath then it might draw him out,” Kett went on. “And if it’s not Stillwater, it will buy us some time. Our guy will think he’s in the clear.”
“Fingers crossed,” said Porter.
“Hey, why was Lochy Percival’s file in the incident report?” Kett asked, sitting on the edge of the bath.
“Oh, yeah, it’s an algorithm thing,” said Porter. “He wasn’t guilty, but the system spits out his name as a possible suspect in every related case. Poor bastard.”
“You don’t think he’s worth checking on, even just to rule him out?”
“No!” yelled Porter. “Do not go there.”
Kett heard a voice in the background, maybe Kate Pearson’s.
“Kett wants to go after Percival,” Porter said.
“No!” Pearson yelled.
“See, that’s a bad move. I’m pretty sure Stillwater’s our guy, we just have to find him.”
“I’m working on it,” said Kett.
He almost hung up, then hesitated.
“Hey Pete, you remember Lucy was talking about Stillwater, about how he used to go out with friends. Only he didn’t have any friends.”
“Sure,” said Porter. “She said he always used to come home smelling weird. Sweet and sour, wasn’t that how she described it?”
“Off,” said Kett. “I don’t know. It was a weird thing to mention. If Stillwater’s been planning this for a while, it might be relevant. You know anywhere in the city that smells sweet, sour, off?”
“I’m guessing your bath,” Porter said. “But sure, I’ll put some thought into it. Go on now, lather up. I’ll catch you tomorrow.”
The call went dead. Kett turned off the cold tap then closed the bathroom door behind him, walking downstairs to find out if anything different was happening to Moana in her 500th viewing.
Kett lay in bed, the brand-new duvet already rucked and loose inside its Paw Patrol cover. He was conscious of every sound, every passing car outside, every shout from the city, every creak from the settling house, and every breath and muffled groan from the rooms next to his. It always took a while to get used to a new house, but it was harder this time because he knew this place would never feel like home, not really. Not until Billie was here beside him.
God, he missed her. He missed everything about her, even the things that had driven him crazy—the way she’d always cleaned up right after dinner, even when he and the kids were still eating, the way she’d always clipped her toenails in front of the TV, even the way she’d hogged the bed in her sleep, sometimes so violently that her flailing knees and elbows had sent him running to the couch for the rest of the night.
He just missed her, he missed having somebody to orbit around. Without her gravity, he felt as if he and the kids were comets, floating out into the freezing silence of space.
Of course, he missed her functionally as well. After he’d bathed the kids he’d dressed them in fresh clothes, bundled them into the car and driven them across town to a retail park. A quick dash around Dunelm had got them all the duvets and pillows they needed, then they’d stuffed themselves silly in Pizza Hut. But the trip had been exhausting because the kids were like magnets packed positive to positive, they pushed each other away, so that when one of them ran the other two were guaranteed to head in the opposite direction, leaving him spinning in circles. When it had been the two of them, he and Billie had been able to manage them without any trouble. But three against one were hopeless odds.
He rolled over and checked his phone. 11:43. He’d been lying here for two hours, with Moira finally settling in the little camp bed in Evie’s room just before half nine. She was the hardest to get to sleep because she still wanted boob every night. And she’d be awake again by midnight.
But Kett couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t unusual, he hadn’t slept a full night through since Billie had gone. His brain wouldn’t let him. As soon as he put his head down, as soon as there was any kind of silence, his mind just fired up Billie’s case and bombarded him with theories.
They were always the worst-case scenarios, of course. Billie inside a coffin, gasping for her last breath. Billie in a sealed room, tied to a bed. Billie being dismembered by a shadow with a grinning face. They were so unbearable that sometimes, on the bad nights, he would happily find out she had died just for the relief of closure.
No. That wasn’t true. However bad his imagination got, there was always hope. Until he saw her body for himself, until he felt for a pulse that wasn’t there, there was always hope.
Across the hall, Evie moaned in her sleep, muttering something about flapjacks. Kett turned again, kicking the duvet off his feet. His shoulder roared despite a chemist’s worth of paracetamol, but the good news was that he hadn’t experienced any of the symptoms of concussion since returning home, so he was pretty sure the wound on his head wasn’t too bad. He’d live.
He’d just have to suffer a little more while he was living.
He screwed his eyes shut, praying to find sleep in the darkness. But all he saw was Billie and, in the shadows behind his wife, two young girls. Connie and Maisie called to him, their voices like the whisper of the wind.
Find us, please.
Their faces tortured him, pleading, desperate. He wondered if they, too, were inside a coffin, or tied to a bed, or being dismembered. It could be happening right now, and he wasn’t there, he couldn’t help—
Enough! he roared at himself. Then, quieter: Enough, Robbie.
He was on the case. He was doing everything he could. He’d get up tomorrow—at some ungodly hour, of course, thanks to Moira—and he’d find those girls.
He just had to pray that they were still alive.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She was still alive.
She had to keep reminding herself of that fact, because in the crushing darkness, in the deafening silence, it was so easy to believe that she was dead.
A fly landed on Maisie’s cheek, tickling her, and she instinctively tried to move her hand to wipe it away. But her arms were still bound tight, and the pain sliced through her wrist, burning all the way up her shoulder and burrowing into her neck. She screamed, the sound muffled by the gag but still impossibly loud.
Don’t come, she begged. Please don’t hear me.
Because the monster didn’t like noise. He hated noise. It was the first thing he’d told her in the darkness of that awful bungalow where he’d caught her.
“Horrid girls who spoil the fun do not get to keep their tongues.”
He’d said it again when he’d balled up a newspaper and stuffed it in her mouth, and again when he’d bound her hands behind her back with wire, and again when he’d pulled a bag over her head and led her out of the back of the house, into the rain, then into the boot of a car.
“Horrid girls who spoil the fun do not get to keep their tongues.”
There was no thump of footsteps, no creaking of old stairs, no sudden wash of stench from outside as the door swung open.
Maisie tried to sit as still as she could, but it felt like there was somebody drilling into the small of her back. Her legs had gone numb a long time ago, and she’d lost count of the number of times she’d wet herself—and worse. It wasn’t fair that she wasn’t even allowed to use the bathroom. It wasn’t fair that she was here. It wasn’t fair! She just wanted her mum, she just wanted to feel her arms
around her, to smell her, even with the cigarettes. Where was she? Why wasn’t she trying to save her? Why—
“No!”
Pain lanced through Maisie’s neck as she twisted her head around. She was so disoriented, so dehydrated, that at first she thought she’d made the noise herself. Then it came again, a low, mournful cry.
“No!”
Shut up! Maisie called out inside her head. The monster will hear you!
“No! I want to go home!”
The cries were louder, full of grief and fury. There was no way the monster wouldn’t hear—
Thump. Thump. Thumpthumpthump.
Oh god, no.
He was running up the stairs.
Thumpthumpthump.
Running down the corridor.
THUMPTHUMPTHUMP.
Click.
The door opened, and the sun might as well have been burning right outside because a shaft of light burned its way into Maisie’s eyes. She screwed them shut, partly because of the pain, partly from the terror. But she couldn’t keep them closed for long.
“Who said that?” the monster asked.
Maisie kept her mouth closed, clenching her jaw so forcefully that her teeth felt ready to shatter out of their gums.
Notmenotmenotme.
“I just want to go home,” came a voice from the other side of the room. “Please.”
Maisie peeked, her eyes adjusting to the glare of the bulb that swung in the corridor beyond. The monster stood there, just a silhouette against the light. He wore the same mask as before, a hessian sack with two crosses in black ink where the eyes should be.
In his hand was a scalpel.
“Oh Connie,” said the monster, taking a step towards the other girl. She’d somehow managed to work the gag from her mouth, and her jaw was trembling so hard that her teeth sounded like castanets. “My dear Connie, don’t you remember the rules?”
How could she have forgotten them, Maisie thought. They were so simple.
Horrid girls who spoil the fun do not get to keep their tongues.
“Please no!” the girl called Connie screamed. But the monster wasn’t listening. He towered over her, the scalpel glinting in the light, and Maisie forced herself to look away, forced herself to look across to the other side of the room.
To the third young girl who sat there, tied to her chair, her eyes overflowing with fear.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Friday
On any normal day, Kett was woken up at the crack of dawn by one of the children. If it was Evie doing the waking, it usually involved being yelled at from a distance of about three inches. If it was Alice, it would be her sitting next to him in bed with the iPad blaring. Moira went for a more effective method, usually climbing onto his neck and slapping him hard across the cheek.
Which is why it was a surprise that he stirred from his dreams to the sound of the Mexican Hat Dance.
“Hmmm?” he said, wondering if it was Billie turning on the radio the way she always did in the morning.
Of course it isn’t, he told himself as his thoughts clicked into place. Billie’s gone.
It took him a moment to remember his phone, and a moment more to remember how to speak. “Kett.”
“Sir?”
“Kate?” he said, sitting up. His entire body ached from the fight with Brandon Walker, like he’d spent the whole of yesterday at the gym. “Sorry, Savage. Is everything okay?”
He took the phone from his ear to see that it was coming up for seven. The shock of sleeping in so late meant that he completely missed what she was saying.
“Hang on, sorry,” he said, clambering out of bed. He tripped on the duvet that he’d kicked off in the night, stumbling out onto the landing and peering into Evie and Moira’s room. It was pitch black in there, the curtains proper blackout ones, but he could just about see the outline of Evie in the bed.
The cot was empty.
“Shit,” he said, his heart giving a mighty kick, and he was on the verge of telling Savage to put out an alert when he spotted the extra head on Evie’s pillow. The baby must have crawled into her sister’s bed in the night.
Thank Christ, he thought, his heart still turning over like an old engine. He put his spare hand to it.
“You okay?” Savage asked.
“Yeah,” he said, leaving the room and pulling the door to. He checked on Alice, then made his way downstairs as quietly as he could. “Just in shock. Kids are still asleep.”
“Did I wake you?” she said. “Sorry, the boss asked me to call to check your status.”
“My status?” he said, stifling a yawn. He filled the kettle and clicked it on. “Dog tired and in need of tea.”
“He meant, are you coming in this morning?” she asked.
“Yeah, but I need to get the girls to school.”
Her voice was muffled as she spoke to somebody else.
“Can school start at seven?” she asked after a moment. “His words, not mine.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Why the urgency?”
“We might have a lead,” said Savage. “Stillwater just surfaced.”
“Morning, Robbie,” said Porter as he opened the door of the Incident Room. The big DI looked like he’d been there all night, his shirt crumpled and untucked, his face unshaven. “It’s great to see you without your entourage. Did you manage to find a sitter?”
Kett shook his head, waiting for Moira to catch up to him. She waddled down the corridor like somebody brought in for the drunk tank, earning as many ‘awwws’ as she did scowls from the coppers who passed her by.
“Oh,” said Porter. “That’s a no then.”
“I’ve got one,” Kett said as Moira pushed her way past Porter’s legs. “One of the women at Evie’s nursery has a daughter who works as a childminder. She called her as a favour, but she isn’t free until ten.”
He’d managed to get Alice into breakfast club at school, and Evie stayed with her—even though it wasn’t strictly school policy.
“Until then, the baby’s in charge,” Kett said with a sigh. Moira was already barking unintelligible orders at the police inside the room. “Hope it’s not a problem.”
“With me, no,” said Porter. “With the Super…”
As if on cue, Superintendent Clare’s voice rang out, ringing Kett’s name like a church bell. Moira retreated at a pace, thumping into his legs and holding her hands up for an emergency rescue. Kett picked her up, pain flaring in his injured shoulder, and she burrowed her head into his neck.
“Ni-Ni-Saw,” she said.
“Dinosaur,” Kett translated, and Porter let loose a cannon shot of laughter.
“You’re not wrong, kiddo,” the DI said. “You’re not wrong. Come on.”
Porter stood aside to let Kett through. The incident room was packed, everyone from yesterday and a platoon of new detectives who gave him nods of welcome—plus one who was looking at Moira like she was Jack the Ripper. DC Figg, the FLO, gave Kett a wave with his pen. Kett saw Savage across the room and nodded at her, and she smiled back.
Clare was standing at the head of the table, in front of the whiteboards and pinned photographs. On the monitor behind him was a photograph of Christian Stillwater sitting at his desk, dressed in a pinstripe suit and wide tie, and flashing that same shit-eating grin.
“Thank you, everyone,” said Clare, giving Kett a warning look. Kett shifted Moira to his other arm and mouthed: sorry boss. Clare replied with a grade A glare. “As you know, Stillwater pinged onto the radar an hour ago when his debit card was used in a petrol station in Drayton. He bought a can of Coke and a sandwich. We have officers on scene and witnesses and CCTV confirm that Stillwater was definitely present—dressed in overalls. His face has been all over the news, so it’s only a matter of time before he’s spotted again.”
Kett frowned. Something didn’t feel right.
“For now, Stillwater is our chief suspect for the abduction of both girls,” Clare went on. “Not only does he have for
m for this kind of crime—remember, he snatched a young girl from the park a few years ago—but he also went off the grid at the same time as the newspaper girls, and he hasn’t responded to our calls for contact even though he must be well aware that we are treating him as a person of interest.”
“Maybe he’s scared, sir,” said Spalding from where she sat. “It wouldn’t be the first time a wrongful arrest has ruined somebody’s life.”
“Lochy Percival.” Dunst coughed the words into his hand.
“Agreed,” said Clare. “Which is why we have to do this very carefully. Our number one priority is bringing Stillwater in as peacefully as possible. Is that clear?”
Kett put his hand up, and so did Moira. Clare nodded at him.
“Stillwater is smart,” Kett said. “We already know this. Smart enough to be aware that using his debit card will draw us to him immediately. He didn’t use the card for essentials, or for petrol, or for a plane ticket. He used it for a drink and a sandwich. That has to mean—”
“Ni-Ni-Saw,” Moira squealed, pointing at Clare.
“That has to mean,” Kett said a little louder, “that he wants us to find him.”
“You think he’s trying to be caught?” Raymond Figg asked from the other side of the table, his pen in his mouth. “What kind of criminal wants to be caught?”
“Maybe you’re right, and he’s scared,” Kett said, speaking to Clare. “Maybe he wants us to go to him and this is his way of connecting with us. But he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be scared.”
“What are you saying?” Clare asked.
“I think he’s got something else in mind,” Kett went on. “I think he’s been planning this abduction for a long time, maybe even as far back as 2014, when he took Emily Coupland from the park. Whatever he’s doing, he’s expecting us to respond in a particular way. He’s in control of this situation, and I don’t like that.”
“Like I said,” Clare said, resting his knuckles on the table. “We do this very carefully. I want all teams working on finding Stillwater, today.”