Paper Girls

by Alex Smith

  “A farm?” he asked.

  “Horses, probably,” she replied. “Lots of the land round here is used for them because the river’s just over there. There’s a golf course in the other direction.”

  They kept walking, every scuffed stone and broken stick like a gunshot going off. A minute or so more and the path curved to the left, leading into a row of ancient-looking lime trees.

  Beyond them, nestled in the dark, was a house.

  “Jackpot,” said Kett, hunkering down behind a felled tree that was drowning in ivy. The house was old and it looked like it had seen some fire damage—or maybe a falling tree. One side of the roof had a hole punched through it, the chimneystack in pieces on the ground below. All of the windows were boarded up.

  But the front door was wide open.

  “Backup knows we’re here?” Kett asked. Savage nodded.

  “They’ll be with us in seconds. You want to wait?”

  No, he thought. But yesterday was all too fresh in his aching head. Brandon Walker had been a thug, armed with a hammer and defending nothing but drugs. There was a good chance Stillwater was a psychopath, armed with god only knew what, and guarding three terrified young girls.

  “Yeah, we should wait,” he said.

  They wouldn’t have to wait long. He could already make out the shimmer of blue lights between the trees. Sure enough, a series of pounding footsteps grew in volume until two more uniformed officers appeared. Kett waved them over, motioning for them to keep their voices down.

  “If our man’s here then he could be dangerous,” Kett said. “On a perfect day we’d hold up and wait for a negotiator and a firearms team, but we can’t risk those girls turning into hostages. You two, take the back, wait there in case he breaks for it. Savage, with me.”

  He stood, then hesitated. Something was nagging at him.

  “What’s up, sir?” Savage said.

  “It’s that sandwich and Coke,” he said, looking at the house again. “Why would he use his debit card? Feels so unnecessary. So deliberate.”

  “Maybe he was just hungry?” she said. “Shop’s a fair bit from here, he might not have expected us to track him back. Like you said, guys like Stillwater are clever, and sometimes that makes them cocky. I’ve read enough true crime to know that’s how a lot of them are caught.”

  “And he might not even be here at all,” Kett said, nodding. “Okay, come on, let’s do this.”

  He set off at a jog, trying to be as quiet as possible. Savage ran noiselessly beside him, her baton extended. The two PCs were already out of sight as they cut behind a small, brick workshop. Kett slowed to a walk as he neared the open door, resting against it for a second before peering inside.

  It was dark, of course. If there had ever been electricity here it had been switched off a long time ago, and the windows were all blinded by plywood sheets. The place stank of piss, but Kett was pretty sure it wasn’t human. He’d been in London long enough to know the stench of rats when it clawed into his sinuses.

  He pulled his phone from his pocket before remembering the flashlight still didn’t work. Savage was way ahead of him, aiming her torch ahead of her as she crossed the threshold. Kett followed, trying to work out if the house felt empty or not before realising that he didn’t need his instincts for this one.

  Somebody inside was whistling.

  Savage had reached the first internal door, the baton held above her right shoulder. She nudged it open with her foot and Kett looked past her to see a small, bare room—nothing here but a fireplace. There was only one other door in the hall, and Kett nodded towards it. He couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like the whistling was coming from right behind it.

  He held up three fingers, Savage nodding at him to show that she understood.

  Two fingers.

  One finger.

  Kett stretched himself to his full height, lifted his size eleven boot, and kicked the door as hard as he could. It didn’t so much open as come clean off its hinges, dropping in a cloud of dust.

  “Police!” Kett roared as he charged into the room. “Down on your knees!”

  “Police!” Savage echoed.

  There was just enough time to make out a small kitchen illuminated by the hole in the ceiling, a table, a man in overalls, before the back door crashed open and the two PCs barrelled inside yelling their heads off. If they were going for shock and awe, it worked. The man—even in the swirling dust and half-dark Kett could tell that it was Stillwater—fell back against the sink, something clattering from his hands.

  “Stay where you are!” Kett shouted, crossing the kitchen in three strides and grabbing Stillwater by the shoulder. He was covered in something wet, and sticky, and warm, and there was a vicious little knife at his feet. Kett kicked it away, spinning Stillwater around and yanking both of his hands behind his back.

  “Hey!” Stillwater yelled. “Get off me!”

  “Cuffs,” Kett yelled, but Savage was already there. She snapped them onto Stillwater’s wrists then drove her foot into the back of his leg, sending him crashing to his knees so forcefully that his chin rang off the cast iron sink.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Stillwater cried out, his voice muffled and broken. “Let me go!”

  “Keep struggling,” Kett growled. “I’ll be happy to knock the fight right out of you, son.”

  Stillwater groaned, but his movements slowed. He sat back on his haunches, craning his head around to try to see behind him. He’d hit his face pretty hard, but that didn’t explain the mess he was in.

  The bastard was soaked from head to toe in blood.

  “Where are they?” Kett said, grabbing Stillwater’s hair and wrenching his head back. He turned to the other PCs. “Check the house, the outbuildings, the woods, they’re here somewhere.”

  “Who?” whined Stillwater.

  “Don’t fuck with me,” Kett said. “Where are the girls? What have you done to them? Is this their blood?”

  “No!” Stillwater cried. “I don’t have any girls.”

  He was interrupted by the sound of more coppers arriving, the kitchen suddenly flooded with them. Dunst was there, his grey face turning greyer at the sight of Stillwater’s overalls.

  “They here?” Dunst asked.

  “They have to be,” said Kett. He dropped his head so it was just inches from Stillwater’s. “And they’d better be alive.”

  Stillwater wriggled away, twisting so that he was sitting on his backside. He’d split his lip on the sink and he sucked at the blood there, snot pouring from his nose.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “There’s nobody here but me. It’s rabbit blood.”

  “Rabbit?” Kett said. Stillwater nodded to the table, and Kett saw the animals there—skinned, and in the process of being gutted. The little nest of organs glistening on a plate made his stomach churn. The rabbits, three of them, stared at Kett with their dark, dead eyes.

  “Just rabbits,” Stillwater said.

  One of the constables leaned through the hallway door, shaking his head.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” said Kett. He looked down at Stillwater, resisting every urge he had to stomp on his head. “You’re here slaughtering rabbits?”

  “Pest control,” he said. “The place is overrun with them. Rats too. I’m helping a friend, making a little money on the side selling rabbit meat.” He held up his cuffed hands in a display of innocence. “I swear, that’s all I’m doing.”

  Kett met Savage’s eye, reading her thoughts.

  Fuck.

  “Get him up,” Kett said to her. “Take him to the nick. Make sure all this goes to forensics immediately.”

  “You’re arresting me?” Stillwater said. “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, you do,” Kett said. “And yes, I am. Christian Stillwater, you are under arrest for the abduction of Delia Crossan, Connie Byrne, and Maisie Malone. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if yo
u do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Got it?”

  Stillwater shook his head in denial. PC Savage grabbed his elbow and helped him up, leading him to the back door.

  “Stillwater,” Kett said, and the man turned back. “If they’re here, we will find them.”

  “No,” Stillwater replied. “You won’t.”

  And even though it was dark, even though the room was still choked with dust, Kett could swear that the fucker was smiling.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Kett drove back to the station alone. A few coppers had stayed on site, a search team of detectives and constables working a line from the farmhouse out into the woods and over the neighbouring golf course—much to the fury of a bunch of badly dressed old farts. Kett had spent half an hour scouring the house and its outbuildings for any piece of evidence that might implicate Christian Stillwater, but there was no indication at all that the missing girls had been there.

  He thumped the wheel, accidentally sounding the horn just as a woman pushing a buggy walked onto the zebra crossing in front of him. She almost jumped out of her skin, yelling obscenities at him as she scuttled across. He waved an apology that probably came across as sarcastic before accelerating into the city centre. Stillwater had been brought to the nick in town, where he’d be stewing inside a cell. If he was smart, he’d already have called his lawyer.

  And Stillwater was smart. Kett had no doubt about it.

  There was nowhere to park, so Kett pulled the Volvo into the underground car park of the huge library opposite, tucking the ticket into his wallet as he jogged back to the surface. He checked his phone for messages, clocking the time—half eleven—and reminding himself that being late to collect Evie two days in a row would result in a strop of Biblical proportions. He wasn’t even sure what time he was supposed to pick Moira up. In his rush to get to Delia Crossan’s house he had completely forgotten to ask the childminder.

  “Hey,” he said to the sergeant on duty as he walked through the door. It had only been a day since he’d last been here, but it felt like a century or two. “Stillwater?”

  “He’s out back,” said the man without looking up.

  Kett walked through the double doors into the bustling heart of the police station. It was much smaller than the Wymondham headquarters, and older too, but it was currently buzzing like a hive. Kett crossed the bullpen, spotting Porter standing by a window. Colin Clare was on the other side of the room with a face like a gorilla’s arse.

  “Pete,” Kett said. “Any word on Percival?”

  “Hey Robbie,” Pete said. He looked exhausted. “Spalding’s bringing him in, but she’s doing it as gently as possible. I didn’t go in the end, we thought I might terrify him too much. Apparently when he opened the door he broke down in tears before Spalding could even say why she was there.”

  “Did he know about his sister? His niece?” Kett asked, and Porter shrugged.

  “Kett,” yelled Clare from across the room. “Get over here. You too, Porter.”

  They did as they were ordered, standing in front of the boss like two kids in front of the headmaster. He finished reading the document in his hand then looked at Kett.

  “What is it with you and beating up suspects?” he asked. “That might be how things work in London, but it’s not how we do it here.”

  Kett opened his mouth to argue, then decided to save his energy. It was a good move, because Clare’s expression softened—only slightly.

  “But we’ve got our main suspect in custody,” he said. “That’s a good thing. The bad thing is there’s absolutely no evidence connecting him with the missing girls. Unless you want to charge him with cruelty to rabbits, we can’t touch him.”

  “So we press him,” said Porter. “Put the pressure on, find a chink in his armour.”

  “It’s going to be tough,” said Kett. “I’ve interviewed guys like him before, too many of them. They’re clever, they can tell a lie, and they’ve rehearsed their story so many times they probably believe it.”

  “That’s why I want you in there,” said Clare. “You’re as annoying as all hell, but you’ve done this before. I’m coming in with you.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Kett. “Now? It’s just I have to pick—”

  “Now,” said Clare. “We’ve got Percival coming in at some point too and god only knows how we’re going to handle that one.” He looked at Kett with a strange expression. “Wait, were you about to say you’re picking your kids up?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Evie at one, Alice at three, and Moira at some point between now and midnight. Why?”

  Clare chewed on it, then shook his head.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Come on. I want you to be the bad cop.”

  “Yeah?” said Kett. “And you’re the good cop?”

  “I’m the devil cop,” said Clare with a grim smile.

  They’d stripped Stillwater of his bloody overalls, dressing him in a jumpsuit that might once have been orange, but they hadn’t let him wash the blood from his face and hair. It was a deliberate move. The room was hot, the air close, and the smell of him was cloying. His bottom lip was black, his hands filthy and his wrists swollen where the handcuffs had been clamped then removed. His eyes were bright, though, regarding Kett with an arrogant curiosity as the DCI sat down on a chair on the opposite side of the desk. Clare pressed the record button on the deck but remained standing, a caged bear, his mouth-breathing the loudest sound in the small space. Kett waited for the boss to make the first move. Then, when he didn’t, he sat back and looked Stillwater up and down.

  “You waived your right to counsel?” Kett asked.

  “I’ve got nothing to hide,” the man replied. “You’re making a big mistake. Another one.”

  “Ian Brady, you know him?” Kett asked, his voice quiet, calm. Stillwater sniffed, his blue eyes watching Kett with a frightening clarity.

  “The Moors Murderer,” he said after a moment. “Sure.”

  “Killed five children,” Kett went on. “But he didn’t start there. His first kill was a cat. He was ten. He burned another cat alive, and he stoned a dog to death. Do you know what else he did?”

  Stillwater didn’t reply, his eyes not wavering, barely even blinking. It was an intimidating stare, and every cell in Kett’s body was sending signals to look away—the same way he’d look away from an aggressive dog—but he held his ground. He’d faced off against far worse people in the interview room.

  “He cut the heads off rabbits,” Kett said. “Is that what you were doing, Christian? Rehearsing?”

  “You have to cut their heads off,” the man replied, breaking eye contact to look up at Clare. “It’s too hard to peel the skin otherwise. And nobody wants to cook a rabbit with its head on.”

  “But look at you,” Kett said. “You’re drenched in blood. You look like you’ve been bathing in it.”

  Stillwater ran a hand through his sticky hair, shrugging.

  “Must have happened when you tackled me,” he said, a blatant lie.

  “You’re selling the rabbits,” said Kett, moving on. “Who to?”

  “Anyone that will have them,” he replied. “I get a fiver a rabbit, and the farm is overrun with the furry little bastards. Eat some myself, too.”

  “Whose farm is it?” Kett asked.

  “It belongs to a man called Peter Dalton,” Stillwater said. Kett didn’t react, because Stillwater was telling the truth. The Land Registry had returned the same information. Dalton was an ex-pat living in Spain, and they hadn’t been able to reach him yet. Stillwater’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “He’s away at the moment. He’s had that place on the market for about three years and nobody wants to touch it—not for the price he’s asking anyway. Not just rats, half the ceiling is gone and there’s rot everywhere. I keep the site as free of rodents as I can.”

  “You don’t need the money,” Kett said. “You’re working a good job.
Estate agent, right?”

  “Yeah, but it’s boring,” Stillwater said. “You must get that? I don’t see you sitting behind a desk—well, apart from this one. You’re bursting into houses smashing people’s heads into sinks.” He gingerly prodded his lip. “I want the same thing, to be outside, to live a little, to be human.”

  “To get your kicks,” Kett said, nodding. “Killing rabbits. Kidnapping girls.”

  “Where are they?” Clare dropped both hands onto the desk, the sound of it like a bomb going off. Kett wasn’t sure who jumped harder, himself or Stillwater. The boss was loud. “You’ve still got a chance here, a chance to avoid spending the rest of your life in jail. Hell, maybe you can use the same lawyer you did last time and you might walk free again. Just tell us where they are, and you can make your life a hell of a lot easier.”

  It was the wrong tactic, Kett knew that immediately. Stillwater’s smile grew, his forehead furrowing.

  “You’re talking about those paper girls, aren’t you?” he said, turning back to Kett.

  “You know exactly who we mean,” Clare said. He opened the folder he’d brought in with him, pulling out three large photos. Kett had seen the two of Maisie and Connie already. The one of Delia Crossan was new—a blown up picture of the young girl in her Brownies outfit, caught mid-laugh. Clare fumbled and the photograph fell to the floor with a slap. Stillwater smiled as he watched the Superintendent pick it up and slam it down. “Maisie Malone. Connie Bryan. And Delia Crossan. Those girls don’t deserve the hell you’re putting them through.”

  Stillwater reached out, brushing his fingers down Delia’s cheek in a way that made Kett’s skin crawl. He had to resist the urge to rip the photograph away before it was contaminated.

  “Sweet girls,” he said. “I saw them on the news. She’s new, isn’t she? I wasn’t aware there were three of them.”