Paper Girls

by Alex Smith

  “Bullshit,” said Clare. “Anything happens to them and I swear to god I’ll make your prison life hell.”

  “Let’s talk about Emily Coupland,” Kett said, trying to get back some control. “The last girl you abducted.”

  Stillwater’s smile sat motionless on his lips.

  “I was cleared of any wrongdoing,” he said eventually. “It was all a terrible misunderstanding. I was worried about her, and I did what I thought was right. As it turns out, Emily was removed from her parents after that whole incident because they were putting her welfare in danger. I was right.”

  “You were,” said Kett. “You chose your victim well. You just weren’t quite smart enough to make it work.”

  For the briefest of moments, too small for Kett to be sure he’d even seen it, Stillwater’s expression changed.

  “I—”

  “No, don’t get me wrong,” Kett said, riding over him. “I can see what you were planning, but you fucked it up. There were too many moving pieces.”

  Stillwater chewed on something that he wasn’t quite willing to say, his jaw bulging.

  “Killing rabbits, anyone can do that,” said Kett. “Hell, I’ve done that, a long time ago. It’s amateur stuff. But taking children, that’s not easy. That’s not an amateur job at all. It’s tough, and most people aren’t smart enough to figure out how to do it without being caught.”

  “You think you’re going to bait me,” said Stillwater. “Is that all you’ve got? What, you think I’ll buckle and cry and confess my sins?”

  “Something like that,” said Kett. “Floor’s all yours.”

  Stillwater regarded his bloodstained fingertips, then bit off a loose piece of thumbnail. He chewed it for a moment, then spat it onto the desk—never looking away from Kett.

  “Okay, so why these girls?” Kett asked. “All eleven. Skinny as rakes. Freckles. Is that your thing? Because don’t forget, we’ve met your girlfriend.”

  That look again, his mask slipping.

  “Oh yeah,” Kett said. “She’s, what? Twenty-four? But if you squint she could pass for a lot younger. You ever make her dress up in a school uniform? Maybe watch her cycling around on a bike with a newspaper bag over her shoulder?”

  “No,” said Stillwater, but Kett had obviously touched a nerve. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Is that what we’re going to find on your laptop, when we find your laptop? Young girls?”

  Stillwater was still smiling, but his eyes looked sharp enough to cut glass.

  “I’m not one of them,” he said.

  “A paedo?” said Kett, working at those frayed edges. “Why are you telling me that? What are you hiding? Why are you making such a big deal about it?”

  “I’m not telling you anything,” Stillwater said, an edge of panic to his voice.

  “You know what they do to men like you in prison, don’t you?” Clare said, leaning on the table again so that he could spit the words into Stillwater’s disintegrating smile. “You must know. There’s only one way of making sure that doesn’t happen. Tell us where they are.”

  “You should be careful,” said Stillwater, regaining his composure. “Both of you.”

  “Yeah?” said Kett. “Why’s that?”

  “You’re both family men.”

  Kett’s hand went automatically to his wedding ring.

  “You both have children,” Stillwater went on. “How old are your triplets, Superintendent. Fourteen? And Robbie, you’ve got three little girls, haven’t you? Where are they now?”

  The rush of fury that boiled up from Kett’s stomach was almost too powerful to resist. He clenched his fists, breathing steadily, trying to ignore the desire to rip Stillwater’s shit-eating grin from his face. He could almost feel the interview seesaw, the balance of power shifting to the other side of the desk. Clare’s eyes looked ready to pop out of his head, flecks of white foam on his lips. He was going to explode, and that was exactly what this arsehole wanted.

  “Where were you on Monday afternoon?” Kett said, keeping his tone as civil as he was able. He felt Clare stand down, the boss’s breaths returning to normal. “Between five-thirty and, say, midnight?”

  Stillwater looked miffed that nobody had taken the bait. He made an exaggerated show of deep thought.

  “Monday, let me see.”

  Kett knew from the man’s grin that they were about to get some shitty news.

  “Oh yeah, that’s right, I was out of town. On a train, in fact.”

  “Yeah?” Kett said.

  “I left Norwich at three-thirty, heading to London.”

  “Business or pleasure?” Kett said.

  “Bit of both,” he replied. “But you’ll have me on camera, both here and at Liverpool Street Station. I had a meeting in Whitechapel.”

  “Jack the Ripper territory,” muttered Clare, which struck Kett as a weak move. Stillwater just sneered.

  “Dinner, a couple of drinks. I got the last train back, arrived in the city past 1am.”

  It wasn’t impossible that he could have taken Connie, Kett thought. The girl’s home life hadn’t exactly been much fun. If she’d stayed with a friend after her round, then walked home later that night, Stillwater could have snatched her after he’d arrived back in Norwich. It was unlikely, though.

  “We’ll check the CCTV,” Kett said, and Stillwater shrugged, chewing his bloody nails again. “And Tuesday afternoon, where were you around three?”

  Another smile, and Kett sighed.

  “You should know,” he replied. “I was right here.”

  “What?” said Clare.

  “In the station,” Stillwater said. “I had an appointment. Tuesday, a quarter to three, I think. I’ll check. Or you can. You kept me waiting for hours.”

  “You were here?” Clare said.

  “I came in as a witness. There was a fight outside my work, a week or so ago. A kid ended up in the hospital. I saw the whole thing, offered to come in and give a statement. To be honest, I thought it would be a five-minute job. So much for being a good Samaritan, eh? This world just doesn’t seem to like good people.”

  Kett drummed his fingers on the table, trying to think of a way around his story. Clare had obviously given up. The boss cursed beneath his breath then stormed to the door, banging his hand on it twice. The lock snapped open and he left the room, and even though it closed again straight away Kett could hear him cursing as he walked down the hallway.

  “Interview terminated at, uh, twelve-oh-three,” Kett said, ending the recording. He didn’t get up immediately, and the two men sat there in silence, staring each other out.

  “Charge me if you like,” Stillwater said. “I’ll get my lawyer in here and I’ll be out in a heartbeat. No forensic evidence, plenty of witnesses, CCTV footage from a police station, and no reason on earth why I’d want three young girls. Any jury would see this for exactly what it is, a personal vendetta. And it is. You guys really messed me up last time, I had to have a tonne of therapy just to get my head straight after you accused me of kidnapping Emily. You’re out to get me to try to make yourselves look better, to cover up your past mistakes, and anyone in their right mind would see that.”

  He was right, Kett knew. Stillwater was a cold, calculating arsehole. He was a bad man. It didn’t take a lifetime of detective skills to work that out. But unless he was a magician, he didn’t take the girls.

  “You mind yourself now,” Kett said as he stood. “And make yourself comfortable, we’ve got twenty-three hours left to get to the truth.”

  “Oh I’m just fine,” Stillwater said, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back on his chair, his feet thumping onto the desk. “You’re the one who’s in the shit, detective.”

  There was that arrogant grin again, and this time Kett couldn’t stop himself. He leant across the desk, planted a hand on Stillwater’s chest, and gave him a hefty shove. For all his attempted composure, the man made a noise like a squawking chicken as his chair toppled.


  “Whoops,” Kett said, knocking on the door. “Like I said. Mind yourself.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “I don’t believe it,” said Porter, leaning closer to the screen. “There he is. That’s him.”

  Even in the grainy feed Stillwater could be seen as clear as day, sitting on the row of chairs by the wall of the city centre police station waiting room. He had a book in his hand, and every now and again he’d walk over to the desk and speak to the duty sergeant. The timestamp said that he walked in at 2:43, went in to give his statement at 5:38, then left the station four minutes after six.

  “Wasn’t even him that made the appointment,” Porter went on. “We asked him to come in.”

  “Maisie left her house just after quarter past three,” said Dunst. “The alert went out less than an hour later when she dialled 999 from her phone, and when she didn’t pick up emergency dispatch’s return calls. Cops tracked her down and arrived on scene at five, give or take, and her bag was found long before Stillwater left the nick.”

  “He’s not our man,” said Clare, who was standing over the group. “Fucking hell, what a mess. You really tossed this one all over yourself.”

  “I what?” Kett said. “Look, we should keep him anyway, because he’s an arsehole.”

  “So you can pull another stunt like the one back there?” Clare growled. “Get us involved in a brutality lawsuit?”

  “He just fell off his chair,” Kett said, lifting his hands in a display of innocence. “Shouldn’t have rocked it back on two legs, it can be dangerous. I was reaching out to try and help him.”

  He paused, suddenly serious.

  “He knew about my kids, sir. Yours too. Don’t you think that’s weird.”

  Weird was one word. Terrifying was another.

  “So he did some research,” Clare said. “It’s not exactly a secret. My NC profile online says I have six children, including triplets, and you were all over the TV after your wife went missing. I saw the press conferences with you and the girls. You’re right, he’s bad news, but it’s not him.”

  “Sir,” Kett said, but Clare growled in his direction.

  “Let him go. Forensics are still working on it, but they haven’t pulled anything from his body or from the house that isn’t animal blood. There’s not even trace DNA that could link him to the girls. For now, our attention remains on the other suspect, Lochy Percival.” He grimaced as he said it. “He is to be treated with the utmost care, is that clear? If he’s our man, we need to prove it beyond a doubt. If he’s not, then the slightest hint of a cockup on our part will land us so deep in the shit we’ll need a submarine. Is he here yet?”

  “On route,” said Porter. “Spalding’s bringing him in.”

  “Don’t put him in an interview room,” Clare said.

  “Sir?” Porter frowned.

  “I don’t want him freaking out. He’s not under arrest, and we want to keep him calm. Dunst, do me a favour and clear the canteen.”

  “At lunchtime?” he replied. “You’re asking for a riot.”

  “Just do it,” said the boss. “And Kett, I need to ask you for a favour. A big one. An unusual one.”

  Kett lifted an eyebrow, waiting.

  “Go fetch your kid and bring her back here.”

  Kett rang Moira’s childminder as he drove across town to the nursery. It was only a five-minute trip so fortunately the call didn’t go on for long.

  “Oh gosh, she’s adorable,” she said on the line. “She hasn’t grumbled at all. She ate some toast and honey, and a digestive—sorry, I didn’t ask if she could have biscuits but I figured it was okay. She practically ripped my fingers off trying to get it out of my hand.”

  “They’re fine,” Kett said, trying to remember the woman’s name. “I just couldn’t recall if we’d fixed a pick-up time.”

  “Anything up to three,” she replied. “Longer is fine, but after-school rates are different and I have some bigger kids arriving.”

  “I’ll collect her before three,” he said. “She’s definitely okay?”

  “Mr Kett, she hasn’t asked for mummy or daddy once.”

  In one way that was a relief, Kett thought as he hung up. In another, it was a disappointment. All it took was a morning and Moira had made herself a new home, a new family. It was heartbreaking, too, because that’s how babies worked, their memories didn’t etch deep. The awful truth of it was that Moira was already beginning to forget her mother.

  He parked on the zigzags outside nursery, leaving the engine running. As soon as the staff let him through the door Evie launched herself onto his leg, gripping it like he was a lifebuoy during a storm.

  “Hey, gorgeous girl,” he said, ruffling her hair. “Good morning?”

  “She was great,” said Debbie, handing Kett Evie’s water bottle. “Quiet as a mouse, but she was playing with some of the other kids today.”

  “You’re late,” Evie mumbled into his leg.

  “I’m not!” he protested. “I’m actually early.”

  “Am not,” she said. He tried to prise her loose but she refused to come, and he was forced to do a Monty Python silly walk out of the room with her still attached to his leg. By the time he’d reached the car she was howling with laughter, grappling him so hard in her effort to stay on that his trousers were in danger of coming loose.

  “Hey, Evie, that’s enough,” he said, grabbing her beneath the arms and hauling her loose. He held her for a moment until she’d stopped wiggling. “I need your help with something. Official police work. You think you can handle it?”

  “Will I be catching bad guys?” she asked.

  “You will,” he replied, and it wasn’t exactly a lie.

  He buckled her in to her booster, checking it twice before closing the door and clambering into the car. He’d known immediately what Clare was going to ask him, and he had been impressed—partly because it was a good idea, and partly because he didn’t think the boss would be so happy flaunting the rules. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at his daughter.

  “I need your help talking to a man.”

  The contrast couldn’t be starker.

  Stillwater had been composed, intelligent, ready for anything. Surrounded by the scarred walls of the interview room, drenched in blood, he’d looked every part the villain.

  Lochy Percival, on the other hand, looked like a wreck.

  He was practically curled into himself on a chair in the far corner of the canteen, his legs drawn up to his chest and his hands wrapped around his knees. He peered over his kneecaps like an injured rabbit, and his dark eyes flitted back and forth beneath a scuffed and filthy yellow Norwich City cap, waiting for somebody to come and put him out of his misery.

  And that somebody was DCI Kett.

  “Remember,” said Clare, his lips practically touching Kett’s ear as they both stared through the greasy little window in the canteen door. “Go easy on him. The wrongful arrest suit gives him a weapon of mass destruction and plenty of ammunition.”

  “Pow pow!” Evie said in her deafeningly squeaky voice.

  “You sure about this?” Kett asked. “Evie doesn’t really go easy on anyone.”

  “I want him to feel relaxed,” Clare said. “I want this to be as far from a police interview as it’s possible to be.”

  “Your call,” muttered Kett as he pushed open the canteen door. Evie was in like a shot, bolting to the fridges like it was Christmas morning. Percival looked ready to scream at the sight of her, then he calmed down, his expression softening as he watched the child picking things up then dropping them again.

  The room had been emptied, then partially filled again. Spalding and Dunst were sitting together at a table pretending to have an intimate conversation, and Porter nibbled a protein bar beside the door, studying his mobile phone with an Oscar-worthy expression of concentration. All of them had removed their jackets and loosened their ties.

  “Can I have this?” Evie asked, holding an orange jelly po
t over her head.

  Kett walked in after her, a smile on his face. He nodded at Percival, still smiling, then walked to Evie’s side.

  “Jelly for lunch?” he said. “How about a sausage roll? They do sandwiches here as well.”

  “Jelly,” said Evie, with a face that told him not to bother arguing.

  “Go get a spoon,” he said, watching her run past the tills. He turned to the woman behind the counter, surprised to see DCI Pearson there. “Can I pay for this later?” She nodded, and he turned to Percival again. “Hi, sorry about this.”

  Percival didn’t reply, but his legs dropped to the floor. He rested his elbows on the table, playing nervously with the frayed brim of his cap. He looked nothing like the photographs they’d found in Delia Crossan’s house—the early photos, that was. He looked broken. Beneath the cap his thinning hair was greasy and unwashed, his face pocked with spots. His clothes looked like they hadn’t been laundered in weeks, and even from here Kett caught a whiff of him—strong enough to put him off the idea of grabbing a sandwich from the shelf. The man’s hands rubbed at his left thigh, massaging it. It was where he had been stabbed, Kett remembered.

  “I really am sorry,” he went on, taking a few steps towards his table. “I know how difficult this must be for you. I want to assure you that—”

  “I don’t like it,” Evie said. She was standing behind Kett, leaning on a canteen table. The jelly was open, juice running to the floor.

  “Come on, Evie, you’re making a mess.”

  He took the jelly from her and put it on the closest table while she ran back to the counter to look for something else.

  “You want anything?” Kett asked Percival, and the man shook his head. From the look of his complexion he hadn’t eaten anything other than garlic bread in years. Kett took another step in his direction. “Mind if I sit down?”

  Percival still didn’t respond, like he’d lost the ability to communicate. Kett took a chair from a neighbouring table and positioned it far enough from Percival not to appear threatening, but close enough for them to talk quietly.