Paper Girls

by Alex Smith

  The doorbell rang as he was halfway down the stairs, Alice and Evie charging out of the living room like the house was under attack. He fought his way past them and grabbed the food, thanking the bemused driver.

  “Who wants chicken balls?”

  “Me!” screeched Evie, then once again all three of them were screaming like banshees as they ran into the living room. Kett grabbed a few plates from the kitchen before joining them, opening up the various containers on the floor and letting them help themselves.

  “Just be careful, it will be hot,” he said, although his words were lost in the Hungry Hippos-style feeding fest that followed. He found himself smiling as he watched them, marvelling that these strange, beautiful creatures could in any way have come from him. With a deep, shuddering breath he tried to see them, really see them, in a way that finally allowed him to push the three paper girls from his thoughts.

  “That was my chip, moo-moo!” yelled Evie as Moira raided her plate. “Daddy, that was my chip!”

  “There are literally about a hundred chips left in the container,” he replied. Evie ignored them, grabbing a chip from Alice’s plate instead and earning an outburst of pure fury.

  “No! Give it back!”

  “Dad!”

  “Daddy!”

  Kett lifted a chip from his own plate and lobbed it at Evie. It was a good shot, slapping her gently in the forehead before plopping to the plate beneath. She froze, her eyes wide with shock. Kett picked up another chip, holding it above his head.

  “Anyone else want to make a fuss?” he asked.

  “But dad,” Alice started, and Kett threw the chip at her. It bounced off her shoulder and she picked it up and lobbed it right back.

  It was a stupid thing to do, he knew. A terrible waste of food. But right now it was exactly what they needed.

  “Food fight!” he yelled, and suddenly the air was full of flying chips. Alice was an exceptionally good shot, one chip bouncing off his chin and another hitting him on the bridge of his nose. “Evie! Moira! Defend me!”

  Evie obeyed, throwing a chip at Alice. Moira was just grabbing handfuls of whatever she could and throwing them anywhere. Alice was laughing, really laughing, in a way he hadn’t heard for far too long. And he was too, he realised, it spilled out of him like a burst of sunshine on an overcast day.

  “No!” screamed Alice through the laughter. “Get dad! Get dad!”

  They all turned on him, a hail of chips battering off his face and chest. He ducked onto the floor, retreating on all fours to the door, blindly throwing the last of his ammunition at the three girls.

  “That’s not fair!” he yelled. “You’re not allowed to gang up on me, you’re not allowed to tag team!”

  A hefty chicken ball thumped him right in the eye and he held his hand up, ready to tell them to stop. But he didn’t speak, he couldn’t, because something had exploded inside his head.

  You’re not allowed to tag team.

  He stood up, walking out of the room so that he could think straight.

  Holy shit.

  Chips flew out of the door like arrows but he ignored them, running into the kitchen and digging his phone from his pocket. He dialled Porter’s personal number, listening to it ring.

  “Dad! Better get ready because we’re coming for you!” Alice yelled, her head peeking out of the living room.

  Come on, come on.

  “DI Porter.”

  “Pete, it’s Robbie,” Kett said. “I think I know why Stillwater and Percival had alibis. I know why there was CCTV footage of them both that seemed too good to be true.”

  “Yeah?” Porter said. “Because they’re innocent?”

  “No, they’re guilty,” Kett said. “I think they’re both guilty. They’re a tag team. They’re working together.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The pain was unbearable. It was unlike anything she’d ever felt, even the time she’d fractured her finger after a basketball hit it in PE.

  It was the worst pain ever.

  But she couldn’t stop.

  Maisie flexed her wrists, twisting them one way, then the other. Over and over. Her hands were sticky and even though they were hidden behind her back she knew it was blood. But the wire that bound her was definitely looser. If she tugged her arms in opposite directions she could feel the space opening up between her wrists.

  But it was agony. It was making her head pound, it was making her feel like she was going to be sick.

  Don’t be sick, she ordered herself. Because if she was sick then the monster would come, he’d pick her up and take her away just like he had the other girl, the one called Connie. Maisie didn’t know how long ago that was. It might have been an hour, it might have been a month. The room’s only window had been boarded up, but at least the light was on now—a single bulb hanging directly above her—and the world was quiet, as if time had moved on without her. All she knew was that the monster had heard the other girl calling out and he’d taken her away.

  “You won’t cry without your tongue,” he’d said as he’d dragged her through the door. “You’ll try, but you won’t be able to do it.”

  And then there had been two.

  Maisie rested for a moment, the fringes of her vision pulsing with darkness. She looked to her side to see the third girl there. She’d been here already when Maisie had been dragged in and tied up. Back then—Days ago? Weeks?—the girl had been wide-eyed and alert. Now, though, she was slumped on her chair, her eyes closed, her breaths so shallow and so fast that they reminded Maisie of a mouse she’d found once in her grandad’s garage, its back half pinned in a trap. She wasn’t well, her skin so pale it was almost translucent.

  Maisie wondered if she looked the same. Nobody had fed her since she’d got here, and she’d only been given a few sips of water. The monster had come in that morning, and he’d smelled so disgusting she almost hadn’t been able to drink from the cup he’d offered her.

  The other girl hadn’t drunk at all.

  Maisie took a deep breath and set to work again, twisting her arms, working the wire free. It creaked every time she moved, the noise impossibly loud against the silence. She knew that any minute now the monster would charge into the room, his knife glinting, ready to remove her tongue or her fingers or her eyes. And then what? He’d kill her, of course. Wasn’t that how these things always ended? She hated the news because it was full of death, murders, terrorist attacks, and far worse too. She was only eleven, but she knew enough about the world to understand that you didn’t kidnap three girls without having an end game. And since she was fairly sure she wasn’t here for a ransom, the only other outcome was death.

  It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t—

  She felt it give, the wire pinging loose and spilling to the floor. Her joints were locked so tight that at first she thought she was still tied up. Then, with a cry of pain that she had to trap behind her lips, a cry she thought would shatter her, she moved her hands to her lap.

  Don’t stop, she willed herself. Don’t stop now.

  It was like somebody had sewn razors into her spine and her hips, but somehow she managed to bend down and get her fingers to the wire that bound her ankles. This one was easier, even though her hands were sticky, and it took her less than a minute to unwind it.

  She was about to stand up when she heard footsteps.

  No.

  They were coming from beneath her, and they were getting louder.

  Maisie tried to stand, her leg cramping. She cried out as she crashed back onto her chair, her hand slapping across her mouth. The sounds from below stopped.

  Had he heard?

  Was he coming?

  Maisie rubbed the pain from her swollen calf, tried again. She didn’t stand this time, she lowered herself onto all fours and crawled across the bare boards. She didn’t head for the door, she moved to the other girl, trying to undo the knot of wire around her legs. It was too hard, her fingers numb and slick with blood.
<
br />   I’m sorry, she thought. I’ll get help, I promise.

  More footsteps from below. Was that a voice, too?

  Little girls should do as they’re told, it would be saying. Little girls who run away don’t need their toes.

  She reached the door and used the handle to pull herself to her feet. It would be locked, she knew. Only it wasn’t. The handle squeaked, the door creaked, and she hobbled into a dark, bare corridor.

  Maisie paused, feeling her way along the wall, seeing a staircase emerge out of the shadows ahead. It was a noisy one. It was how she’d known the monster was coming—the creak of boards, the thump of his boots. She dropped onto the top step, staying as close to the wall as she could, her fingers leaving bloody smudges on the crumbling plaster. There was a smell out here, the same one she’d caught before—so rancid and so cloying that it made her stomach churn.

  She ignored it, moving as quickly as she dared. Two steps. Three. Four five six until she reached the bend. The voice came from beneath her, hushed but urgent. The monster sounded like he was having an argument with himself—or maybe with the girl he’d taken from the room.

  “… not well, we need to get…”

  She couldn’t figure out what he was saying. But it was good. He was distracted.

  Maisie kept moving, almost stumbling when her foot connected with a loose step. The noise it made might as well have been a gunshot.

  The voice fell quiet.

  Maisie moved fast, her bare feet trampling down the last few stairs before hitting cold flagstones. She was in a large corridor, two doors up ahead, one on each side. There was a light coming from one, so she doubled back and made for the other end of the house.

  “Did you hear that?” a voice behind her. The monster’s voice. It turned from a whisper into a shout. “Little girls who spoil our plans don’t deserve to have their hands.”

  There, a kitchen. Maisie threw herself inside its welcome darkness, pressing herself to the wall just as somebody stepped out of the door at the other end of the corridor. She did her best not to breathe, her heart a wrecking ball that was surely loud enough to bring the entire building down.

  “You sure they’re tied up good?” came the monster’s voice, quiet again.

  “I’m sure,” came another voice, softer, more hesitant. “I did everything you told me to. I did everything right. You have to—”

  “You couldn’t tie your fucking shoelaces right,” the monster said.

  “I did,” whined the first voice. “Please, I’ll go and check.”

  “I’ll do it. I’ll cut them both to shreds.”

  The monster laughed.

  “No, don’t, please!” said the other voice.

  The thump of boots on stairs. He was going up, which meant she had seconds before he discovered she was free. She walked into the pitch-black kitchen, waving her hands in front of her. Was that a glimmer of light ahead? A door? It had to be. It had to be.

  It was. It looked like a pantry, lit by a dust-caked bulb. The door was only open a crack, but that was enough. It didn’t need to be open any more for her to see the bundle of old rags soaked in blood, to see the hand that stretched from beneath them, perfectly pale and perfectly still, as if pleading for her to help.

  She couldn’t help. It was too late.

  Maisie backed away and her leg cracked off a chair, shunting it across the floor. Then she was running, heading for a door on the far side of the room, grabbing the handle and pulling hard, praying that it would be open, praying—

  It swung inwards and there was the night, the air. She ran, stumbled, ran, so wild with joy that she didn’t see the shape loom up in front of her, a hessian sack for its face.

  The monster grabbed her, hoisting her off the ground.

  “No! No!” Maisie screamed, lashing out. It was pointless, he was too strong. A gloved hand clamped down on her lips, his other arm crushing her chest as he carried her back to the house. The kitchen door looked like an upright coffin, full of darkness, until another monster ran out. He, too, wore a mask, staring at her through the crosses of his eyes, and he held an evil blade in his hand.

  “Fuck,” said the second monster.

  Then there was a third, like the house was vomiting bad men. This one was still trying to pull the mask over his head, struggling with it. The monster with the knife turned to him.

  “You fucking idiot.”

  “Enough,” said the monster who held her. He leant in, feeding his whisper into her ear. “Where are you running to? Don’t you know, everyone loves me. Come back to me, the fun’s just about to start.”

  “No!” Maisie cried through his fingers. “No!”

  She punched, she fought, she bit, she kicked. But it was no good. There were three of them, after all, a forest of hands that grabbed her and pulled her, screaming, into the dark.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Saturday

  It was after midnight by the time Kett made it to police HQ, and it was thanks to Superintendent Colin Clare’s wife that he found himself there at all.

  “You sure she’s okay to babysit?” Kett asked as he walked into the Major Incident Room. “She didn’t look too happy about it.”

  Fiona Clare QC had shown up at Kett’s front door fifty minutes ago with a face like thunder. The girls had been asleep, thankfully, and she’d sat herself down on the sofa without more than a handful of words—three of which were, “Bugger off, then.”

  “She’s fine,” Clare said. “That’s just her face.”

  The boss punched both fists down onto the desk, fixing Kett with eyes that were more red than white. He hadn’t exactly looked great when Kett had first met him, but now he looked positively ghoulish.

  “You’d better have something for me,” he said.

  “I do,” Kett replied, nodding to the rest of the team. Porter was half asleep on a chair. Dunst and Spalding sat on the other side of the desk. DCI Pearson leaned against the wall, chewing her pen like it was a cigar. Savage was here too, clustered in the corner of the room with another couple of constables. She smiled at Kett and he read her expression like she’d spoken aloud.

  It’s good to have you back.

  “Well?” Clare barked. “Porter said you had a flash of inspiration. I almost dread to think what that might be. They’re working together?”

  “I think so,” said Kett, rubbing his temples as if it might alleviate the exhaustion. “We’ve been under the impression that we’re dealing with a lone serial kidnapper, right? That’s the way these cases usually go, unless you’re dealing with traffickers. One guy, the same crime, over and over and over until they get caught.”

  “There’s nothing to suggest this is anything different,” said Clare. “Unless you’re chasing waterfalls again.”

  “I…” Kett frowned. “Waterfalls, sir?”

  “Just get on with it.”

  “Okay, both Stillwater and Percival had perfect alibis,” Kett said, walking to the front of the room. “In fact, you couldn’t have asked for any better alibi than being filmed inside a police station while the crime was taking place. Stillwater wanted to be here on Tuesday, he wanted his alibi to be cast iron.”

  “But he didn’t make the appointment,” Spalding said. “We did.”

  “I’ll bet you anything that wasn’t the first appointment time he was given,” Kett said. “See if he cancelled any other slots before sticking to that one. He wanted to be here when Maisie was taken, because he knew we couldn’t argue with our own cameras.”

  “So he knew Maisie was going to be taken at that exact time,” said Clare. “By who? Percival? He had an alibi too.”

  “His cameras at home,” Kett said, nodding. “You’ve been through them?”

  “Of course,” Porter said, his eyes still closed. “I had that distinct pleasure. That man walks around with his hand down his pants way too often for my liking. But he was at home during all three abductions.”

  “You’re sure?” said Kett. “Show me
.”

  “I’ll have to get the phone from evidence,” Porter said, groaning as he stood up. “Hang on.”

  He left the room and Kett took a moment to collect his thoughts.

  “A tag team of kidnappers makes sense,” he said. “Two men can manage a kidnapped girl far more easily than one.”

  “This is great speculation,” said Clare. “But so far you’re tossing into the wind. I need evidence, Kett.”

  “I’m coming to that,” he said. “Is there any indication that Stillwater and Percival know each other?”

  “None,” said Dunst. He took a notepad from his pocket, flicked through a few pages, then replaced it. He examined his nails for a moment before realising everyone was still looking at him. “Oh, sorry, that’s it. There’s no reason to believe they know each other at all.”

  “Right,” said Kett. “Except they were arrested at roughly the same time, weren’t they? Percival was accused of murdering Jenny O’Rourke in, what, November 2013? Stillwater in 2014.”

  “Stillwater took Emily Coupland from the park in Spring 2014,” mumbled Pearson through her pen. She pulled it out, wiping it on her shirt. “Percival had just been released, it was all over the news that he was innocent.”

  “No, no, we covered all this at the time,” Clare said. “We investigated the two men to see if there was a connection, because their crimes were so similar. There was absolutely nothing that indicated they knew each other. Different upbringings, different parts of the county, no contact at all on social media, no phone records, no CCTV, nothing. It was a wild goose chase then and it’s a wild goose chase now.”

  “That was before,” said Kett. “I think you’re right, they didn’t know each other before 2014. Stillwater taking the child from the park, and Percival being falsely accused of murdering that fourteen-year-old tourist, they were completely unconnected. But what about after?”

  “After?” said Clare.

  “It was something that Percival said,” Kett explained. “He spoke about his support group, the one he went to as part of his therapy when his conviction was quashed. Mistreatment by the police or something.”