‘I tell you what,’ she said conspiratorially, after checking the hall to ensure that Dr Curtis had left. ‘We’ve got a fold-up bed somewhere. Why don’t I squeeze it into Luka’s room, and you can join him later tonight?’
‘I was promised a double room,’ Sasha said in her native tongue. ‘This is not good enough.’
‘It’s the best I can do for now,’ Deborah replied. ‘He won’t be far . . . only down the hall.’ After giving Luka a kiss and a hug, Sasha reluctantly let him go.
The dimly lit corridor seemed to go on for ever as Luka was shown to his room. Like in his mama’s, the windows were boarded and a blue-blanketed single bed was pushed against the wall. As he followed Deborah in, Luka’s stomach did cartwheels at the prospect of sleeping in such a strange place. But at least a two-bar heater provided warmth, and he had never heard of an en-suite until Deborah explained what it was. The thought of having a bathroom all to himself seemed beyond luxurious, even a little ludicrous. But one thought hung like a warning in his mind, making his heart beat a little faster than it should.
Was this a bedroom or a prison cell?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘Is it true?’ Deborah inhaled a breath and held it in her lungs until she received a response. Most people would dance lightly around the subject of Nicole’s poisoning, but she was not most people. Since hearing about it last night, she had not got a wink of sleep.
‘Who is this?’ Dr Curtis’s voice was gruff. Answering the phone was his wife’s domain and not many people had his number these days. Deborah knew she was the exception to the rule because they went back such a long way.
‘It’s me . . . Deborah. Is Nicole really on her deathbed? I rang the hospital, but they won’t tell me a bloody thing.’ She shot from the hip, did not mess around with sympathetic meanderings. If Nicole died, Hugh would get over her soon enough. Flicking her lighter, Deborah touched the flame to her cigarette, taking a succession of short puffs until it was lit.
‘It’s serious,’ he said, the heat fading from his voice. ‘She had a bleed on the brain. The police questioned me for hours.’
Mumbling under her breath, Deborah paced the kitchen floor, menthol cigarette in hand. ‘She rang me yesterday. Shit!’ she swore again. What if the police were tracing her call?
‘They’re still looking for Ellen, thanks for asking.’
‘I’m sorry . . .’ Deborah realised how selfish she sounded. ‘But it doesn’t end here. You know that, don’t you? The police will be knocking on my door . . . and what about Stuart and Christina? It’s only a matter of time until they come clean.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’ Hugh said sharply. ‘If Nicole dies, I’m looking at a murder charge.’
Deborah’s lips puckered around her cigarette as she locked the smoke deep into her lungs. ‘You said they questioned you . . .’
‘They treated me as if I were a common criminal. Disgusting, it was.’ Curtis sniffed. ‘Then they grilled me about the experiments and how Luka and his mother died.’
Deborah’s frown deepened. ‘Why can’t they leave the past alone?’ She shuddered as a breeze curled around her, as if invoked by the memories of that day. She had first met Curtis through her father, who had been a golfing acquaintance of his at the time. Having decided to study in the field of psychology, she had persuaded Curtis to provide the work experience she needed to progress. How idealistic she had been. How naive.
‘The kidnapper’s claiming to be Luka.’ Dr Curtis’s voice brought her back to the present day. ‘Taking Ellen and almost killing Nicole . . . I fear for my life. Really, I do.’
Deborah sighed. None of them could have imagined back then just how things would turn out, and now they had the burden of this awful secret to bear. ‘What if the police find out? What then?’ Taking one last drag of her cigarette, she stubbed it out in the ashtray. She opened the kitchen window, knowing her son Max would complain about the smell of cigarettes later on. It didn’t matter that he was thirty-nine, he would always be the beating heart of her fears and concerns. Max loved her. Looked up to her. She could not bear for him to find out what she had done. Things had been different then. She had thought it was for the best. But in the cold light of day, her actions would be viewed as grotesque.
‘You’ll have to sort out Christina and Stuart,’ Curtis said. ‘We all need to be singing from the same hymn sheet.’ Silence fell between them, and Deborah became aware of her heart as it skipped a beat. She had forgotten to take her medication. She needed to stay on track.
‘Aren’t you listening to me?’ Dr Curtis exhaled sharply in disbelief.
‘Can’t you do it?’ Deborah snapped, riffling through her handbag for her medication. ‘Things have changed. I’m not that person anymore.’
‘I told you, I’m on police bail. And I’ve got children’s social care crawling all over me, asking about Ellen and the institute.’
Of course, Deborah thought, dry-swallowing a tablet. It always comes around to his precious experiments in the end.
‘I’ve kept my silence . . .’ His voice grew dark and menacing, his breath heavy on the line. ‘If one of them squeals, we all reap the consequences. Remember that. Everything we’ve built will topple like a house of cards. Do you want to go to prison? Have them discredit our work?’
‘Of course not. I’ll speak to Stuart and Christina. I’ll do it tonight.’
‘Make sure you do. You’re the ones he’ll be targeting next.’
Deborah knew he was talking about Ellen’s kidnapper. For years she had told herself that Luka was dead. Closing the door on the past made it easier to bear. It wasn’t just the experiments that would cause her life to come crashing down around her. She had a secret. Something else she’d kept hidden over the years. She had spent her whole life atoning for her deeds, but it was never going to be enough.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The mattress springs creaked as Ellen’s kidnapper slouched on the edge of the bed. He had come here to get some respite, but there was an invader sleeping beneath his covers, her small form curled up, her thumb firmly jammed in her mouth. Somebody’s sleeping in my bed. She looked like a modern-day Goldilocks, with her blonde curls forming a halo around her face. Her captor had come here through force of habit, desperate to lock himself away from the suffocating pressures of the outside world.
The never-ending stream of traffic had intruded on his thoughts: cars honking, workmen drilling, the screaming sirens of the emergency services all hours of the day and night. Today he rejected what the world had to offer. But his safe room was named as such for a reason. It was the only place he felt truly at peace. The world was too noisy, too fast, and his senses were overloaded after a busy day. Ellen was in his space, leaving snot stains on his pillowcase and grubby finger marks on the walls. Children should be obedient. Subservient. Unlike Ellen, who had wailed all day to be let out. He’d had to dose her with Night Nurse and Calpol just to get her to calm down.
He watched her, his eyes narrowed, his thoughts dark. Would she survive what lay ahead? Would he? Taking Ellen was meant to change things. She stirred, crying for her mummy in her sleep. Perhaps death would be a blessing and save her from a lifetime of pain.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Suppressing a yawn, Amy chastised herself for burning the candle at both ends. Sleep had evaded her and the dark rings under her eyes made her look like death warmed up.
‘You’re in early,’ she said, catching sight of Paddy hunched over his desk. ‘Did my sister kick you out of bed?’ Sally-Ann was a good influence on him. Lately he had not been late for work once.
Opening the office blinds, Amy cleared away some takeaway cartons from the night before. The place stank of curry and the cleaners were late. A stickler for time-keeping, Amy accepted that not everyone shared her enthusiasm for arriving at work when they should.
‘Sally-Ann’s on a late shift today, sends her regards,’ Paddy replied, gathering up empty mugs in preparation for th
e morning tea round. ‘Feck, it’s cold out there.’ He shuddered in response to the window Amy had flung open.
‘Nonsense. You’re spoilt, driving to work with heated seats warming your backside. A lungful of fresh air is just what you need to brush the cobwebs away.’ Amy had walked to work this morning, as Malcolm had given her a lift home from the pub last night.
Satisfied she had cleared the room of the sour curry smell, she pulled the window in a notch. Bustling through the door, a small grey-haired Italian woman apologised for her tardiness. She was dragging a Henry Hoover, and Paddy helped her find a socket. Given the length of time the detectives spent there, every spare socket was taken up with iPhone and Samsung phone chargers.
By the time the cleaner had finished, the rest of the team had filtered in. They followed Amy into the briefing room. The early start was necessary in order to deal with the day’s headlines and the fallout which would ultimately follow. It was D-Day for Ellen, Amy could feel it in her bones.
It all depended on Adam, who had texted in the early hours to say that elements of Luka’s letter would appear in this morning’s edition. Calling him for confirmation was futile. He had not yet arrived at work and his mobile went straight to voicemail. That was not a good sign.
She checked her watch, her stomach lurching as she realised the time.
‘I’ll nip to the front counter, see if anything’s come in,’ Molly said, catching her worried gaze. The sooner Amy saw the headlines, the sooner she could breathe again. But as Molly returned with the London Echo in hand, her expression relayed that something was very wrong.
Passing it over, she shook her head. ‘It’s not on the front page.’
‘You’re not serious.’ Amy laid the newspaper flat on the table as her colleagues crowded around. She found the story printed on page two in a tiny side column. It was a summary of the situation and not Luka’s letter at all. Her palms pressed against the desk, she groaned. ‘Tell me this isn’t happening. Why has Adam gone back on his word?’
A series of collective murmurs filled the room as her colleagues took stock. The caller’s cooperation hinged on his letter being on the front page. How would he react to this?
‘If we’ve seen it, then you can bet our suspect has too.’ Paddy’s face was grim as he scanned the words printed in black and white.
Amy turned back to the front page. ‘We need to come up with a valid excuse for Luka as to why Brexit took precedence over this case.’ But time was in short supply – and then the desk phone rang. She stiffened, all eyes on her as her hand hovered over the receiver. She pressed the button for the call to go through to speaker and waited until the trace was on.
‘You lied.’ It was the voice of Ellen’s kidnapper. Amy recognised the lilt of his Russian accent immediately.
‘You said I’d be front-page news,’ he continued. ‘You pretty much gave me your word.’
‘I’m as much in the dark about this as you are. The reporter guaranteed me front-page placement. We did our best.’
‘I should have known I couldn’t trust you,’ he murmured, his words sharp spikes under his breath.
Amy’s grip on the phone tightened. Getting into an argument would do neither of them any good. People like him only listened to what they wanted to hear.
‘Tell me where Ellen is and we can run a follow-up tomorrow. The television stations might be interested once they pick it up.’
‘Fuck the television stations!’ the caller roared. ‘Tomorrow is too late. You can go to hell.’
Amy could feel everything slipping away. ‘It’s never too late, but if you’re painted as the villain then nobody will listen. I can give you a voice, but you need to help me in return.’ She skim-read the article as she spoke. The piece mentioned Nicole’s recent poisoning and the fact that police were looking into a former ‘patient’ with regard to his daughter’s kidnapping. There were a couple of sentences about Dr Curtis being a ‘pioneer’ in the field of psychology and some ‘allegations of mistreatment’ being made, but it was unlikely to satisfy Amy’s caller. In fact, Dr Curtis was portrayed as the victim, given the poisoning of his wife and the kidnapping of his child.
Amy knew there were constraints. The police media department had advised her against sharing details of the case, while the newspaper’s lawyers would have been all over Luka’s letter, crossing out anything slanderous. But Adam was a talented journalist. What could have been a vivid and interesting piece appeared dull and washed out. The allegations might be true, but it seemed as if nobody wanted to hear them.
‘You’re an intelligent man,’ Amy continued, listening to his ragged breathing. ‘If what you say about Dr Curtis is true, then it needs to be investigated. But you’ll lose all sympathy the second they hear you’ve kidnapped a four-year-old child. We can make a difference. But only if we help each other.’
‘I didn’t want any of this. But it would have been worth it if the truth about Dr Curtis came out.’
Amy picked up on the strain of resentment running through his words. He sounded serious. Was it really Luka on the line? It occurred to her that, if it wasn’t Luka, it was someone who had been through the same thing. Her muscles tensed as she recalled his letter. ‘You were kept captive, weren’t you? People . . .’ She paused, trying to work out where the hell she was going with this. ‘People don’t get it, do they? They think that, once you’re free, everything will be OK. But it’s not that easy. Sure, the door may be open now, but in your mind the walls are all around you and sometimes . . .’ Amy sighed. ‘Sometimes it feels safer that way.’ The words flowing from her mouth were the echo of a memory of when she was taken into care. Yes, she had wanted her parents’ killing spree to come to an end, but not for social care to tear her home apart. It was fear that had driven her to rebel against her parents. The only way to adjust was to lock away her memories. Memories that were now returning with frightening clarity.
Her caller’s silence told her she had hit a nerve.
‘It takes time to readjust to the real world,’ Amy continued. ‘Sights, smells, sounds – they all crowd in on you, and sometimes all you want to do is to go back to where you came from.’ Amy kept her gaze on the floor. She could imagine her colleagues’ puzzled expressions, their curiosity.
‘How . . . how do you know all this?’
‘Because I was like you once. Which is why we can’t do it to Ellen. None of this is her fault. Please, Luka, let her go.’ The use of the name was intentional. Until he told her otherwise, it was how she would address him from now on. She needed to establish a bond.
‘It’s what Mother wanted,’ Luka said faintly, before clearing his throat. ‘Be ready. You’re about to go on a journey. Wait for my call.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Amy sat cocooned in her office with the blinds closed as she awaited Luka’s call. Her colleagues had questioned her use of his name, asked her if it was wise. But she knew their suspect’s actions were coming from a place of deep suffering. By addressing Luka’s issues, they might be able to move forward with the case. She drummed her fingers on her desk. It was impossible to concentrate, knowing that at any moment he might give her Ellen’s location. She checked the online system, working her way through the completed tasks to date. Safeguarding was imperative, and she set her team to track down Dr Curtis’s old colleagues. Had they read Adam’s lacklustre newspaper article? This had been Adam’s chance to put things right between them. How could he let her down again?
Amy stiffened as her mobile phone rang.
‘DI Winter,’ she said, holding her breath for a response.
‘It’s me, Adam. I’m in reception.’
Speak of the devil and he’s bound to appear, Amy thought. ‘I’m on my way,’ she said, before ending the call. Her time was limited, but she could not pass up the chance to tell him how annoyed she was that he had reneged on a promise yet again. As she left her office, she knew she should keep calm, but every time she closed her eyes she saw Ellen’s fac
e. Adam’s failure to deliver could cost the little girl her life. It did not take Amy long to reach reception.
‘About time.’ Adam’s Italian accent sounded stronger than ever today. ‘I’m busy too, you know.’
‘In here.’ Amy led him into a side room. She had kept him waiting only minutes and sensed an undercurrent of aggression in his tone. The room was stuffy and windowless, the smell of stale sweat lingering in the air. It housed a wonky table with a piece of folded cardboard shoved under one leg, three chairs, and a computer used for taking statements when the need arose. Not that it would come into play now. Her fingers gripped the door handle as she closed it behind them. She was ready to deal with him quickly and get back to work.
A pang of sorrow rose in Amy’s chest. In the old days Adam had sometimes called in to see her under the pretence of work. More than once they had exchanged a stolen kiss in this very room before she sent him on his way. But he was the one who had been unfaithful, not her, she reminded herself.
‘Why didn’t you warn me the story wouldn’t make the front page?’ she said, the memory of his infidelity seeping bitterness into her words.
‘You should be thanking me,’ he replied. ‘You’re lucky it was published at all.’
‘It’s just a puff piece for Dr Curtis. It’s done more harm than good.’
‘Da che pulpito viene la predica! ’ Adam waved his arms in the air.
Amy felt a spike of annoyance. ‘If we’re going to argue, can we at least do it in a language I understand?’
‘You don’t get it, do you? I can’t print slander. There’s no evidence for those allegations. I couldn’t get it on the front page because the guy who wrote the letter is dead!’
‘I’m not sure he is,’ Amy retorted. ‘And if you’d answered your phone this morning, then at least I could have been prepared.’
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