‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I hope one day you’ll forgive me.’ Gently, he squeezed her hand, before turning and walking away.
The sideways glances and hushed conversations were driving Amy to distraction. It was why she had insisted on visiting Deborah McCauley herself. When life gives you lemons, she thought; if nothing else, she could put her special skills to good use. Given her background, she was particularly deft at detecting signs of fear. A twitch of the eye, flushed skin, the inability to keep still – such emotional leakages were things Amy homed in on.
Deborah McCauley was a woman of means who worked in a private practice part-time. In all likelihood she could afford to retire, but she seemed the type of person who wanted to be kept on her toes. ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice,’ Amy said, admiring the colourful artwork on the walls as she followed her down the hall. Her home had been tastefully decorated by someone with an eye for design.
Deborah walked ahead of her, her sparkly cane tapping against the floor with each step.
‘Beautiful house.’ Amy cast an eye over a freshly plastered wall in the kitchen. ‘You’ve had some renovation work done.’
‘Yes.’ Deborah leaned her cane against the glossy breakfast bar before perching on a tall stool. She gestured for Amy to take a seat. ‘I expanded the kitchen by knocking down a wall. But you’re not here to talk about home decor, are you? What brings a detective inspector to my door?’
Amy glanced at the bar stool and decided to give it a miss. She had yet to perfect the art of getting on them gracefully. High stools did not mix well with legs as short as hers. ‘I’m investigating the abduction of Dr Curtis’s daughter and the poisoning of his wife Nicole.’ She would not waste time in trying to build a rapport. She filled her in on the details already in the press. ‘My team’s had quite the job, tracking you down.’
‘I think Dr Curtis is a fine example of why one should stay private in one’s endeavours,’ Deborah replied haughtily.
Amy crossed her arms. Now she knew she had not imagined her earlier condescending tone. ‘Have you spoken to him lately?’
‘Hugh and I parted company years ago. If I kept in touch with every professional I worked with, I’d never get anything done.’
‘And you’ve definitely not spoken to his wife, Nicole?’
Deborah averted her gaze, concentrating intensely on her manicured nails. ‘I barely knew the woman. We sometimes bumped into each other at charity functions but that’s as far as it went.’
Amy watched her swallow hard before finally meeting her gaze. She was lying and they both knew it. But she would not press her any further just yet. Such questions were better placed in a police interview, if it came to that.
‘What about your other colleagues? People you worked with at the Curtis Institute?’
‘There were only two, Christina and . . . what was the chap’s name?’ She tapped her bottom lip. ‘Stuart, that’s it. Stuart Coughlan. They were orderlies. They helped out during the day and took turns to stay overnight when the dorms were occupied.’
‘We need to speak to them urgently. Is there any chance you have their details? And what about the other children involved in the tests? We’ll need to see them too.’ The words felt sour on Amy’s tongue. She made an effort to keep her expression neutral. What sort of person would be involved in testing children? There was a lot more to Deborah McCauley than met the eye.
‘The tests were decades ago. What’s it got to do with Ellen and Nicole?’
‘We’re following a strong lead that suggests there’s a link. What can you tell me about the orderlies? What do you know about Luka Volkov?’
‘He could also go by the name of Lukasha. It means “light”, whereas Volkov means “wolf”. Quite a combination, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Do you have children?’ Amy asked, feeling it only fair to warn her. ‘We can offer safeguarding, just in case Ellen’s kidnapper turns his attentions to you.’
‘My son graduated with a first-class honours business degree,’ Deborah said dryly. ‘He’s also a black belt in karate – quite capable of keeping himself safe.’
‘You must be very proud,’ Amy replied. ‘But if you see anything suspicious, you should report it to the police.’ She cast an eye over the photographs on the kitchen sideboard in an effort to get to know the woman behind the mask.
Her head tilting towards the clock on the wall, Deborah rose to her feet and grasped the handle of her cane. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to get going.’
‘Wait,’ Amy said, temporarily stalling her movements. ‘What can you tell me about the fire that killed Luka and his mother?’
‘Really, Officer, I don’t like talking about it.’ Deborah froze, her expression taut. ‘I gave a statement at the time. You must still have a record of it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a manicure booked and I’m going to be late.’
‘We have your original statement.’ Amy dug her heels in. Officers had pored over the old paperwork. ‘From what you can remember . . . is there anything about their deaths that doesn’t ring true? Ellen’s kidnapper . . . he’s claiming to be Luka.’
Deborah sighed, leaning on her cane. ‘I wish Luka had survived. I’d like nothing better than for him to have started again. But they found two bodies in that fire: a woman and a child.’
‘Why would someone claim to be him?’
‘They could be delusional. Hugh’s worked with many patients over the years. Some of them take on the identity of other people to get away from past traumas.’
Amy turned the idea over in her mind. ‘No, that can’t be it. They know too much.’
‘Which means it’s someone Luka knew. That, or they’re making it up and have convinced themselves it’s real. Now, as much as I’d like to do your job for you, I really must insist you leave.’
‘Ellen’s nightdress was found covered in blood. I’m sure your manicurist can wait.’ Talk about first-world problems, Amy thought, glancing at Deborah’s nails. They looked perfectly fine as they were.
A flush bloomed on Deborah’s face. Pulling open a drawer, she reached for a battered blue address book. ‘Here,’ she said, scribbling on a blank page and ripping it out. ‘These are the last addresses I have for Christina and Stuart. Perhaps you can track them down.’
But Amy was not so easily fobbed off. The woman was hiding something; she could not get her out of the house quickly enough. ‘Let’s play devil’s advocate. What if Luka survived? Why would he want revenge?’
‘You wouldn’t ask me that if you saw where he came from. We saved him from abject poverty. He had his own room, hot meals, private tuition at the institution. He was grateful for everything we did.’
‘But what about the testing . . .’
‘A bit of aversion therapy and a few minor personality tests. No worse than the ones you did when you joined the police.’ But Deborah refused to meet her eye. ‘Now, I really must ask you to leave.’
Amy reluctantly followed Deborah as she showed her out. In the hall, the last rays of late-afternoon sun cast a beam through the stained-glass door. Evening would soon be upon them. With Paddy at the helm the office would run smoothly in her absence, but there was so much to oversee. ‘We may need a further statement. My officers will be in touch.’ Slipping her hand into her suit pocket, Amy pressed a card into Deborah’s palm.
‘Hugh is the victim here,’ Deborah narrowed her eyes. ‘So why do I feel like we’re all suspects? What happened to Luka and his mother . . . it was a tragic, tragic accident.’ She took her jacket from the coat rack in the hall.
‘You’re not in any trouble,’ Amy said, watching her intently. ‘We’re just trying to put the pieces together.’ It was true. She thought of the tangle of red lines across the board in the briefing room. It seemed to double in size as each day passed. It was a giant puzzle of connect-the-dots.
Her mobile phone rang as Deborah opened the front door to allow her outside. She wasted no time in
slamming the door behind her, and Amy felt a chill in her wake. She glanced at the screen before answering the call. It was Paddy, and his voice sounded strained. ‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but there’s been a development. How soon can you get back?’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The Curtis Institute, January 1985
Lying in his dormitory bed, Luka stared at the ceiling, his thoughts swirling in his head. He had not seen Mama in weeks. Silent tears drizzled down the side of his face and dampened his pillow. Christmas had passed with little celebration. Seasons came and went but, in his heart, it was winter, grey and bleak, with storms ahead.
Wiping his tears, he held his breath as a key turned in the lock of his door. Someone was entering his room.
‘I heard crying,’ Deborah said softly, coming to the side of his bed. ‘Are you OK?’ Her lab coat was creased, wisps of blonde hair escaping her ponytail and falling into her face.
Sitting up in his bed, Luka blinked away the remnants of his tears. ‘I want to go h-home . . .’ His words were engulfed by a sob.
‘Hey, come here.’ Sliding a hand around his shoulders, Deborah pulled him in for a hug. Luka liked this side of her, the kind side, the side that wanted to make everything all right. ‘I know you’re not happy, but I’m doing everything I can to keep you safe.’
Luka’s breath locked in his throat. It was the first time Deborah had admitted he was in danger. The so-called scholarship which had lured his mama in had come to an end. There were no more workshops, no music lessons, just the tests the doctor set and some contact with the orderlies. It was as if everyone was distancing themselves from him, one by one.
‘You’re such a good boy.’ Deborah rocked him gently. ‘So sweet and kind.’ Pausing, she kissed the top of his head. ‘I’ll look after you, I promise. I’ll take care of everything.’
But the words sounded ghostly on her lips, instilling fear instead of comfort. For a long while, they sat in silence, and he realised that Deborah was crying too.
He had no words to comfort her. It seemed Deborah was as unhappy as him. Was she a prisoner too? Shutting his eyes, he allowed her to hold him close. She smelled of fresh linen, like clothes drying beneath a warm summer sun. Little by little, his world felt brighter. Deborah was on his side.
Wiping her tears, she released him, her face flushed as she kept her voice low. ‘It’s only natural to feel scared, but I won’t let anyone hurt you.’ Her eyes searched his face for understanding. ‘You trust me, don’t you?’
Luka nodded. But there was something he needed to know. He asked her about the number inked on his skin, and why the markings were reserved for the very few. He had not seen Sam since their last meeting. Had he left the institution? Had something bad happened to him?
A shadow passed over Deborah’s face at the mention of the name. She exhaled a long, drawn-out breath.
‘These tablets you’re taking. They make it easier for you to study, yes?’
Sullenly, Luka nodded.
‘The more tablets you take, the better your concentration. But then the side effects increase. You understand what I mean by side effects, don’t you?’
‘The nightmares,’ Luka said, referring to the hallucinations that plagued his nights and days.
‘Amongst other things,’ Deborah said. ‘The only way we can find out what dosages are safe is by testing them.’
‘Doh-sages?’ Luka elongated the word as he memorised it. He’d heard the doctor use it but wasn’t entirely sure what it meant.
‘How many tablets you take,’ Deborah explained. But . . .’ She raised a finger. ‘There aren’t enough children in the study and that’s why the doctor pushes you too far.’
‘I hate the tablets. They’re sucky.’ Luka pouted. He hated everything these days.
‘But they’re helping so many children, especially in America. Some kids get distracted, can’t focus. Some can barely sit still. The pills help them to learn.’ She paused, cocked her head to one side as she waited until footsteps in the corridor had passed. It was Stuart, whistling some obscure tune, as he always did on his night patrols.
Deborah softened her voice, leaned in. ‘You, Sam and the other three children, you were earmarked . . .’
Confusion was etched on Luka’s face. He had an excellent knowledge of English, but he did not always understand the descriptives people used. Like the other night, when Stuart described the electrics in the institute as ‘fried’.
Deborah pursed her lips as she tried to come up with a better choice of word. ‘Not earmarked . . . you were chosen for these tests because you’re the strongest children we have. We’re doing so much good here. Think of all the children we’ve helped.’
But the words seemed like half-truths. The concern in her eyes told Luka she was holding back.
‘But Sam . . .’
‘Sam’s in hospital. He has a heart condition. He won’t be coming back.’
Luka remembered the blue tinge to his lips, the way he kept rubbing his chest.
‘Don’t worry, this will be over soon.’ Deborah glanced at him furtively. ‘I’ve got plans.’
‘For Mama too?’
Her smile warmed her face as she laid out a bright future for them both. ‘One day you’ll be living with your mother in a lovely house, and you’ll never need to worry about money again.’
Luka followed her gaze as she stared up at the ceiling and described his future life. ‘Life is hard in Russia. It’s going to be a while before it gets back on its feet. England is the best place for you now.’
‘But how?’ Luka stared, open-mouthed. His emotions were too big for him to process and he was unable to take it all in.
‘I’m working on it. Just give me a little more time. Can you do that?’
Luka nodded, absorbing her words. As she clicked off his lamp, Deborah paused to kiss him on the top of his head. ‘Feel better now?’ she said when she was standing at the door.
‘Yes,’ Luka said, giving in to the yawn that rose up in his throat. Tiredness had overcome him, now his fears and worries had been taken away. Better bread with water than cake with trouble. The old Russian proverb floated in his mind. It was easier to wait and allow Deborah to take care of things than kick up a stink and cause problems for them both. He thought of the promised phone call from his father, but the door had clicked shut. Tomorrow. He would ask her then. As he nestled under his covers, he thought who was really to blame. The doctor was an evil man. Even Deborah agreed. Perhaps she was scared of him too. Papa had once told him about karma, how people reaped what they sowed.
He thought about what kind of karma the doctor deserved. Papa said such things came when they least expected it, although not always straight away. He remembered more of his father’s words: Your strength is in your silence. Right now, he needed all the strength he could find.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Amy’s footsteps stalled at the traffic lights at the front of the police station. She should have returned through the private car park, away from prying eyes. All too late, she realised the group of people on the footpath outside the station had gathered for her. Peering closer, she recognised a few faces. Her heart faltered. They were relations of the young girls who had fallen victim to her biological parents.
‘There she is!’ a woman with a high-pitched Essex accent screamed as she approached. ‘The Beast of Brentwood’s daughter!’
Amy’s blood chilled as she became the main attraction. News got around fast. She hurried towards the entrance as the news cameras swivelled in her direction, journalists’ questions ringing in her ears.
‘’Ere, why is she allowed to be a copper?’ a thickset man shouted for the camera’s attention. ‘My taxes pay her wages, that family should be locked away!’ By the look of him, it had been a long time since he’d possessed a job, never mind paid taxes, but Amy let it go. She glanced at a uniformed officer who had come outside to tell the crowd to disperse. New in service, he had come to her department fo
r advice more than once. To her horror, he seemed too embarrassed to meet her gaze. ‘C’mon, folks,’ he said half-heartedly. ‘Let her through.’
Amy could have crossed the road, carried on through the back entrance without a word. But skulking away was an admittance of defeat in her eyes. She was not responsible for Lillian and Jack’s gruesome misdeeds. She had done nothing wrong. But her gut still churned at the prospect of everyone knowing who she was. Her eyes flicked to the top windows of the building as she pushed her way through the crowd. Several faces peered down at her, but none of her colleagues seemed in a hurry to get involved.
‘DI Winter, what have you to say about this morning’s news story?’ A reedy-looking journalist pushed through the bodies, inserting a microphone under her nose. ‘Are you Jack and Lillian Grimes’s daughter? How long have you known?’
‘No comment,’ Amy said, as people and cameras surrounded her. She couldn’t turn back now, even if she wanted to.
A woman’s voice rose from behind. ‘DI Winter, how does the Metropolitan Police feel about having the daughter of Britain’s worst serial killers heading up one of their teams?’
‘I . . .’ Amy said, her words catching in her throat as the enormity of it all hit home. Normally, she would shake off any ugly encounters, but today she felt rooted to the spot. Is that how people saw her? Guilty by association? A sudden jolt made her gasp as something hard hit the back of her jacket. What the hell? She looked over her shoulder to see a man a few feet away holding a tray of eggs. With his ginger beard and steely gaze, he looked familiar. He was the brother of one of Lillian’s victims. Amy had visited them when their loved one’s body had finally been discovered, decades after her death. The family had every right to be angry. Had they known who she was, they would never have allowed her inside their home. They must see her now as hypocritical, telling them how sorry she was, while at the same time knowing the girl had been raped and murdered under her roof.
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