Child's Play (10 page)

She nodded, eyes brimming. It was the only time he'd used her name. She told herself the tears had nothing to do with the personal touch.

‘I
presume it's a professional job?' The thin grey-haired guy on the front row had introduced himself as Seth Fielding, crime correspondent on one of the one-size-fits-all redtops. His lugubrious eyebrow and drawled delivery was a down-market Paxman, the natty grey suit and gold-framed specs owed more to John Humphrys. Axe-man meets Rottweiler.
Great.

‘What makes you say that, Mr Fielding?' Sarah's delivery was cool but her lips tightened when she slipped off her jacket. Little wonder she was feeling the heat. From the head of a horseshoe-shaped mahogany table, she faced a dozen or so reporters, acutely aware that on the screen behind, Caitlin's smiling image loomed large. Not for the first time, Sarah silently cursed the chief for leaving her in the metaphorical firing line. As a foil to hardened newshounds, the newbie press officer to her right appeared to be less use than a glass truncheon. Naomi-nice-but-dim had barely opened her mouth let alone uttered anything sound. Head down, she was scribbling away like there was no tomorrow – probably a shopping list, Sarah thought. The chief always had hacks eating out of his hand but he'd cried off, when he saw the low turnout. He'd passed the Q&A reins to Sarah. It felt more like a toxic chalice.

‘It's pretty obvious, isn't it?' Fielding crossed leg over knee, ran finger and thumb down a razor-sharp crease in his black trousers. She struggled to see how he'd made the mental leap given the few facts she'd divulged.

‘You tell me.' Holding the reporter's gaze, she tapped a pen against her teeth, suspected he was fishing for an even sharper angle. The media invariably seized on hooks, always attached catchy handles to major inquiries, preferably alliterative, invariably simplistic: Moors Murderers, Doctor Death, Suffolk Strangler, House of Horrors.

‘Let's see, inspector. Caitlin Reynolds has been missing for more than twenty-four hours; she's abducted apparently off the street on her way home from school.' He glanced round, presumably making sure the pack was on-side. ‘One might almost say she vanishes into thin air.'

One might?
‘You might, Mr Fielding. I think the answer's rather more down to earth. And to find it, I need hard evidence from reliable witnesses.' She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth: there was never any mileage in rising to a bait.

‘And you didn't need help yesterday?' He traced an index finger along a now sardonic eyebrow. She'd not be surprised if he practised poses in the mirror. ‘Correct me if I'm wrong, DI Quinn, but the inquiry into Caitlin's abduction is now entering its second day and the police have no sightings, let alone leads.'
Thanks for the reminder
. It did seem weird though, not a single pointer from the scores of people who'd been interviewed.

‘It strikes me,' Fielding said, ‘that whoever snatched her is either a jolly lucky man or knows exactly what he's doing, i.e. a professional.' The pompous twat didn't actually say ‘unlike you lot'. But the implication the cops were doing a Keystone was clear.

‘I don't comment on speculation. It's why I'm seeking help from the public, Mr Fielding.'

‘Again … why not seek it earlier?'

‘And I'm certainly not discussing operational policy with you.' Despite clammy palms, she threw in an icy stare.

‘No, I quite see that, inspector.' He responded with a warm smile. ‘That would be a waste of time. Wouldn't it?' The dig prompted sniggers from a couple of his peers.

‘Anna Thorpe,
Sunday Mercury
.' A young blonde sitting behind Fielding had a finger in the air. Even without the long glossy black hair and short pencil skirt, she'd turn a few heads,
was
turning a few heads. Sarah thanked God for the diversion, reached for a carafe, nodded acknowledgement at Thorpe to continue.

‘With all due respect, inspector …'
Yeah right.
Ms Mealy Mouth. She'd not even tried to sound as if she meant it. Sarah felt sweat trickle down her spine, took a sip of tepid water. ‘Though I'm sure you're doing your best –' the smile was as genuine as hen's dentures – ‘I still think you should let us talk to Caitlin's mother. Real people have so much more impact with our readers, you see.'

Real people? As opposed to what? Plastic police people?
For someone who looked like she could be on work experience, Thorpe's patronizing pop rate was pretty good. Her last point was on the money too. Problem was Nicola Reynolds had been under police questioning for much of the day and if the pack got so much as a sniff of that fact, it wouldn't just put them off the trail, it might point them in completely the wrong direction. Either way, it risked putting an unfair slant on the coverage. Last thing Sarah wanted right now was Nicola Reynolds facing trial by tabloid.

‘You're absolutely right, Miss Thorpe. Of course you can talk to Mrs Reynolds.' She smiled, took another sip of water. ‘As soon as she feels ready. Naturally, she's distraught at the moment.'

‘But—'

‘You wouldn't want to cause further distress, would you … dear?' OK. Childish. The DI's customary cool had taken a couple of slides. Christ, she was only human. Besides, assuming Nicola Reynolds held nothing else close to her chest, Sarah saw her as a trump card. The best time to parade the mother in front of the press was when its interest showed signs of flagging. Not long then. ‘She'll probably be up for it tomorrow,' Sarah said. ‘All being well.' Nothing like hedging your bets.

She took three more questions from the floor, repeated the time-frame and Caitlin's route, stressed how vital it was that witnesses came forward. Apart from doing a turn for the local telly station immediately after the news conference, Sarah reckoned it was more or less a wrap. But Fielding clearly had other ideas. ‘Are you ruling out the professional kidnapper scenario then, inspector?'

‘Neither in nor out, Mr Fielding.' Glancing down, she started gathering files. ‘As in every inquiry, the police have to keep an open mind.'

He muttered something as she walked out that elicited more sniggers. Sarah only caught the last word: vacant. Reckoned she could probably guess the rest.

Naomi-nice-but-dim hung around while Sarah did the TV interview then tailed her out of the conference room. ‘That reporter who was up his own backside? He was just guessing, right?'

‘Fielding.' Sarah masked a smile. Naomi seemed to have found her voice. ‘I reckon. Why?'

‘A professional makes no sense to me. I mean Caitlin's not famous or nothing. Besides, the family's not rolling in it. So whoever it is can't be after cash. And last time I looked, Moseley wasn't exactly the centre of the white slave trade.'

‘Go on.' Intriguing.

Naomi with voluble hand signals now matched the DI's stride. The brown mid-calf skirt and fussy orange blouse did the press officer no favours, nor the split ends in the long auburn hair, but Sarah's gaze also took in the serious expression in clear hazel eyes. Dark horse? New light? Memo to self: don't write off people too soon.

‘OK, so the streets round the school and the Reynolds' house are still swamped with police, right? You've got uniform knocking doors, stopping drivers, detectives interviewing anyone with a pulse. But still no one's come forward, have they?'

‘Go in.' Sarah opened her office door. ‘Take a seat.'

Naomi perched on the edge, bit a thumbnail as she waited for Sarah to off-load files, crack open a window then lean against the sill. ‘Go on.' She folded her arms.

‘As far as we know, inspector, no one saw anything, heard anything, or even suspected anything.'

‘And you read into that – what?' And would it match Sarah's thinking?

‘Maybe there was nothing to see?' She held out empty palms. ‘No scuffle, no scream, no snatch, no burning rubber.'

‘You think Caitlin went willingly?'

‘
If
someone took her, I think she knew who it was.'
If
someone took her? Naomi's suspicions went further than the DI's, who'd only toyed with the idea that Caitlin may have co-operated under duress; even the threat of violence from her captor could have cowed her into silent acquiescence.

‘And?'

‘That's why I don't buy into the abduction, kidnap, vanishing act – whatever you want to call it – being a professional hit. I see it as personal. What if she's besotted with some bloke? Had rows with her mum over him, say? Wanted to put the wind up her?' Considering how long it had taken her to speak out, the press officer certainly wasn't holding back now. Warming to her theme or what?

‘You've seen the emails, Naomi, the photographs sent to Nicola Reynolds' phone?'

She nodded. ‘Sure, but if Caitlin wanted to punish her mum, teach her a lesson, sending that stuff would be a piece of piss.' She coloured. ‘Sorry, but for computer literate kids it'd be child's play, inspector.'

‘It's one hell of a harsh lesson, Naomi.' Unless, Sarah mused, the whole thing had gone too far, got out of hand and Caitlin was too scared to call a halt. She'd certainly looked scared witless in the pics. What was it Jude Fox had told Harries? Caitlin liked to be the centre of attention, she played the drama queen. But even if she had taken part in an elaborate hoax … ‘She sure as hell couldn't be acting alone, could she?'

Naomi made eye contact, paused a heartbeat. ‘Exactly.'

S
tanding in front of a whiteboard, Sarah ran her gaze over what she sensed was a less than delirious squad. She doubted the subdued mood had much to do with the dark night, the hail stones hammering the incident room's windows. For one thing the stunned silence had only just settled. She'd hung fire until the end of the late brief before mooting Naomi York's theory. She'd run it past the chief earlier, who'd not so much poured cold water on it as stood it under Victoria Falls in a cloudburst during the rainy season. His cavalier dismissal before knocking off for the weekend hadn't given Sarah pause; she'd waited to hear each detective's latest input, hoping for concrete developments. Their mental image of Caitlin now had a little more light and shade, but they still had no sightings, no positive leads. Clutched straw or not, Sarah had just shared the press officer's take on the girl's absence. It had gone down so well. Not.

Paul Wood eventually broke the silence. ‘I can't see it myself, inspector.' The DS had swapped his customary patch of wall for a radiator sill, bare ham-like arms rested on his paunch. ‘I mean why would a girl do something so spiteful to her own mother?' Tell that to Lizzie Borden, Sarah thought. Not that a harrowing pic or two was on the forty whacks' scale and without solid evidence any involvement on Caitlin's part in whatever was going on was pure speculation.

‘Twig, I'm not taking it as read.' Sarah pushed back a sleeve of her jacket. ‘I've never met the girl. None of us has any idea what the relationship's like.' Of course, if Nicola Reynolds' word was anything to go by the pair were closer than full-term twins in the womb of a size-eight model. ‘I'm just saying it's possible. Got to be worth looking at, surely?'

‘If she is playing silly buggers,' Wood's pause implied continuing scepticism, ‘she'd need help. Where's the boyfriend?' He nodded at a photo of Holden on the whiteboard. ‘Reckon he's done a runner with her?'

Luke Holden could have been abducted by aliens for all Sarah knew, but: ‘You're right, Twig. We need to talk to him as a matter of urgency now.'
If only for elimination purposes.

They'd already tried contacting Holden. As Caitlin's erstwhile or otherwise boyfriend he was always going to be a person of interest to the inquiry. Nearest and dearest and all that. He'd not answered the numbers supplied by Nicola Reynolds and when Huntie and No-Shit had knocked on Holden's Selly Oak bed-sit the only response had been from a guy upstairs who told them Luke hadn't been around all week. Was the absence significant? Was Holden a dab hand with a camera? Had he and Caitlin hatched a hare-brained plot to get back at Nicola Reynolds?

‘Has anyone put it to the mum?' Hunt asked. Sarah shook her head. Nicola Reynolds had left the station before the question rose.

DC Bruce raised a hand. ‘I'm happy to pay her a house call, inspector. Me and Beth could have another word.' Lally cut her partner a ‘says you' glance: the prospect of a bit of Friday night overtime clearly didn't do much for the new mum. Shona would be keen to pry again; her legendary interview technique had elicited nothing further from Nicola that afternoon.

‘Cheers. Give the search team a nudge as well, yeah?' They'd heard nothing back and officers had been on site a couple of hours. Probably nothing to find, or Nicola would have kicked up more of a stink about letting them in. Sarah glanced at her watch. She didn't like rushing the squad but if she was late, her not-so-hot date wouldn't hang around. Caroline King had only agreed to a quick drink under martyr-like sufferance. Think Joan of Arc meets Saint Cecilia. Not even close.

Twig opened his mouth to speak again, but had second thoughts.

‘Huntie?' Sarah said.

John Hunt lowered his finger. ‘If it's been just the two of them since the dad died, I wonder how well Caitlin gets on with her mum's boyfriend.' Sarah followed his gaze to the whiteboard where Lomas' likeness appeared next to Holden.

‘You're thinking
too
well?' As in intimately; intimately enough for Neil Lomas to play cameraman? ‘Are you thinking there's something going on there?' Sarah asked.

‘Could be.' He shrugged. ‘Who knows?'

Lomas would, and the list of questions for him was growing. The lecturer had been driving to Derby when a DC got through on his mobile. His father had apparently been taken ill and Lomas intended staying there a few days to play nurse. If need be, Sarah would send officers up to do the interview; it was too big a deal to do down a line. As Twig et al had said, if Caitlin had lead role there had to be a co-star.