Child's Play (12 page)

‘Maybe.' Pulling her coat collar tightly, Sarah gazed across the road. Puddles and potholes shimmered with soft-focus greens and reds and gold, Broad Street's night lights distorted in a watery hall of mirrors.

‘You don't sound convinced, ma'am?'

‘It's not much to go on, Shona.' Still too many unanswered questions. Primarily, why would love's young dream court publicity if they just wanted payback on Nicola? Did Luke Holden have some sort of Svengali-like hold over a besotted Caitlin?

‘How about this then? Holden had apparently tried persuading Caitlin to leave home before,' Shona said.
Before?
Sarah turned her mouth down. It was hardly a given he'd done it again – this time, successfully. ‘According to Nicola, when Caitlin told him she wasn't up for it, he dumped her and she was in bits for weeks. It's one reason she was so keen that Caitlin had nothing more to do with the guy.'

‘And the others?'

‘He's a good few years older, likes a pint and he's a user. Not the hard stuff … cannabis, E, meow meow, ketamine.'

Sarah frowned. ‘Caitlin told her mum all this stuff?'

‘No. She had a snoop round, found Caitlin's diary. Confronted her with the evidence.'

‘Has she still got it?' Like hell. Once bitten and all that.

‘No.' Her pause was deliberate. ‘It's in an evidence bag in the boot of my car. One of the forensic guys found it taped under Caitlin's bed.' Sarah gave a low whistle, saw what Shona meant about news. ‘A bit further along, he found a couple of wraps of dope. And as for the really good news?'

They had a potential eye witness. The neighbour Ronald Gibson still insisted he'd seen Caitlin on the day she disappeared. Shona and Beth had dropped by Gibson's place after leaving Nicola stewing. The time and location Shona had pinned down could fit. Gibson claimed Caitlin had been hanging round a bus shelter on the junction of Queen's Drive and Park Hill. He knew it must've been about 12.15 because he had a 12.30 appointment.

‘So she could have nipped out at lunchtime,' Sarah said. Which would make Gibson's wag-playing assumption exactly that, an assumption.

‘Yep. And Gibson's pretty sure she wasn't waiting for a bus.'

‘How come?'

‘Two went past while her mouth was glued to some bloke's.'

‘Did he know who?'

‘No. But the description's not a million miles from Neil Lomas. Dead ringer if you ask me.'

Sarah's lips parted in the smallest of smiles.
Ding dong.

Nicola Reynolds clung to the bathroom sink aware that a faint smell of vomit lingered in the air. Maybe Neil not being around was no bad thing. He'd sounded distracted during their brief phone call, clearly worried about his father's health. He certainly wouldn't want to see her looking like this. Nicola barely recognized her own reflection: sunken cheeks, pallid complexion, haunted eyes. Swaying slightly, she told herself to get a grip. What earthly use would she be to Caitlin in this state? Nicola had to hold it together, because no way on God's earth was her daughter colluding with the sick bastard directing this real-life horror movie. Wishful thinking had nothing to do with it; Nicola knew beyond doubt her conviction was correct. Her present – the abductor's word for it – waiting by the front door when she arrived back from the cop shop had made that abundantly clear, the typed note on the gift tag underlined the message: if Nicola shared their little secret, Caitlin would pay with her life.

Doubled over, Nicola retched again and again, her stomach empty now, a vile taste in her mouth. She drank from the tap then filled cupped hands with cold water, sluiced her face, watched dispassionately as it dripped from her chin, pooled on the tiles.

She'd nearly had a heart attack when the detectives turned up out of the blue. What if he was outside, thought she'd called them in again? She'd have said anything, literally anything, to get them out of the house. She'd even owned up to the argument with Caitlin, knowing it had nothing to do with the abduction. As for Luke Holden, she'd not thought twice about dropping the little shit in the drugs mire. He'd broken Caitlin's heart, deserved everything coming to him. She saw his hopefully imminent arrest as collateral damage to avert police attention from a far greater threat. As for signing over Caitlin's diary, the detective's sweet talk had nothing to do with Nicola's decision. The scribblings were mostly of the got-up-had-breakfast-watched-telly variety. Good luck with that. At least they'd gone away happy. And out of her hair. Mind, the cannabis had been an eye-opener. Nicola would have sworn on her mother's life that Caitlin never touched tobacco let alone smoked the wacky stuff.

Not that the dope was the biggest shock. Her wary gaze strayed yet again to the Nokia phone lying on top of the cistern. It was brand new, pay-as-you-go: the unwanted present, gift-wrapped in yesterday's
Birmingham News.
Nicola had combed every article, studied every picture before realizing none of it was relevant; it would just be the sicko playing mind games again. As for the mobile?

He'd called minutes after the police left. The cultured voice, conversational delivery, made Caitlin's abduction sound like a normal reasonable act. They could've been discussing an eBay transaction or the rubbish weather, except he'd done most of the talking. Welling up again, Nicola dropped her face in her hands, replayed his words in her head.

‘Listen carefully, Nicola. Please don't interrupt. Do exactly as I say and Caitlin will be fine. Once you've— Shut up and listen, Nicola.' The pace of his delivery hadn't missed a beat. ‘As I say … once you've done everything I tell you, I'll send her home and you can continue your lovely little lives. Cross me and she'll die. I think that sounds fair, all things considered, don't you?'

All things considered?
What the hell? He spoke over her before she'd barely opened her mouth. ‘When—?'

‘All in good time, Nicola. All in good time.'

‘When?' she'd shouted, immediately lowered her voice. ‘Please. I'll do anything, anything.'

‘I know you will, Nicola.'

‘Please, tell me you won't hurt her?'

‘Let's think.' Breath bated, she'd heard a sigh. ‘If you're both very good, I'll be in touch again tomorrow. Until then … Mum's the word, eh, Nicola?'

She'd heard a snigger as he rang off. Bastard. Torturing her like this. Lifting her head, Nicola gazed into the mirror again, scowled. Pretty little head? She must've aged ten years in two days. Christ, it could almost be her mother staring back.

Mrs Walker's arthritic knuckles gripped the arms of her favourite wing chair. The heat from the fire had turned one of her legs a mottled shade of corned beef. Lights flickered across the lenses of her Deirdre Barlow specs as she stared, rapt, at the screen. On auto pilot she reached for a Roses chocolate from the box nestled in her lap. Yeugh. Strawberry cream, she spat it back. How come the box was nigh on empty? The Bristol Cream had taken a hammering, too. Gaze still glued to the action, she took a large sip, hoping it would wash away the sickly taste coating her mouth.

‘Shush.' Carelessly she nudged Ginger with her slippered foot. The fat cat – sprawled on the carpet like a Poundland tiger rug – was surrounded by photo albums that Mrs Walker had been leafing through earlier. Looking at snaps of bygone days was another of her favourite pastimes, almost as good as watching TV cop shows. But the cat's wheezy snores could raise the dead and currently grated on Mrs Walker's nerves. ‘Shush, will you?' She nudged again, needed no distraction, thank you very much, not with the drama unfolding.
Prime Suspect
had always been a favourite though Mrs Walker was sure she and Caitlin hadn't caught this episode.

She waited for the ads before treating herself to another sherry. At the same time, the cat lifted its head, twitched a battle-scarred ear and fixed its beady gaze on the door. ‘It's all right, Ginger. Settle down.' She'd heard the noise too, post landing on the mat. At this time of night it would be flyers for fast food or small traders pushing their wares. Take your pick. They were all the same to her: bin fodder. ‘No Junk Mail' meant exactly what it said. Couldn't these people read? Same with the phone, Nicola had signed her up with some service that meant she wasn't supposed to get unwanted calls. Yes, well, it didn't work, did it?

Five minutes before the show ended, the penny dropped. A tingle ran down her spine and she felt the tiny hairs rise on the back of her neck.
Of course.
The killer was the posh bloke with the nice teeth and the fancy car. Delighted, she clapped her hands.
Who's a clever girl?
She wondered if Caitlin had worked it out too. Seconds later she slumped back in the chair. It was no big deal; the baddie was always the person you least expected. Come to think of it, she'd probably known all along. It was a repeat for heaven's sake; the solution had likely been lurking in her grey cells all the time. Sighing, she took another nip of sherry. Caitlin would remember if they'd seen it before. Would it be all right to give her a quick call? It seemed ages since they'd had a little chat.

Her hand stilled on the way to the phone and tears pricked her eyes as she remembered. Caitlin couldn't have turned up yet or Nicola – and the police – would have been in touch. They'd promised to ring with any news. Their silence had to be a good sign. Surely, it meant Caitlin was still alive? Eyes closed, she crossed herself. Dear God, don't let her come to any harm.

The business card left by the blonde detective still lay on the coffee table. What was her name? The old woman leaned forward, pulled the card closer. DI Sarah Quinn. That's right. Mrs Walker hadn't warmed to her, found her a bit stand-offish. Still, if she was half as good as Jane Tennison … The old woman groaned, slapped her head. Stupid, stupid, stupid, it seemed to happen more often these days. If she carried on like this, the men in white coats might as well come and take her away. Maybe Nicola was right. She'd seen the pained looks on her daughter's face recently, but everyone got things confused sometimes, didn't they?

Like when she'd drawn the curtains earlier. A man had been standing opposite staring at the house. DI Quinn had told her to call if anything out of the ordinary happened. Maybe she should have a word? But no, it sounded so lame. He'd probably been waiting for a friend or something. Better to sleep on it, see how things looked in the morning. Sighing, she aimed the remote at the TV, hauled herself to her feet, toed the cat's rump. Ginger could spend a night on the tiles; she was fed up finding pools of pee every time she got up. Maybe it was time for a trip to the vet's or something. ‘Come on, old boy.'

The cat hissed, bared its teeth, slunk across the carpet. Humming softly, she pottered after it, ferrying her empty glass and half-f bottle into the kitchen. The smell hit her first. Then she saw something in a dish on the table. Dear God. It couldn't be …? Tentatively, she took a few steps in, placed trembling fingers round her neck. The tongue lay in a pool of blood, frayed ends of gristle glistened moist and pink.

She heard the shatter of glass as she fainted. And a man's low whisper.

‘C
ome on, wake up.' She felt a tap on her shoulder, heard the man's voice in her ear. ‘Don't dick me around.'

Caitlin slowly opened her eyes, turned on her side, found his by now familiar face hovering inches above hers. She saw concern in his gaze, concern verging on panic. Good. Maybe he'd think twice in future about the amount of sleeping pills he forced down her throat. Feeling fog-brained most of the day made it bloody difficult to get her head round an escape plan. It certainly didn't help not having set foot outside the room since the first night. She'd given up her pathetic fantasies about the cops staging a dramatic rescue. If the coverage in last night's local rag had been anything to go by they were closer to homing in on the Scarlet Pimpernel.
West Midlands police are increasingly concerned for the safety of yada yada.
She sighed. Not half as concerned as Caitlin herself.

‘You OK?' He traced a finger down her profile.

Jerking her head away, she muttered, ‘What do you care?' Yawning open-mouthed she hauled herself upright then sat on the mattress hugging her knees.

‘Don't be like that. I bought you a pressie.' Smiling, he whipped a Primark bag from behind his back. ‘Da-dah.'

Despite misgivings, she curved a lip. She'd seen good cops, bad cops in action – monkey man staged good-guy-bad-guy routines single-handedly. The kindness was almost harder to bear than the cruelty, and he could switch in a heartbeat.

Head down, she delved into the bag and found skinny jeans, clean underwear, face wipes. ‘Guilt complex kicking in, is it?' She glanced up, deadpan. He'd been so late last night, she'd soiled herself. He'd found her sobbing, stinking in shit. He'd been sorry enough to help her sort it but then pissed off again, leaving her alone. The empty building's weird creaks and rustlings had scared the life out of her. But the place wasn't in the middle of nowhere: traffic noise and muffled voices floating up from the street told her that. If she could only …

‘Suit yourself.' He made to snatch the bag away. ‘Shame, though. You can hardly go out wearing that. Punk's so last century.'

‘Big ho.' The black bin liner was better than nothing. But not for go— Frowning, she narrowed her eyes. ‘What did you say?'

‘Punk's so—'

She shook an impatient head. ‘You know what I mean.'

‘It shouldn't be long now, Caitlin.' He placed a finger under her chin. ‘Things are moving on.'

‘What things, for Christ's sake?'

He held her gaze for several seconds. ‘Do you really want to know?'

She nodded.