Child's Play (15 page)

‘Hello? Is anybody there? Knock once for yes.' Dave hadn't done his Madame Arcati act for a while.

She smiled. ‘Sorry. I was miles away.'

‘Never.'

‘Good one though, Dave.'

‘What?'

‘It was like being in the same room.'

‘With?'

‘Margaret Rutherford.'

‘Who?'

‘Forget it.' She flapped a hand.

‘Anyway I was saying … the sweepstake. Are you in?'

‘What sweepstake?'

She took another nibble of apple, listened as he told her one of the custody sergeants had it on good authority Baker was taking an early bath. The sweepstake was a fiver a go and winner pockets the lot. ‘All you have to do is pick a date, boss.'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Why's that?'

‘Come on, Dave, if the chief gets wind … he'd put in for promotion.'

Harries glanced across and smiled. ‘What date you going for then?'

‘Fourth of July.'

They drove in an easy silence for a while. Juggling the apple, she scrolled through a few emails on her phone, put in a call to the squad room, left another message for Baker, who'd still not got back to her. When she glanced up, the school was in sight. Dave indicated left, turned into the gates.

She took another tentative nibble. ‘Course, it could have been a pre-emptive strike.'

‘Are we back on Lomas?'

‘Yeah.' Well spotted, that man. ‘You know what they say, Dave: attack's the best kind of defence.'

The knotted eyebrows meant he wasn't convinced. Thinking it through while he parked the motor, he switched off the engine, turned to face her. ‘You think
he
tried it on? Not Caitlin. And Casanova was getting his version in first?'

She shrugged a shoulder. ‘Could be.'

‘If that's the case, I bet she told him to take a running jump.'

‘Off a motorway bridge. And he wouldn't have liked that, would he?' They held eye contact for a few seconds.

‘That's food for thought, boss.'

Nodding, she offered him the apple. ‘Fancy a bite?'

He flashed a smile. ‘Thought you'd never ask.'

‘W
hy did you never tell me, Mum?' Forget stranger or mad old bat; Nicola thought her mother looked haunted. After hearing the name Badger's Copse, she'd had to be gently led into the next room. She sat in the wing chair now, clutching her chest, struggling to get her breath.

Nicola had left the news cutting at home but it was beginning to make sense. Her mother must've been one of the children in the wood, the ten-year-old who'd been attacked by a stranger and witnessed the murder of her best friend. No wonder she'd taken Nicola's question so badly.

‘I don't talk about it. It happened a long time ago.' She never talked about her family either, Nicola realized. Or her upbringing, schooling, teen years. No old photos survived; none of her children's books or toys had been passed down. What do they say about the past? In her mum's case, foreign country barely covered it. More like faraway galaxy.

Nicola leaned forward in her seat. ‘But you saw the man who killed her. You helped the police and everything.' Her mum must have been quite a heroine at the time. She'd had her fifteen minutes of fame before Nicola was born, before Warhol even coined the phrase. Maybe that was why she changed her name. She gave her mum a warm smile. After all these years she saw the old dear in a new light. ‘Was it exciting? Did you have to go to court? Give evidence?'

‘Tommy rot,' she snapped. ‘You've no idea what you're talking about.'

‘Don't be shy, Mum. I read a newspaper article. Somebody pushed it through the—' Nicola froze, felt her blood run cold. Not just somebody. The psycho holding Caitlin. Her confused thoughts raced. What did her mother's part in a fifty-year-old crime have to do with Caitlin's abduction? Unless … Had her testament led to the killer being sent down? Was he free now and seeking to exact some kind of sick revenge?

‘Tell me, Mum.' Nicola willed her mother to make eye contact. The old woman continued staring into the distance, biting her lip. ‘Why did you change your name?'

Was she staring at the past as well as into the distance? ‘Because.' A tear slithered down the wizened cheek.

‘Because what, goddamnit?'

‘Because they said I did it.'

‘And did you?'

C
aroline gave a lazy smile, licked her slightly swollen lips. Boy did she need a drink and a pee. Not necessarily in that order. Hardly surprising given a quick glance at the bedside clock showed it was mid-morning and she'd yet to rise let alone shine. It had been a busy night but … Her erstwhile editor had by no means fallen down on the job. Though neither of them, as she recalled, had been what you'd call a sleeping partner.

The ceiling mirror had certainly seen some action. She laughed out loud as she admired her reflection. Yep. You could definitely say Eddie had come good, and not just with the rushes. In fact, compared with the high-octane sex, the surplus footage had been a bit of an anti-climax. A potential tipster hadn't exactly leapt off the screen screaming, ‘Bang to rights, governor, it's a fair cop.' Mind, she'd been a tad tipsy by the time they got round to a viewing. Eddie's bedroom athleticism had at least provided bonus features, and what's more he'd picked up the tab at the Thai restaurant.

Yawning, she threw off the duvet, caught a trace of his Aramis. She smoothed the black satin sheet where he'd lain, plucked a blond hair from the pillow. He was a decent bloke, and Caro occasionally needed the exercise, but out of sight, out of …

When he'd leaned over to peck her cheek goodbye, she'd feigned sleep, watched his exit through bleary eyes. Even if he'd not had to leave, she knew she'd have found some excuse to turf him out. Home territory and all that.

Barefoot she padded to the sash window, peered through the blind at the pewter sky. Same old. Christ, she could barely remember what the sun looked like. Grabbing her dressing gown, she headed for the bathroom, still pondering the irony: she made a damn good living invading other people's space while guarding her own like the recipe for Coke. She rarely invited a man back for a nightcap, let alone into her bed. Exchanging bodily fluids was no sweat, but she drew the line at home addresses. No big secret. It was a question of who called the shots. And when it boiled down to it, Caroline recognized she was as much a control freak as the Ice Queen. No wonder they had such a warm relationship.

Lip curled, she lowered the toilet seat.
Bloody men.
Course, the fact that a decade back Caroline had been sleeping with Sarah's then fiancée wouldn't have helped. Or that he was gunned down during a covert police operation after Caroline screamed at the sight of the weapon. Her more recent one-night stand with dishy Dave Harries hadn't gone down too well with the frosty cop either. Yeah, all that could have something to do with how well they got on. Caroline sighed. Flushed the loo. Why couldn't some people just let things go?

She rinsed her hands then slaked her thirst from the cold tap. As she patted her face dry, she stared critically in the mirror. Good skin, bright eyes, barely noticeable lines. She smiled, reckoned she could forego the filler for a while. Though God knew how much longer she could get away with late nights and too much booze. She was nearer forty than thirty and had already found a smattering of grey hairs among the black. TV – news or otherwise – was still a young woman's game, but she'd not go down the Cherry Blossom route. When her face no longer fitted, she'd find something else. Who knew? She might even settle down, get married, have kids. She pulled a face in the glass. Christ, she must have had a skin full.

She nearly jumped out of it when someone banged the door. ‘You in there, Caro?'

‘Give us a minute, Nat,' she snapped. She'd taken on a lodger primarily to keep an eye on her inheritance while she was in London. When she was in residence, his presence sometimes seemed a high price to pay. ‘I thought you were away?' she called, hoped to God he'd not been trying to sleep last night.

‘I told you I'd be back today.' She rolled her eyes. Like she'd remember. ‘Look, Caro, are you—?'

‘Put some coffee on, Nat. I'll be down in a tick.'

‘No prob. As long as you're OK.'

Something in his voice made her stiffen. ‘Why shouldn't I be?'

‘I saw the blood on the wall – the writing.'

‘Hey, can't you read?' Even the footsteps sounded tetchy. Sarah glanced over her shoulder. Mr Angry Young Man dashed towards them jabbing a finger at yellow lettering on the pitted concrete. ‘H.E.A.D, in case you didn't know, spells “head”. And this isn't a public right of way.'

Unimpressed with the lecture, Harries slowly slipped his ID from a breast pocket, displayed the card at eye-level. ‘And this,' tilting his head, ‘is Detective Inspector Sarah Quinn.'

The classy vowels and cocky ticking off suggested deputy head to Sarah. Either way, the man's regular features softened almost immediately. ‘Shoot. I'm sorry.' He slapped his forehead, aped a Homer Simpson ‘Doh!' ‘Given we've got more police on site than a double episode of
The Bill
I should've realized. It's just we get a lot of trouble with people parking here and if I may say so you don't look like a cop, inspector.' The guy certainly didn't lack confidence; the flirting wasn't even subtle. She'd probably pull him up on it if he looked like Jabba the Hut but she'd always been into the dark hair, blue eyes, pearly teeth combo.

‘So what do cops look like, Mr …?'

‘Portman. Jake Portman. Caretaker of this parish. Well, one of them.' He clicked his heels, offered a hand. ‘As to cops,' he lowered his voice as if sharing a confidence, ‘butch, bald, beer-bellied, Burton suits.'

Maybe he'd come in on a day off. The natty grey two-piece was clearly a cut above chain-store gear. She curved a faintly amused mental lip. ‘And you base this vast knowledge on …?'

‘
Crimewatch
.' He flashed a grin. ‘Mind, I've not seen it for ages.' He'd clocked Harries tapping his watch though. ‘Where are you heading, inspector? I'll show you the way.'

Queen's Ridge comp was a throwback to the sixties, flat-roofed concrete blocks, lots of blues and greys, open stairways visible through picture windows, everything functional, nothing fancy. Unless you counted Portman, Sarah mused. He did the guided-tour patter as they walked in step, but she'd already done her homework, knew the school's six hundred pupils spoke getting on for thirty languages. And that the diversity crowd called it a multicultural microcosm. She guessed like any school it had its share of bullies and baddies, but the police rarely visited for anything more vital than a crime prevention talk, until recently.

Glancing back at Dave, she reckoned he looked none too happy to be here now. Through an upstairs window – complete with well-post-Christmas cotton wool snowdrift – she caught a glimpse of a couple of PCs. If the police were treating the place as a crime scene the full FSI works would be out in force. Instead, her oppo in uniform had released half a dozen officers who were carrying out a methodical search of the premises. Given no one knew precisely what they were looking for it was a bit needle-meets-haystack. Not so much nose job as nous.

‘The main staircase is just down the corridor on the left.' Portman gave a mock salute as he played doorman. ‘I'll love you and leave you.'

‘Hold on, mate,' Harries said. ‘I don't remember seeing your name on the list.'

‘List?'

‘We've been interviewing everyone at the school,' Sarah said. Surely he knew that?

‘I've been on leave, but I guess I should've cottoned on anyway.' He spread his arms in mock surrender. ‘Feel free. I'm all yours.'

‘Leave in term-time?' Harries sniffed.

Portman paused a second or two, the smile no longer in situ. ‘It was sick leave. I'm actually doing the head a favour coming in today.'

‘How jolly decent,' Harries mumbled.

They used the staffroom. Portman had a bunch of keys. A low coffee table was littered with files, exercise books, two odd socks and a Mars bar with teeth marks. He offered a drink but going by the tannin rings in a couple of mugs on the floor, Sarah declined. As she sat, she spotted a can of air freshener in a bookcase. It patently didn't work, unless nowadays it came in sweat-laced-sprout fragrance.

After running through the basics, Portman told them he'd worked at the school since January, one of a three-strong team, who looked after the grounds as well as kept an eye on the buildings. ‘Jake of all trades', as he put it. He might have seen Caitlin round the school but hadn't known anyone was missing until the head's phone call late last night. He'd been too ill to catch the telly news let alone read a paper. Reckoned he'd never touch prawns again.

‘How well did you know Caitlin?' Dave tapped a pen between his teeth.

‘I said …' He glanced at Harries for the first time. ‘I might have seen her around. I thought you were supposed to be recording this.'

Sarah cleared her throat. ‘Before Queen's Ridge, Mr Portman? What did you do?'

He'd been a full-time carer to his father who'd died six months back. Portman said he sold the family home in Rugby and moved to Birmingham just after. Sarah was on body-watch as well as asking the questions. His laid-back posture seemed as open as the relaxed manner, the twinkle in the eye a more or less permanent fixture. If he had longer hair, a parrot and a penchant for hoop earrings, she could easily picture Portman doing a passable Jack Sparrow. More easily than school dogsbody. Smoothing her skirt she said, ‘You've not worked as a caretaker before, then?'

He twitched a lip. ‘Is that a polite way of saying, what's a nice boy like you doing in a crap job like this?'