Child's Play (18 page)

Pensive, she perched on the dressing-table stool. Surely the police would know her mother's real identity anyway? Weren't released murderers on licence or something? Details were supposed to be kept on record, surely? Circulated to the relevant authorities? Still thinking, she ran a brush absently through her hair. It could certainly explain why her mother had insisted they move round so much when Nicola was growing up. All those new towns, tatty council houses, different schools. Clearly her child-killing momma had a hidden agenda. She'd given them all the slip. She could've given Mary Bell a few lessons, Nicola sneered. Even now Bell attracted media interest, made the occasional headline. While for more than forty odd years the erstwhile Susan Bailey hadn't made a paragraph in a free sheet. She'd lived a boring life, kept her nose clean, not picked up so much as a parking ticket. The biggest crime – to an outsider – would be the occasional library fine.

An outsider? That's what I am, thought Nicola. She'd never really known her mother. And now it was too late.

Placing the brush down, she studied her reflection in the three-way mirror; resented seeing traces of the old woman's features, the button nose, the slightly full bottom lip. She raised a speculative eyebrow. Like mother, like daughter? Who knew? When it came down to it, could Nicola actually take a life? Was everybody capable; did everyone have the killer instinct? Let's face it, she thought, if there's a murder gene, I've got a hell of a head start. She gave a brittle laugh, her heart breaking.

She was looking at Catch 22 in a cleft stick. If she killed her mother, Nicola would in effect lose Caitlin anyway. A life sentence was mandatory and she'd be a fat lot of use to her daughter behind bars. It's what the bastard wanted, of course. He wasn't interested in a pound of flesh; he wanted bodies. Nicola would be doing his dirty work and at the same time digging her own metaphorical grave. But if she didn't …

She reached for the silver-framed photograph to her right. Caitlin celebrating GCSE results; her first prom, they'd hired the ball gown. Nicola's warm smile faded. There was no question really. She'd sacrifice anything – anyone – if it saved her daughter's life.

‘Nic! You up there?'

‘I'll be down in a tick,' she shouted. What was Neil doing here? A quick call first wouldn't have hurt.

‘I bought you these.' He stood at the bottom of the stairs, sheepish smile on his face. Garage tulips. ‘Oh, and this.' He whipped a bottle of Bells from behind his back. That was more like it.

She forced a token smile as she descended, took delivery. ‘What's this in aid of?'

‘I thought they'd cheer you up a bit. I've been neglecting you, Nic. I'm sorry.' He opened his arms for a hug. ‘I want you to know I'm here for you.' Kind words and sympathy were more than she could take. She broke down, buried her face in his shoulder. He stroked her hair, let her cry. ‘Come on, let's dry those tears. What is it, Nic?' She wanted to share the burden but could barely speak. He led her gently into the sitting room, they sat close and he took both her hands in his. ‘Is it Caitlin? Is there news?'

Gazing down at their hands, she told him haltingly most of what she'd learned about her mother that day. He had little time for the old woman, he'd made no secret of it – and that was before hearing about her murderous past. As for Nicola's putative murderous future, she'd yet to break that little nugget. ‘If you'd rather leave now, Neil.' She made fleeting eye contact. ‘I'll understand. No worries.'

‘Poor Nicola.' He used a thumb to dash away a tear. ‘I assumed you knew about your mother. It's why I never mentioned it. I thought you were protecting her.'

‘A
ll I ever wanted was to protect you, love.' Linda Walker sat in her chair by the fire, talking to a photograph that trembled in her fingers. The pose showed Nicola looking a darn sight happier than when she'd stormed out hours ago. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping it from you.' The old woman stroked her daughter's cheek then pressed the picture – damp with tears – to her lips.

With hindsight, she realized she'd protected no one. The past refused to be buried; secrets and lies had been unearthed. She'd exposed her daughter to pain and shame and would never forget the look of horror on Nicola's face. She wouldn't want to see her old mum again, certainly not when she found out more. It would be easy enough to check back; the case had been in all the papers. Mrs Walker shuddered. She knew reporters had got things wrong. What would happen if they got hold of the story again?

She hauled herself out of the chair, shuffled over to draw the curtains, shut out the darkness. Blanking it all out was how she'd coped over the years: Badger's Copse, Pauline's body, the lies, the bullying, the confession, the baying crowds. Closing her mind to it had been the only way she could live with herself, especially after being released from prison. Even inside she'd switched off, tried hard not to give it head room. That way madness lay. She thought she'd gone loopy anyway after Pauline's murder.

How could she not? Frightened, confused, everyone shouting. It had been like a bad dream from which she'd longed to wake. She couldn't remember the last time she'd consciously looked back on the events of that summer. Hazy memories surfaced still, in nightmares, blended with unreal imaginings. Even on the day, she'd found it difficult to distinguish fact from fantasy.

The old woman closed her eyes, tried hard to visualize the scene. Slowly she nodded her head. The man
had
been there that day. Susan knew she hadn't imagined him.

‘Man? What man, Susan?'

Susan pulled back, cowered behind a grimy hand. She didn't
think
her mum would hit her in front of people but her voice was scaring the girl something awful. Susan glanced round nervously, quailed at a sea of questioning faces. It looked as if the whole village had turned out: women still wearing pinnies, men straight off the fields with dust in their hair, on their clothes. And everyone waited eagerly, expectant.

‘I won't ask again, young lady.'

Susan knew her mum meant the exact opposite and if she didn't get a move on …

‘The man what gives Pauline lollies. His shirt was open, I seen his vest. He had a belt with a big shiny buckle. He—'

‘What man?' Susan's mum shouted. ‘Who's been giving her sweets?'

‘Dunno his name. But I seen him on the building site lots of times, Mum. The one with all the tattoos. Anyway he come chasin' us and Paulie and me, we ran like mad … He was coming up behind. I heard footsteps and I could hear his breathin' and—'

‘She's bleeding, look.' One of the old biddies from the almshouses pointed a twig-like finger at Susan's face.

The girl raised her hand instinctively, winced as her fingers touched the bump again, the blood must've trickled down.

‘How d'you get that, girl?' one of the men asked.

‘I … I dunno … one minute we were running … screaming … I went flying … the next I seen …' Everyone's glance followed Susan's to the right where Pauline now lay cradled in Mrs Bolton's arms. Face and hands smeared with her daughter's blood, the woman rocked steadily to and fro, her lips moving in a silent prayer. Susan wondered if she'd left the twins with Grace; she never let the babies out of her sight normally.

‘Look at me, girl.' Susan writhed under her mother's gaze. ‘This man. Did he hurt you too?' She'd not even noticed Susan's wet shorts or that she wasn't wearing her glasses.

‘I … he …' Her lips stuck together her mouth was so dry. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two women cross themselves, mutter under their breath. Sounded to Susan like ‘poor lambs'. She heard someone say that Mrs White up at the farm had called the police, that they were on the way.

Susan's legs buckled; she grabbed on to her mother's arm. ‘Help me, Mum—'

She woke in hospital. Two police officers sat beside her bed. And then the questions really began.

C
aroline King tapped a pen against her teeth. Cooped upstairs in the home office, she'd barely noticed the light failing outside. Her face was cast in shadow, her focus still fixed on the monitor; the PC had taken quite a bashing. She'd lost count of the stories she'd read, features skimmed, notes made. As a journo, the research had been child's play. The murder of a child in the summer of 1960 was then the most exciting event that had ever happened in the Leicestershire village of Moss Pit. It probably still was.

She swigged the dregs of her Coke then lobbed the can in the bin. Digging out the story had been easy; the harder part was knowing what was the truth and what bearing it might have on Caitlin Reynolds' abduction. And that assumed her lousy interior decorator – she used the term loosely – wasn't a fruitcake trying to drag Caroline into some bizarre fantasy.

Pen tucked behind her ear now, she angled the desk lamp at the pin board on the nearest wall. Pictures of the main players were posted there, plus a few reports she'd also printed out. Leaning back in the chair, the reporter rested both hands on her head and gazed at the girls' likenesses.

Pauline Bolton and Susan Bailey: beauty and the beast. Had Susan had more than a touch of the green-eyed monster? Fatty four-eyes jealous of five-year-old cutey pants?
Something
had driven the Bailey kid to kill. Envy? Retaliation for all the verbal abuse. Forget that names may never hurt. Maybe the village kids had badmouthed Susan once too often, pushed her over the edge? And as we all know, Caroline thought, sticks and stones don't just break bones.

Pauline's death was down to a battering with a chunk of wood from a rotting tree trunk, weals on her legs and arms also pointed to repeated use of a thin stick. Police had discovered the weapons partially hidden in undergrowth in the copse. According to the prosecution, concealing evidence meant the girl knew she'd done wrong; it showed a cunning streak. Certainly there was no suggestion in court of diminished responsibility. That she'd tried to blame it on someone else really went against her. The judge said it indicated a ‘cold-blooded calculation almost beyond her years'. The really damning evidence came from the builder she'd tried to nail.

Caroline leaned forward, unpinned the reports that had caught her eye earlier and reread a few passages.

Yeah right. Caroline recognized police-speak: what the last line meant was that from fairly early on in the inquiry the cops harboured doubts about the girl's testimony. From where she sat, Caroline didn't reckon the builder had covered himself in glory.

Get on with it.
Caroline ran a finger down the page.

Hanged
, Caroline murmured. She studied Crawford's pic. Not that there was much to see in the single column, head and shoulders: clean-shaven, sleek short back and sides, eyes creased against the light. Crawford hadn't actually witnessed the attack. Was it possible there'd been someone else in the copse? The real killer even? Someone scared that after all these years the truth would come out? Her reporter's antennae twitched but the thrill didn't last long. Susan Bailey had confessed, hadn't she? Caroline ran her mind back over a catalogue of miscarriages of justices. Supposing the girl had coughed under duress? It was twenty-plus years before the police and criminal evidence act – and it had been brought in partly to stop heavy-handed police interviews.

Sighing, Caroline pushed back the chair. Whichever way you looked at it, Susan Bailey was the key to the babe-in-the-wood case. What she couldn't see was how it fitted with Caitlin Reynolds' story. The girl certainly wasn't around to ask. Caroline would just have to make do with the mother.

‘I need to run a few questions past you, Mrs Reynolds.' Sarah gave a tight smile. ‘May we come in?'

‘It's late. I'm tired. Can it wait until morning?'

‘We're here now.' Unsmiling, Sarah tilted her head at the door. Like the DI wasn't keen to knock off anyway? After a twelve-hour-plus shift and little to show for it? At least Dave was on overtime. She wondered vaguely why Reynolds was in a dressing gown. Half-seven was hardly the witching hour. ‘If we'd not been following leads, I'd have dropped by earlier.'

Nicola nodded, indicated a door on the left. ‘Go in. Sit down. I'll be with you in a tick.'