Child's Play (2 page)

Susan sat as cross-legged as chubby thighs allowed and watched a now kneeling Pauline pretend to feed her doll. The thing was propped against a tree, glassy eyes staring straight back at Susan. She grimaced. It hadn't struck her before but the doll looked a bit like Pauline. How spooky was that? Mind you, Susan couldn't be doing with dolls at the best of times; they made her skin creep. Give her a teddy bear any day.

‘Now be a good girl, Carol,' Pauline coaxed. ‘Eat it all up.'

Susan rolled her eyes. Stupid name for a doll. And look at the waste. Stuffing food in its mouth like that. Crumbs were flying everywhere and the shiny pink face was smeared with jam. God, it looked a right mess.

Still, gift horse and all that – with Pauline otherwise occupied, Susan inched forward and sneaked the last sandwich.

‘Hey, you.' She'd caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and spun round fast. ‘That's Carol's.'

‘Not now it isn't.' Susan gave a fulsome smile before cramming the bread into her mouth.

Pauline sat up straight, folded her arms and screwed her eyes tight. Talk about killer looks. Mind, the little Miss Sulky pose was so over the top it was comical. If her mouth wasn't still full, Susan would have laughed out loud.

‘You're a greedy pig, Susan Bailey.'

The older girl stared back, took her time chewing and swallowing before making a sudden grab for the doll and lifting its skirt. ‘Carol's had enough already. Look at her. What a porker.'

Pauline's lunge took Susan by surprise, winded her as she fell back. The little girl scrambled up, hiking Susan's t-shirt with both hands. ‘Let's look at yours then, shall we? See how you like—'

Frozen at the sight, Pauline gasped then stared open-mouthed. ‘What's that, Sukie?' Gingerly the little girl made to stroke the jagged damson mark that spread over much of her friend's stomach.

Susan shoved her to one side and straightened, tugging at her top. ‘Mind your own. It's nothing.' She sensed Pauline's confused gaze but refused to meet it. The silence was no longer companionable; it was painful.

‘Does it … hurt?' Pauline asked.

‘Course not, dumbo.' Not so much, now.

‘It looked like a … a …' Still hesitant, Pauline whispered, ‘A big … nasty … bruise.'

She shrugged. ‘Yeah, well. Shows what you know. Let's clear this lot up.' She started gathering the plates and cups, greaseproof paper. ‘Come on, don't just sit there.'

‘Sukie?' Gentle, still unsure of herself, she placed tiny fingers on her friend's arm. ‘Did you … did you … fall over again?'

‘Yeah.' She dropped her head, eyes smarting. ‘Dead clumsy me. Don't tell anyone, eh?'

‘Course not.' Susan wrapped her arm as far as it would go round Pauline's sloping shoulder. Both were kneeling now, heads together; neither spoke. Neither noticed the man's dark figure lurking in the shadows of the copse.

‘It'll be OK, Sukie. Don't cry.' Gently, she patted her friend's shoulder, trying to gee her up. ‘Look, we don't have to go home yet. We've got bags of time to play.'

Susan lifted her head, gave a tentative smile. Pauline was right. There was no point sitting round moping, and in an hour or so, hopefully the kid would have forgotten all about the bruise. ‘Course we have. Bags and bags of time. What'll we play?' She cut a sly glance at the copse before raising a knowing eyebrow. ‘Anything you fancy?'

‘Hide and seek? Yeah!' A broad grin broke across her features as she leapt to her feet.

‘Off you go then.' It was Pauline's favourite game.

‘No peeping,' the little girl yelled over her shoulder.

Susan's back was turned already. She closed her eyes and pressed sticky hands over her pink National Health specs. ‘One … two … three …'

‘A
nd you've no idea where she is? Who she might be with?' The woman fought to keep her voice calm, her knuckles clamped round the handset looked as if they were about to split. It was nearly eight o'clock and this was the sixth call she'd made since arriving home. Nicola hadn't even sat down yet, still wore a thick car coat. She'd been late herself – she picked up the weekly shopping after work on Thursdays – but her daughter should've been back hours ago.

‘Sorry, Mrs Reynolds, Caitlin never said anything about meeting anyone. Far as I know she was heading straight home after school.'

It was a half-mile walk from Queen's Ridge comprehensive. She pictured Caitlin weighed down by her schoolbag, strolling along in her own little world, probably listening to some pop pap on her iPod. The fond smile on Nicola's face froze. Surely she'd not been in an accident? She told herself to cool it. The roads were quiet, mostly residential. Besides, she'd have heard by now.

‘Are you still there, Mrs Reynolds?'

‘Sorry, Lauren, I'm …' She glanced round the sitting room on the off-chance a note had gone astray somewhere; there'd certainly been no texts sent to her phone. Something had seemed amiss as soon as she stepped inside the house – it had been too quiet, a pile of junk mail lay on the mat and Caitlin's blazer wasn't hanging skewiff from the banister. After dumping five Tesco bags on the floor in the kitchen, Nicola's quick scout round suggested Caitlin hadn't been back at all.

‘Mrs Reynolds, are you there?'

Distracted, Nicola dragged her fingers down a cheek leaving pale trails in the sallow skin. Caitlin was no angel – what teenager is? – but usually she'd let Nicola know if there was a problem or she was running late. Surely this wasn't payback time for the minor spat this morning?

‘Mrs Reynolds, are—'

‘Sorry. I'm still here, Lauren.' And miles away. She glanced towards the bay window, caught her reflection in the glass. The frazzled features were nothing new but were the lines on her face deeper?
Don't be so bloody melodramatic, woman
. That was the trouble with an overactive imagination. Not the only one, given some of the scenarios running through her mind.

‘Millie might know something,' Lauren suggested. ‘Have you had a word with her? I've got a number if—'

‘No, she doesn't. I've tried.' And Charlie and Liz. Caitlin's best friend Millie had been top of the list. She'd not even been in school today, flu or something. The other two had stayed behind for chess club and said they'd seen Caitlin around four o'clock packing books into her school bag.

‘What about Chloe?'

Nicola suppressed an impatient sigh.
And Uncle Tom Cobbly.
The grandfather clock in the hall started chiming the hour. As if she needed a reminder.

‘No one knows anything, Lauren.' She'd even phoned Caitlin's granny over in Small Heath, hoped the call hadn't worried her too much. ‘Tell me, love, is Luke back on the scene? I'll not give her a hard time again.' Caitlin had kept the fledgling romance a secret until she'd been casually dumped and needed a mum's shoulder to cry on.

‘Not as far as I know, Mrs Reynolds. Could you hold on a minute, please?' The girl had used a similar expression before. Significant? Nicola had no idea, nor had anyone else she'd spoken to: the clueless state must be catching. She heard muffled voices, a snatch of telly then Lauren was back. ‘I'm really sorry but Mum says dinner's on the table.'

‘No worries, love. But, hey, if you hear anything?'

No worries? Was she out of her mind? Nicola raked both hands through light brown shoulder-length hair before resting them briefly on top of her head. What now, for crying out loud? A message alert beeped on her mobile. Thank God. She scrabbled in her coat pocket but cursed under her breath when she saw a workmate's name. She double checked her messages: still nothing. No response either from the two voicemails she'd left on Caitlin's iPhone: the fact it was switched off was alarming enough in itself. She bit her lip. What about the police? Was it too early to call?

Yes. Better to hang fire an hour or so. She strode to the front door, scanned both sides of the tree-lined street: Edwardian villas, satellite dishes, shiny cars. She liked Moseley, reckoned if you had to live in Birmingham … Stepping further out, Nicola stood in the middle of the pavement, willing Caitlin to appear, longed to see her familiar figure heading home, sheepish smile on her lovely face. Tall and shapely with long dark hair, Caitlin was a knockout, could easily pass for eighteen, nineteen.

The young mother who lived across the road flashed a smile as she drew the curtains. Nicola managed a token wave, her focus elsewhere. She and Caitlin were close – occasionally it crossed Nicola's mind they were too close. Hardly surprising given the girl had never known her dad. Brian had passed away before Caitlin even drew breath. Until relatively recently, it had been just the two of them. And though Nicola had been seeing Neil for a while now, neither was in an all-fired rush to live together. It would be time enough when Caitlin left for college.

Nicola screamed when something cold touched the back of her leg.

‘Sorry 'bout that, missus. He's a bit too friendly for his own good sometimes. Come here, Frodo. There's a good lad.'

She glared at the portly middle-aged man struggling to control a chocolate Labrador that was still trying to get pally with her thigh. The man's name was Ronald. Ronald Gibson if she remembered right; he lived a few doors down the street and was nosy with a capital N. She gave a thin smile before stepping aside. His corresponding manoeuvre – and the dog's – mirrored hers three or four times and they ended up in some sort of weird Excuse Me street dance.

‘By 'eck, love.' Gibson's beam showcased a dental graveyard of sepia tombstones. ‘They'll have us on
Strictly
next.' Tapping the brow of his trilby, he made to move off. ‘By the way, how's that lovely girl of yours?'

Innocent enough remark, so why were her hackles rising? ‘Fine. Why?'

‘Just wondered why she wasn't at school today.'

‘Sorry?' She felt a trickle of ice down her spine.

‘Oops. I don't want to get her into Mum's bad books or anything, but I saw her with some chap down the—'

‘Hang on there one minute, will you?' A phone was ringing inside the house. She was already halfway to the door, a desperate mantra on a mental loop: don't hang up, don't hang up, don't hang up. ‘Caitlin?' Her gasping breath must be God's way of telling her to stop smoking. ‘Is that—?'

‘This call is urgent. Within the last six months, have you been sold …' Tinny voice, taped message.

‘Get lost, damn you!' she screamed, slammed down the receiver, took a deep, calming breath, lost in thought for several seconds, until: ‘Gibson. Bugger.'

The old boy had gone, but Frodo's faecal legacy lay steaming on the pavement. Gibson's sly innuendo rang in her ears. Had Caitlin wagged off school? And was she still messing around with that loser? If so, the minute she got home she'd find herself in the doo-doo, up to the neck in it.

Anger now mixed with concern, Nicola slung her coat on a hook in the hall and headed for the drinks' trolley. She'd earned a stiff one, poured a generous measure of Gordon's into a glass and ferried it through to the kitchen. It was when she stooped to tackle the first couple of shopping bags that she noticed it. A white envelope slipped under the back door. She frowned, would have sworn it hadn't been there earlier. She stood to open it, found a photograph and a message. Nicola almost fainted, felt her legs give way. No, it wasn't too early to call the police. In fact, with every fibre of her being, she prayed it wasn't too late.

C
aitlin had stopped crying hours ago. At least she guessed it was hours: keeping track of time was difficult, counting away the seconds only possible when conscious. Her water must have been spiked because she'd never have fallen asleep willingly. She blinked then winced when the blindfold scratched her eyes again. She had only the vaguest idea how she'd got here; no idea where ‘here' was. Nor, more pressing, how she'd get out. Not with her ankles lashed to wooden chair legs, the tight white cable cutting into her flesh. More cable bound her wrists at the small of her back. She'd stopped struggling too; movement only exacerbated the pain.

‘Why are you doing this?' she croaked, her throat sore.

‘Button it, girlie, or the gag goes back.' The soft mocking voice sounded sibilant, slightly muffled. She had a sudden vision of Hannibal Lecter in that god-awful mask in
Silence of the Lambs.
If her abductor's aim was to increase tension, hike the fear factor, it so wasn't needed.

Caitlin licked already dry, cracked lips. God knows what the cloth had been used for before, but the inside of her mouth tasted vile; bits of fluff stuck to her tongue, lodged between her teeth. She felt a slight movement of air. He must be closer. Yes, his breathing sounded louder, more laboured. Something touched her face. A finger. Now slowly tracing her jaw line, then her neck. She stiffened but the stink made her flinch: stale smoke, vinegar, something rank she couldn't pin down.

Warm breath near her ear and the soft humming started again, the harmless tune creepier than his direct threats. She pictured him crouched over her, ogling, mentally stripping her, all the while hum, hum, humming.

‘De-dum-de-dumdum-de-dum-de-dum. Dum-dum-dum-de-dum-de-dum.'

The damn thing rang a distant bell, a kids' song she thought, couldn't remember what it was called. Christ on a bike. As if it mattered. She sighed, impatient, tried blanking it out, concentrated instead on why he'd brought her here. What he intended doing. She'd caught no more than a glimpse of his face; he'd gone out of his way not to show it. Surely that was a good sign? If she couldn't describe him, he was more likely to release her. Wasn't he?

‘Please … tell me …'

He pressed his finger hard against her lips. ‘When I'm good and ready, girlie. De-dum-de-dumdum …'