Child's Play (21 page)

‘I'm just … you know … really sorry.' Out of the corner of her eye she caught actual hand-wringing, Uriah Harries.

‘No sweat.' She sensed his gaze on her profile. ‘Nothing to be sorry about.' Wasn't his fault he'd fallen asleep before they'd got down to business. Blame it on the booze. She certainly didn't see it as personal. A professional failing, perhaps, if they'd gone ahead? ‘Next time, maybe?'

He turned to face her. ‘Are you serious?'

If the foreplay was anything to go by. Dead serious. Her spirit was willing, his flesh had been weak. He'd get over that. His coffee was crap too and she'd get over that. ‘Yes, I am.' She cut him a glance: perky didn't cover it. ‘One absolute no-no?' She pressed a finger against her lips. ‘Or it's curtains.'

He did the ‘Scout's honour' bit, holding three fingers against a temple; the smile was beatific. ‘Trust me … mum's the—'

‘Don't even go there, Dave.' The age gap wasn't
that
big. Besides, on current experience, the last person she'd trust was a mother.

Or grandmother.

‘You'd best come in.' Linda Walker, in another life Susan Bailey, held the door open and shuffled back against the faded rose wallpaper. She'd smartened her act since last time. Sarah spotted a dab of lipstick, a dusting of face powder, the smell of fabric conditioner wafted from the get up of black skirt, baggy jumper; her down-at-heel slippers had been replaced by court shoes. Had the old girl been expecting a police visit? A knock on the door?

Until less than an hour ago, the house call was more than Sarah had anticipated. In fifteen years as a cop she'd never come across a similar scenario. A child killer's granddaughter abducted half a century after the crime? Shame there was no handy police guide. She'd have appreciated hearing the chief's take, but her calls to him had gone straight to voicemail. Knowing Baker, he'd barge in and grab the woman by the metaphorical balls. Might not be a bad idea.

Masking her distaste, Sarah brushed a load of cat hairs off the settee before taking a seat. At least the feline itself wasn't in sight, though the stink of pee lingered. The room was like an oven; Sarah unbuttoned her coat. Mrs Walker stood in front of a blazing coal fire, smoothing her bun. ‘Would you like a cup of something?'

The DI shook her head. ‘Sit down please.' The brew last time had been undrinkable, and besides they weren't at a tea party. ‘When were you going to tell us? About Pauline Bolton?'

Her amber eyes narrowed a touch behind the thick lenses, sinking on to the wing chair, she clutched her chest. Sarah sensed Dave's concern but she was unmoved. Clearly feeling differently, he leaned forward, asked if she needed water, pills, tea, anything.

‘No thank you, dear. I'll be alright in a minute.' She used a
Radio Times
to fan her face. ‘I suppose Nicola's been talking?'

Weird response.
Nicola had been as forthcoming on the bloody subject as her mother. Sarah stared at the woman, found it nigh on impossible to marry the ordinary appearance, bland features with a child-killing past. She recalled her first impression, mentally likening Caitlin's granny to a Russian Babushka. Bang on there then. ‘Pauline Bolton, Mrs Walker. Soon as you like.'

She sighed, shook her head. ‘It was all so long ago. You have to understand I've not thought about it in years. I block it out, it's too painful.'

For who, Sarah wondered? Either way Walker needed to get her head round it now. ‘Did it not occur to you that your conviction for the child's murder could be a significant factor in Caitlin's abduction?'

‘No, never,' she said, clinging to the arms of her chair. ‘I've told you, for me it's in the past, dead and buried, over and done with.'

‘
Was
in the past, Mrs Walker.' Coal shifted in the grate, sparks flew to the hearth. Impassive, Sarah waited for Walker to break her silence. Surely it was inconceivable that the woman hadn't put two and two together?

‘If anyone hurts Caitlin, I'll … I'll …'

Didn't say. Walker dropped her head to her chest and started sobbing. Harries delved into a pocket for a tissue. Sarah shook her head, stayed the offer with a raised hand. ‘Never forgive yourself?' she prompted. ‘Is that what you were going to say? Because I'd say whoever's holding Caitlin likely feels the same way.'

Harries cut her a don't-hold-back look. She wouldn't. Walker had held back and look where that had got them. If she'd revealed the pointer first time round, the inquiry could be a lot further forward. Walker's emotional angst didn't cut it with the DI, not when Caitlin's life was at risk. She drummed her thigh with three fingers, mentally counting to twenty, reached fifteen.

Mrs Walker sat up straight, wiped tears with the heels of her hands before folding them loosely in her lap. ‘I'm sorry, inspector, but I don't think there's anything to forgive. I paid for the crime. I'll regret to my dying day what happened to Pauline. But I was locked up for ten years. I was bullied inside, beaten, spat on, verbally abused every day.' Her fingers kneaded the skirt. ‘Believe me, prison's no picnic. But I took the punishment, I served the time and I've tried to live a decent life since. I keep my head down, nose clean, never hurt anyone. Early on in life I learned a very hard lesson.'

Sarah nodded. The attempt at dignity touched her slightly more than what she regarded as Walker's previous histrionics. She took the point too, but clearly someone out there didn't share the view. ‘Problem is, Mrs Walker, I think somebody's trying to teach you another lesson. An even harder one.'

‘I'm an old woman. He can do what he likes to me. But not Caitlin. Why punish her?'

‘He?' Sarah and Harries exchanged glances.

‘He, she, they. You know what I mean.' Walker broke eye contact. ‘Slip of the tongue.'

Was it?
Sarah pressed her on whether anyone from the past had been in contact recently; whether she'd spotted anyone/anything odd over the last few days/weeks. Fast denials, firm head shakes. Too fast? Too firm? But why would she lie? She ran names past her, people who'd lived in the village, given evidence at the trial. Walker had no memories of them, she claimed, apart from the Boltons and the builder.

‘The man you tried to frame.' Sarah said. It wasn't a question.

‘He died while I was in prison.' Walker nodded. ‘Hanged himself in the copse apparently.'

‘Who told you?' Sarah asked.

‘One of the warders. I never got visitors.'

‘Never?'

‘Just the one. Pauline's sister. Wanted to know why I'd done it. Grace, I think her name was.'

‘Was?' Sarah glanced at Harries who was already making a note.

‘I read in the paper that she died.'

‘When?'

‘Years back.' Sighing, Walker took off her glasses, started polishing them with a sleeve. ‘I never got no cards neither. Birthday. Christmas. Not a single one. Everyone took against me, uncles, aunts, even my brothers and sister. My mum and dad never spoke to me again after Pauline … died.'

Matter-of-fact tone, no self-pity. Sarah bowed her head briefly. Reports she'd read suggested the Baileys were no great shakes as parents but it must've been tough for a ten-year-old kid despite what she'd done to be disowned by her own flesh and blood. After her release, Walker told them, she had no home to go back to and never put roots down again. She kept on the move, changed her name a couple of times. To keep a roof over her head, she cleaned houses, took in ironing, worked in shops. Never married though, partly afraid it would all come out.

‘So Nicola's father?' Harries asked.

‘He didn't want to know, did he?' Nicola was the result of a one-night knee trembler round the back of a chippie in Walsall. ‘I never told her that neither.'

Neither?
Sarah frowned. So why had Walker assumed Nicola had opened her mouth? ‘She didn't know about your past?'

Walker shook her head. ‘Nothing. I cut myself off from the past completely. By the time I had Nicola it was like the whole thing happened to somebody else.'

No wonder Nicola hadn't breathed a word. ‘So when did she find out?' Sarah asked.

She stared down at her hands. ‘Yesterday. She was here. Someone sent her a message on her phone.'

Secret pasts, hidden truths, buried lies. The Walker-Reynolds set-up was less tangled web, more weaving convention. Spiderwoman Nicola had some more explaining to do. Sarah made ‘go' motions at Harries who nodded, stowed away the notebook. Walker was still in a world of her own. Sarah touched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘We're off now, Mrs Walker. I'm not sure you should be staying here alone.'

‘Don't worry, inspector.' Lifting her gaze, she forced a wan smile. ‘It would've been easy any time for them to bump me off. It's not me they're after, is it? And you know what? I'd rather die any day than see Caitlin hurt.'

Sarah nodded. She'd ask uniform to keep an eye on the place anyway. ‘Don't get up. We'll see ourselves out.' Her business card was still on the table where she'd left it. ‘My numbers are there. Please call me, any time.'

‘Thank you, dear. And thank you for not asking.'

Sarah paused at the door, turned her head. ‘Sorry?'

‘For not asking why I killed Pauline.'

Everyone had. Police, lawyers, reporters outside court, people in the reform school, prison warders, fellow inmates, probation officers, psychologists, therapists. When she was first locked away, Pauline's parents had posed the question several times in letters. The correspondence dried up when she failed to reply.

Why did you kill Pauline? Why did you kill our little princess?

They'd have visited, they wrote in one letter, if they could stand to be in the same room as her. Presumably why they'd sent Grace that time. God, if looks could kill. Thank God there had been a table between them and a couple of guards on duty.

Shuddering, Mrs Walker wiped her eyes, threw a damp tissue on the fire. Her glance fell on the business card. She fancied she could still feel the detective's gentle touch on her shoulder. It stirred a memory that made her flinch. Another detective. Another hand. Not gentle. She'd recoiled at any form of physical contact ever since, but DI Quinn seemed if not to sympathize then at least not to judge too harshly. She felt guilty not telling her about the intruder but she'd promised Nicola. Something to do with keeping Caitlin un-harmed. And Mrs Walker had meant every word when she said she'd rather die than see Caitlin hurt. At least that had been the truth.

As to why she'd killed Pauline?

Sighing, she leaned forward in her chair, stared unblinking into the fire. Reflections of flames danced across the thick lenses of her glasses. Her focus was on the images flickering in her head, jerky black and white pictures, jagged flashes of scarlet, dashes of dandelion yellow, tantalizing snatches of Pauline hopping in and out of frame – now you see me, now you don't.

Keep still, keep still, Paulie.

Mrs Walker shook her head, desperate to dispel the disjointed visions, to dredge the full picture from her mind. It had to be swirling round in the depths. If she could only concentrate, coax it out. Sitting back in the chair, she slowed her breathing, squeezed her eyes tight, willing herself to see, transporting herself back to August 1960, Badger's Copse, the heat wave, the relentless stream of questions. The ghost of a smile parted her lips as a child's image slowly developed in her mind's eye. The plain face, barrel chest, defiant hands on chubby hips.

She barely recognised herself …

‘Answer me, Susan.' The detective wasn't a kind man. Not any more. He sounded like her headmaster, only not so posh. He'd been nice to her in the hospital, but that hadn't lasted long. She'd quite liked the fuss at first. That hadn't lasted long though. Susan liking it – not the attention. She couldn't escape it now if she tried. They were in the police station again, a small windowless room with sickly green walls and a wobbly steel table, a nearly full ashtray slap bang in the middle. The detective smelled of Woodbines and Brylcreem. He didn't ask about the shouty man any more, but for what seemed like weeks now, he kept on and on and on. About why she'd hurt Pauline.

‘You're not a baby, Susan. Take your hands away from your ears. Look at me properly, please.'

Not so easy when she didn't have her specs. They'd still be lying in the grass somewhere but her mum hadn't bothered looking. Susan was supposed to be getting a new pair, but no one seemed in a rush to sort it for her. She could still see, of course, but everything was a bit fuzzy round the edges, and she felt lost without them. A little dizzy too, cos the place was hot and stank of sick and wee and she was tired and she was hungry and she was …

‘Sit up straight. And please stop yawning. Why did you hit Pauline?'

She winced again. It hurt when she shuffled her bum, the back of her clammy thighs stuck to the wooden seat. ‘I already told you, mister. We were playing schools.' She wondered when he'd lost the front tooth and the button on his blue shirt; one of the cuffs had frayed too. He reminded her of her granddad, only he died ages ago.

‘And I've told you, young lady. I'm Detective Chief Inspector Southern.' She budged back when he pointed a fat finger at her. ‘You call me sir. And “playing schools” isn't good enough. Why did you hit her?'

The younger bloke sitting next to Susan nudged her gently in the ribs. She couldn't remember his name either, or ever seeing anyone so skinny. Like a stick of liquorice with a tie on, he was. They said he was her solicitor, looking after her interests or something. Funny that, cos he barely spoke to her and never looked her in the eye. The pretty police lady opposite didn't smile at her any more either. Jenny, her name was. Only she'd told Susan yesterday not to call her it again.