Child's Play (22 page)

‘I already told you that an' all, sir. She got in the way when I was swinging the stick.'

‘How many times did you hit her, Susan? Once? Twice? Twenty?'

‘Once. Cross my heart.' She eyed the last custard cream on the paper plate; the fly buzzing round fancied it too. Funny how it reminded her of the picnic, the Midget Gems, the jam sandwich she snaffled when Paulie wasn't looking. She started to smile then caught the expression on the detective's face, the tightening of his fist on the table. Her insides had gone all wobbly. ‘Please, mister, I need the—'

‘Why were you covered in her blood, Susan? Why was it on your clothes, in your hair, under your nails?'

‘Cos I picked her up, cuddled her.'

‘Why?'

She crossed her legs. ‘Cos she was hurt, bleeding. And cos she was my friend.'

‘And you were sorry for what you'd done?'

‘I didn't mean no harm. I told you. The man chased us. Me and Paulie ran. I fell. Please, mist—'

‘Mr Crawford says he didn't run after you, Susan. He says he saw you bully Pauline, shout at her, beat her with the stick.'

She squeezed her thighs even tighter. She'd not be able to hold it in much longer.

‘The murder weapon has your hairs on it, Susan. Cotton from the clothes you wore.'

She whimpered as hot pee seeped into her knickers.

‘Did Pauline bother you, Susan? Pretty little girl, popular, bright as a button? Did you resent her?'

Resent? She didn't even know what it meant.

‘Susan. It would go so much easier for you if you told the truth. Why did you kill Pauline?'

Like the last time and the time before and the time before that, she rested her head on the table and started to weep. And when he placed a firm hand on her shoulder and told her he'd understand if it had been an accident, somehow it just seemed simpler to agree.

She'd had a while to think about it but Caitlin still had trouble taking it in. Lying on her back, her vacant gaze swept the filthy ceiling; the occasional flake drifted down, sprinkled the sheet dandruff fashion. A five-legged spider scuttled round and round near the light fitting, like her thoughts, not quite spinning. Caitlin had always found it difficult to picture her granny as a child, let alone a child-killer. Some of her mates' grandmothers she could easily imagine shimmying down a cat-walk, strutting their stuff, but Caitlin's was
Last of the Summer Wine
vintage: Nora Batty tights, grey bun, Cornish pasty slippers. If she'd thought about it at all, she'd have put the premature ageing down to a hard life, not a life sentence. But Granny Walker hadn't been sent down for life. That was monkey man's beef. And why – as he so predictably put it – he wanted a pound of flesh or two.

Caitlin hauled herself up from the mattress, paced the pitted concrete floor yet again. If increased blood flow was good for the brain, she needed to get a couple of marathons under her belt. It helped that she wasn't drugged up to the eyeballs any more. The fog was beginning to lift, letting tantalizing shafts of light fall on how she got here. First she had to work out how to get out. Not easy when after sixteen years of thinking one way, some weirdo comes along and snatches not just the rug from under your feet but the whole sodding planet. Get used to the idea, he'd said, then legged it. Get used to the idea? Some bizarre episode of
Who Do You
Think You Are?
How long had she got?

Still pacing, she wrapped her arms round her waist. She'd always loved her gran to bits. Often felt closer to the old dear than her mum. Family folklore had it that gran had been orphaned as a kid, brought up in care, widowed in her twenties. In monkey man's version, she'd been disowned by her parents, banged up in jail, never tied the knot. Making the family folklore a fucking fairy tale.

Caitlin balled her fists remembering how he'd thrust a news cutting in her face. Try as she might, she'd not been able to see her gran's features in the grainy pic. It didn't help that she'd never seen photos of her as a child, the earliest likeness she recalled was gran doing the proud mum bit, beaming down at a newborn Nicola cradled in her arms. Come to think of it, none of the old albums had childhood snaps, family shots. It figured, given she'd been inside for a decade. Caitlin shook her head. Mind blowing.

Like being told your mum was going to take your granny out, but not on a day trip. Or a picnic. That was when he started humming again. De-dum-de-dum-dum-de-dum-de-dum. If you go down to the woods today … Oh how the dumb fuck had laughed. He thought he was so funny. Dead funny.

‘Yeah, well, over my dead body,' she murmured. And it would be if she didn't do something about it. She was convinced the mad freak would never let her go, he'd told her too much. Far too much. Not just about her gran and how the crime had destroyed other lives too, but also about Luke Holden. Monkey man had obviously tailed Caitlin for weeks if not months, observed her with what he called that ‘junkie piece of shit'. He reckoned drugs were pure evil, relished describing how he followed Luke home and gave the bastard a taste of his own medicine.

Monkey man had nothing to lose. Caitlin knew she had to act to save her life. And the mad git was going to help – he just didn't know that yet. Simple really. She gave a tight smile. She'd be playing him at his own games.

I
t wasn't rocket surgery or brain science. Slunk in the back of a parked black cab, Caroline checked the mirror for the millionth time. She'd put herself in Quinn's mental jackboots. If – God forbid – she was SIO in the Caitlin Reynolds' inquiry, who would she be keenest to interview? Who'd be top of the tree? The family tree? Exactly. Caroline's journalistic priority was the same as the cop's. If it wasn't getting tired she'd say ‘snap'.

She'd only had to wait ten minutes for the DI to emerge from the station after what Caroline thought of as their negotiating session. With Dave in tow, and a purposeful stride, Sarah certainly wasn't en route to the hairdresser – though God knows she could do with a new look: that school ma'am bun was so passé. Ordering the cabbie to ‘follow that car' had given Caroline quite a frisson: felt like she was in a movie. OK not quite …

The driver's running commentary plus rank BO was the only downside. Who gave a flying fart about the state of the roads, the crap weather, or last night's telly? Small price to pay though, since for the last half hour Caroline's sights had been set on a poky bungalow in a seedy side street on the Monkshead estate in Small Heath. The Ice Queen and her bag man were in there and if Caroline wasn't much mistaken, the target under the grill would be Caitlin's granny, child killer of this parish. Of course, it would help if she knew the woman's new name.

The driver turned in his seat a fraction, threw Caroline a lop-sided smile. ‘You're that reporter off the telly aren't you?' She nodded, mentally rolled her eyes.
Here we go.
‘I knew it.' The knowledge clearly gave him intense pleasure. Yawn. ‘I bin tryin' to place the face.' Motor Mouth's face was pretty good though the bodywork left everything to be desired. His paunch had already popped a button and two more looked as if they were on the way out. The green tidemark round his neck meant his Ali G chain wasn't twenty-four carat, or he'd been sold a pup. ‘What you doing sniffing round here then?'

Wouldn't you like to know, sunshine.
She'd tell the world – once she had the full story. ‘Sight-seeing.'

It took a few seconds for him to get it, and even then the laugh was uncertain. ‘I could tell you a thing or two. I hear stuff in the back of that cab that'd make your hair curl.'

‘You should stay in more.'

Hint taken, he gave her a back view of his head. Sighing, Caroline checked her watch. Get a move on, ace detective. How much time could an interview take, for pity's sake?'

‘How long you plan on needing me, darlin'?'

‘Just till—' Movement in the mirror caught her eye. Hoo-bloody-rah. The cops had come out and were walking to the DI's Audi deep in conversation. What Caroline wouldn't give to be a fly on the car roof. ‘I'll settle up now.' Smiling, she handed him a twenty and almost threw in a tip: use a deodorant. As it happened, she'd been glad to have the guy's bulk around. The area was rundown, dirt poor; youths strutted round as if they owned it and pit bulls appeared to be the weapon of choice. Caroline had a cautious streak these days. She'd been attacked by a girl gang the year before last and, though loath to admit it, knew the physical violence had left mental scars.

The driver stuck a thumb's-up out the window. ‘Watch how you go, darlin'.'

You bet.
She had a lot to play for. After she'd picked her way along a stretch of pavement strewn with dog turds and chewed gum. The bungalow was the last in a fairly forlorn row, a patch of scrubby grassland lay beyond, handy given gardens were the size of a stamp, and most of those had been concreted over. Up close, twenty-two looked even tattier than the others. Pebble dash always put Caroline in mind of puke and the front door hadn't seen a lick of paint since God was a girl. Ringing the bell, she inhaled like there was no tomorrow, just knew the place was going to stink inside. Tough. Securing the interview would make the difference between writing a few news stories and producing another book. A doco even? Assuming the woman was up to it.

Caroline strained her ears, rang the bell again. It didn't sound as if she was up at all. She took a couple of steps to the side – she'd hesitate to call it a lawn – peered through a grimy window. The old dear sat in a chair by the fire. She couldn't be dozing; the cops had only just left. Caroline smiled. Must be the Quinn effect. The reporter pressed her nose against the glass, watched tears trickle down the woman's cheeks. Not sleeping, weeping.

Pensive, she stepped back on the path. Now she had the address, she could come back any time. It would definitely be kinder to let the old girl have a good cry, get it out of her system. Yep. Definitely. She knelt, shouted through the letterbox.

‘Let me in. I'm a friend of Caitlin's.'

Mississippi Diner was a rip-off MacDonald's sandwiched between a balti house and a bookie's in deepest Small Heath. It wasn't often the detectives broke for lunch. Sarah felt like nipping next door and placing a bet this would be the last time Dave got to choose where they ate. She slid her phone to one side of the table so he could dump the tray of goodies.

‘I still don't think you believed her, boss.' He sank into the orange moulded plastic chair opposite. Classy.

Sarah had sat on comfier walls. ‘Come on, blanking out bad memories is one thing. But killing a child, spending years behind bars? I can't see how your mind censors that kind of trauma.' She watched askance as he took a massive bite from a burger seeping yellow goo. Not so much fast as ooze food. Sarah had opted to fast. The foul taste in her mouth after encountering Linda Walker wasn't appetite-conducing either. Dave had yet to make a comeback and she was pretty sure his silence wasn't down to mastication. She stirred more sugar into what masqueraded as coffee. ‘Spit it out, Dave.'
And the burger while you're at it
. ‘I can see you're not with me.'

He shrugged, dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘Maybe the bigger the horror, the deeper you have to bury it.'

‘They don't make shovels that size.' She widened her eyes. Dave was certainly shovelling it down. Not a pretty sight. Half-turning, Sarah glanced round at the clientele. The place was packed, youths mostly, a few families; the loudest racket came from a kids' party kicking off in the corner, all balloons, painted faces and party hats. The birthday girl had a big grin and kept pointing to a bright yellow badge shaped in a six. Sarah smiled back then turned away, in her mind's eye the image of another little blonde girl, only Pauline Bolton never got beyond five.

‘Help yourself.' Dave jabbed what was left of the bun at his chips. She took one without thinking, about food at any rate. Sarah's head housed a whole gallery of pictures, crime scenes, victims of violence she knew she'd never be able to let go. Dave-dog-with-a-bone hadn't dropped the topic. ‘If she really did manage to bury it,' he said, ‘it explains why she never put two and two together. About Caitlin, I mean.'

Sarah knew what he meant, and didn't buy that either. Linda Walker must have realized there was a connection with her past and Caitlin's current predicament. ‘Ask me? She's in total denial.'

The burger paused midway to mouth. ‘There's a difference?'

She held his gaze. ‘Can't see. Won't see.' Deliberate blank refusal. Ostrich fashion.

He chewed that over for a few seconds, then: ‘You heard what she said about Caitlin, boss.'
I'd rather die than see Caitlin come to any harm
. ‘If she'd harboured even an inkling – I can't believe she wouldn't have said something to us that first time.'

‘Don't bank on it, Dave.' She leaned forward, lowered her voice even more. ‘I grant you it was a long time ago but that woman killed a child. Tried to frame an innocent man. Her whole life's been built on lies and deception. And I'd not be surprised if she's still lying through her teeth.' There had been too many shifty looks, evasive answers, furious denials.

‘Watch it, boss.' Unsmiling, he tilted his head. ‘It's slipping.'

She frowned. ‘What is?'

‘The black cap.'

Frigging cheek. ‘Don't be ridic—' She pushed back from the table, just caught the cup before it toppled, grabbed napkins to mop the overspill.

‘She committed a crime. She went to prison.' He shoved away the remains. The happy meal wasn't living up to its name. ‘Seems to me you're sitting in judgement all over again.'

‘Bollocks.' Or was it?