Child's Play (24 page)

Glaring, Reynolds balled her fists on her thighs. A few tense seconds passed then her defiance – and defences – crumpled. She hunched over, shoulders heaving. Inevitable really. Days of stress, not helped by the recent discovery of her mother's past, something had to give. Sarah made a T with her fingers, Harries took the hint. By the time the brew was on the table, Reynolds had calmed enough.

‘Right.' Sarah slipped her BlackBerry in a pocket, a quick check had revealed the earth was still intact. ‘Who sent the message?'

‘I don't know. Honest to God I'd tell you if I did.'

Sarah held out a hand. ‘Give me the phone. Now.'

‘No way.' Her eyes widened. ‘What if—'

‘Now.' She'd no intention of taking it away. Cutting the perp's line of communication would be risky, could be fatal. Besides, he was no fool, the mobile was probably a pay-as-you-go registered to a Mr M Mouse. Whatever, she'd lay bets they'd not be able to trace the owner. Sarah scrolled through texts checking whether Reynolds had kept anything else close to her chest. Assuming she hadn't deleted anything, there was just the one:
Ask your old lady about Badger's Copse
.

‘Have you actually spoken to the guy?'

‘Just the once.'

‘And?' Reynolds couldn't be that dense surely? ‘Come on, give. Does he sound young, old? High pitch? Low? Lisp? Accent?'

Reynolds turned her mouth down. ‘Young-ish? Quite softly spoken but creepy if you know what I mean?'

Not a clue. ‘Would you recognize it again?'

‘Definitely.'

Thank God for small mercies. ‘If and when he contacts you, I'll be the second person to know. Right?' She slid the phone across the table but kept hold, waited for Reynolds to make eye contact. ‘Right?'

‘I want to cooperate, really I do, but how can I?' The palms she held out were empty. ‘He says he'll kill her if I have anything to do with you.' Her voice was softer, body language slightly less stressed but she was still singing from the same can't-help hymn sheet.

Sarah sighed, shook her head. ‘What
you
have to understand, Mrs Reynolds, is he could kill Caitlin anyway.' Reynolds slapped a hand to her mouth. Harries turned his sharp intake of breath into an unconvincing cough. Tough. Pussy-footing hadn't worked. ‘I've no idea what's going on in his head or what his agenda is, but he clearly enjoys toying with you. We have to draw him into the open, get to him before he does any more harm.'

‘I see that, inspector.' She pushed away the mug. ‘But it's not your daughter he's holding.'

‘If it was …' Sarah paused, held the woman's gaze. ‘I know damn sure what I'd do. And it wouldn't be playing mouse to a psycho cat.'

She nodded, pensive, then wandered to the sink, poured and drank a glass of water before turning to face Sarah. ‘If it helps Caitlin – I'll do whatever you say.'

Sarah secured various promises from Reynolds, prime being she'd call the minute she heard from the abductor. She'd also consider having an experienced detective in the house, someone skilled in communication, negotiation. Theory being, he could help Reynolds lead the conversation, tease out information. In practice, he'd act as minder too.

‘Tell me, has he been in direct contact with your mother?'

She shook her head. ‘Not as far as I know.'

‘Would she tell you?'

‘Tell me?' Reynolds snorted. ‘Course she would; her life's an open book, isn't it? Oh, no, wait. It isn't. She forgot to mention one or two
minor
points.'

Like killing a child and spending ten years in prison. What could Sarah say that wouldn't sound trite? She took a sip of tea, grimaced. No wonder the woman was on water: Dave's PG was on a par with his coffee.

‘It has to be connected, Mrs Reynolds. You do see that?'

‘Not one word in all these years.' Staring at the floor, Reynolds could have been talking to herself. ‘How could she do that?'

‘With the inquiry on-going I'm not sure she should be left on her own,' Sarah said. The woman still stared at the lino, circling her toe. ‘Mrs Reynolds?'

She lifted her glance. ‘Yes, you're right. I'll have her stay here a few days. To be on the safe side.'

‘Has he told you why he's holding Caitlin, Mrs Reynolds? What he wants out of this?'

‘I wish I knew.'

‘Maybe next time he gets in touch.' Sarah nodded at Dave. As they walked to the door, she told Reynolds there'd be a news conference late afternoon, the cameras would be there, she'd make a direct appeal to the abductor. ‘I'm hoping it'll have the desired effect. I want to smoke him out.'

‘Smoke him out? For what he's doing, I'd like to see him burn in hell.'

‘C
an I get you anything, Mrs Walker?' Iced water, cold shower, industrial fan? How the old girl could sit so close to the fire was beyond Caroline. Just helping Walker settle in the wing chair had brought the reporter out in a sweat. The small space was like a furnace on full blast, airless and odorous to a stultifying degree. Still, looking on the bright side. ‘Would you mind awfully if I slip off my jacket?' One arm was already on its way out. The unwitting hostess stared into the flames. Caroline doubted she'd even taken the request on board.

Smiling solicitously, she perched on the settee as close as she could get bar taking up berth in Walker's lap.
Perish the thought.
Caroline found the woman's stale odour abhorrent but the art of persuasion called for close proximity. Soon she'd start mirroring Walker's posture, pick up the speech patterns. It was in the journalist's DNA: insinuate, ingratiate, imitate then extricate the truth.
God
, she thought, mentally tossing back a theatrical head,
how I suffer for my art
.

Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on her knees. ‘How about I rustle you up a cup of tea? I'm sure I can find my way around the kitchen.'

‘No,' she snapped. Behind the smeared lenses her eyes looked huge, unfocused. ‘All I want to know before you go is what this man's game is? He's sending you messages, you say?'

‘That's right.' Caroline hugged her knees. The Manolos weren't under the coffee table yet. ‘He came to my house once, too. I wasn't in but he left a note.' Of sorts.

Walker gasped as her liver-spotted maw grasped Caroline's small delicate hand. ‘Surely you've been in touch with the police?'

‘You bet I have.' How she didn't flinch, Caroline would never know. ‘In fact I met with the senior investigating officer first thing. DI Sarah Quinn?'

Walker frowned, gave an uncertain smile. ‘So it'll all be over soon?'

Caroline sighed her regret, gently removed her hand from the woman's clammy grip. ‘I'm afraid it's not that simple.' The messages, she said, hadn't been explicit. The cops still had no clue where Caitlin was being held or by whom. ‘But they think they know why.' Girding mental loins, she took a deep breath. ‘And I do too, Mrs Walker.'

She gazed at her lap. ‘You know about my past, don't you? Did he tell you?'

‘Not in so many words.' Caroline described the crude painting on her kitchen wall, the instruction about Badger's Copse. When Walker heard about Caitlin's initials, she closed her eyes, murmured what sounded like ‘dear God'.

‘He's getting back at you through your granddaughter, isn't he?' The woman held her face in her hands as if it was about to fall apart. Caroline shook her head. ‘Well, I'm sorry, Mrs Walker, but I think you've suffered enough. I think he's a cruel, callous coward.' Ingratiate, ingratiate. Christ she sounded like a dyslexic Dalek.

‘But what will he do to her? And why contact you and not the police?'

‘Assuming he's punishing you because he believes you got off lightly, I shouldn't imagine he holds the law in high regard. Which is a shame because DI Quinn's a good detective. She's given me her blessing to help with the inquiry.' The endorsement could go either way: Walker's past dealings with the cops couldn't have been great. On the other hand, anything that added gravitas and credence to what Caroline now saw as her increasingly less precarious position was worth the risk.

Walker nodded. ‘Yes. She's been here.' Of course she had. Quinn hadn't long left the place; her card still lay on the table. Caroline clocked the woman's mouth soften slightly so presumably the Ice Queen couldn't have put her foot in it too much.

‘As for why contact me?' She opened her arms. ‘I'm a TV reporter, Mrs Walker. The abductor wants publicity, press coverage. But if he thinks he can manipulate me, he's got another think coming. And I'll tell you this for nothing, I won't be writing a single word until Caitlin's safely home where she belongs.' Like it was a big favour.

‘Thank you, dear.' She wiped a tear from her eye.

‘Tell me about Caitlin, Mrs Walker. Off the record, naturally. I'm very interested. From what I hear she's a lovely girl. And I can see you're terribly close.' She tilted her head at the mantelpiece, gazed admiringly at a pic of the two of them. Softener like that always worked. Walker relaxed slightly, started spouting off about her ‘wonderful granddaughter'. Talk about
This Is Your Life.
Caroline stifled a yawn, smiled politely and made the right noises, all the while gauging how best to put her proposal. Asking a child-killer whether you can write her life story didn't happen every day. Last thing she wanted was to blow it.

‘I'd like you to tell it, Miss King.'

Had she heard right? ‘Come again?'

‘I've never really had my say. I'd like my story told. You say the man thinks I got off lightly? I beg to differ. I made a mistake and I've paid for it ever since and now my daughter and granddaughter are paying too.'

As mistakes went, it wasn't exactly down there with spilled milk.
Was the woman seeking public sympathy, understanding? Either way, Caroline had well and truly landed on her feet. She struggled not to show her elation. ‘I'd be honoured, Mrs Walker. Yours is a unique perspective. I've read contemporary newspaper reports and back then they called you a monster but every story has two sides. Look, I just happen to have a recorder with me.' She reached down for her bag: no time like the present – or past.

‘Every story has at least two sides. It's about time people heard the truth.'

Caroline's hand stilled, she raised her gaze, frowning. ‘The truth?'

‘It wasn't me.' Walker had taken off the glasses, now polished them with a cloth. ‘I didn't kill anyone, Miss King.'

Caroline paced up and down outside the bungalow. Where the hell was the fucking cab? Talk about brass monkeys! After the heat in there, she'd catch her death if it didn't show soon. She glanced at her watch, scanned both sides of the street, willed the familiar boxy shape to emerge through the near dark. Shoving both hands in her pockets she continued pacing; it helped alleviate the frustration too.

If she thought she had a cracker of a story before, Walker had handed her an explosive. The child killer who wasn't. A-fucking-mazing.

Potentially.

Neither the goods nor bads had been delivered yet. Until she knew the detail, she'd no way of assessing its worth. Walker could be talking double bollocks with fairy lights but if the tale stood up, it had legs that could run the equator. To what would now be an unsolved child murder add criminal police and judiciary incompetence, wrongful imprisonment, miscarriage of justice – the old girl could even be in line for compensation. And Caroline was hanging round waiting for a bloody taxi. Not through choice.

All polite, Walker had asked her to leave, said she felt sick, needed time to collect her thoughts. Like she hadn't already had fifty-odd years? The reporter curled her lip. She'd tried every trick in her journalist's collected works, but Walker wouldn't/couldn't do it now, told Caroline to come back tomorrow. She'd literally shown her to the door. Short of squatting, Caroline had no option but to walk.

Never mind wild horses, rabid buffalo wouldn't keep her away in the morning. Did buffalo carry rabies? Who cared? She didn't give a monkey's jockstrap as long as the old girl didn't bottle out by then. Besides, the thinking time cut both ways. Caroline still hadn't decided whether – no, when – to share the stop-press news with Quinn. That the cop had to be told was a no-brainer, but if Caroline could put some flesh on what was currently a bare bone, the story would carry more weight.

‘Wotcha, babe.' Tap on the shoulder. ‘Not from round these parts, are you?'

‘Well spotted …' Eyes blazing, she spun round. She was about to add ‘pet' when she clocked the youth's heavy-duty acne and his four-legged friend.

‘Wanna drop?' He staggered, waved a can of Red Stripe too near her face. Spotso was only an inch or so taller, stick thin and a good bit older than she'd first thought. A year ago she'd probably have told him to go fuck. The aftermath of the attack undoubtedly played a part in her tongue-biting but more than that she counted over his shoulder four, five, no six of his mates enjoying the floor show. They'd clearly been congregating on the waste ground beyond the bungalow. Doubtless gathered to say their prayers. Not.

She stepped back casually, smiled amiably. ‘I'm on duty. Otherwise …' Making light of it, but her heart was on double time, its beat audible in her ear. Showing fear was almost the worst thing anyone could do in the circs. Besides, glistening strings of slaver swung from the pit bull's jowls; if it shook its head she'd need a shower, and if it got any closer maybe a tetanus jab. He had it on a tight rein but she could still smell its rancid breath. Hint of something else in the air too. Smoke? Maybe they'd lit a fire to keep warm.

‘Oh, yeah?' He hooked a thumb in a belt loop. ‘What's your line a work then? Undercover cop?'