Child's Play (26 page)

She leaned forward on the stool. ‘So have you seen the doc?'

Again, she watched him decide whether to say anything. ‘Consultant. Couple weeks back.'

Consultant. Right. ‘And?' A clock ticked in another silence that stretched.

‘Should've seen him earlier.'

Sarah swallowed though her mouth was dry; she stilled his hand with her own. ‘Talk to me, chief.'

Baker held her gaze for several seconds. ‘I've only known for sure a few days. I needed a while to get my head round it. It's cancer, Sarah. They're not sure they've caught it in time.'

For a split second she waited for the punch-line then felt the colour drain from her face. She watched a tear leak from the corner of his eye. That and the fear still there moved her almost as much as what he'd said. ‘But …' She stopped herself: stupid bloody thing to say.

‘Never had a day's sickness in my life.' He'd ignored symptoms, dismissed his wife's nagging. By the time the diagnosis came the prostate cancer was in an advanced stage. There would be surgery, radiotherapy. ‘They'll do what they can, Sarah. But by God it's hit hard.'

She could hardly begin to imagine. ‘Fred, I don't know what to say.'

‘Nothing to say, lass.' He dashed away the tear with the back of his hand. ‘I was going to keep it to myself for a while. The funeral must've brought it home. Reality hadn't sunk in 'til then. All them bloody lilies and Sinatra warbling on about his way. And the … the …'

Sarah closed her eyes briefly, saw her parents' coffins, open graves. ‘I know.'

‘I was gonna retire and … grow veg. Now I might not even see sixty.' She put down his glass, took his hands in hers.

‘If there's anything I can do, Fred. All you need do is ask.'

‘You're a good kid, Quinn.' He gave a thin smile. ‘Fact is – it's in the lap of the gods. And you know what? I'm scared shitless.'

Sarah, who didn't do touch-feely, didn't even think about it. She knelt, held him in her arms and gently stroked his hair. ‘I'm here for you, chief. Whatever you need.' That was when the strongest, most macho man she'd ever known broke down and wept. She doubted he'd shown an iota of vulnerability in front of anyone since he was a kid. In a weird way, Sarah felt almost privileged. The episode didn't last long, no more than a couple of minutes before he straightened. Resting on her haunches, she watched him dry his eyes. ‘Trust me, chief.' She held his gaze. ‘I won't tell a soul what I've just seen.'

‘Too right, Quinn.' He winked. ‘Or I'd have to kill you.'

L
inda Walker lay in bed praying for the comfort of sleep. Having finally decided to speak out, she'd imagined rest would come more easily. Laying ghosts was one thing, she supposed, exorcizing thoughts another. Now and then her unfocused gaze trailed car headlights as they chased shadows across the low ceiling. She heard the occasional blast from a horn, distant sirens, the plaintive bark of a dog. She ached for morning to come. She had the story worked out now, wanted to be word perfect for the reporter. She'd felt no guilt about turfing the woman out. Mind, if the police car hadn't turned up, she would have called 999. Those bloody yobbos made people's lives a misery, got away with murder some of 'em.

Sighing, she turned on her side, pulled the duvet over her ears. A neighbour had dropped by earlier to tell her he'd found her cat dead in the next road, looked as if a car had hit it. He offered to bury the body to save her the grief. She'd shed a tear, shed another now, but on reflection thought it for the best. Ginger dying was one thing less to worry about. The more she thought, the more it made sense: she had to be the abductor's real target, which meant Caitlin's abduction was almost certainly a smokescreen. Mrs Walker felt her fate was probably sealed but the story she'd give to the reporter would probably tip the balance in favour of her granddaughter's release. It wasn't the worst thought to drift off to sleep with.

She woke disorientated – two minutes, two hours later? – convinced she was still dreaming. It had been so vivid, even now it prompted a fond smile. Village bonfire night. Pauline and her so happy, so excited, whizzing sparklers round, standing so close the heat almost burned their cheeks. Screaming as the blazing Guy flopped and disappeared into the licking flames. Squealing as a shower of sparks lit the sky.

But she still heard noises.

Frowning, she propped herself up on an elbow. She smelled smoke, petrol; heard breaking glass, gloating chants; saw hooded figures, flashing lights.

Burn witch burn. Burn witch burn.

Smoke caught in her throat, nostrils, stung her eyes. Red glowed in the gap round the door, a brick shattered the window, shards of glass landed on the bed. She screamed in fear, frustration.

Burn witch burn. Burn witch burn.

She had no means of escape, no wish to survive. She lay back on the pillow, crossed her arms, prayed for death.

‘Y
ou can't blame yourself, boss.' Dave took the seat next to Sarah, handed over a coffee from a machine at the end of a seemingly endless white corridor.

‘I can do what I bloody well like, Harries,' she snapped, placed the cup on the floor at her feet. Slouched opposite, two surly youths broke off fiddling with their phones and glanced up at the exchange, probably thought they had ring-side seats. One had a Pudsey-style bandage round an eye; the other looked like he'd need a nose job any time soon. They were a pair of A&E's walking wounded as opposed to Linda Walker who, according to one of the medics, could be on her way out. Permanently.

Sarah shuffled off her coat, wished to God they didn't keep these places so bloody hot. She'd picked up the gist in a call from an inspector at the crime scene. Just after two a.m. a guy driving past had smelled smoke, heard breaking glass, called 999. Fire crews and uniform were on site within six minutes. That and the guy's heroics were the only reason Walker hadn't perished in the blaze. According to a nosy – or insomniac – neighbour the good Samaritan had literally driven away half a dozen hooded figures by mounting the pavement and motoring on round the side of the property. Shame he hadn't careered into one of the bastards. Even greater shame he'd not given the emergency operator a name and address.

Dave sat forward, laced his fingers between his knees. ‘Beat yourself up if it makes you feel any better, but if you ask me—'

‘I'm not.' She blew on the coffee. She'd failed to protect a vulnerable woman known – OK, strongly suspected – to be at risk from a retaliatory attack. That was the way Sarah saw it. Serve and protect? Fuck-up and fail, more like.

‘You were going to ask patrol to keep an eye on the place.'
Until Nicola Reynolds said she'd have her mother to stay. And where exactly was the loving daughter?
Sarah shook her head. Nice try, but it smacked of buck passing. Sarah hadn't established when Walker would move out, and even if she had mentioned it to uniform, an eye on the place wouldn't have been enough. The situation had called for round-the-clock surveillance.

‘Shut it, will you, Dave? I'm not interested.' Lack of sleep didn't help either. She'd not left Baker 'til gone midnight then spent hours tossing and turning in bed until control's call-out had woken her at half-five. Having asked Dave to meet her at the QE, she was beginning to wish she'd let him have a lie-in. ‘You got anything for a headache?'

‘Parrots do you?' He pulled paracetamol out of a pocket. She held a palm open. He dropped two tablets in, counted the nods, added another couple. ‘I've got a pair of glasses as well if you want, boss.'

‘Sorry?' Hand halfway to mouth.

‘Give you perfect hindsight.'

She gave a token half smile before dry swallowing the tablets. Dave was a decent guy, but it would take more than a one-liner or five to gee her up. On top of everything else, she couldn't stop thinking about the chief, ached to tell Dave what was going on. In characteristically bullish fashion, Baker had sworn her to secrecy. He'd announce it his way, he said, like Old Blue Eyes. He'd winked at that, told her if anyone chose Sinatra at the funeral he'd come back and haunt the buggers. Brave-faced bravado. Again, she thought he'd put it on for her benefit. For his, she'd agreed to keep him briefed via daily phone calls.

‘Anyway, boss, the fire might be unrelated.' Dave had dropped his voice but not the subject. ‘Who's to say—?'

‘Get real, man.' If she believed that, she might as well believe unicorns went in for deep-sea diving.

‘Fucking give her one if I were you, mate.' Nose job getting in on the act.

She shot to her feet. ‘You offensive little shit.'

‘Let it go, Sar—'

‘And tuck your sodding legs in, do us all a favour.' She cut the pair of them a final glare before retaking her seat.

Her heart rate was up, she leaned her head back against the wall, took a few deep breaths. The smell of toast cut through the scent of latex and antiseptic. She sighed. ‘Why do you think they had the paint then, Dave? Reckon they were going to do the place up for her?' She caught the minuscule flex of his jaw. It said, ‘enough already'.

‘Beneath you that is, boss.' He took a swig of coffee. ‘Leave the sarky digs to Baker. Past master he is.'

‘Don't bring him into this, Harries.' She turned her head and muttered something about not being so bloody naïve. Aerosol paint cans, red, had been found scattered at the scene. The arsonists had only got round to spraying one letter: A or K apparently. Her money was on the K. As in killer. How they knew about Walker's past, she'd still to establish. Yet again, she checked her mobile for messages from the squad room. They'd let her know the minute last night's appeal had any effect. Zilch.

Sighing, she glanced at her watch: 7.15. A word with Walker could go a long way but they were waiting on a senior medic's say-so. If it was out of the question, Sarah was keen to get off, wanted a look at the crime scene before heading out to Worcester. ‘Where's the doc got to? He said a few minutes max.'

Swing doors flew open. Four heads swivelled in unison. A white-faced Nicola Reynolds ran down the corridor. She stood in front of the detectives, struggling to catch her breath. ‘Is she dead?'

Sarah shook her head, wondered why the woman had taken her time getting here.

‘Will she make it?'

‘I think you need to speak to the doctor, Mrs Reynolds. I'm told she has a fighting chance.'

‘Dear God.' She sank down on the chair next to Sarah. ‘In that case, it's you I need speak to.'

Caroline had it all worked out. She'd whisk Walker away in the motor. Take her to a decent hotel for a night, maybe two. No expense – well, not much – spared. With a bit of luck she'd swing it on expenses anyway. Every news desk in the UK and beyond would want a slice of the story. And that was before the book. She needed to make sure she had enough goodies to go round. Ergo: there was no point rushing the interview. It merited several sessions and it would take a while to get Walker chilled, confident, confiding.

Caroline admired her perfectly painted pout in the driving mirror.
Just call me Mother Confessor.
The pout took a sudden dive: the BMW had better be safe outside Walker's poxy bungalow. She tightened her grip on the wheel then eased off. How long could it take to pack an overnight bag? She'd just have to keep an eye out, call the cops at the first sign of trouble.

She'd certainly be relying on her own wheels from now on. Last night's drama had left her seriously spooked; she didn't fancy another episode. It'd be worth it though once she had Walker's life on tape. Then she'd share with Quinn: the look on the Ice Queen's face would be priceless. Worth a picture at least.

Smiling, Caroline tugged down the visor, reached for her shades. Even the sun had come out to play. All she needed was a decent soundtrack. She hit shuffle, laughed out loud at the unintentional irony. ‘Sympathy for the Devil' featured in
Interview with a Vampire.
She tapped along in time on the wheel, couldn't quite picture Walker in the Tom Cruise role. Mind she couldn't see herself as a blood-sucking hack either, though one or two names hurled her way in the past had only been a few letters out.

She dropped the smile, sharpened up. Play this right and it was a story that would make her name. OK, she enjoyed a bit of fame with TV news, but Caroline still harboured ambition. With even more industry clout plus a potential best-seller, her career would be on the up. Why not peak-time presenter, current affairs anchor, chat show host? Eat your heart out Pax—

What the hell? Her face froze; time seemed to slow if not stand still. Police cars, white transits, crime tape, a burly uniform pacing the pavement. Outside Walker's. Caroline pulled the Beemer over, grabbed her bag. She had to resist the urge to run, approached slowly, taking in the scene en route. The acrid smell of smoke gave the first clue, the tell-tale blackening of bricks round what was left of the blistered door and window frames the next; the water lying round in filthy oily puddles clinched it. Not a fire engine in sight so presumably the blaze started in the early hours, even the damping down had been done and dusted.
A spark from Walker's fire?
Yeah right. That's why forensics were out in force, there were so many bunny suits in there it looked like
Watership Down
.

‘What happened, officer?' She might as well ask, because the guy wasn't going to let her get any nearer.

‘What's it to you?' PC Jobsworth. She'd met the kind before: if she told him who she was he wouldn't give her a used teabag let alone the time of day.

‘I had an appointment with the woman who lives there.' She flashed a one-size-fits-all card, nodded at the bungalow. ‘Social services.'