Child's Play (5 page)

‘What?' She grabbed his wrist. ‘Unless what?'

He paused, stroked a strand of hair from her eyes. ‘Is there something you're not telling me, Nic?'

Christ, he didn't believe her. Three times she'd said it and now, four: ‘I have no idea who's doing this, Neil. Or why.' She fought to keep calm, couldn't afford to give in to the incipient hysteria, or she'd collapse completely. She needed to stay strong for Caitlin's sake.

‘Then bring the police in on it, Nic. It's their job.' He wiped away a tear with a thumb. ‘And time's passing.'

‘Like I don't know that?'

‘So the sooner the better. They have procedures in place to deal with this sort of thing.' He glanced at the phone. ‘Think how bad it'll look if they find out you lied to them.'

She widened her eyes, realized it had been a telling pause. ‘Lied? I didn't—'

‘OK. Misled. Failed to mention. Kept them in the dark. Call it what you will. It boils down to the same thing. They'll not like it.'

‘And what about me? What if I don't like it?' Far from helping, Neil had made her feel worse. He'd done sod all to make sense of it and not even tried to see it from her point of view. ‘Just whose side are you on, Neil?'

He frowned as if the question was beyond him. ‘Caitlin's of course. Who else?'

The man cupped Caitlin's face between his hands, twisted it roughly this way and that. ‘Wakey, wakey, rise and shine.'

Disorientated, she snapped her eyes open. ‘What?' she gasped as pain tore through her tethered limbs. ‘What is it?'

‘Not “what”, you silly bitch.' Looming over her, he jerked her head right then left then right again. She caught glimpses of a tripod, a laptop, a bulging rucksack; otherwise the room looked the same: grimy white walls, stone floor, steel desk, filing cabinet, no window. ‘I'm asking, “which?” Which is your best side, eh?' The thick fur mask concealed all but the darkly glittering eyes, but she heard the sly smirk in his muffled voice. ‘Hey, it rhymes: which bitch, which bitch, which bitch.' He looped his thumbs through his belt, thrust his crutch forward. ‘Know what, girlie? I don't reckon you've got a good side. Have to do a full-on mug shot, eh?'

The twat could do what he liked. He'd dicked her around for the last time. ‘Go fuck yourself, monkey man.'

Dead silence. Stock still. The gorilla head looked unintentionally hilarious. She could piss herself laughing, except she'd wet herself in the night. She was past caring about that too. Before the drugs he'd forced down her throat kicked in, she'd worked out the guy's pathetic game. Obviously, he got off on scaring the shit out of her and if he was hell bent on killing her, there was little she could do about it however she played it. At least she'd go down fighting.

‘What did you say, bitch?'

‘Are you deaf as well as brain dead, monkey man?'

‘Oh, Caitlin.' He crossed his arms, tapped a foot. The black cargo pants and Converse trainers were rough clues to his age, but gave nothing else away. ‘You naughty, naughty, girl.'

‘Yeah? Tell someone who gives a shit.' Her mouth was dry or she'd have spat in his stupid face.

‘I'll tell your ma then, shall I?' He leaned towards her, couldn't get any closer if he tried. ‘That her precious daughter needs a damn good slapping.'

‘Your breath stinks, monkey man.' She gave a wide-mouthed yawn. ‘Go clean your teeth.'

Tutting, he slowly shook his head and walked away. Heart racing, she watched until he was out the door. She heard a drawer, maybe a cupboard being opened. Then a sound like something cutting through air. Whip? Ruler? Neither. He came back brandishing a thin tapering cane. ‘I'd so hoped it wouldn't be necessary.' He stood in front of her, gently tapping it against his palm.

‘Do one, douche bag.'

The air whistled as he whipped back the cane, held it aloft. She closed her eyes, braced herself but, really, what was a bit more pain anyway?
Get on with it, psycho.
What the hell was he doing? It took a few seconds for Caitlin to identify the noise. Wary, she opened an eye. The mad bastard was laughing, clutching his sides, bent double with it.

‘Nothing's that funny, mate.'

‘Oh, it is, Caitlin,' he spluttered. ‘Believe me that was dead funny.'

Then he straightened and snatched off the mask.

‘L
ate night was it, Quinn?' Baker sniffed. ‘Watch the wind don't change. Or you'll stick like that.' No preamble. No, God forbid, ‘Good morning'. The chief had spotted Sarah in the corridor, beckoned her in to his office with a stubby finger and now lounged back in a leather executive chair, hands on head, size twelve brogues up on the desk. Sarah stood in the threshold open-mouthed, machine coffee in one hand, phone and keys in the other. Cheeky git. Baker could bloody talk; he could do with more than a touch of
éclat
himself. She puckered her nostrils when a waft of his Paco Rabanne entered her airspace but her motionless stance wasn't down to olfactory overload; she was mentally censoring come-back lines that wouldn't get her fired. ‘Sod off.'

‘Sod off,
sir.
' He whipped his feet down, patted his tie, pointed to the seat opposite. ‘What've you got on today, Quinn?'

She briefly toyed with the idea of describing her rather fetching ensemble of taupe linen trouser suit, ivory cashmere crew neck and calf-length camel coat. But he'd probably have her sectioned; besides, he wasn't making polite inquiries about her gear. Knowing Baker, he'd already have read her initial report on Caitlin Reynolds' supposed vanishing act and have something more pressing up his sleeve.

‘I need to put in a call to the missing girl's—'

‘Yeah, I caught the drift.' He waved a disparaging arm. ‘You reckon she's playing away?'

‘Or gone AWOL. Well, absent without her mother's leave, that is.' Sarah blew on the coffee, took a quick sip. ‘I'll pick up the O'Malley investigation, there's a stack of outstanding interviews and I need to prepare papers for the Lawson trial next week. After that there's—'

‘Yeah, yeah. Nothing to write home about in other words.' He plucked a bulging file off his desk, handed it over. ‘There you go.'

Her heart hit her court shoes at the initials on the cover. ‘Police and Crime Commission?'

‘It's a routine meeting. No sweat.' Liar. Either that or his face was leaking. She also registered that Baker's thick black mane wasn't so much subtly streaked as shot through with white. Mind it was about time the old goat gave up the Grecian 2000. ‘It's this afternoon, Quinn. You can pretend to be me.' She'd seen sincerer smiles on a clinically depressed grass snake. ‘It'll be good experience for you.'

‘You're too kind, chief,' she murmured. She'd walked right into it. The prospect of x number of hours in a stuffy room packed with y number of sweaty bodies equalled one seriously pissed off DI. And given the size of the file: ‘I'd better get on, skim through it.'

He waved her down. ‘Hold your horses, Quinn.' Stifling a sigh, she sank back into the chair. Baker's American ranching holidays had a lot to answer for, including the equestrian lingo that nowadays peppered his vocab.
Yeehaw.
‘How's Davy doing under your mat— wing?'

Maternal?
She spat out a mental mouthful of feathers. ‘Were you about to say maternal?'

‘Calm down, dear. It's not always about you. I'm after a professional run down on the boy wonder.' He'd assigned the nickname on Dave's first day in CID. Like a lot of Bakerisms it had stuck. ‘How tight a rein's the lad on these days?'

Biting her tongue, she rose above the David Cameron meets Michael Winner jibe. The chief's query had set more serious antennae quivering. ‘He's a good cop. Shows a lot of initiative. Why?'

‘Thought so.' Baker steepled his fingers. ‘Far be it from me to party poop, but isn't it about time the lad put in for his stripes?'

Cheeky sod with double knobs on.
Every detective constable who passed the sergeant's exams had to go back into uniform for a spell. So in one fell – make that foul – swoop Baker had not only categorized her working relationship with Dave as cosy, but also questioned her professional judgement as to his progress up the career ladder. She clenched her fists: if she bit her tongue any more, she'd lose the power of speech. ‘Are you saying I'm not pushing Harries enough?' Did Baker have a point? Was she subconsciously holding Harries back because she didn't want to lose him as her bag man?

‘I've no idea which bit you're holding, Quinn. You tell me.'

‘I'm sorry.' She jumped to her feet, just stopped the chair toppling over. ‘I don't have to listen to this.'

‘You're not sorry. And you're not going anywhere.'

Pursing her lips, she sat down again, felt like a frigging Jackie in the box.

‘I've got both your interests at heart, Quinn. Dave clearly needs stretching. And you're not getting any younger.' Her mouth formed a perfect ‘O'. Could he be more offensive? ‘You've been DI how long? Five years. Six? Time for you to think big career wise, too. It's not like you're dying to be a yummy mummy any time soon, is it?'

Offensive? He'd barely started. She shook her head. ‘I don't believe I'm hearing this.'

‘Take the wasp out your mouth. All I'm saying is: time waits for no man, Quinn.' He caught the look on her face and raised a hand. ‘OK, or woman. You know where I'm coming from, but … You're not stupid.'

‘Can I go now? I need a word with the squad.' Not to mention time to think on what he'd said.

‘I'll tag along.' She heard a wince as he struggled to his feet and grabbed his jacket.

‘You OK, chief?'

‘Never better, lass.'

He was breathing heavily by the time they reached the squad room. He stood to one side, played doorman. ‘You know, Quinn, I'd never have said maternal about you.'

‘Good.' Sarah smiled as she squeezed past. ‘I'm glad to hear it.'

‘Nah. Word I had in mind was “mature”.'

If only he'd come out with it a couple of seconds sooner – she'd have stamped on his bloody foot. Harries, who was on the phone, lifted a finger when he saw her. She waited at his desk while he jotted a line or two before replacing the receiver. ‘Good timing, boss.'

Good timing, bad news. The words were written all over his face, it was the fine print she couldn't make out. ‘The missing girl,' he said. ‘That was control. They've just taken a call.'

Sarah frowned. ‘From Nicola Reynolds?'

‘No. From Caitlin.'

A
dozen squad members sat in shocked silence round a hastily set-up incident room. Operation Vixen was up, if not quite running. The recording had been played twice now. It hadn't taken long to get a copy of the triple-nine exchange but given the new impetus, every minute counted; God knew how many had been squandered. Features impassive, Sarah perched on a desk at the front, arms folded, ankles crossed: a subconscious attempt to stop a self-inflicted kick up the backside?

Though efforts were underway to trace the call, door-to-door inquiries on-going along Caitlin's route home from Queen's Ridge and two teams of detectives currently interviewing up at the school, to the DI's mind they were playing catch-up: the nigh on twelve-hour delay caused her professional grief. Mind, that was nothing compared with the grief she'd be giving Nicola Reynolds.

‘Poor bloody kid.' Propped against his favoured patch of off-white wall, DS John Hunt voiced what was probably communal thinking. The sergeant's balled fists were telling too, but Caitlin's words had the bigger impact.

Though a few ideas had been bounced round and tasks mostly assigned, Sarah reckoned another airing wouldn't do any harm. It could only serve to underline the urgency, reinforce the nature of the beast they were up against. She nodded at the squad's other long serving DS. ‘Once more please, Woodie.'

‘With feeling, ma'am.' Office Manager Paul Wood spoke through gritted teeth; there was no irony in the remark. Burly, broad-shouldered and butch with it, he was known affectionately round the station as Twig. Sarah had watched the colour drain from his face when he listened before. Beth Lally, a newish DC not long back from maternity leave, was still making heavy weather of blowing her nose. Even the chief, who'd taken up squatter's rights on a corner of the next desk, looked uneasy. What Caitlin said tore the heart; the pleading, almost resigned tone froze the blood.

‘Help me, please help me.'

‘Caller, can you—?'

‘My name's Caitlin. Caitlin Reynolds. The man. He's holding me prisoner.'

‘Caitlin, can you—?' A female operator. Calm. Authoritative. Reassuring. Probably trying to coax the girl to speak louder.

‘I've sneaked his phone. I've not got long. He says he's going to kill me.

‘Caitlin. Where—?'

‘He says he's contacted my mum. He says she knows everything. I'm really scared. Please, come and get me …'

A stinging slap, a scream. Silence. Even third time round, a couple of officers flinched. The soundtrack was difficult to marry with the girl's smiling image blue-tacked to the whiteboard. The ‘just in case' picture Sarah had taken from Nicola Reynolds last night would soon be out on general release on the Net, in the news, dominating bulletins, drawing out witnesses, prompting memories, pricking consciences. Without intelligence, locating Caitlin in a city the size of Birmingham made needle tracing in a barn full of burning hay look like a piece of piss. And that assumed the girl hadn't been whisked away – for all they knew she could be in Brighton, Belgium, Belize.

‘Does it sound echoey to anyone?' Brow furrowed, Harries sat at the front, hunched forward, elbows on knees. ‘Maybe she's in an empty house, some sort of derelict building?'