Child's Play (8 page)

‘Keep it down, man.' Harries flapped a tetchy hand. It was bad enough being teamed up with the human equivalent of Mogadon for a few hours but for Holmes to deliver a line like that when the woman was almost certainly in earshot? Would the stupid sod never learn? At getting on for fifty, probably not. Little wonder Baker had long since christened him No-Shit.

‘I'm trying, lad.' Smirking, he wiped the limp hankie round a lens of his horn-rims. ‘It's hard mind.'

Harries rolled his eyes at the ceiling, knew where the old lech was coming from. He groaned inwardly at Holmes' word play and the mental picture it prompted. The more-than-portly Holmes with a hard-on wasn't a thought to hold. Unlike an image of the lovely Miss Fox. The young blonde looked more like a movie star than Caitlin Reynolds' drama teacher. Bright, bubbly, big b … blue eyes.

‘Well, knock it on the head, eh, Jed? She'll be back in a tick.' The interview had barely started when she'd had to rush out to take a call, some parent on the school secretary's phone demanding words about little Johnnie or Jenny. Harries hoped Miss Fox would have some decent input/insight on Caitlin when she got back but given she'd only been on staff since September, he'd not hold his breath. Nor inhale too deeply. Not with undertones of sweaty socks and overripe cheese wafting in the air. Cracking open a window crossed Harries' mind but a hockey match was in full swing outside and the accompanying sound track was like something from a slasher movie. While No-Shit strolled over to take a closer butcher's at the action, Harries ran through the notes from earlier sessions, statements from the head, Caitlin's personal tutor, three more teachers and two of her closest friends. The picture emerging appeared to be that of a well-liked intelligent young woman, confident, fun-loving, witty, great sense of humour. Yada yada. She probably loved animals and wanted to save the world. Goody-too-good-to-be-true-shoes?

In Harries' experience no one was perfect but so far not one person had a bad word to say about the girl. No one could offer up even a guess why anyone would want to harm her. Caitlin, everyone agreed, hadn't an enemy in the world. Well, how could she? A girl with six-hundred-plus Facebook friends? Sighing, Harries shook his head. He could count his mates on the fingers of one hand, and he knew each one like the back of it. And in reality, it didn't matter what anyone said – Caitlin patently had one enemy.

‘Hey, Dave.' No-Shit strolled back, tucking a sludge-coloured knitted tie into a too-high waistband. ‘You want in on the sweepstake?'

Sighing, Harries tossed his pen on top of the notes. ‘What sweepstake?'

‘Slow off the mark, aren't you, son?' Coming from No-Shit that was rich. ‘The date the chief's gonna ride off into the sunset.' It was an apt analogy given Baker's predilection for all things Wild West. If you asked Harries it was all a bit big boys' cowboys and Indians. John Wayne eat your Stetson.

‘He's definitely going then?' Harries turned his mouth down, far as he knew there'd been nothing official, just a load of rumour and gossip doing the rounds.

‘Trust me.' Holmes tapped the side of his distinctly crooked nose. ‘I'm pally with that big bird in HR.'

‘Big bird, officer?' Jude Fox arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow as she re-entered the room. ‘I take it we're talking the winged variety? And tell me –' She smiled sweetly as she took a perch – ‘what did they make when you were at school?' Harries felt his lip twitch. ‘Quill pens?' she asked. ‘Penny farthings? Faux pas?' Harries had to drop his glance but not before he caught a twinkle in her turquoise eye.

‘Sorry, Miss …?' Holmes hung his head. He sounded like a thick kid apologizing. Still, it might teach him to remember names in future.

‘Miss Fox.' Harries smiled, made eye contact, her twinkle still in situ. If she was flirting, it was fine by him. ‘Caitlin Reynolds? You were about to tell us more.'

She took her time, crossing shapely legs, smoothing a creaseless skirt. The little black dress was straight out of
Breakfast at Tiffany's
; the silver hoop earrings could've doubled as bracelets. Harries wondered if she enjoyed an audience, hoped it was more a case of giving the subject serious thought.

‘I haven't known Caitlin long.' Proper newsreader's voice. ‘But she works hard in class, puts in the hours after school too.' Smiling, Miss Fox brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. ‘Actually she's one of the leads in my end-of-term production. She's playing Abigail in
The Crucible
.'

Harries nodded: for all his vast theatrical knowledge, she could've been playing snooker in Sheffield. ‘How would you describe her personality?'

Pensive, she reached for a bottle of Evian and held it to her lips for a few seconds before drinking. If it was a distraction technique it had partial success. Harries kicked No-Shit's foot under the desk: he was supposed to be taking notes.

‘Sorry.' She balanced the bottle on her knee. ‘Just marshalling my thoughts. I'd hate a careless word to point you in the wrong direction.'

‘Understood.' Harries reckoned a lot of punters didn't give a toss about misdirection, though right now any direction would do. ‘Take your time, Miss Fox.'

She did, and another dainty swig. ‘She's a bright, popular girl, eager to please, willing to help, seems happy and bursting with confidence. Loving drama, she's a pleasure to teach.'

‘“Seems”?' Harries queried. ‘You said “seems” happy and confident.'

‘Sometimes, I wonder if the happy-go-lucky Caitlin we all know and love is the real deal. Or if it was partly an act, you know?'

He didn't. And no one else had come anywhere close to making the same suggestion. ‘Go on.'

‘It's tricky to pin down.' She re-crossed her legs.

‘Try.' His smile of encouragement faded as she related vague concerns, formless fears. Apparently, Caitlin stared into space a lot, sad expression on her face, tears in her eyes. She spent quite a bit of time alone in the library, deliberately distanced herself from friends but paradoxically was the sort of girl who had to be liked by everyone and the most casual remark could cut her to the quick.

Sounded like every teenager Harries knew, unless … He leaned forward a touch. ‘Are you saying someone's bullying her?'

‘No.' She paused. Was that telling? ‘I really don't think so. I just find her extremely … sensitive. Complex. A little moody? A bit of a drama queen.'

‘As in?'

She threw her hands in the air. Harries thought the gesture pretty theatrical. Maybe Miss Fox did too. She gave a sheepish smile. ‘Sorry, it's just so difficult to describe. But I guess it's a case of her always needing to be the centre of attention, always having to top everyone else's story. Not belittling people, just to get a laugh, you know?'

Not really. Maybe the boss would have an idea. They were hooking up at Caitlin's granny's house in an hour or so; he'd run it past her then. ‘Tell me, Miss—'

‘Please.' She raised a palm. ‘The name's Jude.'

He nodded acknowledgement. ‘Has Caitlin seemed more subdued recently? Did you sense anything bothering her?' Nothing, she said. ‘Is there someone, a best mate maybe, she might have confided in?'

The girls she named had already been interviewed: nada on that front. He pressed further on Caitlin's background, asked whether she'd had problems at school, whether she seemed happy at home, if she'd had boyfriend bother. The teacher supplied no-yes-no answers but no real intelligence, no lines worth pursuing. Harries sensed she'd help if she could but she just didn't have anything concrete to offer. One more question then they'd hit the road.

‘It's a big ask, I know, Miss Fox, but can you think of anyone who'd want to harm Caitlin?'

‘Look, I probably shouldn't say this, but …' Twice, she opened her mouth to speak before finally putting Harries out of his misery. ‘I think she may have been harming herself.'

‘S
he saw Caitlin pissed?' Sarah cast an incredulous glance at her passenger. ‘Is that it?' The Audi was parked a few doors up from the girl's granny's house. After wrapping up at the school, Harries had cadged a lift from No-Shit, caught Sarah grabbing a bite of late lunch in the car. Amazing what doe eyes and a rumbling stomach will do. She'd taken pity, offered him shares in her sausage roll and salt and vinegar crisps. His contribution had been filling her in on events at Queen's Ridge.

‘Stoned. Pissed. Hammered. Plastered. Take your pick.' He swallowed, wolfed another bite. ‘That's what Jude reckons. Not in school obviously or she'd have reported it.'

Sarah nodded, chewing slowly. That would certainly have blotted Caitlin's apparently pristine copybook. ‘When you said “self-harming”, I thought—'

‘Yeah.' A magnanimous wave of the hand with the pastry sent flakes flying. ‘Me too.'

She ducked. ‘Flipping heck, Dave. Watch what you're doing with that.'

‘Sorry, boss. I know what you mean though. I thought she'd spotted cuts, scars, knife marks, something like that. But Jude's really into the health thing, reckons booze, fags, drugs are noxious substances. She's got a real downer on anything of that sort.'

Jude again? How very jolly. ‘Don't tell me … she thinks the body's a temple.'

Eyebrows knotted, mouth open, hand stilled: the double-take was almost comical. ‘Do you know her, boss?'

Way Dave had been waxing on, Sarah felt she'd known the bloody woman for years. ‘Let's just say I've come across people like her.' Up their own arse arty-farts. As a cop she'd witnessed real self harm: kids who'd slashed their wrists, walked in front of trains, dived off motorway bridges and had to be mopped off the tarmac. Caitlin, off her face, staggering down a back road in Moseley one night really wasn't up there. ‘So what did Caitlin have to say for herself?' Jude had been driving past when she saw her, Harries said. By the time she'd parked, the girl was nowhere in sight. She broached it with her the next day at school, but Caitlin laughed it off, said she must have a double; she'd been home all night.

Sarah sighed. Fox hadn't exactly clocked the girl shooting up. Even if Caitlin was on drugs it didn't necessarily figure in her disappearance. But if Caitlin
was
using, it gave them good cause to fine-tooth comb the Reynolds' place. She reached for her phone on the dash. ‘I'll get on to Woodie.'

‘If it's about a search team, it's in hand, boss.' He'd already asked Twig to set the FSI wheels in motion.

Nice one. ‘Ten out of ten.' Much as it irked, Baker was right: Dave had no need to wait a year or two, he was sergeant material already. ‘Give the man a gold star.'

‘Initiative or lateral thinking?' His hand was on the door.

‘Lip more like.' Her smile faded as she reached for her attaché case, spotted a load of crumbs on her left sleeve. ‘Certainly not table manners.'

‘What was that, boss?'

‘Nothing.' She buttoned her coat as they walked in step. ‘Y'know, Dave, the teacher could've got it all wrong about Caitlin. Mistaken identity and all that.'

‘Jude was pretty adamant. Her eye-sight's perfect apparently and the street lighting was good. She says she was so concerned she's been keeping close watch on Caitlin recently.'

Sarah sniffed. ‘Not close enough then, Dave.'

It wasn't just the old woman's barrel shape. Linda Walker reminded Sarah of a set of Russian dolls she'd been given as a child. There had been six of the things in descending sizes and all but the last concealed a smaller version inside. Linda had the obligatory red cheeks and centre parting though the hair was in a loose steel-grey bun. Tie a scarf under her chin, wrap a shawl round her sloping shoulders and Sarah reckoned the woman would be a dead ringer for top doll. Well, apart from the Dame Edna glasses and a Zimmer frame tucked away in a corner for what she'd told the DI were her ‘bad days'.

‘I'd say we're very close, dear,' Mrs Walker said. ‘Caitlin and Nicola lived here until a few years ago. And with Nicola out at work, it was often just the two of us. She's a dear girl. Very kind. Never gave us any trouble.' Her smile faltered as she raised a bone-china cup to pale crinkled lips. The roses on the cup had probably once been red but the colour had faded, as had the gold leaf round the rim. From Sarah's perch on a lumpy brown sofa, everything about the cluttered bungalow had a faded frowsty air. The mismatched furniture was old and cheap. The presence of a fat marmalade cat curled at the old woman's slippered feet didn't help; its fish breath vied with the acrid smell of pee. Maybe Linda Walker no longer noticed, or couldn't be arsed to do anything about it. Sarah found it vaguely depressing, wondered what Caitlin made of it.

‘What about more recently?' she asked. ‘How often would you normally expect to see your granddaughter?' Sipping the tea, Sarah struggled not to pull a face. She'd drunk tastier builders' brew. Mind the old dear already had the pot and plate of biscuits set out on a low table when they arrived. Harries had just seen off his fourth pink wafer. Not that Sarah was counting.

‘There's no regular pattern, dear. She turns up as and when, usually with a little gift. A bunch of flowers or a puzzle book, nothing flashy. We have a natter, maybe a game of cards, or just watch a bit of telly. Caitlin and me love all the soaps and the detective series.' Her smile showcased sepia dentures that had a life of their own. ‘We always try and guess who the killer is.' She pressed a liver-spotted hand to her mouth. ‘Caitlin won't come to any harm will she, dear?'

‘We're doing everything we can, Mrs Walker.' Sarah placed the cup and saucer back on the tray. ‘Tell me, when did you last see her?'

‘Let me think. My memory's not what it was.' Seemingly ill at ease, she patted her bun, glanced away. Sarah hoped she wasn't looking for her marbles. Nicola Reynolds had warned about her mother's failing health, physical and mental. She was mid-sixties, looked late seventies. ‘I'm pretty sure it was Monday. No, Tuesday.'