‘Don’t hurt me,’ Richmond pleaded. ‘Please, God, don’t hurt the children. I’ll do anything you want – just don’t hurt the children.’
Sean heard her clearly enough, but her words didn’t fit the scene – didn’t fit her – the prime suspect. ‘What?’ he asked, staring into her terrified face.
‘The children,’ she repeated, calmer now, resigned to her fate. ‘Please don’t hurt the children.’
It took him a second before he realized she had no idea who he was. He felt the warrant card in his hand and quickly held it up for her to see, all the while keeping her pinned to the wall, the sounds of sniffling, crying children growing ever louder, disorientating him as the situation began to feel less and less like a rescue scenario. ‘Police,’ he told her loudly, just as Sally burst through the open door, her eyes wide and wild as she tried to assess the scene before her.
‘You all right?’ Sally asked him.
‘I’m fine,’ he reassured her. ‘We need to secure the house.
‘I’m sorry,’ Richmond suddenly blurted. ‘I’m really sorry, but it’s not my fault. I didn’t know this was going to happen. This wasn’t supposed to happen.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Sean snapped at her. ‘What didn’t you know was going to happen?’
‘This is only the second time I’ve looked after them,’ Richmond explained. ‘The mother was supposed to wait for me, but she said she had to go to work.’
‘What?’ Sean asked, his eyes narrowed in confusion.
‘I was only seconds away from getting here when she phoned me – said she’d already left and that the kids were alone waiting for me.’ Sean released her and walked deeper into the house towards the cowering children, his eyes showing him the crushing truth – these weren’t the children he was looking for. ‘The mother shouldn’t have left them alone,’ Richmond continued. ‘She shouldn’t have done that, but Rachel’s almost twelve and she’s very grown-up. It was just a few minutes.’
Sean and Sally turned and looked at each other, his heart sinking as fast as Richmond’s guilt was fading. ‘You’re their child-minder?’ Sean asked disbelievingly.
‘I can’t afford to get into trouble with the police,’ Richmond pleaded. ‘I’ll lose my job. I can’t afford to lose my job.’
‘You’re supposed to be at work today,’ Sean told her. ‘Why didn’t you go to work?’
‘I needed the extra money. It won’t happen again, I swear, but please don’t tell the school about this. Please.’
‘Who were you speaking to on the phone?’ Sean demanded, desperate to hold on to her as a suspect, ‘outside in the street – who were you talking to?’
‘I told you,’ she answered, ‘the children’s mother – Mrs Gardner. She just wanted to check I was close, you know, because the children were alone, but I didn’t know she’d left them. I would never have taken the job if I’d known she was going to do anything like this. Please don’t tell the nursery.’
‘Christ,’ Sean said, finally taking his hand away from her chest and stepping backwards, screaming inside as he fought the urge to run from the house and keep running until he was far away from this debacle. ‘I’m not going to tell the nursery,’ he told her, shaking his head. ‘I’m not going to tell anybody.’ He walked along the hallway without speaking, past Sally and into the light and cold outside, running his hands through his light brown hair as he allowed his eyes to close, feeling Sally’s presence before he heard her.
‘Where the hell are these children, Sean?’ she asked. ‘What’s happened to them?’
He opened his eyes and turned to face her. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he told her, his voice sounding shaky and broken. ‘No bloody idea at all.’
Douglas Allen moved quickly and nimbly around the small sparse kitchen on the first floor of his Edwardian terrace as he prepared lunch. Despite the meal preparation the kitchen was spotless, everything in its place, the old wooden table neatly laid for three – one adult and two children. Fading framed photographs from another era decorated the walls, mostly photographs of himself and his beloved wife – holidays in English seaside towns, the two of them together around the table set for dinner. But there were no pictures of children anywhere to be seen. An antique cuckoo-clock hung on one of the walls, ticking loudly as its brass pendulum swung gently back and forth. On another wall, a second clock, rescued from an old ship, lovingly restored and synchronized to keep beat with the cuckoo. The walls they hung on were painted in magnolia and regularly washed clean of any settling grease. The children’s plates and cutlery were smaller than his own, but essentially the same. He felt it was important they learned to use a knife and fork as soon as possible and shuddered slightly at the memories of seeing children as old as seven and eight having their meals cut up for them by their parents, or more likely their nannies, on the odd occasions when he had ventured into local cafés.
His appearance reflected that of his kitchen: he was quite small, only about five foot eight inches, clean shaven with greying hair immaculately groomed and smoothed back over his head with some old-fashioned hair tonic. His fifty-eight years had taken their toll on his body and he now sported thin wire-framed spectacles and a slight potbelly. But he was as quick and light on his feet as he’d been back in the days when he and his wife were regular visitors to the local ballrooms, although those, like his wife, had gone now. He wore a starched apron to keep his shirt and tie clean while he finished preparing the meal. He carried the two smaller plates to the table and the waiting children who sat peacefully waiting for their lunch. ‘There we are,’ he told them, stepping back proudly, a pleasant smile on his face as he awaited their judgement before collecting his own plate and joining them at the table. ‘You can have a drink after you’ve eaten.’
‘I want a drink now,’ Bailey Fellowes argued. ‘I always have a drink with my food.’
Allen’s smile shrank to a small grin. ‘Not any more,’ he explained. ‘You shouldn’t fill yourself up with drinks before you’ve eaten your meal. It’s not good for you.’
‘That’s not what my mum says,’ Bailey continued to argue as George Bridgeman looked on, his gaze flitting between them as they took turns to speak.
‘No, I don’t suppose she did,’ Allen agreed.
‘And I don’t like this sort of food,’ she persisted.
‘It’s good food,’ Allen told her in his accent-less voice, deep and baritone, like voices from the past. ‘You need to eat. You hardly touched your breakfast.’
‘And I don’t like these weird clothes. They smell funny.’
‘But they’re new and I’ve washed and pressed them,’ he replied, his smile replaced by concern.
‘But they don’t smell like my clothes.’
‘You’re lucky to have them. They cost me a lot of money.’
Bailey pushed her plate away from in front of her, making Allen’s already straight back stiffen even more. ‘I’m not eating this.’
‘But it’s sausages,’ Allen told her, confused by her ingratitude. ‘All children like sausages, don’t they?’
‘I like sausages,’ George joined in, something in his childhood instincts telling him not to push the man who had brought them here any further, memories of his father’s quick temper never too far away.
‘You’re a good boy,’ Allen told him, inducing a broad smile on the boy’s face.
‘I don’t like mashed potatoes or vegetables,’ Bailey pushed. ‘I never have to eat them at home.’
‘I know,’ Allen told her. ‘That’s why it’s better for you to be here.’
‘No it’s not,’ Bailey argued, her voice rising as her eyes grew misty. ‘I want to go home. I miss my mummy.’
‘This is your home now,’ he explained, ‘at least until we can all move somewhere better – somewhere in the countryside – on a farm. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘You said you’d take me to a magic place – that’s why I came with you. This isn’t a magic place – this is a dump. You don’t even have a television.’
‘You’re being rude now, Bailey. I won’t have rude children in my house. Rude children need to be punished.’
‘You can’t punish me. You’re not my dad. I don’t know you. You’re a bad man. My mummy told me about men like you. I shouldn’t have gone with you.’ Water pooled in the bottom of her eyes before spilling over into tears.
‘Don’t,’ he raised his voice to her before he had a chance to quell his rising anger, swallowing it back down before he spoke again. ‘Don’t say those things. I’m not a bad man. I’m not like the men your mother warned you about. I’d never hurt you – either of you. I brought you here to protect you. To give you a better life.’
‘I like it here,’ George innocently claimed, having already learned in his short life how to defuse tension. Allen smiled at him and rested a hand on the boy’s head.
‘I know you do,’ he replied. ‘I know you do. What’s not to like?’ They sat in silence listening and waiting for Bailey’s gentle sobbing to fade and die, the sound of the grandfather clock outside in the hallway chiming to warn them it was one o’clock. When the chimes fell silent, George broke the uneasy silence.
‘Whose are the voices we can hear?’ he asked. ‘Downstairs? We can hear them from our bedroom sometimes – during the day.’
‘There’s nothing for you to worry about,’ Allen tried to reassure him. ‘They’re just …
friends
. There was more silence before George spoke again.
‘And sometimes we can hear music too.’
‘What type of music?’ Allen asked, unconcerned.
‘Children’s music, I think,’ George answered.
‘All music is for children,’ Allen told him. ‘That’s another thing your parents should have taught you.’
‘Why aren’t we allowed downstairs?’ George continued.
‘Because …’ Allen stalled, ‘there are things down there that could be dangerous to young children.’
‘Like what?’ George asked, intrigued and excited.
‘Things,’ Allen answered. ‘Now let’s not talk about it any more.’
‘Why do we have to stay in the bedroom when you’re not there?’ Bailey asked, her voice still bitter. ‘Even during the daytime?’
‘What’s the matter – don’t you like your bedroom?’
‘I do,’ George answered quickly.
‘At home I have my own bedroom,’ Bailey told them.
‘You don’t need a room of your own,’ Allen explained, managing to stay calm, ‘but if you’re good I might let you use the rest of the house when I’m downstairs. But you must never try to come all the way downstairs. Like I said, it could be dangerous for you.’
‘Are there bad people down there?’ George asked.
‘No,’ Allen told him. ‘Just friends. Enough questions for now, please. It’s time to eat. I have to go out later, but not until you’ve had your bath and are tucked up in bed. You’ll be quite safe until I return. Now, let us say the Lord’s Prayer before we eat.’
‘My dad says there’s no such thing as God,’ Bailey mocked him through her glassy eyes.
‘Then that’s just one more thing I have to teach you about,’ he gently scolded her. ‘Now put your hands together and close your eyes:
Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done
in earth, as it is in heaven.
Gives us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory for ever. Amen
. Now eat.’
‘Where are you going?’ George asked. ‘After you put us to bed? Is it a secret?’
‘No, George,’ Allen told him. ‘There are no secrets in this family.’ He took a deep breath before continuing, as if the news he was about to impart was particularly important. ‘I have to go and see someone,’ he explained. ‘Someone who needs us – someone who needs a proper family.’ He smiled as he lifted his knife and fork. ‘Now, eat your lunch.’
Sean sat in the waiting room outside Assistant Commissioner Addis’s office, high up in the tower block that was New Scotland Yard. Despite the ubiquitous grey plastic blinds and low ceilings with fluorescent light strips, the room was as plush as anything Sean had seen in the Police Service. The chair he was sitting on was in fact a low-slung sofa that could have done any office in the City proud, and the carpet underfoot seemed new and clean, even though it was thin and inexpensive. A flat-screen TV hung on the wall opposite, tuned to Sky News. He wondered whether Addis was waiting in his adjoining office until the investigation into the missing children came on the television – as if to emphasize the point he hadn’t yet made.
The thought made him look away, and he began instead to study Addis’s young, attractive secretary as she continually took pieces of paper from one pile, typed something into her computer, then placed the paper on top of a different pile before repeating the process, regularly stopping to answer the phone. She dealt with most of the calls without having to trouble Addis. Not once did she look up at Sean; she hadn’t acknowledged his presence since she’d registered his attendance and asked him to take a seat and wait. He decided Addis must have plucked her out of some obscure post somewhere, no doubt considering her a suitable addition to the other decorations littered about the place: ceremonial silver truncheons, honorary badges from other forces around the world and, of course, Addis’s many promotion and commendation certificates, earned on the backs of hard-working cops who risked their necks everyday on the streets of the metropolis – something Addis had only ever done fleetingly, if at all.
The intercom on the secretary’s desk made a loud buzzing sound and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He watched and listened as she pressed the transmit key and spoke. ‘Yes, sir? Of course. I’ll send him straight in.’ Sean was on his feet before she even turned to speak to him. ‘Assistant Commissioner Addis will see you now, Inspector.’ He headed for the closed interconnecting door, pausing at her desk before entering Addis’s office.
‘Do I get a last request?’ he asked her with a wry grin.
She tried not to smile, but couldn’t resist; too young to be without joy.
‘I don’t know why he uses that thing,’ she whispered, looking accusingly at the old-fashioned intercom. ‘He could just use the phone and dial my extension.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t know how to,’ Sean whispered, giving her a wink and making her cover her mouth to hide her broadening smile.