Child's Play

Table of Contents

Cover

Recent Titles from Maureen Carter

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

The Bev Morriss Mysteries

WORKING GIRLS

DEAD OLD

BABY LOVE

HARD TIME

BAD PRESS

BLOOD MONEY

DEATH LINE

The Sarah Quinn Mysteries

A QUESTION OF DESPAIR *

MOTHER LOVE *

DYING BAD *

CHILD'S PLAY *

*
available from Severn House

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First published in Great Britain 2013 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

First published in the USA 2014 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

110 East 59
^th
Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2013 by Maureen Carter.

The right of Maureen Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Carter, Maureen author.

Child's play. – (The Sarah Quinn mysteries; 4)

1. Quinn, Sarah (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Women detectives–England–Birmingham–Fiction. 3. Missing children–Fiction. 4. Women journalists–Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title II. Series

823.9'2-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-058-4 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-493-5 (ePub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

The lyrics from ‘Femme Fatale' are reproduced with kind permission of The Toy Hearts. Thank you Hannah, Sophia and Stewart Johnson.

My thanks for editorial expertise and insight go to Kate Lyall Grant, Anna Telfer and the exceptional team at Crème de la Crime and Severn House. I thank my wide range of contacts for their expert knowledge and priceless input and – as always – I thank readers everywhere.

P
icnics and pooh sticks. Hide-and-seek and pirate ships. It was that kind of blue-skies summer, long days with no school or stupid rules. Susan didn't want it to end, would happily spend the rest of her life in shorts and t-shirts messing about outside. Scabby knees and nettle stings were a non-occupational hazard for a ten-year-old who loved climbing trees, squeezing through hedges, rolling down grassy banks. Not that it was all rough and tumble: sometimes she and Pauline just lazed in the long grass, threading daisy chains, blowing dandelion seeds, listening to the birds and bees. If she'd spared a thought about it, Susan might have described the last few weeks as idyllic, but the little girl's focus was on more down-to-earth subjects and her vocabulary didn't stretch that far.

Indeed, idyllic wouldn't have been entirely true and it would not have painted the full picture.

On the edge of the village, new building was underway. Thirty, maybe forty redbrick slate-roofed council houses. Little boxes, most of the oldies reckoned. But Susan rather liked the sparkling windows and shiny yellow doors. Compared to the row of old stone cottages where she lived, Susan thought they looked smashing. She might even make new friends. A handful of families had already moved in, clothes flapped on washing lines and she'd spotted a couple of children's bikes lying in scrubby front gardens, but most of the houses weren't finished yet, and a lot of the site was still fenced off.

She and Pauline sometimes pressed their faces against the wire to have a nose. It was all bare-chested men with brawny arms and beer guts busy over wheelbarrows and concrete mixers. The site was what Susan's mum called an eyesore: littered with piles of bricks and mounds of sand, half-empty sacks and spades shoved anyhow in the ground. Keep-out notices in huge red lettering were dotted round the fence, as if they'd deter some of the lads from sneaking in for a dare. Not Susan. Her dad had told her to keep away: setting foot inside would have been more than her life was worth.

No. Most of her days were spent larking about in the open fields backing on to the farm labourers' cottages. Right now, she stood on top of a rotting tree stump, shielding amber eyes from the sun's glare, sweeping the landscape with a narrow gaze. Constable could have painted its straggly hedges, quilted fields, muted greens and browns. To the left stood a copse of ancient gnarled oaks and, just beyond, sunlight glinted off a sluggish stream; in the heat haze the church steeple glimmered and the big farm where Susan's dad worked was bathed in gold. But apart from cows and crows there was no sign of life.

‘What you doing, Sukie?' Pauline, wildly swinging a sturdy little leg, squinted up at her playmate. Susan ignored the question but suspected if Pauline didn't calm down she'd do herself an injury. Oblivious, the little girl swapped legs, swung even harder, then stuck her thumb in her mouth for good measure.

Standing on tiptoe, Susan was still trying to spot where the other kids had gone. She always seemed to get landed with Pauline and, truth be told, sometimes the girl could be more of a pain than a pal. It mightn't be so bad but she was only five and supposed to stay within earshot of her mum's house, anything further than the copse being out of bounds. It was like baby-sitting without the pay. What with the baby twins and that, Pauline's mum had her hands full and Susan's mum was big on helping neighbours. Well, big on Susan helping neighbours. Her mum had drummed it into her enough times how it wouldn't hurt to take the kid under her wing. What was she? A flippin' bird or something? She wouldn't care but Pauline had a big sister. Grace was a good bit older but she never wanted to play or help out or anything. Wasn't blood supposed to be thicker than water?

Still, Susan had to admit that Mrs Bolton was pretty generous with treats and stuff: this afternoon she'd given them pop and sandwiches for a picnic. Pauline was supposed to be laying the goodies out on the blanket. Like she ever did as she was told. She might be just a nipper but, according to Susan's mum, with her Shirley Temple curls and huge blue eyes Pauline could be a right little madam. What's more, to Susan's way of thinking, the kid had a touch of the Violet Elizabeths. Scream wasn't in it. Yet to look at her, butter wouldn't melt. She sneaked a quick glance remembering how, ages and ages ago, she'd heard her parents talk about how Pauline got away with murder at home. She could smile about it now, but for days Susan had pictured blood-stained bodies propped all over the place. She'd eventually mentioned it to her mum and got a clip round the head for ear-wigging and being thick.

‘Sukie!' Pauline swung the leg even harder; she was going to ruin those sandals. ‘I said what—'

‘Nothing.' She used the hem of her t-shirt to wipe her glasses. ‘I'm not doing nothing.' She'd bet Sally and Brenda were off playing vampires again. They were always hanging round that creepy graveyard; obsessed they were. Mind, the Dawson girls were only nice when they wanted sweets or a ride on her bike, things like that. She'd heard the names and sniggers behind her back: fatso, four eyes, smelly-poo-Sue. Fair-weather friends her mum called them. At least Pauline wasn't into name-calling. Well, not the nasty sort.

‘Sukie!'

‘Don't call me that.' The little girl's lisp made Sukie sound like thoo-key and it drove her mad. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?'

‘Can if I want. You're not my mum.'

Thank God.
Susan hiked up a once-white ankle sock then puffed out her already pigeon chest. ‘I'm the king of the castle and you …' She waggled a finger at Pauline.

‘I am NOT so.' She took a swing too far and toppled over. What with all the grass, it couldn't have hurt that much. Susan reckoned the welling eyes and quivering lip were purely for show. Again.

Sighing, she jumped down and helped the little girl to her feet. ‘Come on, don't be a cry baby.' The fall had damaged the dress more than her bum: grass stains were a devil to get rid of.

Pauline made heavy weather of wiping her eyes then flashed a hopeful smile. ‘Shall we play tick?'

‘OK.' She prodded the little girl's shoulder. ‘You're it.'

‘Not playing then. You're mean, you are.' Head down, she toed the ground. The white sandals were scuffed now as well as dirty; she was going the right way to get a smacking from her mum. ‘I
always
have to be it.'

‘Always moaning, that's what you are.' Susan sniffed and turned on her heel. ‘Come on. I'm starving. Let's do the picnic.'

‘Can I be mum?' Didn't take much to distract her; she skipped alongside, happy enough.

‘Don't be daft.'

‘Why not?'

‘Why d'you think?' Susan halted and turned, hands on hips. ‘I'm older than you and twice as big.'

‘'Snot fair.' Pauline kneaded her eye with a knuckle. Cor, it looked dead painful.

‘All right then.' Relenting, Susan smiled, reached down and ruffled the little girl's curls. ‘Just this once.'

‘Ow!' Pauline recoiled, rubbing her head. ‘That hurt.'

‘No it didn't. Stop whinging. You're …' She bit her lip. What was the point? The kid was never happy unless she was moaning. Spoilt rotten was Princess Pauline.

Laying the spread on the old tartan rug kept them both quiet for a while. The make-shift tea set comprised chipped mismatched crockery donated by their mums. Susan filled a cast-off teapot with dandelion and burdock pop while Pauline sorted the food: jam sandwiches cut into quarters, a packet of Midget Gems and two slabs of fruit cake. Apart from a dog's bark and the occasional cracking twig and creaking branch they munched in companionable silence, the sun warm on their flesh, the smell of cut grass wafting even in the still air.