by C J Parsons
‘Yes. I agree. It’s a very weird coincidence.’ Tara lifted a shoulder. ‘But that’s all it is.’
Juliet leaned back again, crossing her legs.
‘So what did you have to eat?’
Tara stared. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Today, in the park. You say you went there to eat your lunch. What did you have?’
‘Oh. It was . . .’ – she dragged a finger across closed lids – ‘a mozzarella and grilled vegetable sandwich. From Paul’s on the High Street.’
‘Really.’ Juliet pushed the CCTV picture further forwards, until it was in danger of falling off the edge of the table into Tara’s lap. ‘Then where is it? Because all I see is an Evian bottle.’
Tara’s forehead gathered as she squinted down at the image. Then her eyebrows rose suddenly, their message as clear as a pantomime actor’s: Oh, yes, NOW I remember!
‘I went to the gym this morning, which meant I was starving by lunch time. I ate the sandwich while walking to the park, so, by the time I got there, only the water was left.’
‘Well, that’s easy enough to check.’ Juliet watched Tara closely for any sign of alarm at this statement, but her face was blank. ‘So you arrived and sat on the bench, drinking water and watching Zoe play.’
‘I wasn’t watching Zoe. I don’t know Zoe. I was just looking out over the playground. At all the children.’
‘So you weren’t paying particular attention to Zoe?’
‘No.’
Juliet tapped the CCTV still. ‘The thing is, it really looks like you’re watching her in this picture.’
Tara looked down at the image. She shook her head, frowning.
‘I suppose it’s possible that I watched her for a bit. I look at a lot of children while I’m sitting in the park.’
‘Especially five-year-old girls?’
She looked up sharply. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve examined all the footage from the moment you sat down. Every time a girl of about that age goes by, you turn your head to watch her pass. You don’t do that with girls in different age groups. And you don’t appear to watch boys at all.’ She leaned against the table on her forearms. ‘Why is that?’
Tara’s features turned to stone. She crossed her arms over her stomach.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Juliet’s voice was quiet.
‘I think you do.’
‘All I . . .’ Tara began, then flinched as the interview-room door banged open.
Juliet turned, glaring, towards the source of the interruption. Ravi Hiranand was standing just inside the room, face blazing with news.
‘DCI Campbell, may I have a word? It’s urgent.’
‘This had better be bloody important,’ Juliet said, the moment the door clicked shut behind her. ‘I was at a very sensitive point in that interview when you came barging in.’
‘Trust me, you’ll want to hear this.’ DS Hiranand shot a look up and down the corridor, but they were alone aside from a ponytailed WPC on her mobile at the far end. ‘There’s been a 999 call from a woman in South Acton. She says she’s standing beside a padlocked metal building on a construction site. And there’s a girl inside, screaming to be let out.’
The sun was starting to set by the time they arrived, stretching shadows across the churned earth and shading in the spaces between the skeletons of what would eventually become multi-storey buildings. Alistair parked the Mazda beside a huge wooden sign facing the road, informing passers-by that ‘South Acton Mansions is a luxurious, modern development with excellent transport links.’
The ambulance had arrived ahead of them and Juliet could see Zoe sitting in the back with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. A female medic with a pixie-cut was crouching in front of her, holding a plastic cup to the girl’s lips.
Zoe had been found inside a temporary storage unit: one of the windowless metal boxes construction companies put up at the start of long-term projects. The door was hanging from its hinges; presumably the officers who’d arrived on the scene first had broken it down. A constable was winding police tape around the stem of a loading-zone sign at the side of the road.
The humidity pressed itself against Juliet’s skin like a wet flannel. She took out a tissue, using it to blot her forehead.
‘Twenty quid says that’s the 999 caller,’ Alistair said, pointing towards the trailer that had served as South Acton Mansions’ HQ before a funding dispute had halted construction. A middle-aged woman in a navy dress and sandals was perched on the stairs watching the ambulance and fanning herself with a magazine. The light was fading but the temperature stubbornly refused to budge.
Juliet nodded. ‘I reckon you’re right. Can you take a statement, while her memory’s still fresh?’
‘You got it.’
‘Oh, and if you happen to bump into Greer – he should be here any moment – can you tell him to do a full assessment of the site? I want to know all possible access points and the location of every CCTV camera.’
‘You got it,’ Alistair said again, and strode off towards the woman in navy.
Juliet returned her attention to the ambulance, where the medic was now taking Zoe’s blood pressure. A uniformed PC stepped into view from behind the vehicle, looking down at his notebook. Juliet strode towards him, catching his eye as he glanced up: tall – maybe six-three – with dark hair and a rugby build.
‘Can I help you?’ His tone implied she’d been caught doing something wrong. Perhaps he thought she was a reporter, or a passer-by who’d sneaked under the crime tape for kicks.
She flashed her ID. ‘DCI Campbell.’
His face did a rapid shift from accusatory to sheepish.
‘Oh. Right. Sorry. I didn’t . . .’
‘And you are?’
‘PC James Callaghan. First officer on the scene. I released the girl.’
She instinctively looked towards Zoe, who was watching the blood-pressure cuff inflate around her arm. When Juliet’s gaze switched back again, she caught the constable looking her up and down, and wondered briefly what that told her about PC Callaghan. Was he a racist, annoyed at having to answer to a superior with her skin colour . . . or just a typical bloke, discreetly checking out an attractive woman?
She tilted her head towards the notebook in his hand.
‘So . . . bring me up to speed.’
He flipped through a few pages, then pushed back his shoulders, like a soldier snapping to attention.
‘Elsbeth Parkinson, age forty-eight, was walking towards the train station from her home in the Golden Heights development’ – he gestured towards the shiny block of flats beyond the construction site – ‘when she heard screams and shouts for help. There were no workers on the site. She followed the shouts to a temporary storage structure, which was locked, and, as you can observe for yourself, has no windows. She called 999. Myself and PC Wilkins attended the scene. We heard a girl crying through the door and asked her to tell us her name. She said Zoe.’ He flipped the notebook shut. ‘We broke open the door and freed the girl.’
‘Did you question her?’
The PC looked uncomfortable. ‘Not formally, obviously, since that would have required her legal guardian and . . .’
Juliet rolled her eyes. ‘I’m not asking you to recite the police handbook on questioning juveniles. I’m asking you to tell me what you said to her when you opened the door and what she said in response.’
She waited, breath held. The clock was ticking on how much longer they could hold Tara Weldon. Right now there simply wasn’t enough evidence to charge her, so unless Zoe could help, they would be forced to let her go when their twenty-four hours ran out.
The PC scratched his neck and Juliet noticed a heat rash creeping out from under the collar of his police shirt.
‘I asked her how she came to be
inside the metal structure and she responded that she didn’t know, and that she didn’t see the person who brought her here. The last thing she remembered was seeing a teddy bear just outside the playground. Then waking up here. Nothing in between.’
Another stuffed toy, another victim rendered unconscious by an unseen attacker. It had to be the same offender. She looked at the metal shed, with its broken door.
‘Waking up alone in the pitch dark, poor thing.’
‘She wasn’t in the dark.’
‘Really? That metal box has its own power supply?’
‘No. The abductor left a torch lying beside her, switched on.’
Juliet ran a hand across her hair as she digested this, fingers conducting an automatic check for rogue spirals. But the humidity seemed to have trapped everything in place.
‘I’ll go take a look. I trust you didn’t move anything?’
‘God, no. I know the CSM’s views on such things.’ His rueful smile told her he’d come up on the wrong side of the crime scene manager before.
There were two CSIs inside the shed. One was on his (or was it her? Hard to tell in those masks and plastic suits) knees using tweezers to transfer something into an evidence bag. The other was taking photos of the inflatable mattress, the flashes stuttering like lightning against the metal walls. Juliet’s eyes moved to the torch on the floor, its beam sending a cone of light across the teddy bear lying in front of it, a red bow around its neck.
Juliet turned around to leave, only to walk straight into PC Callaghan, who had appeared in the doorway, the ricochet knocking her off balance. She stumbled and he caught her arm.
‘Sorry, DCI Campbell. I didn’t mean to creep up on you.’
He was standing so close that she had to tilt back her head to look him in the eye, making her conscious of the difference in their heights.
‘It’s fine,’ she said, then aimed a pointed gaze at his fingers, still on her arm. He withdrew his hand quickly, falling back a step. He stood with his legs slightly apart, arms behind his back, like a soldier awaiting orders. He’d definitely spent time in the military. ‘So, PC Callaghan, what’s your read on this?’
‘You want my opinion?’ He sounded surprised. Perhaps he’d found that DCIs didn’t tend to take much interest in the thoughts of lowly uniforms.
‘You were the first person on the scene, and therefore the one best placed to provide a first impression. I’d like to know what that impression is.’
She watched his forehead scrunch in thought.
‘The girl was upset. And hot, obviously. But I wouldn’t say she was traumatised. Whoever did this took steps to minimise the victim’s distress by providing a light source and an air mattress. Even a toy. That doesn’t say cold-blooded criminal to me.’
‘I agree.’ She glanced back into the shed. ‘Anything else?’
‘She wasn’t gagged. Most of the owners from the first phase of the property development have moved in. Their route to the train station goes right past this site. So the chances of someone hearing Zoe scream for help were very high.’
‘Hmm. Good point.’ She looked from the railway station to the new development, its windows lit pink by the falling sun. Sofia’s location had been a much better choice, with its abandoned houses and danger signs. Did that mean the abductor was becoming more careless . . . or more desperate?
There was a peel of rubber and a crunch of gravel. A police car swung into view, bouncing across the uneven ground towards the ambulance. It was still moving when the back door flew open. Zoe Cookson’s mother burst out in a run, nearly losing her footing before staggering back up, racing towards the ambulance, shouting her daughter’s name.
‘Mummy!’ The little girl jumped down from the vehicle and ran into her mother’s arms, the two figures merging into one.
Juliet could feel emotion rising inside her chest, tickling the base of her throat. She swallowed it back down and returned her attention to PC Callaghan, who was watching the reunion with a broad smile.
‘So,’ Juliet said, drawing him back, ‘taking into account those first impressions, what conclusions would you draw as to motive?’
He folded his arms over his chest as he considered this.
‘Not some soulless child trafficker. I guess it could be a paedophile: one who’s deluded himself into thinking he has an actual relationship with the girl, but . . .’ His voice faded out. He shook his head.
‘But?’ She watched his eyes flicker back and forth, as though scanning his own thoughts.
‘But . . . it doesn’t feel right. I can’t put my finger on it, it’s just . . .’
‘Instinct?’ she finished.
‘Yes, for want of a better word.’ The ambulance’s engine rumbled to life, drawing their eyes towards it. The back doors were still open, so they could see the medic speaking to Mrs Cookson, who was seated sideways on a stretcher with her daughter curled up on her lap. The PC’s gaze returned to Juliet. ‘Now that the mum’s here, are you going to ask Zoe any questions before they take her off to hospital?’
‘Yes. Just one. The rest can wait.’
The little girl’s head turned as Juliet stepped up into the back of the vehicle. Dark brown eyes and dark curly hair. Like Sofia. Her face was a little puffy but the tears had dried out. She looked calm – bored, almost. Amazing, the speed with which children bounced back.
‘Hello, Zoe.’ She gave her a warm smile and received a shy one in return. ‘My name’s Juliet. I’m a police officer.’
‘Hi.’
‘I’d like to ask you a question, but only if that’s OK with your mummy.’
She looked at Emma Cookson, who nodded, arms wrapped tight around her daughter.
‘What’s your favourite animal in the whole world?’
The answer was immediate. ‘Bunnies are my best.’
‘Bunnies? Not bears?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have many teddy bears at home?’
A headshake.
‘But you liked the teddy bear in the park?’
‘It was OK. It had a red ribbon on and I like ribbons.’
‘But it’s still not as good as a rabbit?’
‘No way.’
Juliet resisted an urge to rumple the girl’s hair. The CSM would have her head on a platter if she messed around with it before they were done combing for skin cells and particles of cloth and God only knew what else.
‘Thank you, Zoe. I’d like to come and visit you in the hospital for another chat, if that’s OK.’
‘Why can’t I go home? The hospital is only for sick people and I’m not sick.’
‘We just want to make extra sure you’re OK. Plus it means you get to go for a ride in an ambulance. Which is pretty cool. I’ll bet your friends will be impressed when you tell them about it.’
Zoe straightened in her mother’s lap, eyes lighting.
‘Will the blue light on top be flashing?’
Juliet glanced at the medic, who nodded.
‘It will. I better leave now so that you can get going. And get flashing.’ The little girl giggled. ‘Bye, Zoe.’
‘Bub-bye.’
Juliet hopped down to the ground, where PC Callaghan stood waiting. The medic shooed them back a few steps as she leaned out to pull the doors shut. A moment later the ambulance was lurching across the ragged earth, lights flashing, siren mute.
‘Why did you ask about her favourite animal?’ the PC asked.
She shot him a side-glance. ‘You’re an eavesdropper.’
‘An investigator,’ he corrected. ‘The two go hand in hand. So? Why did you?’
She smiled. ‘Just making conversation.’
‘Well, you must—’
‘Juliet!’
She turned to find Alistair striding towards her from the site office, tucking his n
otebook back into his pocket. He jerked his head sideways, in the direction of the Mazda, eyebrows lifting. She responded with a nod.
‘So I guess you’re off, then?’ PC Callaghan took off his police cap, running fingers through sweat-damp hair.
‘Yes.’ She offered him her hand to shake. ‘Thank you for your assistance.’ His grip was firm, but not aggressively so.
‘Happy to help in any way I can. In fact’ – he cleared his throat and threw back his shoulders again – ‘perhaps you’d like to discuss the case over coffee some time?’
She felt her eyebrows rise before quickly schooling her features back into neutral.
‘Thank you for the offer. I’ll be in touch if I need you.’
‘Oh. OK. Bye, then.’
‘Goodbye, PC Callaghan.’
She could feel a small smile growing across her face as she turned and walked towards the car.
So not a racist, then.
Twenty-six
Carrie picked up a forkful of the spaghetti Josh had made, then put it back down again. Her stomach was too knotted for food.
The DCI was on her way over, to ‘talk through the day’s developments’.
What had the police found out? Had the girl in Tudor Park been taken by the same person as Sofia? And, if so, did that mean the abductions weren’t targeted after all? She looked across at her daughter, who seemed to be endlessly twirling her fork against the plate. Carrie took a large slug of wine, draining her glass. Josh refilled it without a word.
He had spent the whole afternoon telling her not to jump to conclusions, to wait and hear what the police had to say. But when Sky quoted an unnamed source saying a suspect was in custody, ‘believed to be female’, she felt ready to jump out of her own skin.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Sofia said, pushing her plate all the way across the table, as though it might be radioactive.
