Baby Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

‘That’s good work,’ Mariner said. ‘But we really need to identify what vehicle she got into, or we’re stuffed. Linking her to a car is the best chance we have of finding out where she went. Anything else?’

  ‘We’ve talked to the friends Emma O’Brien stayed with last night,’ said Knox. ‘They’re old college friends apparently, both of them now doctors. According to them they may have mentioned to a couple of people in the last few days that Emma was coming to stay, but they claim not to have spoken to anyone about the arrangements for Jessica. They didn’t even seem to know anything about the nursery, only that it’s a crèche connected to the hospital, so I’m inclined to believe them.’

  ‘Okay, that makes sense. I can’t think what they’d have to gain from this. I think we can safely leave them for now.’ But there were more uncomfortable questions he’d have to ask Peter Klinnemann.

  DCI Sharp burst into the office, carrying a portable radio, which she plugged in and switched on. ‘You may want to hear this, Tom.’

  The programme she’d tuned in to was a late-night radio phone-in. It took Mariner mere seconds to recognise Marcella Turner’s voice. ‘This was a tragedy waiting to happen,’ she was saying. ‘Babies and young children get dumped in places like this for hours on end, the young girls responsible for their welfare barely out of school themselves, without the faintest clue how to care for them.’

  ‘But surely nurseries provide a valuable service for working parents,’ the presenter countered.

  ‘Exactly. It provides a service for the parents. No one ever considers the effect it might be having on the child. What this government is doing is reinforcing a culture of “children as accessories,” encouraging couples to have children without the inconvenience of having to raise them. Hand them over to someone else to bring up and make them someone else’s responsibility. No wonder the family unit is disintegrating.’

  ‘So what would you suggest, Ms Turner?’

  ‘That women are given a genuine choice; the mother’s role is fully recognised and that women are paid a decent wage for staying at home and looking after their children. And that these glorified baby farms are closed down.’

  ‘Is that all?’ commented someone drily.

  ‘Someone get me some more background on her,’ said Mariner, to no one in particular.

  * * *

  Mariner had been putting off the inevitable phone call to Anna, mainly because he didn’t want to face her disappointment, but suddenly he found himself at a loose end and could find no further excuse within himself. If he left it much later she’d be in bed. She picked up on the first ring.

  ‘I’m really sorry about the holiday,’ Mariner began.

  ‘I know,’ Anna said. ‘It can’t be helped.’ Now that she’d had time to think about it, she seemed philosophical, her voice unemotional. ‘I can’t imagine what those poor parents are going through, but if I was in their shoes I’d want you out there looking for baby Jessica, too.’

  ‘I don’t deserve you,’ Mariner said.

  ‘You’re right about that. Something you’d do well to remember sometimes.’ But it was said with a hint of playfulness. ‘Has there been a breakthrough? Is that why you’re calling?’

  ‘I wish. No. I just wanted to check in. I can’t do anything about this. You do understand that?’

  ‘Of course. It’s just . . . I was just so looking forward to you finally meeting everyone down there.’

  ‘I will, eventually. This situation could end at any time.’

  ‘What are baby Jessica’s chances?’ she asked.

  ‘I really don’t know. It’s certainly putting me off the idea of nursery day care,’ Mariner said. ‘What’s the point of having children if you’re not going to look after them?’

  ‘I agree. So how long will you be taking?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How many years’ paternity leave will you get?’ Unable to see her face Mariner couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. ‘I mean, if we’re not going to put the baby in a nursery, one of us will need to stay at home with him or her,’ she continued. ‘Are you assuming it will be me, just when my career is picking up and getting interesting again? Have you any idea what another break would mean?’

  Mariner bit back the retort he wanted to make, along the lines of, you’re the one who wants children. Instead he said: ‘As a matter of fact I do. The guv’nor filled me in.’

  ‘She’s got kids? You didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘Only found out myself today,’ as he spoke he saw that the hands of the clock had moved past midnight. ‘Well, yesterday. She’d kept that one to herself.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three. Her partner is their mother.’

  Anna took a few seconds to absorb that nugget. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yes, wow.’

  ‘Well, good for her.’ She was thoughtful for a moment.

  ‘I’d better go,’ said Mariner.

  ‘Okay, well, loads of luck. I hope you get a break soon, and a good one. And not just for my own selfish reasons.’

  ‘Thanks. Sleep tight.’ Mariner felt a sudden longing for his bed.

  ‘I will.’

  * * *

  Information continued to filter in throughout the night, but frustratingly nothing as yet that stood out as significant. Mariner left the incident room early the next morning, just as breakfast was being delivered. After a night’s activity with the whole team the room was becoming unbearably hot and stuffy, and he was glad to get out into the cool morning air. His first stop was the Cedar Wood Hotel, where he met Millie with a view to giving Klinnemann and Emma an update. She took him up to their hotel room, where he could see immediately from the condition of the bed that it hadn’t been slept in. One look at the couple confirmed it. Emma O’Brien’s face was puffy and swollen and he guessed that she’d been shedding tears on and off all night. Peter Klinnemann’s face looked pale and shadowed.

  A breakfast tray sat on the desk largely untouched, though the cafetière was almost empty. Mariner was invited to take the one easy chair, while they sat on the bed. ‘Mr Klinnemann, your son isn’t anywhere to be found,’ he began. ‘Have you any idea where he might be?’

  ‘No, but it’s not unusual for him to go off for a weekend,’ Klinnemann seemed a touch defensive. ‘He’s a student.’

  ‘I have to ask you, does he have any sympathy for the animal rights cause?’

  Klinnemann’s eyes hardened. ‘I’m his father. He is loyal to me.’

  ‘How well do you know his friends?’

  ‘We’ve met one or two, but he’s in his final year at university in London — so naturally we don’t know them all.’

  ‘Are you aware of any who might disapprove of your work?’ asked Mariner.

  ‘Paul has never mentioned it.’

  ‘But it’s not out of the question?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ That might prove tricky.

  * * *

  From the hotel Mariner doubled back to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital admin department. The office was normally closed on Saturdays, but Mariner had called the previous evening to arrange for the office manager to meet him there. Marjorie Allen was also responsible for administering the crèche. She was babysitting Josh, her three-year-old grandson, this morning and had brought him with her.

  ‘I’m sorry to call you out at the weekend, but I’m sure you understand why it’s important,’ Mariner said.

  ‘Of course. I saw it on the news last night. That poor lady. I can’t imagine how she must be feeling.’

  ‘Could you talk me through the record keeping system for the crèche?’

  ‘As I’m sure you already know, we publicise the crèche and then parents contact Mrs Barratt to make a booking. Mrs Barratt takes all the details and sends a copy of each booking form up to us.’

  ‘Does Mrs Barratt bring it here?’

  ‘No, one of the hospital couriers used to collect it for us, but they let us down a couple of times. Sheila Fry, one of
the staff in the unit next door has a child in the nursery, so she brings them up for us. At least then we know they’re getting here.’

  ‘In an envelope?’

  ‘Yes, a sealed envelope, because of confidentiality.’

  ‘What happens to your copy of the records?’

  ‘They’re filed in here.’ She went over to one of two steel filing cabinets.

  ‘Could you check and see if you still have the copy of Jessica Klinnemann’s booking?’

  She opened up the filing cabinet and sorted through the alphabetically arranged folders. ‘Yes, here it is.’ She passed him the carbon copy of the form he’d seen in Trudy Barratt’s office. It didn’t mean a thing. Not three feet away from where they were standing was a photocopier.

  ‘And the filing cabinet is kept locked?’

  ‘Outside office hours, of course,’ Marjorie told him. ‘During the day some of the other files need to be regularly accessed.’

  ‘So who else would access them?’

  ‘No one, just me,’ she said.

  Mariner looked across at the two other workstations next to where they were standing. ‘You share this office with two other people?’

  ‘Yes, but neither of them would have any cause to go into this filing cabinet.’

  So trusting. ‘I’ll need their details anyway,’ said Mariner. ‘Do you always remember to lock the filing cabinet when you’re out of the office?’

  ‘At the end of the day, yes, of course.’

  ‘What about lunchtimes?’

  Marjorie Allen flushed. ‘Well, er . . .’

  Meaning no. So if they’d got the timing right, anyone could have had access to Jessica Klinnemann’s records. ‘This area is covered by closed circuit cameras?’ asked Mariner.

  ‘Yes.’

  It was something, if only more CCTV footage to trawl through. When Mariner reported this information in to Granville Lane, he learned that Sheila Fry was already on record for the investigation, and as he took her details from Tony Knox, Mariner realised that he must have already met her. According to the notes she’d been collecting her son late on Friday afternoon when they were at the nursery. When she opened her front door to him twenty minutes later he immediately recognised her as one of the parents who’d been standing in the hall waiting to go. Mariner wondered if hers was the child so unfortunately named Leopold.

  ‘I understand you deliver the details of crèche babies up to the hospital,’ Mariner said.

  ‘Yes, I think there was a mix up with the couriers once or twice, so Trudy asked if I wouldn’t mind helping out. As I go up there every day it seems to make sense.’

  ‘Has anything unusual occurred in the last few weeks? Someone stopping you, for example, or showing an interest in the forms?’

  ‘No, nothing at all.’

  * * *

  Mariner walked back into the incident room, where, apart from the growing pile of empty takeaway cartons, nothing seemed to have changed since he’d left. ‘Anything new?’ he asked Knox.

  ‘Sorry, nothing boss,’ his sergeant said, with the same air of despondency. ‘We’re stuck in the mud. It’s like this woman disappeared off the face of the planet. What about Sheila Fry?’

  ‘I don’t think she’s a contender. She’s got a child in the nursery herself. She wouldn’t want strangers wandering around. It’s possible that someone could have gained access to Jessica’s record at the hospital, but we could be looking at thousands of people, and unless we can come up with a motive—’

  ‘Sir?’ It was one of the officers stationed at the phones who called across and there was something in her tone of voice that made everyone stop what they were doing and look up. She was holding the receiver a little way from her ear, covering the mouthpiece. ‘The caller wants to speak to you. He’s asked for you by name.’

  Chapter Seven

  As Mariner moved across the room to a phone with a recording facility, she took her hand off the mouthpiece. ‘I’m just putting you through.’

  Mariner pressed the button that would record the call and prompt the team working in the next room to begin tracing it. ‘This is DI Mariner,’ he said, his heart thumping in his chest.

  ‘I’ve got baby Jessica,’ said a deep, disembodied voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, could you repeat that?’ said Mariner.

  ‘Don’t piss me about,’ said the voice, muffled and with a tinny distortion to it. ‘I’ve got baby Jessica. She’s safe and well, at the moment. For her return I want two hundred and fifty thousand euros in used notes, or I won’t be responsible for what happens to her. No electronic marking or sequential numbers. I’ll be in touch to let you know about the time and the location.’

  ‘How will we recognise you?’ asked Mariner, playing for time. ‘We need a name, a code word . . . we’re taking dozens of calls so we have to be able to single you out right away.’ Mariner knew that this would appeal to the caller’s sense of self-importance and it could also provide a clue as to who they were talking to. ‘We also need some proof that you are holding Jessica.’

  There was a pause, then: ‘You can call me Zion.’ The line went dead.

  Mariner played the tape back for everyone to hear.

  ‘It’s to the point,’ said Sharp. ‘Did we trace it?’

  ‘It’s a mobile number. It’ll take us a little while to get the registered owner.’

  ‘Get it done.’

  ‘And I’d better go and talk to Jessica’s parents,’ said Mariner.

  * * *

  ‘We’ll pay!’ Emma O’Brien was predictably in no doubt whatsoever as to the right course of action.

  Klinnemann looked devastated. ‘I haven’t got that kind of money, Emma.’ He looked despairingly at Mariner. ‘I really haven’t.’

  ‘But we could raise it somehow.’ Emma O’Brien’s voice was high with desperation. ‘My parents—’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Klinnemann said.

  ‘I don’t see how it could be any simpler,’ Emma O’Brien cried. ‘This maniac has got our daughter and wants money from us. If we can find it from somewhere, we’ll get her back. If Jessica has been taken because of your job, then Hamilton should pay. God knows they put you through enough stress anyway.’

  ‘They won’t pay,’ Klinnemann said.

  ‘Why not? They make millions. Two hundred and fifty thousand euros would be nothing to them.’

  Peter Klinnemann looked beaten. ‘That’s not the point,’ he said wearily.

  ‘Then what is the point??’

  Mariner intervened. ‘They won’t pay, Miss O’Brien, because they can’t be held hostage. If they’re seen to give in to this demand then it will be the start of many. But we’re jumping the gun here. The first thing we have to do is establish if this is a genuine call. It could just be a hoax, someone trying to cash in on the situation. We’re attempting to trace the number, and we’ll have a negotiator on standby for when the abductor next makes contact. I just needed to let you know what’s going on. Is there anyone, beyond who we’re already considering, who might have a motive for extortion?’

  ‘No. None of it makes any sense at all,’ said Peter Klinnemann.

  * * *

  Back at Granville Lane, Mariner turned back to the diagram on the whiteboard. ‘Okay, if this is purely about money, then who are the likely candidates?’

  ‘Can we rule out Klinnemann, trying to extort money from his employer?’ queried Millie.

  ‘Unless he’s good at bluffing, I think we can. And he knows that Hamilton would never give in to this kind of blackmail. He more or less said it.’

  ‘What about Trudy Barratt?’ Knox offered.

  ‘The nursery manager? I don’t think so. A stunt like this would be counterproductive for her. The adverse publicity could wreck her business. There’s no indication that it’s in any trouble and I don’t get a sense that she’s looking for a way out. Judging from that car she drives, she’s doing very well out of it, so why put all that in jeopardy
? You’ve been doing the background checks. Any of the staff stand out?’

  ‘I’ve been through all of them pretty thoroughly, but like I said before, I don’t think any of them are up to it,’ said Knox.

  Charlie Glover had joined them. ‘They’re pretty badly paid,’ he pointed out.

  ‘But would they have the organisational skills for something of this nature? What about Christie’s boyfriend, Bond?’ said Mariner. ‘Wasn’t there something about him?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Knox said. ‘He’s flouted the law before.’

  ‘If Christie is in on this and covering up for him she could have given us a completely false description,’ said Millie.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘She hasn’t,’ Knox said, confidently. ‘I know she hasn’t.’ All the same, he grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. ‘I’ll go and talk to her.’

  * * *

  It was the middle of the afternoon when Knox arrived for the second time outside the house Christie shared with Jimmy Bond, and the driveway was empty. He rang the doorbell and hammered on the door and eventually Christie appeared. She was surprised to see him, but not unduly worried. ‘Where’s Jimmy?’ Knox demanded.

  ‘He’s not here. He’s at work, why? What’s this about?’

  ‘Do you ever talk to him about the nursery?’

  ‘Sometimes. Everybody does, don’t they, talk about work? Look, do you want to come in?’ Knox followed her into a small rectangular lounge decorated in varying shades of beige. A cream leather sofa took up one third of the space and shelves of DVDs and computer games lined one of the walls, but what dominated the room was a huge plasma screen TV with a DVD and PlayStation. Christie perched tentatively on the edge of the sofa but Knox declined the offer to sit, choosing instead to pace the room. He took a couple of computer games from the shelf, inspecting the covers before putting them back. ‘Did you tell Jimmy about the crèche?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘I might have.’

  ‘Would he know how it all works?’

  She shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. Half the time I don’t think he even listens to me. You can’t think that Jim—? I know he’s not perfect, but he’d never do anything like this.’