by J. E. Mayhew
“Sam had trouble with her epilepsy during and after the pregnancy, is that right? There were moments when Florence was in danger…”
“Yeah, so they say. But last we saw her, Sam said her absences were back under control. She’s had them a long time and she knows what to do. Sam can tell when the seizures are going to happen, she gets a feeling, an aura, they call it. There’s no way she’d hurt little Flos and that’s a fact whatever anyone tells you about her ‘mental health.’ We spent years building her confidence and the bloody Percivals demolished it in a matter of months. A bright, pretty girl like that.” Hughes was leaning forward in his chair, spots of angry red on his cheeks.
“So, if Sam had come back. Do you think she’d come to you for help?”
“I think she’d go straight for Flos and then come here.”
“And has she?”
“No.”
“Has she called you?”
“No. She mustn’t have had a mobile in that stupid clinic or we’d have heard from her. We tried to ring but she was always asleep or ‘in therapy.’ I didn’t even know she’d come away from there, did I? I’m telling you, that Paul Percival controls everything. If my daughter has got Flos, then the little kid is safe as houses. Sam wouldn’t harm a hair on that kid’s head and if she came to me for help, I’d give it. But I’m telling you, she’s not here.”
“So you wouldn’t mind me having a look around?”
Mr Hughes shrugged. “You can for me,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
The big man stood up and led Kinnear around the house. It didn’t take long. There were only two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, a hall, kitchen and living room downstairs. Mr Hughes even pulled the loft ladder down and let Kinnear poke his head up into the roof space. “Do you see Florence much, Mr Hughes?” he asked at last when they stood at the bottom of the stairs.
Hughes grunted and smiled mirthlessly. “Nah. The Percivals think we’re a bad influence. Bloody snobs. Good people live on this estate, Mr Kinnear. We might be a bit rough round the edges, but we look after our own. People like the Percivals just look out for themselves.”
Kinnear shook Hughes’ hand and opened the front door. “Thank you for letting me…” he began but stopped as he saw a taxi pull up outside the house. The car door opened, and a woman climbed out. A woman with curly brown hair. Samantha Percival looked up and saw Kinnear.
“He’s a bizzie, luv,” Hughes shouted, reached over Kinnear and slammed the door shut.
“Mr Hughes, you’re obstructing me in my duty…”
“Sorry, Mr Kinnear,” Hughes said, stepping back and holding his hands up. “Wasn’t me, I think the wind blew the door shut.”
Kinnear glared at the big man and wrestled the door open in time to see the taxi hurtling out of the cul-de-sac. Quickly, Kinnear pulled out his phone and took a picture of the vanishing taxi.
“I should arrest you for obstruction, Mr Hughes. Do you realise that?”
Hughes smiled for the first time. “I’m really sorry Mr Kinnear. If you feel you have to, then I won’t stop you. Sam’s my flesh and blood.”
“I really needed to talk to her. She could be in serious trouble, Mr Hughes,” Kinnear said, looking at the image of the car. He’d got the registration number. “At least I can track her down now. If she gets in touch, then let me know…”
“It didn’t look like she had Flos with her, did it?”
“No,” Kinnear admitted. “But that doesn’t mean she hasn’t taken her?”
Hughes shook his head. “How can a mother be in trouble for taking her own child? She hasn’t been banned from looking after her daughter. There’s no legal reason she couldn’t have had Flos in the back of that car just then, is there?”
Kinnear paused. “No but she has assaulted someone and stolen a car. And if she’s got nothing to hide, then why did she run away just now?” He walked towards his car. “You said yourself you haven’t seen her for months. How could you know what state she’s in? I hope you did the right thing just then, Mr Hughes because if you didn’t, then it’ll be on your head.”
*****
The press conference buzzed with journalists and cameramen. National papers were represented, and a few TV cameras poked their lenses at Blake and Superintendent Martin. Martin was a hawkish man with a sharp tongue, but he was fair-minded and Blake respected him. Images of Florence and Samantha Percival were projected onto the screen behind them.
“We urgently need to talk to Florence’s parents who we can’t get in touch with. If anyone sees them or Florence, get in touch with us immediately,” Martin concluded. “Are there any questions?”
“Do you suspect that Florence has been kidnapped by her mother?”
“We don’t suspect anything at the moment,” Blake said. “We are just working for the safe return of Florence to her home. We aren’t sure if a crime has been committed but the little girl’s safety is paramount.”
“Is it true that Mrs Percival is wanted in connection with an assault and a car theft in Scotland?”
Martin leaned forward. “I’m sure Mrs Percival is as concerned about Florence’s safety as we are and that is why we are keen to talk her.”
“Where is the girl’s father?”
“Our understanding was that he was away on business, but we haven’t been able to contact him.”
“DCI Blake. You seem to be brought in on these unusual cases. Is this because of your experience with the Searchlight programme?”
Blake tried to keep his best poker face but he felt Superintendent Martin flinch beside him. Searchlight was a television programme many years earlier. It was a vehicle for requesting help from the public by presenting dramatised re-enactments of unsolved crimes. Blake had a small part hosting the CCTV footage section of the show and asking the public to identify the offenders caught on camera. He’d been put forward by his senior officers at the time because he was a good-looking young officer. ‘Easy on the eye’ was one comment he remembered. ‘One for the mums’ was another. It had seemed like an exciting adventure when he started but, looking back, he would happily have foregone the whole experience for a host of reasons. It had been used as a stick to beat Blake with ever since he’d returned to full-time service and was often a source of great hilarity amongst his colleagues.
For some reason, Superintendent Martin had a real stone in his shoe about the programme. It was as if Martin suspected Blake of being a publicity hunter and it was true that Blake had investigated a host of bizarre and fascinating cases that understandably went national.
“Our detectives are allocated to cases based on their experience on investigations and nothing else,” Martin said, waspishly. “Now, unless there are any more questions pertaining to the actual facts of the case, we need to crack on and find this little girl.” He turned to Blake as they packed up their paperwork. “Let’s get this sorted and closed down quickly, eh, Will?”
Chapter 12
It was late but Kinnear couldn’t stop now. He’d phoned in the registration number of the taxi and knew that the quicker he found it, then the closer to Samantha Percival he would be. He pulled into the taxi rank outside Three Sevens Taxi Co. The car in question was right in front of him. The driver sat in the front reading a paper.
Kinnear leaned down and tapped the window, startling the driver. “Blimey, mate, you frightened me to death, then,” he said.
“I’m DC Kinnear,” he said, flashing his warrant card. “You took a fare to Caveney Drive, this afternoon. Remember it?”
“Yeah,” the driver said. “It was weird, she just got out and then climbed back in. Told me to drive away quickly. I didn’t ask any questions. Thought it might be trouble. I’ve been in scrapes like that before. Boyfriend and girlfriend fights, whole families involved sometimes. You can end up in hospital or the car gets damaged. Better to just get away.”
“It was me she was running away from,” Kinnear said. “You remember where you dropped her?”
> The taxi driver nodded. “New Ferry. Lilac Avenue. Number eight.”
“And did you see her go inside?”
“Yeah. A woman answered the door and let her in.”
“Did your fare have a child with them?”
“Nope. It was just her. What’s all this about?”
“Thanks,” Kinnear said and jumped back into his car. The drive to New Ferry was a matter of ten minutes. Kinnear struggled for a while to find the road, especially in the dark. He’d been around these parts before but was used to the older part of the town, where red brick terraces huddled in straight lines. Kinnear remembered that Blake lived somewhere around here but his house was much bigger and older than these. His satnav had brought him down to the river’s edge and a small estate of detached properties. Lilac Avenue was lined on each side with modern houses. They reminded him of his own house and for a moment, he wished he was back there with his husband, Chris. No doubt he would have something waiting for Kinnear in the oven. It’d be cremated by now.
The woman who answered the door to number eight reminded Kinnear of an Aardman animation. She was tall, with a mouth full of huge teeth and eyes that seemed to want to pop out of her head. A shock of white blonde hair exploded from her scalp. She leaned against the doorframe, wrapped in a pink dressing gown and sucking on a cigarette. “Can I help you?” she said.
“Detective Constable Andrew Kinnear. Are you the owner of the house?”
“No, I rent it,” the woman said.
“You’re the householder, though.”
“I live here, yeah. Why?”
“I’m looking for Samantha Percival. Her daughter went missing this morning, you may have heard about it on the news.”
“And?”
“I’ve reason to believe that a taxi dropped her off here today…”
“Yeah?”
Kinnear was beginning to dislike the woman. “So is Samantha Percival at this address now?”
The woman blinked slowly and drew a breath. “I dunno what you’re talking about. Sorry.” She made to close the door but Kinnear put his hand out to stop it. “Can I have your name, please?”
“What’re you doing? That’s against the law, that is…”
“Not if I’m in close pursuit of a criminal who has assaulted a member of the public and stolen a car,” Kinnear said. He knew he was pushing his luck, but frustration got the better of him. “What is against the law is not supplying me with your name if I ask it. Now, who are you and where is Sam Percival?”
“Okay, okay! My name’s Holly Young and Sam isn’t here. She came to see me this afternoon, but I don’t know where she went after that.”
“And why did she come to see you?”
The woman’s shoulders slumped. “I dunno. We’re old school mates aren’t we? She said she was sorting something out and needed somewhere to stay. I told her I couldn’t help.” She nodded towards the ceiling. “I’ve got two of my own asleep upstairs right now. Couldn’t fit any more in…”
“So she was talking about her and Florence needing somewhere to stay?”
“Yeah. Of course she was. She’s her mum. Why? What’s all the fuss? I know she broke out of that prison they’d locked her in but…”
“You haven’t watched the news then?”
“I don’t do mainstream media. It’s all made up.”
“Right well, her daughter has gone missing and we’re desperately trying to find Sam and Florence. Did she have Florence with her?”
“No, she said she was going to pick her up but needed somewhere to stay first. Yeah, that’s what she said. Somewhere where her psycho husband wouldn’t find her.”
“Did she say where she was stopping for now?”
“No. She never mentioned it.”
“Look, this is really important,” Kinnear said. “We just want to help Sam. But we need to know that Florence is okay. If she gets in touch again, can you tell her that? Everyone’s worried sick about the little girl, that’s all.”
Holly Young went pale. “God, you don’t think she’d hurt Flossy do you?”
“Do you?”
“No. Course not,” Holly said, looking away from Kinnear.
“You don’t sound too convinced, Holly. Sam’s dad was adamant that she couldn’t possibly harm Florence. Do you know different?”
“I dunno,” Holly said. “She’s my mate and everything but… well, sometimes she had a temper on her. In school, she decked a lad for just tapping her chair with his feet. In the middle of class it was too.”
“We all lose our temper when we’re teenagers,” Kinnear said.
“Yeah but before she went into that clinic, she wasn’t in a good place mentally…” Holly paused and stubbed her cigarette out on the doorstep, carefully picking up the stub.
“Go on, Holly.”
“She said she thought she’d hurt the poor kid. Don’t say I said or nothing, will you?”
“What did she say exactly?”
“I dunno. Something about being a danger to her. She said that she had dark thoughts about Flossy. Like angry thoughts. She said she had horrible dreams about drowning her. But I don’t think she’d ever do nothing like that. Honest.”
“Well if she gets in touch, let us know. Persuade her to contact us,” Kinnear said, handing Holly a card. “Thank you, Holly. You’ve been really helpful.”
Holly smiled. “That’s okay. Sorry I was a cow before…”
*****
It was gone two in the morning by the time Blake pulled up to his house in Rock Park. A cold wind blew off the River Mersey and pushed icy drizzle down the back of his neck as he climbed out of the car. The house was a black silhouette and Blake wondered if Laura had stayed or gone back to her own flat. Things were difficult recently since his colleague DCI Matty Cavanagh had revealed that she had been married to a small-time criminal called Kyle Quinlan. It had troubled Blake that Laura hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him herself. But that hadn’t been all; Cavanagh was investigating Quinlan’s disappearance several years ago. Laura was the last person to have seen him.
From Laura’s account, Quinlan had mistreated and abused her which explained why she could appear insecure sometimes. Cavanagh didn’t have any concrete evidence that Laura had done anything illegal but his investigation had dredged up horrible memories and she’d distanced herself from Blake for a while. Things were settling down again, though. Or they were until she brought Charlie the Jack Russell into the equation.
Fumbling with the keys in the dark, Blake let himself in. A growl from the shadows warned him that all was not well, and he froze. He reached for the light just in time to see a smoky shadow hurtling straight at him. Serafina landed heavily on his shoulders, knocking him back against the door and clawing at his head, then she sprang away with a furious meow landing with a thump on the stairs. An excited yapping erupted from the kitchen as Blake picked himself up.
“Jeez! It’s not my fault,” he said to Serafina who just growled and turned tail on him, running into the living room to find somewhere high to hide. “Anyway. I thought you’d have shown him who’s boss by now.”
A light from the kitchen filled the hall and Laura emerged holding Charlie who wriggled and panted to get at Blake.
“You’re late,” she said, rubbing her bleary eyes. She gave him a hug and Charlie took the chance to lick Blake’s cheek and ear.
Blake grinned in spite of himself. “What’re you doing?”
“Charlie’s only little. I thought I’d stay in the kitchen with him until he’s used to the place. I set up a little bed next to his.”
Blake looked startled. “Gets used to the place? He’s only here a week.”
“Yeah,” Laura said. “I just meant, you know, it’s strange to him.”
“He looks happy enough to me.”
“I saw you on telly. Bad day?”
Blake nodded. It was only exhaustion and a promise from his team that they’d keep looking that had sent him packing. “Bloody
frustrating. Anyway, I’m off to bed; early start in the morning. Watch out for that cat. She’s seriously pissed off.”
“She’s been fine with me,” Laura said, raising her eyebrows.
“Yeah well, she just gave me her verdict on our new houseguest, and I don’t want that reception every time I come home!”
“Will…” Laura said, a shadow crossing her face.
“I’m sorry. It’s just this case. I hate it when little kids go missing. The idea of losing a child like that. It’s bad enough when it’s illness or an act of God but the idea of her being snatched by someone so depraved and evil…” Blake looked up. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Laura said, giving a tight smile. “You go and get some rest.”
Chapter 13
Leonard Hill peered through the blinds at the road outside. Something had hit the window, smearing the glass. He suspected it might be an egg. Some of the kids seemed to think it was funny to go pelting people’s houses with eggs around Hallowe’en and often, the tradition extended beyond the end of October. But it wasn’t kids this time. Silhouetted by the yellow streetlights, a dark figure stood across the road from the house, hands in his jacket pockets, legs wide in a defiant posture.
“We know what you did, you little nonce,” the figure shouted. “We saw it on the telly. We don’t want your sort round here.” He took something from his pocket and threw it. Leonard flinched away from the glass as another egg splattered close to his face.
The letterbox clanked and a sudden movement in his front garden to his right caught his eye. Someone else was scurrying away from his front door. They’d thrown something through.
A deafening bang made Leonard shriek with terror as the room erupted into a howling storm of sparks and smoke. His smoke alarm screamed, adding to his panic. He sprinted into the kitchen, dodging past the spitting, multicoloured fire that grew on his doormat. Grabbing a jug of water, he ran back into the hall and doused the flames, spluttering and coughing in the acrid fumes that filled the room. The flames died with a hiss and Leonard doubled up, panting and spluttering as he stared at the blackened fireworks melted into his doormat.
