The Trophy Child

by Paula Daly

‘You’re needed here,’ she said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You were right about Karen’s ex, by the way. He wasn’t involved in the murder.’

  ‘You found him?’ Noel said, surprised. ‘What was he like?’

  Joanne shrugged non-committally. ‘I told him if he wanted to make contact with Ewan he needed to go through social services.’

  ‘That seems sensible. I don’t really like the idea of him just turning up here.’

  ‘I don’t think he will,’ she said. ‘He’d got himself into a bit of bother, and I warned him that it wouldn’t look good if he didn’t go via the proper channels. So…’

  ‘So, now you don’t have a suspect,’ Noel said.

  ‘No.’ She paused. Thought about how to word what she wanted to say next. ‘To be honest, Noel,’ she said, ‘that’s pretty much why I called in today. I wondered if I might have a quick word with Brontë?’

  Noel put down his sandwich. ‘Brontë?’

  ‘That’s if you think her state of mind is okay. I wouldn’t want to upset her, but it would be really helpful if—’

  ‘Why would you need to talk to Brontë?’

  ‘Just tying up loose ends. I’m going back over the whole investigation, checking I’ve not missed anything. It’s normal procedure. And of course, when you think about it…all of this did actually start with her.’

  ‘Surely you don’t think the two incidents are related?’ Noel said.

  He was jittery, she noticed.

  ‘I don’t see how they could be,’ he added.

  Joanne’s expression remained impassive. ‘Well, that’s my job, Noel. To figure out what is related to what. To find connections where there are none. My job,’ she said, locking her eyes on his, ‘is to see the things other people don’t see.’

  —

  Brontë was already in the office, seated on Noel’s large leather chair, when Joanne returned from her car, carrying the box. Brontë’s hair was escaping from her French plait, she had a wet, pink lower lip and a furtive look in her eyes. Joanne suspected that Noel had done the plait himself.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Brontë,’ Joanne said mildly. ‘This will only take a minute. I’ve got something I want to show you.’

  Brontë looked to Noel for reassurance. But he, too, was anxious, as if Joanne might produce the murder weapon directly from her secret box: voilà! – his prints all over it.

  ‘Here,’ Joanne said, laying out the pieces of paper in front of Brontë. ‘You remember these?’

  Brontë stared straight ahead, unwilling, it seemed, to engage.

  ‘Brontë?’ Joanne urged. ‘These are yours, aren’t they, honey?’

  Joanne moved the cards a little closer, the cards that were covered in love hearts, the ones she’d removed from Brontë’s desk when she had gone missing, the cards with the messages of love written in Brontë’s hand.

  ‘Joanne,’ Noel said quickly. ‘I think Brontë may be a little embarrassed. These are personal items of hers, after all. They’re not really meant for public viewing.’

  Joanne looked at Brontë. The girl remained expressionless.

  ‘How about this one?’ Joanne said, opening it. ‘It says here “Thank you for being kind.” Did you write that?’

  Again, nothing.

  Joanne moved on to the second one.

  ‘How about this one? This one says—’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ Brontë said, barely audible. A mouse’s voice.

  And Joanne said, ‘You don’t?’ Her tone was more cajoling than disbelieving. ‘It’s just that your teacher, Miss Gilbert, told me that you made these. You made them. It’s your handwriting inside. Miss Gilbert is a lovely teacher, isn’t she?’

  Brontë nodded.

  ‘She seems ever so nice,’ Joanne said. ‘I don’t think Miss Gilbert would lie about a thing like that, do you?’

  Brontë looked over to the far wall and, suddenly, her eyes started to fill.

  Joanne waited.

  On seeing his daughter’s discomfort, Noel whispered, ‘Joanne,’ urgently.

  She ignored him.

  ‘How about this one, Brontë?’ she continued. ‘Do you remember making this? It’s a beautiful card. It says here, “You are the best person I know.” That’s a really nice thing to say to someone. I would love to get a card like that.’

  Brontë wiped at her eyes.

  ‘Who did you make this card for, Brontë?’

  ‘Joanne, stop,’ said Noel.

  ‘Who is the best person you know, Brontë?’ Joanne said.

  ‘Joanne!’ he repeated.

  ‘It’s really important you tell me,’ Joanne said, unabated. ‘You understand that I’m a police officer. I won’t tell any of your friends, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not allowed to. It will be between us.’

  Silence.

  And just when Joanne was thinking she should really brush up on her interrogation technique, Brontë whispered, ‘I can’t.’

  Joanne moved from her seat and squatted on her haunches beside her. ‘Why can’t you?’

  A beat.

  Brontë started to cry. ‘Because I promised I wouldn’t tell,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Joanne, stop!’ Noel shouted. ‘She doesn’t want to tell you. What the hell does this have to do with anything anyway? Look at her. You’re upsetting her.’

  Joanne ignored him and kept her eyes on Brontë. ‘Sometimes, keeping a promise is not the right thing to do,’ she said. ‘Sometimes, it’s really important that people know the truth so they can protect you. That’s my job, Brontë, to find out the truth so I can help people. You’re not being a bad person if you don’t keep this promise. No one will think badly of you.’

  Brontë still didn’t seem convinced.

  ‘You could whisper it if you like,’ Joanne said. ‘Or perhaps you might want to write it down?’

  Brontë went to speak, then hesitated.

  ‘Who did you promise?’ Joanne pressed. ‘Who was it, Brontë?’

  46

  ASTONISHINGLY, NOEL THREW her out.

  He actually threw her out of his house.

  He grabbed the cards, put them in the box and told Brontë not to utter another word, before carrying the box to the front door and dropping it on the step.

  Joanne stood there, her mouth hanging open as he handed over her keys, telling her that if she wanted to question his daughter again she would have to do it with a lawyer present.

  Joanne sped out of the Blooms’ driveway, gravel flying.

  When she was a safe distance away, she pulled over. What the hell was Noel playing at? Why wouldn’t he let Brontë speak? Why was he covering for her?

  She’d parked outside Applemead, directly opposite the recreation ground. Back where this had all started. Joanne gave a bark of laughter. Had she done that intentionally? She didn’t know. She felt like she didn’t know anything.

  When Joanne had interviewed the child before, she had known she was protecting someone. Knew she was not revealing something crucial.

  Had Karen stumbled on this, perhaps? Joanne couldn’t make sense of it. She could do with a drink to steady her nerves.

  A car pulled alongside and began the process of parallel parking. Joanne watched in her wing mirror. The woman pulled her steering wheel down to the left, keeping it there just a shade too long. A common problem with older drivers, Joanne reflected, her thoughts momentarily rerouted. They would forget to straighten the wheel and the car would end up sticking out of the space, the nose of the vehicle still in the road. Once it was like that, there was just no righting it and it was necessary to start over. Which is what the woman was doing. Going through the whole process but making exactly the same mistake again.

  By now, there were a few cars queued behind her. But if the woman felt compelled to hurry, she didn’t show it. She pulled out for a third attempt. It was painful to watch, and Joanne thought about offering to do it for her. But just at that m
oment the woman cracked it, releasing her wheel at exactly the right second and whipping into the space like a pro.

  Joanne caught the woman’s eye in the rear-view mirror and the woman gave a small bow in her seat.

  Joanne smiled. She recognized her. She saw her around the village – always well dressed, often carrying flowers. She was attractive. Had a look of Helen Mirren about her; Joanne hoped she might be lucky enough to age so elegantly. Then she brushed away the thought, knowing that was unlikely to happen.

  Helen Mirren.

  What film did she win the Oscar for again?

  Oh, that’s right, she remembered, The Queen.

  And then Joanne jolted in her seat as though she’d been bitten.

  The witness with dementia had said the woman who had abducted Brontë Bloom was the Queen.

  She had said she was the Queen of England.

  47

  JACKIE WAGSTAFF ANSWERED the door to Applemead.

  ‘Eh up,’ she said. ‘What brings you?’

  Joanne had her warrant card ready, but closed her fingers around it on seeing Jackie.

  ‘I need to speak to someone,’ Joanne said. ‘A woman.’

  ‘Can you narrow it down? Any distinguishing features? Tattoos? Missing limbs?’

  Joanne’s face remained stony. ‘She just came in. I think she’s a volunteer. Looks like Helen Mirren.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jackie. ‘You want Madeleine Kramer. She’s making tea in the kitchen. What do you want her for?’

  ‘Can’t say. What does she do here?’

  ‘Bit of everything,’ replied Jackie. ‘Reads to those who want it, bakes scones, arranges flowers. Doesn’t like to get her hands dirty…but who does?’

  ‘You ever see her with Verity Bloom?’

  Jackie shrugged. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Are they friends?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. I just let the visitors in and get back to work. I don’t go eavesdropping.’

  Joanne arched an eyebrow.

  ‘Okay,’ admitted Jackie, ‘I don’t go eavesdropping on them. Doesn’t seem right, listening in on a teenager. She’s very close to Verity’s mum, if that’s any use. They spend a lot of time together. She’s Jennifer’s favourite helper. What do you want with her? ’

  ‘Like I said, I can’t say.’

  Jackie dropped her voice. ‘You don’t think she murdered that woman, do you?’ And when Joanne wouldn’t answer, Jackie huffed, saying, ‘Suit yourself,’ somewhat affronted that Joanne wasn’t playing ball. ‘Well, if you’re coming in, you’ll need to sign that,’ she said. ‘Case there’s a fire or something.’

  She handed Joanne a pen and slid the leather-bound book along the table towards her. ‘Have a humbug,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and find your Mrs Kramer.’

  Jackie stressed the name as if mocking Joanne for playing her cards close to her chest, and flounced off, her leather clogs making a soft thwacking sound. Jackie couldn’t bear secrets. She couldn’t keep one to save her life, but if she thought Joanne was withholding information she’d sulk and pick at her niece until Joanne lost her temper. She could be quite the baby.

  Joanne could hear the metallic crunching sound of a walking frame approaching and lifted her head to see an elderly woman with a pronounced dowager’s hump making slow progress along the hallway. She was bent over to such an extent that she needed to tilt her head to a forty-five-degree angle just to see where she was going. Old age could be such a bastard, thought Joanne, offering the woman a sympathetic smile. Whether the smile was registered or not, she couldn’t tell, as before the woman came any closer, Madeleine Kramer emerged from the rear of the building, wearing a wipeable apron and a pair of yellow rubber gloves. She pulled off the gloves as she grew closer to Joanne. ‘Do excuse my attire,’ she said, holding out her right hand. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met…Madeleine Kramer.’

  Joanne shook her hand and pulled her warrant card from her pocket. ‘Detective Sergeant Joanne Aspinall. Is there anywhere we could go for a minute?’

  Madeleine Kramer’s expression of mild curiosity stayed fixed. She didn’t even blink. ‘Of course, dear,’ she said. ‘I’ll check if the office is free.’

  Joanne followed on behind. They passed the lady with the frame, and Madeleine Kramer wished her ‘Good afternoon.’ Madeleine had an air of calm efficiency; she was the type of woman you’d find managing a stately home in an episode of Midsomer Murders.

  Madeleine Kramer knocked once on the office door, which had been left ajar. When there was no reply from within, she pushed it open, saying, ‘We should be safe in here.’

  They settled themselves among the general detritus of an office run in a slightly slipshod fashion – boxes on the floor, dusty Hewlett Packard printer by Joanne’s elbow, four discarded coffee cups – and Madeleine Kramer looked at Joanne and nodded, as if permitting her to begin. Usually, a woman of Madeleine’s years would be eager to talk to a detective, excited to impart what she knew in a way that made her appear both helpful and a valuable source of information to the police. Not so here. This woman wasn’t about to offer anything unless Joanne prised it from her. She had her lips shut tight – evident by the small pockets of flesh that had formed at either side of her mouth. Madeleine Kramer was like a toddler refusing food.

  Before entering Applemead, Joanne had retrieved the cardboard box with Brontë Bloom’s case notes from the boot of her car. Flicking through them again, she made an interesting discovery: Madeleine Kramer listened to Brontë Bloom read at Reid’s Grammar fairly frequently. She knew the child. She had been interviewed by telephone during Brontë’s disappearance, by DC Hannah Gidley. But not face to face, Joanne noted. No one actually went to Madeleine Kramer’s home and spoke to her, and the phone interview wasn’t followed up on because Brontë returned home unharmed.

  Joanne had Brontë’s notes on her lap now.

  ‘Mrs Kramer,’ she began.

  ‘Madeleine is fine.’

  ‘You work here often?’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly call it work. I volunteer.’

  ‘Of course.’ Joanne pulled out her notepad. ‘Do you remember volunteering the day that Brontë Bloom disappeared?’

  Madeleine Kramer didn’t flinch, and Joanne was sure she’d been expecting the question. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said, ‘but I don’t. I don’t tend to keep to a set schedule. I come to Applemead whenever my other responsibilities will allow.’

  ‘Try casting your mind back. It was around a month ago, a Sunday – the twenty-seventh of September. An event like that would usually stick in a person’s mind, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I’m afraid, when you get to my age, dear, the days become a bit of a blur. How is it I can remember practically everything that happened to me as a child, but I can’t remember what I had for breakfast? Terrible, really. I should start doing – what is it they call it? – suzuki?’

  ‘Sudoku.’

  ‘Quite. Or they say learning a foreign language can be useful.’

  ‘They do,’ agreed Joanne. Though she did wonder, not for the first time, just who exactly they were, the people who kept saying these things.

  ‘It was a hot day, if that helps,’ said Joanne, and Madeleine Kramer made a great show of closing her eyes, tilting her head back to reveal her slim neck, as if Rolodexing through all the hot days they’d had leading up to this point.

  Finally, she opened her eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she said, shaking her head decisively. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘One of the residents here reported seeing a woman matching your description talking to Brontë Bloom outside Applemead. On the day she went missing.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see how that’s possible. It must have been someone who looked like me.’

  ‘She was adamant it was you,’ Joanne pressed. Not exactly true, but Joanne was improvising.

  ‘I assure you, if I had seen Brontë Bloom the day she went missing, I would have gone straight to the police. Why wouldn’t I have?’

/>   ‘I don’t know, Madeleine. Why wouldn’t you?’

  Madeleine Kramer gave Joanne a look as if to say she was testing her patience. She took a long breath in and then exhaled, smoothing her silver, bobbed hair behind her ears. She was still an attractive woman. Must have been quite a beauty when she was younger. Joanne admired women who held on to the haircuts from their youth. It was refreshing to see a woman in her seventies with a fringe, a ponytail, long hair past her shoulders. As far as Joanne could tell, most women emerged from the salon with exactly the same haircut as everyone else, once they got to sixty-five. Maybe wigs were the way to go, she thought. Like Joan Collins and Raquel Welch.

  ‘Brontë reads to you, doesn’t she?’ Joanne said. ‘At Reid’s Grammar.’

  ‘That’s right. I listen to the pupils read there, two, sometimes three, mornings each week.’

  ‘Is Brontë a particular favourite?’

  ‘No more than any of the other children. I like to think I don’t have favourites.’

  ‘I’d say we all have favourites,’ Joanne said. ‘Impossible not to, in my opinion. Maybe you’re a better person than me.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Did Brontë ever confide to you that she was unhappy at home?’

  ‘Brontë is a very quiet child, detective, as I’m sure you’re aware. She is not the type to communicate problems easily.’

  ‘But you knew Karen was – how can I put it? – very invested in her daughter?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The teachers would talk about it. And on a number of occasions Karen Bloom became quite heated with both the teachers and the support staff, accusing them of neglecting Brontë’s education.’

  ‘Did she ever get quite heated with you in particular?’ Joanne asked.

  ‘She did. Once. But I must say, in her defence, that all parents have very high expectations of their offspring nowadays. Especially when they’re paying for such an education.’

  ‘Do you think Karen was wrong in the way she pushed Brontë to achieve?’

  Madeleine took a moment to consider the question. ‘I think,’ she said carefully, ‘that, for the most part, Karen had Brontë’s best interests at heart.’