“Maybe. We’ll see.”
I get up to leave, and he watches me go. I can see him wiping his eyes in the reflection of DI Stewart’s glass door. And that’s exactly how I feel now. Devastated. But there isn’t time to be upset. No time for tears. And that’s often the problem for me. It’s almost as though I’m afraid that if I cry, my memories of my son will leak out and be gone forever.
I knock on DI Stewart’s door and enter.
Damien Booth is sitting on the chair at the side of DI Stewart’s desk. The chair that’s usually reserved for visitors. This inspires a little hope that Damien Booth is only temporary, and this time next week everything will be back to normal. Or at least Mike will be back. Damien smiles when I come in, and I sit down opposite. Jim Stewart lays his hands on the desk.
“I’ll be honest with you, Jan. I’m not so sure that this warrants a full-scale investigation.”
Right on cue. That’s what I thought he’d say.
“So why then, sir? Why separate me from Mike and put me on this full time? After everything that’s happened. Not that I think it should be just left. But I could have. . .”
He holds up his hand and leans forward.
“Believe me, Jan. I would have kept it all quiet and waited for the parents to come forward or some other outcome. But it appears someone else had other ideas.”
He points toward the windows and out onto Central Park, where the police headquarters are newly built astride a traffic roundabout. A full fleet of news vans with their huge satellite dishes have taken up residence on the grass strip in the middle, newscasters at the ready. I flick Facebook onto my phone and check my account. There are already sixteen shares on the “Find the mother of a baby abandoned in Ashton” post. I sigh.
“It wasn’t me, sir. But social services are involved and foster care. . .”
“Well, it’s done now, so we have to do something for the poor little bugger. There’ll be questions as you drive out. Right, Jan. I need to know what happened yesterday. How come you brought that kid in and didn’t call scene of crime?”
I can tell he’s annoyed. There’s always been a little bit of friction between Jim Stewart and me. After I called him out over his relationship with Sal, taking Sal’s word over mine when Aiden was missing, and then his involvement with Connelly, things are positively strained. But I still believe I did the right thing in this case.
“She was strapped in her pram, sir. Freezing cold. Crying. Are you suggesting I should have just left her there?”
He’s shaking his head.
“No, but you should have stayed. Waited.”
“It was an unsecured area, sir. There’d just been a near riot. All the roads were cordoned off.”
He taps his fingers now.
“Right. But next time . . .”
“I don’t think there will be a next time, sir. It’s not the sort of thing that happens every day, is it? No real guidelines.”
He nods. Looks like I’ve won this round after all.
“Right. OK. We need to move it forward now. Two things. Number one. Evidence found includes a receipt and a page of writing. You need to have a look at those—might be relevant.”
He hands the plastic bags containing the evidence to me.
“Second. Karen Barrow took the kid to the hospital last night, and the pediatrics guy suggested she be referred to a child psychologist. But seeing as we have Damien here . . .”
Damien nods. He’s brooding and intense and that could easily get on my nerves. I don’t want any distractions.
“Yeah. My psych major was in child psychology. I’ve already arranged for social services to provide a secure area for an assessment. I’d like to get started straightaway.”
Jim Stewart catches my eye and intervenes.
“Maybe we should set up some scenarios before we rush in. What do you think, Jan?”
I sigh. This is going to be hard work. Damien’s easy on the eye but doesn’t seem to understand how we operate a case around here.
“Well. The most obvious scenario is that someone’s left a child in the town center. Complicated by the fact that there was a national rally going on in that town center, so the chances of the person who left her there being local are considerably reduced. We’ve eliminated her wandering off from somewhere, as she was in a pram.”
Damien looks expectant. When I don’t continue he speaks.
“Is that it? What about the child? I take it she didn’t speak? The reports said she was unresponsive. But what was she paying attention to? And have you checked the CCTV for the area? What about . . .”
I hold my hand up.
“Damien, all those things will be taken care of. I’ll sit down and write out a project management sheet. It’ll all get done. Forensics is underway. We just need to decide what you’re going to do to contribute to this investigation.”
He smiles at me.
“Yeah. About that. I’ll be conducting an assessment of the little girl this morning. And then I’ll assess the mother.”
I don’t believe he’s just said that. Maybe I’ve missed something. Maybe they’ve found her.
“But we don’t know who she is. Do we?”
“No. We don’t know who she is. But we’ll have a better idea when I’ve done my assessment. Trust me, Jan. It must be hard for you when there’s so much change. I’ve been briefed on what you’ve just been through. But I do know what I’m doing.”
His expression is earnest, and I decide to give him a break. Maybe he does know what he’s doing. Jim Stewart stands up and it’s our signal to leave.
“See, I told you, Jan. Damien’s one of the best up-and-coming profilers in the force. We’re lucky to have him.”
Something about the way he says it makes me think that he doesn’t really think we’re lucky to have Damien Booth at all. Jim Stewart isn’t a profiling kind of person. He knows that profilers are optional these days. He likes a case to be dealt with as quickly as possible. I hang back. This is my chance. I shut the door behind Damien and stare at Jim.
“So have you found them?”
He leans back in his chair.
“Interpol is on it. It’s out of my hands now.”
I feel shock run through me.
“But . . .”
“Look. We don’t know where they are. We know Connelly left here with some of his crew, but they must have false passports if they’ve skipped the country because we can’t find any evidence of flights.”
I rerun the memory of Aiden and Sal at the airport. I know they’ve gone. I saw them. I test him now.
“And Sal?”
He sighs.
“Same. No sign of him anywhere. Probably with Connelly.”
So they haven’t looked for Sal. Or Aiden. Half of me is angry. Angry that I can’t shout at him, tell him what I know. Because if I do, Aiden will be implicated, and I’ll never see him again. But the other half of me is relieved that they didn’t check. Because Aiden might contact me. Realize he misses me.
“So we’re not looking for them? Just Interpol?”
“We’re watching this area for any signs of them, but internationally, it’s up to them.”
“What about the evidence from the Gables, the list of people who abused the kids, Sal’s implication, looking into Connelly’s affairs? Who’s doing that?”
He suddenly looks stressed. He’s sweating.
“A team’s been set up. They’re going through the admin. All the evidence. Then we’ll know what we’re up against.”
He knows he’ll be implicated. He knows what they’ll find—messages on Sal’s mobile, CCTV of him and Sal together. There will be questions.
“But for now you’re off the case.”
I turn to leave. Am I? I don’t think so. I’ll never be off any case where Connelly is concerned. I suddenly realize that it’s not over. Somewhere deep down, I knew it wasn’t. I knew that I would chase Connelly down, either with the assistance of the police or without. So, while S
tewart’s team thumb slowly through the paperwork, so slowly that Jim can retire before it’s completed, I’ll carry on.
I leave the office and walk out to my car, catching up with Damien.
“How was she? The girl? Was she OK? Did you see her while she was here before?”
He shakes his head. His eyes soften, and I realize that he’s a little bit nervous.
“I haven’t seen her, Jan. Is it OK to call you Jan? But I read the report. She had some puncture marks on her arm that suggest she’s seen a doctor recently. Or a health visitor. She’s obviously not being neglected. Not materially anyway. But their assessment indicates that she’s almost completely unstimulated. They couldn’t find a single thing to get her to respond. It could be autism or Asperger’s, but at this age, it’s very difficult to measure because of lack of verbal reporting. But she just doesn’t respond to anything.”
“She responded to Lorraine’s phone ring tone. Katy Perry. She stood on her chair and danced.”
He starts walking across the car park, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand, deep in thought. All of a sudden he doesn’t seem so uptight, so academic. So threatening. He seems to have relaxed more now that he’s engrossed. I walk with him to my car, and we get in.
“That’s really interesting. I was thinking that she was completely unresponsive. That’s a major breakthrough.”
I start the engine. This is definitely going to be hard work. Call me old-fashioned, but to me, a major breakthrough would be finding the little girl’s mother.
Chapter 4
We will lead the children away quite early in the morning into the thickest part of the wood, and give them a little piece of bread; there we will light a fire for them, then we will go to work and leave them alone and they will not find their way home again.
So this is what it’s come to. This is what I have to do. I pull her coat on. If there was ever a wake-up call, this is it. I took a risk, but now I can clearly see that I’m not as fucking clever as I thought I was. This is the endgame.
“Come on, get in your pram. Be a good girl for Mummy.”
Tears clog my throat, and I can’t distinguish between the devastation and the rising anger I feel with myself for letting this happen. All I wanted to do was get enough money to set us up somewhere else, maybe abroad. Away from all this shit.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, this is only for a short time. The lady’s going to babysit you. We’re going to see her now and Mummy will be back soon.”
Her eyes follow me, watery solemn. Full of trust. She sits in her pram, very still, just like I told her to, and tracks my every movement. I go into the kitchen and lean against the work top. My tears drip onto the cold marble, and I swallow back sobs. This isn’t the time to get hysterical. This is time for action. I can’t keep myself safe anymore, and that means I definitely can’t keep her safe. So I have no choice, just like I had no choice when I came here.
I had to run, and I had to get her back. I couldn’t stand the thought of her being a game of pass the parcel, brought up in a criminal world by him and his parents. He’s already taken her from me once, and I didn’t mean for that to happen again. So I ran, and I stole her back. Can you steal something that is yours?
I didn’t realize how hard it would be living under the radar. I managed to get a fake ID, but I couldn’t open a bank account or claim benefits. I couldn’t use my old bank account, because at least three organizations were looking for me. One of them, the criminal one, would kill me for what I’ve done if they were to find me. The other two would mean prison. So I ended up here, out in the sticks but working in town. I figured this would be the best chance for me and her. Something to help us survive before we jet off. I’d imagined France or maybe Spain. I could get a fake passport for both of us once I had the cash.
One thing I didn’t figure on was Brian fucking Jameson. I’d answered a small ad for bar work and sorted out someone to look after her while I worked teatime shifts at his club. Then he asked me to work evening shifts. It was a lot more money, so I accepted. I would have done anything to get out of the grimy bedsit we were living in. It’s a funny phrase, isn’t it? I would have done anything. Anything. We all use it so flippantly. As it turned out, I did have to do anything.
I didn’t know what was going on at first. Brian was so nice, and all the guys there had been great. The other girls behind the bar seemed friendly enough, and I was making enough money to pay a sitter and buy food, as well as save for a deposit for a flat. When the day came, I realized it would be trickier than I thought. The estate agency wanted a deposit and references, or a guarantor. I asked Brian if he would be guarantor, and he moved a little closer.
“Looking for somewhere to live, are you? I think I can help you out with that.”
I smiled back at him and leaned over the bar.
“I’ve saved up a deposit. I can pay you cash, Mr. Jameson.”
His breath smelled of stale tobacco. He’s bulky, all thick neck with slightly too-long ginger hair and wide shoulders, and always smells faintly of sweat.
“No need for that. And you can work the rent off. I’ve got a few little jobs you can do if you want? Interested?”
It sounded like a dream come true. Anything to get away from the green mold walls and mushrooms behind the sink. There’s that word again. Anything. Brian was still smiling.
“I’ll arrange for a viewing. See Jasmine. She’ll show you the ropes.”
I should have known then. He was taking the piss out of me. I could see it in his eyes, I know that look, but I was desperate.
“Jasmine? But she’s not in charge of bar work. She’s a . . . dancer. I’m not a dancer. I’ve never done that sort of thing.”
He rattled his car keys and two men stood up at the table behind him.
“You’ll soon get the hang of it. Get it? The hang of it?”
He walked away laughing as I stared into the depths of the club. Hang of it. Ropes. It was teatime, and the loops hung from the ceiling like gallows. Later that evening, those ropes would be filled with half-naked women, climbing down to dance. Later that week, one would be filled with scared, half-naked me.
He arranged for a viewing of a one-bedroom flat in Greenfield.
“Out of the way, love, out of the way. Out of town so no one can come snooping round.”
The flat was beautiful, furnished in creams and browns, a wonderful kitchen with no signs of mold. It was part of a complex in a gated enclosure right at the end facing out onto a stream, with Indian’s Head in the distance.
“What do you think? Don’t worry about transport, Lisa, someone will pick you up when you’re needed. Have we got a deal?”
I nodded. It was fantastic. Warm and safe, just what I wanted for her. All I had to do now was find child care and life would begin to pick up again. We moved in two days after shaking on it with Jameson. I carried her into the flat in a duvet because all that time I hadn’t ever mentioned her to anyone. She was barely nine months old at the time, and I already knew that there was a club policy not to employ any girls with children. So I kept her a secret. We settled in, and I found a teenager to sit with her on the nights I was working.
It was a simple equation back then. No rent equated to hanging naked in a bar for three nights a week for money. Of course there were moments of clarity when I realized, as I rubbed butter on my rope burns, that this wasn’t at all what I wanted to do, but someone always seemed to be on hand to blur my life again with some substance. Alcohol. Speed. Cocaine. Valium. It all came thick and fast until one night, later than I normally worked, I found myself climbing down from the ropes and sitting half-naked among four men. One of them kissed me and motioned for me to stand up.
I could see Jameson at the bar smoking and staring, watching what I would do next. And that’s when I crossed the line. I’d always been disgusted but at the same time intrigued by girls who said that they do it for money.
Christ knows I’d been among them in my former
life, but I’d never considered it myself. But then again I’d never had to. I knew from the day I moved into the flat with my secret daughter that I would have to do anything Jameson wanted me to. Anything. In my life, anything had extra meaning. It meant anything I could imagine, and lots, lots more.
The intrigue was unfounded because it’s quite boring. Sex. Sex with different men. Boring. It involves a lot of acting and obviously isn’t pleasant; the drugs make it easier. Some of them get rough and want you to do things that they haven’t paid for, but as it’s all done in the building behind the club, there are bouncers who come and kick out any troublemakers.
Some of the girls have mantras, things they repeat over and over in their heads. Mine’s I’m a good person. A good person.
If that all sounds bad enough, it got worse. I arrived home late one night from the club, and the babysitter had left a note telling me she wouldn’t be coming round again. I’d popped my head round the door to see my beautiful daughter sleeping soundly and cried myself to sleep. Brian rang me first thing in the morning.
“Going to need you a bit earlier tonight. We’ve got a stag night coming in, and Cara has dropped out. Is that OK, Lisa?”
My head spun, and I felt sick. I looked at her, sitting in her pram watching children’s TV happily. What would I do? How could I find a sitter in so little time? When I didn’t answer he continued.
“Good. Harry will pick you up at six. Don’t be late.”
So I left her. I fucking left her. I strapped her into her pram with a drink and a biscuit and I left the TV on in the lounge. I left her from six o’clock until four in the morning. Every minute at work, every minute I was faux-moaning for some drunken punter, I was sick to my stomach, knowing what I had done.
When Harry dropped me off, I ran in and she was asleep, the TV lighting up the middle of the night. Children’s TV had gone off now, and it was just white noise and a grey crackle. I picked her up and gently put her into bed with me. I could feel her breath on my face, and I promised myself I’d never do leave her again.
Playlist for a Paper Angel (DS Jan Pearce Crime Fiction Series Book 3) Page 3
