The next morning I punched Jameson’s number into my mobile. He answered after two rings.
“All right, Lisa. What can I do for you, love?”
I looked at her. She was sitting on the floor, listening to the compilation I’d made for her. Katy Perry, Brittney, Girls Aloud. Even a couple of Spice Girls. Girl Power. What a joke.
“I’m going to need a couple of days off, Brian. I’m not feeling too good.”
Long silence. I could hear him pulling on a cigarette.
“Not fucking possible. Not cool, Lisa. No. You need to be here tonight.”
I stared at the countryside outside the window. I could just take her and go. Go now, out over the moor, into the heather, far away over the horizon, just me and her. But where to now? Where to?
“I can’t, Brian. I’m not well.”
His breath was quick in the pause that turned into a menacing silence.
“We’ll fucking see about that. I’ll be round in ten.”
Click. Gone. I ran around the flat, pulling at toys and clothes, shoving baby evidence into the bedroom. Minutes ticked by as I hid any signs that she might be here, until all that was left was a small child and a huge TV.
He was banging on the door as I put her on the bed, music playing from my phone, and closed the bedroom door. I grabbed the remote control and zoomed up the volume on the music channel. Then I opened the door and he burst in with one of his minders in tow.
“Right then. What’s the problem?”
He was right in my face, and I backed away.
“I think I’ve got the flu.”
“Look all right to me. What do you think, Ray? Looks all right, doesn’t she?”
Ray nodded.
“I’m really not well, Brian. Please. I just need a couple of days. Please.”
Suddenly his hands were in my long hair, dragging me onto the Ikea chair in the corner of the room. He pushed me down as I tried not to scream. I didn’t want her to hear this. He was on top of me, ripping at my clothes. Kissing me on the mouth. I could see Ray watching and smirking as Jameson ripped open my shirt.
Then he got up. They both stood there grinning, and he took out his phone and took a picture. He pressed a button and my mobile phone buzzed incoming.
“Lucky this time. Lucky. Be a good girl and no one will see this. We’re all running from something or someone in this game, love, and I’ve got a feeling that someone out there will recognize you, one way or another. So be a good girl. See you tonight. Harry’ll pick you up at six.”
He was right. I was running. And he had all the right connections for me to be found. I’d changed my appearance when I ran, growing my dark hair and dying it bright blonde, but I still looked like the old me.
So I had no choice. Harry picked me up at six. I left her in the pram again. And the night after that. I’d put another advert in the paper shop window for someone to mind her overnight in the flat, but there were no takers. It went on for months. Harry would turn up earlier and earlier and drop me off later and later, until one day I was away for twenty-four hours. Then I had to sleep, but she was awake.
I was doing exactly the opposite of what I said I’d do. I wasn’t looking after her or myself. I’d put a different ad in the local paper for someone to look after a small child. Unpredictable, unsociable hours. There had been a few a calls, but the amount I could pay was nowhere near the going rate. But I finally got someone.
I slipped into a horrible routine of lying with beer-breathed men and fantasizing about looking after my own daughter. It was all sliding from my grasp; most of my life was dictated by Jameson. But there was worse to come. Much, much worse.
Two weeks ago, just as I returned from dropping her off, there was a knock on the door. Then a bang. Luckily, most of the baby stuff was in the bedroom. Jameson burst in as soon as I opened the door.
“Whose is the baby? Saw you coming out of here with it earlier?”
I stood my ground.
“I was with a friend. She’s got a kid. Blonde, about two.”
He moved on and I breathed out.
“Yeah. Right. Anyway. There’s going to be some changes. Clubs getting a bit crowded, so I’m going to let you have some private punters round here.”
My breath wouldn’t come. I thought I was going to suffocate.
“Here? But this is my home. I can’t do . . . that. Not here. Please Brian. Not here.”
“Mine, sweetheart. This is mine. And you work for me. So I’m just giving you a break, yeah? No different, is it?”
“But what about keeping safe? What if they kick off? I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere, Brian.”
He whistled.
“Don’t panic, Lisa. Not that sort of punter. Big payers, they are. Starts on Saturday.”
He left, and I had two days to sort something out. I couldn’t have her here. I couldn’t.
And here I am. The taxi’s arrived, and I fold up the pram and grab my daughter. She’s quiet and rests her head on my chest as we wind our way through the moorland roads to Ashton.
I push a note into her hood, a playlist of songs I want her to remember me by. My only connection to her, the only thing I’ve managed to do for her. I hope beyond all hope that when she listens to them she’ll remember me, think about her Mummy. She won’t need toys and food and clothes where she’s going.
We have to get out early because there’s some kind of disturbance and the roads are blocked off. Her sock falls off, and there’s no time to pull it back on. I hurry and wait at the back of the alleyway and hold her hand and tell her it’s all going to be all right. And Mummy will come for her when the nasty men have gone. It’s past quarter to four, and I need to be back and ready at four thirty before my first job arrives. My phone rings, and I see Brian’s number. She’s dancing to my Katy Perry ringtone now in her pram, all smiles.
“Where the fuck are you, Lisa? I’m round at your place, and you’re not here. Where the fuck are you? You’d better get back here right now.”
“I just popped out. I’m on my way.”
This is it. I could walk away, down the High Street, just me and her, and into another life. But what life? What fucking life for her? There are police pouring into the town now, some kind of demo, and I duck behind a wall.
I push her into the alleyway and peep out onto the street. Jameson is ringing constantly, and I back away and run out of the alleyway, tears streaming down my face, into a crowd of people with placards running toward the Market Hall. Good-bye, my little love. Good-bye. For now.
Chapter 5
We drive out of the car park and we are immediately surrounded by reporters. One of the photographers puts a lens up to the window, and I put my foot down. They scatter in front of the car, but not before I’ve seen one of them pointing at Damien and alerting his friend. I can see his mouth form the words “Damien Booth,” and I wonder just what a big shot he really is.
I head out toward Oldham and decide to take the scenic route. Damien makes notes as I drive, then puts his moleskin notebook away. We’re driving out through Lees Village, where the terraced mill houses turn from red brick to stone, then the houses turn to stone cottages. The heather-covered moor stretches in front of us, and Damien stares out at the fragments of rocks and the dry stone walls.
This is my home. I’ve never lived out of sight of Manchester City Centre. As a child, I lived in Uppermill, just a few miles from Saddleworth Moor. Now I live just outside Oldham in a little village called Springhead. Manchester is in my blood; you’d never think that it was possible to love a city, but I do. I love the way it’s focused in its whirling urban middle, spinning out towns and villages that land and sprawl between the rolling Pennines on one side and the flatness of Cheshire on the other.
I favor the hills. They’re purple and beautiful and hold their own secrets. As much as I’m embedded in the landscape, it’s embedded in me.
We drive past huge stretches of water that rest in the crevices of the rocks, and I
think about my childhood, an uncomplicated skip through the heather before it entwined itself around my ankles and weighted me here. Finally, we’re skirting Saddleworth and driving toward the Holmfirth Road. I stop at some lights on red, and Damien’s chattering at me.
“You know, Jan, we could take this time to get to know each other. I like to make the most efficient use of my time.”
I nod. Yes. I bet you do. Third rule of professional surveillance—find out as much as you can informally. He’s good.
“That’s all right. Ask away. But I’ll warn you, there’s not much to tell.”
He laughs.
“I prefer to guess. Let’s see. Married.”
I look at my wedding ring and shake my head.
“Nope. Divorced.”
It brings Sal into sharp focus in my mind, and I fume. How could he? How could he be so involved in Connelly’s criminal world. And how could he involve my son?
“OK. Divorced, but still wearing a wedding ring. Speaks volumes.”
I stop in a lay-by. He’s wrong. I wear it to avoid male attention, not because I care about Sal.
“OK. Let’s have it, Damien. Anything else you’d like to know about my personal life? Let’s get it over with so we can concentrate on the case.”
He half turns and smiles.
“There’s no shame in still caring about your ex-partner. Kids? I guess so, by your level of interest in the little girl. That’s why you left the scene, isn’t it? Because you care.”
I tap my fingers on the dashboard.
“Have you been briefed? You said you’d been briefed. About what happened before? About my son?”
He shakes his head, but I’m in full flow.
“He’s . . . he’s . . . missing. Aiden’s missing. But I would have done that anyway. Because I care about people. I want to keep people safe. Hence my job. I’m a police officer because I care. In general.”
“Then we have something in common. I’m a psychologist because I care about people. But I guess it’s not so clear-cut for me, Jan. For you, it’s criminal and victim. For me, I like to look at the dynamic around it. Cause and effect. It’s never as clear-cut as it seems.”
I turn on the engine and skid out onto the dusty road. We’re heading uphill, and soon I can see Hollin Brown Knoll in the distance. Just before we reach the turn, I pull in at a car park. It’s littered with crisp packets and cans, and there’s just enough space to park six cars. I think about Bessy Swain, the woman who in my last case who lost her son, and other lives ruined.
“Not clear-cut? Look out there. What do you see?”
He shakes his head.
“Hills. Reservoirs. Heather. Rocks. I don’t know, Jan. Am I missing something?”
I laugh.
“Yes. I think you are. You’re telling me that crime isn’t clear-cut. You know what I see out there? Dead children. Murdered and buried here. This place is why I’m a police officer. Abject evil. Or as my old boss used to say, random acts of unkindness. So tell me, Damien, what’s not clear-cut about someone raping and murdering children and burying them in a moor? One of them still hasn’t been found. And the Gables. Surely you know about that? Young kids. Dead. It went on for years.”
I stare at him, and he stares straight ahead. I try again.
“Please don’t tell me you’re one of those bleeding hearts who feels sorry for murderers? Always making excuses for pedophiles? If you are, you can get out of this car right now and walk back to Manchester.”
I’m surprised at myself. At the strength of my feelings. The terror that is spiraling down, now surfaces as in my mind’s eye I see white scratchings on a wall. A young boy calling for his mother. Damien’s red now. Blinking fast.
“I don’t think I’ve explained myself properly. What I meant was things are not always clear-cut. Sometimes they are. Like this. But some people are prejudged, Jan. Things aren’t always how they seem. It’s my job to bring clarity to complex situations. Murder is murder, no matter which way you look at it, but sometimes there’s more to the underlying situation, like someone else involved or a cultural influence that makes people look the other way or in the wrong direction. That’s where I come in. Believe me, I’m not trying to do your job.”
I start the car again and back out onto the road. He’s looking around, craning his neck the same way I did when I first came up here, trying to find any sign of the murders. But they’re all around us, and after my first visit when I was seventeen on a hiking trip, I was determined not to let anything like that happen again. It was my motivation for joining the police and for staying when it got tough.
I drop down through Mossley and into Ashton and out to the assessment center. Neither of us speaks until we get there. We sit in the car, and I finally break the ice.
“So do you have any kids?”
He shakes his head.
“No. No kids. Never been in one place long enough.”
“Oh. Traveled?”
“Not really. Moved around studying. Did my first degree in London, then went over to New Zealand to do my Master’s, then transferred back to London to do my PhD when my dad was ill. Lost him last year. Mum two years before. No siblings. So it’s just me.”
“Sorry.”
“Oh, it’s OK. I’m mostly over it.”
I smile a little.
“I meant about before. I shouldn’t have snapped like that. It’s been a tense couple of days.”
He looks a little relieved.
“It’s fine. We need to know where we stand. Thrash it out. See what angle we are coming from. If we’re going to work together.”
I’m still not decided. We get out of the car and walk into the assessment center. Lorraine is waiting for us, and she leads us into the room we have booked.
“Hi Jan. Dr. Booth.”
Damien holds his hand out.
“Damien, please.”
The little girl is in a play area, sitting on a mat. The health visitor is asking her to build bricks, but she looks at us and back at a computer monitor, which is just in her line of vision. I pull out the two evidence bags and brief Lorraine.
“So Stewart’s assigned me and Damien to this case. He didn’t want to, but someone has leaked the information, and it’s all over social networking. I’ll take a look at that in a minute, but the first thing we need to do is find out what we can from the girl and have a look at these receipts. I’ve already asked someone back at HQ to look at the CCTV in the area around where we found her, and forensics are due to come back with their results as soon as possible. So what have you got, Lorraine?”
She shakes her head.
“Nothing. She had some toast, some warm milk, then went to sleep. Woke up this morning, lay there until the person from foster care came in, and didn’t say anything at all. I picked her up at nine, she looked out the window on the way here but showed no real reaction. The only time she reacts to anything is when my phone rings.”
I take out my phone and call Lorraine. Katy Perry’s “California Girls” rings out, and the girl jumps up and starts to dance around. I let it ring, and she toddles around, singing the lyrics. Damien starts to take notes, and I end the call. She flops onto the floor and resumes her staring at the monitor. Lorraine sighs.
“I’ve never seen that before. I’ve seen some things in my time as a family liaison but never that. She’s like a little puppet.”
I pull the receipt out of the bag.
“Best have a look at these, then Damien can do his thing.”
He smiles a little at this, and I put the receipt between us.
“Cooperative in Greenfield. Milk and bread. Dated last week. So at least we know where she’s been in the last week.”
I pull out the other sheet. It’s a handwritten A4 sheet. We all look at it, and Lorraine speaks first.
“It’s a list of songs. It’s a playlist. The sort you’d have on your phone or iPod. Or a compilation. Twelve songs. I know most of them, but there’re a couple at the en
d.”
I scan the list, and I know some of the songs. Just a few, the older ones, but then again, I’ve been submerged in my own doom for so long now I haven’t paid attention.
Lorraine fares better.
“Ellie Goulding, Adele’s ‘Make You Feel My Love,’ Ed Sheeran, ‘Teardrop,’ ‘Massive Attack,’ Sinead O’Connor, Kirsty MacColl, and Westlife—a playlist for loss, that’s for sure. All these songs are about losing someone.”
Damien’s no better than me.
“I’m a jazz and blues man. And Neil Young. I don’t know any of them except for the last. And it’s not a song, it’s ‘Bagatelle’ in A minor for a piano solo. Beethoven. You’d know it if you heard it. ‘Für Elise.’”
A little voice drifts over to us and we all turn around.
“Elise. Elise.”
She’s still staring at the screen, but she speaks in a soft voice. It’s the first word any of us have heard her say, and I see Lorraine’s eyes fill with tears.
“Well, that solves one problem. At least we know what she’s called now.”
She pauses, then speaks again in a louder voice.
“Elise?”
The girl turns around and looks at us, her eyes sorrowful. She puts her thumb in her mouth and sucks on it, blinking at us for a few moments, and then she turns back to the blank screen. Damien’s animated now and he scribbles notes.
“We need to build that playlist. Get the lyrics to those songs and all the recordings in the same order as the list. I need to figure what she’s been exposed to. Clearly music is a trigger, but she certainly hasn’t been around many people.”
Lorraine makes the first move.
“I’ve got Spotify on my phone. If you give me twenty minutes, I can have that playlist for you. I’ll get someone to print the lyrics out.”
She hurries away and I pick up the receipt.
“So she’s been living in Greenfield, and she’s not used to people. Not much to go on.”
Playlist for a Paper Angel (DS Jan Pearce Crime Fiction Series Book 3) Page 4
