I push the phone back into my pocket. The vodka had taken the edge off my anxious energy, and suddenly I feel tired. Damien’s been standing by the door, reading the report from the Prices’ house earlier on, but he comes over.
“Look, Jan, if you’re tired, I can do this by myself tonight. Not much we can do anyway.”
I’m in two minds, but something’s niggling at me.
“No. I need to keep the momentum going. I need to work out if this is linked to Elise or not.”
We leave, and I give the keys to my car to Damien.
“You’d better drive. I’ve been drinking.”
We get in the car, and he starts the engine.
“You won’t be over the limit though. And I don’t know where I’m going.”
“I’ve been drinking. I never take chances. Never.”
His look says that perhaps I should. He drives past the news vans and out onto the main road. I check back to make sure none of the reporters have followed us. As we pass the custody gates, a police car with Marc Price in the back pulls out behind us. I’m directing Damien up into the hills, past Oldham, and up the Huddersfield road. He’s driving slowly and carefully.
“Different in the dark, isn’t it?”
The sun’s just gone down, and I look out over the fields. Only the dark ridges of the hills are visible now. These roads are barely lit, and I know them like the back of my hand, but Damien’s struggling. Eventually, we reach Greenfield and the police car takes over. It leads us out over the far side of Dovestones Reservoir and up a long drive. I look at Damien.
“So anyone who’d drive up to the house would be seen a mile off. They must have left a vehicle outside and come up on foot.”
We get out of the car at the Prices’ house, and I scan the building for security cameras. I noticed gates at the front of the house and an intercom system but no visual equipment. It’s unlikely that the lane outside the gates would have traffic cameras, so this is my only hope. Sure enough, there’s a camera over the doorway, and one on each corner of the roof facing the gates.
Marc Price gets out of the police car, and his wife, Amy, rushes out to meet him. Amy is small with auburn hair, very neat and tidy. She’s crying, and Marc holds her tightly. Damien and I stand and watch until the uniformed officers who’ve been waiting with her come outside. I go over.
“Anything?”
John, one of the Saddleworth community liaison officers, answers.
“Nah. Nothing. Forensics has dusted it down, and the window was open, but nothing else. No footprints, nothing at all. Whoever it is knows what they’re doing.”
I nod.
“Yeah. Right. Did you get a statement from Mrs. Price?”
“I did, but she’s very upset. You might have more luck. I’d get Lorraine Pascoe up here tomorrow if I were you.”
I nod again.
“Thanks, John. We’ll take over now. But someone needs to stay to make sure no reporters get hold of this. It’s confidential.”
Two of the uniformed officers leave, but two stay just within the gates in their car, watching the entrance. Amy and Marc have gone inside, and Damien follows them. I take a last look at the CCTV on the house and wonder why they need a camera above the door. Suggests that they’ve had trouble before at some point. They need to know exactly who’s calling.
Damien’s already started by the time I reach the lounge.
“Amy. May I call you Amy? I’m Damien Booth. I’m a profiler. I’ve worked on a lot of missing person’s cases in London, and I want you both to know that we’ll do our very best to find your daughter. This is my colleague Detective Sergeant Jan Pearce. She’ll be coordinating the police investigation.”
Marc Price stares at us.
“Well, go on then. You know what happened. It’s not fucking rocket science.”
Amy intervenes.
“Marc . . .”
“Well. They’re just sitting around asking questions. They should be out there, looking for her.”
I take over from Damien.
“I can assure you, Mr. Price, that we have officers looking for your daughter. And at first light tomorrow, we’ll have a full team combing the area for her. Damien and I will personally supervise the door-to-door inquiries. In the meantime, I’ve got two questions for you. First, can you think of anyone who might have a grudge against you, who might want to punish you in some way?”
Marc Price snorts.
“Take your pick. I’m not a popular man. But why would anyone take Dara? How could they do that?”
“OK. We’ll go through that in a moment. Second. We need a recent picture of your daughter.”
Amy takes her phone out and flicks through some pictures. She hands the phone to Damien, and his face changes immediately. He brings the phone over to me, and we see a little blonde child, curly hair and blue eyes around two. She could be Elise’s twin sister.
Chapter 10
Marc Price is pacing the lounge now, and Amy is sobbing into her daughter’s duvet. We need to get out of here as soon as possible. As soon as we’ve found out why Marc is so unpopular. I ring family liaison and ask them to send an officer.
“So, Mr. Price, can you tell us why someone might have a grudge against you? Names? Addresses?”
He walks over to me and stands right in front of me.
“Just get out there and find my daughter. If I would have known what this place was like, I would never have come here.”
I stand up. He’s taller than me, but I need to show him that he’s not intimidating me.
“We’ll get out there as soon as you tell us who’s upset with you. Then we have something to go on. We need to know as much as possible before we start the search.”
He nods.
“Yeah. Yeah. ’Course you do. OK. We moved here about nine months ago from Kent. I’m a property developer, and I bought a piece of land just outside the village, going to build some houses. Bought this place for us to live in while they were built, maybe stay around a while. It looked nice and peaceful, all Wuthering Heights and all that. How fucking wrong can you be?”
Damien stops looking at the picture, and I sit down.
“Go on.”
“They’re all fucking mad. I got the plans passed for the houses, then someone suggested buying the land at the end of the plot for a shop. Then Tesco groceries approached me and wanted to buy the land from me. You’d have thought I’d grown horns overnight, according to some of the people round here. Believe me, they’re all still dancing round maypoles in clogs and casting spells. Village of the bastard damned, this one. Wicker Man’s got nothing on this fucking place.”
Amy raises her head, and the pain on her face makes me want to put my arms around her.
“They hate us. They all hate us. And one of them has taken Dara.”
I choke back my emotions. How would I feel if someone had taken Aiden? I’m a police officer, and I’m not supposed to think like that. But I can’t help it. I know too well from when I thought they had.
“We don’t know that for sure, Mrs. Price. But we’ll do everything we can to find out. I promise.”
Damien’s nodding. He gets his notebook out and hesitates, then speaks quietly.
“So do you have any names, Mr. Price? We’re going to need some indication of where to investigate first.”
Marc Price thrusts his hands into his pockets and thinks. Obviously not a popular man. He waits a moment, then nods.
“Stuart Graham. He’s the leader of the protest group. Against me selling the land. Everyone on Armitage Close. They’re up in arms. And then there’s that project in the village. Ex-offenders doing up furniture under some church thing. One of them might be . . .”
I stop him.
“OK. Let me put this another way, Mr. Price. You have a recently installed CCTV system with a camera right above your doorway and an entry system. Seems to be a lot of expense to go to just for some villagers with a bit of a problem.”
He loo
ks at Amy. She nods.
“We made some enemies down South. I grassed up someone for an armed robbery. But that was a couple of years ago. They’re still inside, got another seven or eight years to do yet. But you can’t be too safe, can you, with a kid in the house?”
“No. And what about the people you had over today?”
He shakes his head.
“No. They’d all gone. By that time. And anyway, I showed them out. I think I would have noticed if one of them had my daughter under their arm.”
Amy starts to sob again, and Marc comforts her. I stand up, and Damien follows my lead.
“Thank you very much. We’ll be in touch. I’ve asked for a family liaison officer to come round and stay with you tonight, and my colleague Lorraine Pascoe will be here tomorrow. She’ll make sure you’re kept up to date with everything. We’re going to put all this together now and get people out there.”
I go to leave but remember what Jim Stewart said.
“By the way, it would be best if you didn’t speak to the media. I’m hoping we find her very quickly, but if not, you will need to do an appeal.”
We walk a safe distance away from the house, and I look back and check the cameras again.
“So what do you make of that?”
Damien hands me Amy’s phone, and I look closely at the picture. The differences between Elise and Dara are obvious, but at first glance they could be the same child.
“It’s difficult, Jan. I think the Prices are on the level, but there are so many directions to investigate. It’s unlikely, but not impossible, that someone who opposes Marc Price’s business dealing would take her, but what would that gain them? It’s only leverage as long as they have her. I’d be more worried about the armed robbery. That sounds more like the scenario.” I look into the distance at the purple hills.
“I think this is something to do with Elise. I don’t know why. I’ve just got a feeling. And the photos of the little girls. So similar. But what? And what about these ex-offenders? Doesn’t that seem like the most likely starting point? We need to go through all their parole conditions and find out who’s who. And get Kent police to check out the people who Marc Price grassed up. Then we need to organize a door-to-door.”
Damien drives us back toward the city. He drops me off at my house and sits in my car until his taxi arrives. I watch as the car reverses into the cul-de-sac where I live, then pulls out onto the main road. I didn’t ask him in, and he didn’t hint. I’m too tired for pleasantries. My next-door neighbors’ door opens slightly, and Percy runs out. I shout goodnight, but there’s no response. Then I look at my watch and it’s eleven.
I go inside, into the darkness, and I think that it’s like stepping inside myself; cold and dull with pain. I’ve only worked on one child abduction case before, and Amy’s pain got to me. What mother wouldn’t feel it?
It comes to me immediately. Elise’s mother. Poor Amy Price is sitting there heartbroken, in so much pain she can hardly speak, and Elise’s mother just left her, at two years old, to fend for herself. How could someone do that? And how could Damien even think that there was some redeeming factor about her?
I need to switch off for the night. It’ll soon be morning, and I’ll need to be at the station at seven to organize the door-to-door. I need to show Jim Stewart that I can handle this, that I’m OK after Operation Prophesy. What he thought was an open-and-shut MisPer with not much chance of the mother ever coming forward has turned into full-blown child abduction, possibly with a link between the two. I want to find Dara, preferably before I get too attached to the idea of her.
I’ve heard grown men talk about how they’ve been emotionally crippled by child abduction cases, how they become so immersed in the case, so involved with the details of the child, that when the worst happens, they’ve gone to pieces.
I’m almost in pieces already, and I know it wouldn’t take much to break me. But I won’t let anyone else know that. Business as usual. I flick on the laptop in the lounge and it lights the pitch-black room.
I go onto Aiden’s Facebook. I look at the old pictures of Sal and him on holiday. And Selena. Are they all together on the beach now? It’s not that I mind her being with Sal. I couldn’t care less. But she’s suddenly me, and I don’t know who I am. It strikes me that I’m sitting in a cold, dark room, stalking my ex-husband’s girlfriend. A two-year-old girl is missing, possibly out there on the cold moors, and I’m looking on Facebook.
I leave a message for Aiden. Just in case he’s checking.
“Hi Aiden. Please get in touch. Just between you and me. I love you, Aidy. I love you very much.”
I love you very much. I try to smile when I say it, and remember that at least I know he’s alive, unlike poor Amy Price.
I flick the lamp on and call the operations room. Stan’s night shift replacement, Stuart Hable, answers.
“Hi, Stuart. Jan Pearce. Anyone there I can speak to about a case that’s just come in?”
There’s a pause. Stuart Hable isn’t friendly like Stan. He’s straight down the line and doesn’t give an inch.
“Evening DS Pearce. No. Sorry. No one’s here. ’Spect they’ve all been on the wrap-up.”
Of course. The party. Everyone’s there. No one to make any plans with except Stuart Hable.
“OK. Thanks Stuart. Can I ask you to pass a message on, please? Damien Booth and I are going straight to the scene of the crime tomorrow, but could you ask Mike and his team if they will have a look at CCTV around this postcode: OL3 9AF. And I’m going to need forensics and surveillance back really quickly on the MisPer I booked with Stan yesterday.”
Silence again.
“You there, Stuart?”
Eventually he answers.
“I’ll pass that on, DS Pearce. What’s the OL3 case?”
Fifth rule of professional surveillance—play your cards close to your chest for as long as possible. I don’t know how much Jim Stewart has mentioned, and I’m not about to upset him this early on.
“I expect DI Stewart will brief everyone in the morning.”
He hangs up on me without saying good-bye. One of the old school coppers who don’t really like the new way of doing things.
My phone beeps, and I see a text from an unknown number. It’s a photograph, split between Elise and Dara. I know it’s from Damien. I add his number to my contacts list quickly. Then it beeps again. It’s another text with a link to the Spotify playlist Lorraine built from the note in Elise’s hood. Then another beep. Another text.
Listen to this, then we need to talk.
Chapter 11
I click on the playlist and add it to my Spotify list. Damien wants me to listen to it, but that’s becoming a big problem. I recognize the songs, maybe I’ve heard them played on the radio in my car or in the background in a restaurant. Or maybe someone’s covered them on a TV talent show. But knowing what’s happened, knowing this case, I don’t want to listen to it.
I see one scenario, and Damien sees another. I see a woman who has committed the unspeakable taboo. Broken the code. Left their child alone and on a busy street, and hasn’t even returned to claim her. Even now, days later, she hasn’t slunk into the station admitting her mistake, searching for her child.
I’ve seen her. She’s young. But that’s no excuse. She’s still given birth to a child, and she has a responsibility to care for Elise. Just as Lorraine pointed out, Elise is two years old; her mother has managed to care for her for two years, even if she has left her in front of the TV for hours. Couldn’t she have taken her to social services or a relative? Or even left her with someone? But not alone.
Damien sees it a different way. He sees the mother as a victim. He sees her as a young person who’s made an error of judgment. Even before I listen to the playlist, I know what it is. It’s an account of her and Elise, a story of what she feels and what she wants Elise to feel when she hears it. My question is this: if she’s so concerned about Elise and how she feels, she should have kept
her. I can’t think of a single reason why she would have left her.
I don’t want to listen because I know it will tug at my heart, and I will start to feel something for Elise’s mother. I’m a police officer, and whichever way you look at the problem, she’s guilty of abandoning her child. And neglect. I check the social media channels and the local newspapers. Thousands of people on Facebook and Twitter agree with me. How can a mother leave her child alone? Where is Elise’s mum?
We always put out an appeal in cases like this, something official. This time the media got there first, someone leaked Elise’s story, but the official line is the same. We hope the mother will come forward, so we can help reunite her with her child. It doesn’t really work like that in practice. As soon as the parent turns up, we get social services in and charge them with whatever particular misdemeanor they have committed. Social services work with them to reach a solution.
It’s a no-win situation. The mother gets a criminal record; the child often goes into foster care or is returned to a mother who has already demonstrated she doesn’t want a child. That’s if the mother turns up. In this case she hasn’t, and now Damien wants me to listen to a playlist of songs that tells everyone how upset she is that she abandoned her child.
I plug in my headphones and press play.
Almost an hour later I’m sitting on my bed with Percy, tears streaming down my face. It could be me. Every word in all those songs could apply to me. But I haven’t left my child. I haven’t walked away from a two-year-old in a pram. Every word could apply to Amy Price. But she’s at the other end of the spectrum. Her child has been taken away from her. Damien’s right. There is a link. Regardless of circumstances, our hearts are breaking, even Elise’s mother, I concede, and I fall asleep wondering if this will harm or help the investigation.
I wake to my phone ringing. A text that follows is from Damien, and he tells me to ring him back. It rings once.
“Hi.”
He sounds sleepy.
Playlist for a Paper Angel (DS Jan Pearce Crime Fiction Series Book 3) Page 8
