Playlist for a Paper Angel (DS Jan Pearce Crime Fiction Series Book 3)

by Jacqueline Ward

  “I knew it. I fucking knew it. Fannying around with those fucking ex-cons. Get them all in.”

  He’s out of control. It’s only a matter of time until he goes to the press. I need to move quickly now.

  “We need to have some kind of evidence before we arrest people, Mr. Price. I’ve come to ask you if you would both be prepared to take part in a televised appeal for Dara.”

  He’s got his coat on before I can finish. Lorraine is helping Amy into her jacket, and Marc Price grabs my arm and pulls me to one side.

  “What’re the chances then? Level with me. It’s Jan, isn’t it? Have you got kids? Wouldn’t you want to know?”

  Damien’s words come back to me—51 percent. And I know his estimate was optimistic. The chances of Dara being alive, without a ransom for her, reduces with every minute.

  “The chances are still good, Mr. Price. And the appeal will help. They usually jog people’s memories, and we get new information.”

  A small voice comes from the hallway.

  “Is it national? Marc? Only won’t people in London know where we are then?”

  He looks at me. I can see he’s weighing his options. He’s clearly in the shit and doesn’t want to be recognized, yet he wants to find his daughter.

  “I’ll take my chances. Those fuckers won’t want to know about a missing kid.”

  They get into Lorraine’s car, and we all drive to the station. There’s a convoy of press behind us, and when we arrive, they fall back and rush to the press entrance to get ready for the appeal. I usher the Prices into the room and show them the setup.

  “It’s just like you’ve seen before. You sit at the front. Me and my DI will sit with you, and Lorraine will be on the other side.”

  Lorraine nods, and we go into the next room and sit silently until the press has filed in. Jim Stewart arrives, and we all take our places. Cameras flash, and there’s a red hue of recording lights through the crowd of journalists. Steve Blake, the station head of PR briefs them.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We’re here today to appeal to the public for information about the disappearance of Dara Price. Mr. and Mrs. Price have kindly agreed to attend and personally appeal for the return of their only child. We will listen to their appeal first, then you may ask questions for a limited period. The questions will be answered by our team, not Mr. and Mrs. Price.”

  Lorraine turns to Amy Price.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Amy.”

  Amy pushes her hair back. She’s very thin, her skin tightly drawn across her cheeks, and her eyes are dark. She looks nervously around, and we all nod at her. She begins.

  “I’m Dara’s mother. I’ve cared for Dara every day of her life, and now she’s gone. If anyone knows anything, no matter how small or if you think it’s insignificant, please, please tell us. Please find my daughter. Please, if you know anything, even if you want to be anonymous, please tell the police.”

  All eyes are on Marc Price now. He’s shifting around in his seat, and he stares menacingly back. Suddenly he springs up.

  “I’m telling you now, you evil fucking bastard, if you harm a hair on her head, I’ll come after you. I’ll fucking come after you.”

  We all stand up and usher him out. We’re in the back room, and he’s still fuming. He’s nose to nose with Jim Stewart now.

  “I’ve just risked everything to do this. There are people I definitely don’t want knowing where I am, but I’ve had to go on national TV because she can’t do her job properly.”

  He spins round, and they both stare at me. This time I’m ready.

  “To be fair, Mr. Price, you didn’t do yourself any favors there. Drawing attention to yourself instead of the investigation. And neither you nor your wife told us that Dara has a heart condition. We could have publicized it and heightened the concern of the public. You need to work with us. And I am doing my job. I’m doing exactly what DI Stewart wants me to do.”

  Jim Stewart stares at me. I can feel a burning in the pit of my stomach. This just isn’t right. Three days, two nights, and no one has any idea where Dara is. Dara with a heart condition. Time really is of the essence. And now Damien’s gone AWOL. Marc Price carries on with his rant, and Amy is crying and being comforted by Lorraine.

  “So you’re all in this together? Who’s leading this operation? Have you even looked at those bastards from London to see if any of them are out?”

  He’s grasping at straws now. Pushing blame. Hitting out.

  “Of course we have. None of them are. And we’ve looked at every single name you gave us. Every person had a confirmable alibi for Sunday afternoon and evening. We’ve got people down South making sure that all the potential suspects are not sneaking off somewhere to attend to a captive.”

  Amy lets out a cry at this point, but I continue.

  “The problem is, Mr. Price, that someone has taken your daughter. It’s their fault she is missing, and not mine. We are doing everything in our power to find out who that person, or persons, is. But you live in a remote location surrounded by moorland with very little surveillance opportunity. Hardly any CCTV. We’ve conducted door-to-door at every local address. I’ve done some of it personally. But, as yet, we have had no credible witness reports.”

  He calms a little.

  “Fair enough. So why have you arrested someone?”

  I look at Jim.

  “Sir?”

  Jim Stewart reddens.

  “He’s helping with our inquiries. We have reason to believe he might have information. If it’s any consolation, I’ve increased the manpower on this case, and Jan, here, will be around the local area conducting more inquiries and coordinating the investigation.”

  Marc Price nods and smiles and pushes his hands in his pockets.

  “Right. Well, if you don’t find her in twenty-four hours, I’m going to the press. If my daughter isn’t back with me by four o’clock on Thursday, I’m going to be holding my own press conference and telling them what a shit job you’re doing. And there’s every chance she’s ill now. If anything happens to her, it’ll be your fault.”

  Lorraine guides them out, and he eyeballs me until the door shuts. I’m alone with Jim now, and this is my chance to reason with him. But he rounds on me.

  “What’s this about the kid being ill? Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “I only just found out myself, sir. They didn’t tell anyone. Not even Lorraine. Not until just now.”

  “Well, we’ll play on that. Raise awareness.”

  I try again.

  “Sir, I know you don’t think there’s anything in my earlier suggestion about . . .”

  He turns around, furious.

  “Babysitting? Jesus, Jan. Get fucking real. It’s all hearsay. I fucking dread what you’re going to say next.”

  “I wasn’t working alone though. You put me with Damien Booth, and he’s followed this line of inquiry when I was concentrating on the project. So why did you put me with him if you don’t want the soft evidence?”

  He nods and sniggers.

  “Soft evidence? That’s one of his, is it? No evidence, more like. Fucking trick cyclist. Nothing to do with me, Jan. Orders from the powers that be. He’s a profiler. I just thought he could profile something. Not put stupid ideas in your head. This started as a MisPer on that kid’s mother. I thought you could handle that, but I’m not sure about this.”

  I laugh. I know he still thinks I’m not ready to come back to work after Operation Prophesy.

  “I can, sir. I haven’t missed a beat. I’ve done everything that should be done, down South and up here. All inquiries are up to date on the job list. So I can handle it.”

  He walks to the door.

  “Everything except find the kid. I want a firm lead by Thursday morning. Something I can tell Marc Price before he sells his story. It’s your neck on the line, Jan, so you’d better step up.”

  Chapter 19

  I storm out of the building, past Lorrai
ne and the Prices in the reception area. Past the camera flashes of the reporters and journalists outside. Past my colleagues who are waiting for the people carriers to take them to Greenfield. Into my car, which I reverse abruptly out of my parking space and turn out of the car park with a screech of tires.

  It’s not Peters. I know it isn’t. I know that in about an hour, when the CCTV from Tesco has been viewed, he will have been there, and it will show him walking back through the car park and up to the pub. I stop at some traffic lights and stare into an electrical shop. There are huge TVs in the window, and the lunchtime news bulletin is starting.

  I watch as a picture of Dara is flashed on the screen, followed by a close-up of Marc Price looking even more aggressive than in real life. A picture of Julian Peters. I don’t even need to hear the words to know how that story is writing itself.

  Shit. I need to work fast. After they have the CCTV proof that it’s not him, he’ll be released. Then Marc Peters will be baying for my blood. Where can Dara be? I consider all the options.

  She could be anywhere. But the only evidence we have are the two interview reports of previous children and young women going missing. I’m almost afraid to follow it up, but I can’t get Damien’s argument out of my mind. He’s convinced, and I’ve got nothing else to go on.

  So I drive out to Oldham. I park outside social services and go in. I show my warrant card to the receptionist, and she calls someone. Minutes later, a small woman with dark hair appears.

  “Shelly Dubac.”

  I shake her hand.

  “Jan Pearce. Greater Manchester Police. I’m on the Dara Price inquiry, and I’d like to ask someone in your department about Greenfield Village.”

  She leads me through to a small interview room, plusher than the police interview rooms. This one has pictures and a laptop on a low table opposite an orange sofa. She waves at me to sit down.

  “Right, Jan. Is that OK? Jan? What can we do for you?”

  I think. Why am I here? There’s a half-formed question in the back of my mind that springs from finding Elise, Dara going missing, and the young girls who gave their babies up.

  “Jan’s just fine. I’ve been doing door-to-door interviews, and it seems like some of the young women have given up their young children to a woman in exchange for a kind of token. She says that if they go back for the baby and present the token, then they can have the child back. I’m trying to work out if this is what has happened with the child we found in the Ashton town center last Saturday.”

  I pause.

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Greenfield is very quiet as far as we are concerned. The only thing that sticks out about Greenfield is the high birth rate among young girls. But that’s partly to do with Dr. O’Donnell. He doesn’t believe in abortion, and he won’t refer any women for them. By the time we become aware, or they find out about Brook, it’s too late. Young girls aren’t well known for disclosing pregnancies immediately.”

  “Oh. How unusual.”

  “Not really. Lots of doctors won’t refer. Older women find a private solution, but teenage girls are unlikely to be able to find the money. So they wait until someone notices. By then, abortions aren’t available.”

  I nod.

  “So when they have the baby, would they not consider adoption?”

  She smiles.

  “It’s an option. But we encourage mothers to keep their babies whenever possible. Adoption isn’t an easy option, and there’s no going back. The birth parent can sometimes see their child with the adoptive family, but there is no return clause. Off the top of my head, I don’t think that there have been any adoptions involving young people from Greenfield in the past five years.”

  “So going back to the interview reports, how would you view a young woman handing her child over to someone else temporarily?”

  She thinks for a moment.

  “If it was assumed to be permanent or any money had exchanged, it would be illegal. But if the baby was just staying with someone else for a while, well, I’m not sure. It would depend on the circumstances, such as if it was a family member or not. Or if the person was a registered childminder.”

  “And you’ve had no reports about children being given away? Or young women not returning when they have gone back to get them?”

  She frowns.

  “No. But this sounds worrying. Have the girls not been reported missing to yourselves?”

  I shake my head.

  “No. Nothing. In both cases there’s been some family conflict around their leaving.”

  She nods.

  “Mmm. Shame. Fear. All common emotions in families when young people become parents.”

  Damien. He said that. Where the hell is he?

  “Yes. Exactly. It’s almost as if their families are relieved they’ve gone. Some parts of the family. And why would they report them to either of us if they didn’t want them to come back?”

  Shelly leans back on the sofa.

  “Well, if there have been no reports to either of us, then we couldn’t have known about it. We don’t even know if it’s true. Or if it’s the same person who the kids are handed over to. It would need a full investigation. What’s this got to do with the missing child?”

  I sigh. I toy with telling her about the paper angels, but decide not to. No time for a full investigation. I need a major breakthrough in this investigation in forty-eight hours. Or less.

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to work it out. Thank you, Shelly. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll make sure that the data we have is passed on to you.”

  She shows me out. As I leave she calls me back.

  “Jan. I just had a thought. There was one woman who requested putting her four-year-old up for adoption. About eighteen months ago. Her husband had died, and she had no relatives. She was quite ill with depression. Went on for quite a while, toing and froing, then just days before we were going to pick up the child, she changed her mind. Said she’d found someone to help her look after him. As far as I know, she’s still living in Greenfield. The little boy, Jeremy Cox I think, he was in nursery school. He’d be in school now.”

  She leans over the desk and checks the computer.

  “Here she is; Twenty-Two Lovers Lane. We should have been out to . . . oh. No one’s been out. We’re so busy and Greenfield is not at the top of our priorities.”

  I leave and head for Lovers Lane. I drive out over the moors. Today, the heather-clad hills dip into the low mist, and I wonder if Dara is out there somewhere. Maybe we’ve all got it wrong. Maybe she’s lying dead in a ditch or behind a rock. I check my phone for any news and there’s a text from Lorraine.

  Julian Peters released on bail. Rest of ex-offenders brought in for questioning. Call me.

  As I pull up at Twenty-Two Lovers Lane, I call Lorraine.

  “Hi Jan. Listen, Marc Price is very angry. About Peters. He’s talking about taking justice into his own hands. Have you and Damien got anything else I can tell him? Anything at all.”

  I pause. Is there something? I look at Twenty-Two Lovers Lane. The garden is overgrown, and takeout menus are sticking out of the letter box and spilling out over the concrete steps at the front of the house.

  “I’ll call you back in just a second, Lorraine.”

  I end the call and Google St. Jude’s nursery. I know it’s the only school in the village. I’m getting to know Greenfield really well. I dial the number and wait.

  “St. Jude’s Church of England School. How can I help you?”

  “Hi. This is DS Jan Pearce. I’m on my way round to the school. When I get there, I’ll need to know attendance details for a Jeremy Cox of Twenty-Two Lovers Lane.”

  I end the call and drive to the school. The head teacher meets me in reception.

  “Hello, DS Pearce. I’ve seen you around the village. Is this about Dara?”

  I shake my head.

  “Not directly. And I’d appreciate it if you keep this to yourself. I’m interested in
Jeremy Cox. And his attendance.”

  She nods.

  “Well, that’s easy. He was taken out of school about eighteen months ago. Never came back. His mother told me that he was going to stay with his grandmother in Ireland. But the funny thing is, I saw him about a month later being driven up Mossley Road. He was sitting in the front of a . . .”

  “White van?”

  She nods.

  “Yes. And then I saw him again a day later outside the pharmacy on the High Street. In the same van.”

  “Who was driving the van? Man? Woman? Anyone familiar?”

  She thinks.

  “It was a woman. I thought it might be his grandmother at first, but then I realized I’d seen her before. Now and again, in the village. Smallish woman, brown hair. And the van. White Transit van. Seemed too big for her, if you know what I mean? Tiny woman like that driving a big van. One of those with the high roof. Dangly thing in the front window. Some kind of doll. Maybe she is related to him or something?”

  She looks worried now.

  “Maybe I should have said something? Oh my god, what if it’s . . .”

  “We don’t know anything for certain yet. But I’ll keep you fully informed, I promise. I’ll send someone to take a statement. Have you seen Jeremy since?”

  “No. Haven’t seen Alana, either. His mother. Don’t know what happened to her.”

  I turn to go.

  “Thank you, I really appreciate it. I might be back for more information.”

  She smiles.

  “I hope you find Dara.”

  So do I. And soon. I call Lorraine back.

  “Hi. You can tell Marc Price that we’re following another line of inquiry. I’m not quite sure what yet, but it’s forming quickly. And if you see Damien . . .”

  “Oh. Isn’t he with you? I saw him this morning. He was in Greenfield when I brought Amy and Marc back. He was doing door-to-door as far as I could see.”

  “Thanks, Lorraine. I need to see you in the morning. I’ve got some stuff to talk over with you. Sanity test on this new line of inquiry.”

  She’s silent for a moment. Then she whispers.

  “For god’s sake, Jan, find that kid. I’m getting worried here. Marc Price is very pissed off, and I think he’s got a rifle or something. And Amy’s off her head on sedatives. She has to be somewhere, Jan. I’ll meet you in ops tomorrow.”