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

by Jacqueline Ward

  But it isn’t enough. Not this time. I pick up a marker pen and go to the whiteboard. Rule nine of professional surveillance—keep all your options open. I draw a white van in the middle. This is the only evidence we have. I write “Dara” above it. Then I write Jeremy Cox, Lewis Sommers, and Charlotte Durose to the right of the van. I join Dara to the van, along with Jeremy Cox. Then I draw a woman. It was a woman driving the van, and a woman who took Lewis and Charlotte. Who both had a paper angel.

  Then, on the left of the sheet I write Elise. Had Elise’s mother meant to hand her over, but something had happened? I call Lorraine.

  “Hi, Jan. I’m just on my way over. What’s up?”

  “Hi, Lorraine. I need a favor. I need to see Elise.”

  “Oh. Right. Problem?”

  I sigh. This is going to sound crazy.

  “I need to show her something. To see if she recognizes it.”

  Lorraine laughs.

  “Unlikely. There’s been no real change. And aren’t you supposed to be looking for Dara?”

  “Yes. But this is important.”

  “OK. Meet me at the Primrose Lodge. She’s not been placed yet.”

  I call Damien. He’s got the angel. He doesn’t answer. So I cut one out of the back of a birthday card I have in my desk drawer for emergencies. I copy it carefully and put it in my pocket. Then I go to the compound and commandeer a white police van and driver. Near enough.

  When I get to Primrose Lodge, Lorraine gets out of her car.

  “What’s this about?”

  I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s a long shot, but I’ll explain everything back at the station.”

  A woman appears and Elise is walking beside her holding her hand. Her eyes have the same blank expression as before. Until she sees the van. She points at it and jumps up and down a little. I lift her up and bring the angel out of my pocket. Her eyes trace the outline of it, and she picks it up and points to the rearview mirror. Then she whispers something.

  “Angel.”

  My blood runs cold. I sit her in the van, and she pulls at the seatbelt. Then she holds her hands up and shrugs her shoulders.

  “Where Christine?”

  She’s looking at the driver’s seat. I pick her out of the van, and she begins to cry.

  “Chris. Chris. Where Christine?”

  She’s kicking her legs, and the social worker takes her back inside. Lorraine looks at me.

  “This had better be good.”

  I let the van go, and Lorraine drives me back the short way to the station. She doesn’t speak to me all the way there, and I wonder if I’m on the right track after all, or if all I have are just a web of tenuous links. I guess we’ll find out in a minute. She parks, and we walk silently to surveillance. She takes her jacket off and throws it on a chair.

  “Let’s have it then. Let’s see what you got. And if it doesn’t involve finding Dara in the next twenty-four hours, I’m out, Jan. I’m out.”

  I show her the whiteboard and explain the established links. Then I draw a thick black line linking Elise to the white van, and Elise to the angel. I write the name “Christine” above the matchstick woman. Then I turn around.

  She’s staring open-mouthed. Then she sits down.

  “So there are three reported cases of missing kids in Greenfield?”

  I shake my head.

  “Not reported. No. Because their mothers are missing, too. And I just found two more in the door-to-doors.”

  She stares at me for another moment.

  “And they’re all linked to the woman and the white van?”

  “One way or another. Yes. I went to social services, and one of the social workers told me about Jeremy Cox. His mother tried to arrange a legal adoption but didn’t go through with it. He was taken out of school around the same time. The head teacher saw him a week later in a white van with a woman who wasn’t his mother. Then the mother disappeared.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Shit. And you reckon this woman was on her way to pick up Elise when we found her?”

  “Maybe. But that doesn’t explain why she was there alone.”

  Lorraine snorts.

  “Really? It seems to me that the poor little bugger spent most of her life alone. What difference would half an hour on a busy street mean to a young girl who’s hell-bent on leaving her kid?”

  I rock back on my chair.

  “The other puzzling thing is that both Elise and her mother have been all over the papers, TV, and Internet. But not one single person has come forward to identify the mother. Not one. Even the shop where I got the CCTV from didn’t really recognize her. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  I run the CCTV on the screen. Lorraine sighs heavily.

  “Everygirl. Generic single parent. Under the radar. Anonymous. Maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”

  I nod.

  “But how is she living? She must have been living nearby, in Greenfield, to be shopping there. We got some more unclear footage of her walking down the road toward the shop weeks before. No baby though.”

  “There’s a whole network of people like her, Jan. For one reason or another, they’re not living the lives we have. Usually involves some kind of criminal activity. They’re completely anonymous. Often using fake IDs. Not usually with a kid, but she clearly was. My money’s on her being a runaway. Probably changed her appearance.”

  I turn full circle and look at the whiteboard again.

  “So what if the other five are just runaways? What if I’m wrong?”

  Right on cue my mobile rings. It’s Mike. I put him on speakerphone.

  “Right. I’ve done it. All three child benefits are being paid into current accounts at the addresses you gave to me. All three women were working part-time at some point, and all three have stopped paying national insurance but have not made additional benefit claims. All three have lapsed Working Family Benefit claims at the same addresses you gave me. Alana Cox hasn’t used her bank account since last November, Kerry Durose for about a year, and Dawn Sommers for eighteen months.”

  I wait. I can hear him breathing heavily. He knows what this is just as much as I do. Eventually I speak.

  “Thanks, Mike. Thanks for doing that.”

  He’s choked, I can hear it in his voice.

  “Anytime, partner. And well done. I didn’t doubt you for a minute.”

  Chapter 22

  I turn back to the whiteboard and draw a question mark through the missing women’s names. Then I turn back to Lorraine. She looks angry.

  “So why’s Stewart got half of Oldham and Ashton’s probation community in the cells?”

  I shake my head.

  “To be fair, I only just pulled this together. It’s not clear-cut, is it?”

  She’s on a roll.

  “And where’s Damien Booth? Isn’t he supposed to be helping you?”

  “I pissed him off. He wanted to pursue this line earlier, and I went with Stewart.”

  Lorraine’s fuming.

  “Mmm. I can see why you did that. Under pressure.”

  I take the plunge. I need to talk to her about Aiden.

  “Yeah. Pressure. Can I just run something by you, Lorraine? Something personal?”

  She nods.

  “Yeah. But make it quick. We need to find this angel woman. And the kid.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “It’s about Aiden. I’m struggling. And I . . .”

  I stop short of saying that I know where he is and I’m protecting him. Lorraine sits down in front of me.

  “God. After everything that’s happened, I’m surprised it’s not worse.”

  “I had a phone call. Unidentified number. Twice. Two different numbers. And a Facebook message. But then his account was deleted.”

  I’ve said too much. She might start looking into it and find out I know he’s with Sal.

  “Look. I don’t know what’s happened to him. You don’t, either. Th
e only thing you know for sure is that he wasn’t on that list of dead kids up at the Gables. Give it time. If he’s out there, he’ll get in touch. He will.”

  She smiles and covers my hand with hers. It’s the first human contact I’ve had for ages apart from hugs with Elise.

  “Will he? I’m seriously doubting it.”

  Like most people do when I talk about Aiden, she changes the subject.

  “Speaking professionally, though, you need to either go off sick or carry on. You need to find Dara. If you’re not up to it, give it to someone else. Someone who can give it everything.”

  I persist.

  “Another thing that bothers me is that it’s all wrapped up with this case. The mother thing. Like when we found Elise. I couldn’t and I still can’t imagine that any woman would leave her child. And then when I found out about those girls handing their kids over to that woman, Christine. It’s unthinkable. And illegal. But apart from it being against the law, it just doesn’t happen. Does it?”

  She’s been doodling on a piece of paper until now. She stops abruptly.

  “But you said that no complaint has been made. Playing devil’s advocate, Jan, it isn’t illegal to have someone look after your child. Even long-term. Didn’t this woman offer to give the girls their kids back in exchange for the angel?”

  I nod. That’s what the social worker said.

  “Yeah. Damien said it was attachment theory. A kind of receipt to convince them. But whether it’s illegal or not, it’s wrong. I know adoption goes on, through social services, but that’s a system where the child comes first. I just can’t see why someone would hand their child over to someone who isn’t in that system? Not something we deal with every day, is it?”

  “Desperation? Time to sort yourself out, then you get the child back? Can’t do that with adoption.”

  “Come on, Lorraine. Who’s that fucking desperate?”

  She laughs.

  “Hey, I’m not defending it. I’m just saying it’s more common than you think. You must have heard the term ‘farmed out’?”

  I nod.

  “Yeah, ’course I have. But that means having your children looked after while you work.”

  “Not originally. Years ago women who had loads of kids gave some of them to people who would look after them short-term. The mother would pay them. Called them baby farmers.”

  I stare at her.

  “You’re kidding me? Isn’t that just hearsay? How could that have gone on?”

  “It did. Desperate times. It gave all the children in the family a better chance of survival. No contraception. No social services. No benefits system. It was that or the workhouse.”

  I’ve heard people say “farmed out.” I’ve even said it myself. But really?

  “I find it really hard to believe, Lorraine. I just can’t see how someone would—”

  She interrupts me.

  “Believe it, sister. And I’m telling you, those women were ruthless. They stopped it because the children became untraceable. No proper records were kept, and there was no way of knowing what happened to the children. But you can’t hide a body for long, can you?”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  “Yeah. But you need to do something now. About Dara. There’s something different about Dara that suggests something has changed. We need to find her. Because whether this woman is the modern day equivalent of a baby farmer or not, and whatever the teenagers’ bloody morals are who are giving their kids away, there’s an endgame.”

  She’s right. There’s a reason Christine’s doing this.

  “Yeah. I know. What’s she doing with them? At first I thought their mothers had just collected them, then done a runner. But they haven’t run anywhere. They’ve just disappeared. So where are the kids? And where are the mothers?”

  We sit for a while, then Lorraine picks up her bag.

  “I need to go up to the Prices’. Look. You need to take this to Stewart and make your case. He can’t ignore this now. Call me if you need backup.”

  She hugs me.

  “And good luck.”

  She leaves, and I stare at the whiteboard. I take a photo of it on my mobile phone and message it to Damien.

  “Ring me.”

  Then I go downstairs and march through ops straight into Jim Stewart’s office. He’s on the phone but ends the call as I enter.

  “Jan. What can I do for you?”

  I sit down.

  “Has anything come of the interviews with the ex-offenders, sir? I notice from the logs that you’ve got Peters under continuous surveillance. Did DVLA confirm his story?”

  Stewart shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Yes. It all checked out. And no, nothing new from the ex-offenders. Peters still isn’t talking. We’ve got someone there mainly to stop the press from getting to him, or to Marc Price.”

  I nod.

  “So you’ve got nothing at all?”

  I’m staring right at him, making eye contact. He resists.

  “No. Not yet. But I’m hoping that . . .”

  “Could I suggest that we get someone to trace all white vans in the area? High-top Ford vans in the OL3 area. Unless you’ve already done that?”

  He shakes his head.

  “No, Jan. We’ve been over this. We’ve got the vehicle.”

  “But there’s no positive ID on that vehicle. And no forensics.”

  “But we’ve got a witness putting the van and Peters in the right place at the right time. We just need to get him to talk. I’m surprised you haven’t been out to see him, Jan.”

  “I haven’t been because I don’t think it’s him. The witness could be mistaken. I’m going to call him in again. Someone says he takes the van home on weekends, but surveillance shows he takes the car. Inconsistencies, sir. With respect, what you have now won’t stand up at DPP.”

  He leans forward.

  “I hope you’re not going to start on about that girl. The blonde kiddie who looks like Dara. Dead end, Jan.”

  “No, it’s not, sir. I went through the witness reports. There are strong links between accounts from people in the village, and even if it wasn’t connected to this case, it would merit a separate investigation. That’s my recommendation. Sir. So I’d like to go ahead with it.”

  He stands up and walks around me to shut the door properly.

  “I thought we’d been through all this? You might have some jumped-up stories from people who like a bit of drama, making the most of a missing child case, but what else have you got? No evidence and no positive IDs.”

  “I’ve got an eyewitness from someone who saw the white van with a different child in it a couple of months ago, one who also went missing.”

  He laughs loudly.

  “Went missing, or went out with Grandma? Where’s the MisPer report, Jan? Where’s the complaint? You’re making something out of fuck all.”

  It stirs something inside me. I thought things would be different now. I thought that after all that had happened, he would understand me. Cut me some slack. But he’s just reverted to type.

  “Again? This happened last time. And look what happened.”

  We stare at each other, deadlocked. He breaks the tension.

  “Get back on this case. Stop thinking about that kid you found. That’s over now. We need to find Dara Price. We’ve got teams all over the place, combing the fucking wilderness up there. If there’s a white van within ten miles of Greenfield, we’ll see it. Twenty-four hours, Jan, that’s all we’ve got. Twenty-four hours before Marc Price has all our asses whipped in front of the whole of the press. And if he gets wind of this . . .”

  I shake my head and leave in the middle of his sentence. There’s no point staying. He’s set in his ways, a hard-evidence man to the end.

  I walk down to the evidence room and look at the forensics report from the white van. Nothing found in there at all. Except some dog hair. No trace of Dara or anyone else. I check to make sure that all areas of the van
had been checked. Jeremey Cox was seen in the front of the van, and Elise wanted to sit in the front. Nothing found in the front, either. Not cleaned. Not scrubbed recently. Just a dirty work van.

  I go through to the evidence table and look at all the bagged items from Dara’s room. Teddy bears, books, sheets and a duvet, clothes, a tiny silver bracelet. I read the inscription, “The most beautiful girl in the world.” Where is she?

  There are smaller bags of tiny fibers from the carpet and the window sill. I pick up the SOCOs photographs, most of which have been blown up to poster size. A little girl’s bedroom. Stylish, very Amy Price. Like the rest of the house, all white and pastel colors. Dara’s bed is white and pink. Her pillow is hand-embroidered with her name, and I look carefully at it.

  There are blonde hairs on the pillow, minute strands of Dara’s downy hair. But at the edge of the pillow is a shape. It looks like the edge of a leaf cut out of white paper. I scrabble through the photos until I find the next frame in the series. And the next part of the shape. I drop the photographs on the floor and sort manically though the evidence bags, scattering them all around. After several attempts, I find it. A tiny paper angel in an evidence bag, its face pressed against the plastic.

  I rush to the phone and dial Jim Stewart’s extension. It rings out for ages. So I call Stan.

  “Where’s Jim? I need to talk to him.”

  “Just went out in a right huff. Said if you want anything doing, do it yourself. Watch out, Jan. I think he’s gunning for you.”

  I replace the receiver and look at the angel. I check the forensics report, and it’s listed as a paper object. Anyone can see it’s an angel. The entry next to it states the type of paper, its weight, and that no forensic evidence is present.

  I stand in the silence and wonder what has happened to those children. And my phone beeps a text. It’s Damien.

  32 percent

  Chapter 23

  I call him. I need to talk to him, I need his help. I’m not going to be able to do this legitimately, not now that Jim Stewart’s blocked my authority and got on the case himself. I have to move fast. I have to move fast anyway to find Dara. I dial Damien’s number, and he answers this time.