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

by Jacqueline Ward

  I kick at the gravel again, send it spraying into a window box. A few grains land on a ridge in the pathway. I watch as they sink down and make a ravine. I clear away the top layer of stones with my foot and see that there seems to be an elongated grid. About three feet by one foot. More stones cascade into it, and I count one second as they hit a hard surface and echo.

  “She’s in the cellar.”

  Damien and I rush into the house and look for the cellar door. He hurries to the back of the kitchen.

  “It’s usually under the stairs.”

  He feels along the back wall, pushing aside tartan blankets hung on hooks. He pulls away several coats but finds nothing. No doorway or handle. I open the pantry cupboards again and feel around under the bottom shelves and along the terra-cotta flooring.

  “It’s not here.”

  We stand in the middle of the kitchen. Rule ten of professional surveillance—know where to look.

  “Trapdoor. It has to be.”

  We clear away the rag rugs, and there it is. Under the Welcome to My Little Home mat. A barely discernible oblong covered with the same material as the floor. At the far end is a brass ring that fits snugly against the surface in a palm-size depression. Damien lifts the ring and pulls up the door.

  There’s an overpowering sickly sweet smell, like pear drops covering chemicals. The steps are painted brick red and begin immediately as the floor drops away. Narrow and steep, they stretch into the darkness of the cellar. We both listen, but there’s no sound at all. I whisper to Damien.

  “We shouldn’t both go down. What if she’s not down there at all and it’s a trick? She might be waiting for us to go down there so she can lock us in and take off.”

  He nods.

  “I’ll go.”

  I hold his arm.

  “No. I’ll go. I got us into this. I’ll get us out of it. Where the fuck is backup? They should be here by now. Someone should be here.”

  I take out my phone and switch on the flashlight app. If she is down here, she’ll know I’m here, too. I creep down the steps, shining the light into the darkness. It appears to be just a big open space. Pieces of wood lie here and there against the whitewashed walls.

  There’s a small scattering of pebbles resting on some plastic that is sealing a grid. It’s very clean. Almost too clean. All the cellars I’ve ever been in have been covered in cobwebs and spiders. No dust in the beam of light that stretches feet in front of me.

  Suddenly there’s a movement. I see a small slit of very dim light underneath a panel set into the wall. A shadow moves across it, just outside my light beam, and it draws my eye. I tiptoe over to the panel and push it. No movement. I get my bearings and look at the layout of the cellar. It should be perfectly oblong, like the cottage, but it corners out here before the end of the building. There’s a small area bricked off.

  The brickwork is newer red brick, unlike the character stone of the cottage. This room would be underneath the far side of the kitchen, under the sink and the Aga. Under the pantry where all the medical supplies are kept.

  I walk around the other side of the room, and there are some wooden crates stacked up on top of one another. Farther around, there is a light switch and a strip light on the wall. I flick the switch, and the whole area is illuminated in bright white rays.

  It’s pristine. Just like the perfect cottage above me. Even the floor is stark white. I go back to the panel and listen. I can hear a dim sound, like someone singing far, far away. At first I wonder if someone left a radio on, but then I realize that not many radio stations play nursery rhymes. The voice, a woman, is singing children’s songs.

  There’s no way in. The wooden panel fits snugly into the frame, and there doesn’t seem to be a way to even get a finger around it to try to pry it free. She’s obviously locked it from the inside. The more she sings the more I can feel my temper rising. She knows what’s going on, and all she can do is sing those songs, those precious songs from Aiden’s and my early days. The songs my mother sung to me. She’s soiling my memory of the two of us cuddled up in a chair at bedtime, singing away to Aiden’s toy radio.

  “Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder what you are.”

  Until now, even the sound of it softened my insides and melted my heart. But this woman, this child abductor, stands here facing her own demise, and still sings the songs of the mothers and children whose lives she has ruined. I rush back up the cellar stairs, past Damien and unlock the back door. I’d seen gardening tools on my earlier reconnaissance mission, and now I grab a spade and a small axe.

  I rush back into the kitchen and past Damien.

  “Is she down there?”

  He looks scared. Of me, not her.

  “Yes. But don’t worry; I’m only breaking a door down. I want her alive.”

  He follows me down the red steps and watches as I launch myself at the door. I’m not making much headway and, sensing it might be a while until I unlock her cell, he walks around looking at the walls. I see him out of the corner of my eye, picking up pieces of wood and feeling the walls. He disappears around the corner and I hack away at the door, my arms heavy. I pick up the spade ready to pry the damaged door open. Just as I lift it, Damien reappears from around the corner. His arms are hanging limply by his side, and his head is tilted to one side. A single tear runs down his cheek.

  Our eyes meet, and in that one look he tells me of the sorrow of anyone who has ever found a dead child. I know, even before I put the spade down and follow him around the corner, what I am about to see. Even though I think I know what to expect, it’s worse. A child, around two years old, bundled into a wooden crate. Still dressed in cotton pajamas, still holding his dummy tightly. Impossible to say who it is, because this little boy has been here a while. Damien looks at me.

  “It doesn’t matter how many I see. It never gets any easier.”

  It suddenly strikes me that he would make a good father. I hurry back around the corner and pick up the spade. There’s just enough space to lever it in between the door and the door frame. Once in, I push it with all my body weight, and the panel pops open.

  The first thing I see is a row of paper angels. Hanging across the wall like some horrific Christmas decoration, a line of angels, the same size as the one that was left with Dawn Sommers. They’re coated with silver glitter, and as the air from the outer room rushes in behind me, some of the glitter cascades down. The room is full of baby accessories, several cots against the wall, mobiles with little cows and dancing clowns on them. Teddy bears and dolls. The singing has changed to a low hum now, she’s moved on to “Hush-a-Bye Baby.”

  I can hardly take it in. I quickly check the cots, which are, thankfully, empty.

  Damien appears at the door. He watches as I check the prams. I’m screaming inside. And if Damien weren’t here now, I fear for what I would do next. But I keep my calm. I’ve already lost it with Lisa, and now I’m so near to a result.

  I’ve resisted looking at her until now. She isn’t going anywhere, so I look around, opening drawers, finding more syringes. In another drawer there are vials of liquid, and I’m reminded of the time my father and I took Buster, my childhood pet, to the vet. The humming has changed to “Ring-a-Ring-of-Roses.” I turn the vial over in my hand and there’s a number on the back of it. SOCOs should be here any minute. Why are they taking so long?

  The smell in here is overwhelming. It’s a mixture between putrid and disinfectant, and I see that the floor has been scrubbed recently, leaving bleach marks. I’ve walked right around the perimeter of the room now and I’m standing in front of her, a small woman in her late forties. Mousy hair and a tight expression. Her lips are pursed together but not without the hint of a smile. She’s wearing a white lab coat and holding a child of about one year old in her arms. It’s a boy, apparently sleeping. I press my hand against his cheek, but he’s cold and still. His tiny fingers are stiff. One of the arms of his thin blue baby jumper is rolled up to the elbow, and a cann
ula is inserted into a vein in his arm.

  “Give me the baby, Christine.”

  She looks up at me, all coy, through her lashes. I step forward. It’s only then I see that she’s holding a syringe.

  “Give me the baby. Then we can talk.”

  I feel Damien backing away from me.

  “Jesus Christ, Jan. Where’s SOCOs? We need backup.”

  I speak to him without turning round.

  “No time. They’ll be here in a minute. Hear that, Christine? More people are coming. You’re busted. Give it up.”

  She goes to push the syringe into the little boy’s arm, but I knock it away and try to grab him. She holds on, and in some tragic tug-of-war I win and feel the cold flesh against mine. She suddenly lets go. I lay the dead child in a cot and stand in front of her. She sits down again and resumes the humming. I look around the room. There’s no way out of here. No way out of the cellar.

  I leave the room and climb the steep red stairs.

  “I’ve left her down there. Bringing her up would be too much of a struggle. We can’t do anything for those poor kids now. And like you said, she knows the layout; she could make a run for it.”

  He nods.

  “Good plan. Where the hell are SOCOs?”

  I reach for my mobile. It’s exactly 4:00 p.m. Then the landline rings.

  Chapter 32

  Damien and I look at the phone then at each other. Although it’s fairly easy to imagine what horrors have been going on here, it’s tempting to find out every detail and whether anyone else might be involved. I pick up the receiver. Damien puts his finger to his lips and I nod. I listen.

  “Hello? Ann? I’m around the lane now. I’m coming for the pickup. Have it ready in five minutes. OK?”

  I scratch the receiver, make a crackling noise. There’s a pause.

  “Look. It’s a bad line. Have it ready. I’ll be round in a sec. Cheerio.”

  I recognize the voice. I can’t place it, but it sounds familiar somehow.

  “Someone’s coming round. For a pickup.”

  Damien nods.

  “Bingo. She couldn’t have been working alone.”

  I nod.

  “Yeah. My god. How has this never been spotted? Those kids.”

  I can see Damien’s shaken. His usual bubbly composure has slipped, and he’s running his fingers through his hair.

  “I don’t think this is the end of it, Jan. What about the mothers? No sign of them.”

  I think back to the room downstairs and the drawers. A pink jumper and a pair of lady’s jeans. A waterproof jacket. And a leather handbag.

  “We’ll have to leave it to SOCOs now. They should be here any minute. Someone should. Hopefully before this guy rides up.”

  We wait in the lounge between the door and the window, where we can see the driveway perfectly.

  “Shame we’re not in one of those American crime films where they all have handguns. I might feel a little bit safer then. Although you are pretty handy with an axe.”

  I shiver. Handgun. Guns. I need to ring Mike. He’ll know what’s going on. I go for my phone and get him on speed dial. His phone rings then goes to voice mail again.

  “Mike. Jan. We got Dara. And we’ve got the woman. We’re waiting now for a potential second suspect. I asked Stan for SOCOs, can you check they’re on their way? And you know what you said earlier. I would, too. If it weren’t for, well, you know. Bye.”

  I wait for Damien to say something, but he doesn’t. So I do.

  “Think a lot, don’t you?”

  The color has returned to his face now.

  “Yep. That’s what I’m paid for. Thinking.”

  “I heard you were on a big case in London. Practically solved it single-handedly?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Nah. Not single-handedly. I was working with another officer. He was pretty hot at solving anything. We worked well together. But he left the force.”

  “Oh. Sudden, was it? Any particular reason?”

  “Had enough. Sick of the sniping and the constant struggle to get anything done. The obstacles. I was hoping Manchester would be different.”

  “And is it?”

  “Yes. In some ways it is. In others, no. Stewart’s the main obstacle.”

  He’s rubbing his head with the ball of his hand.

  “Not me then?”

  His eyes are warm brown as he looks me over.

  “Well, you are a bit of a challenge. And a little bit unpredictable.”

  We wait silently now. Christine has started to bang on the panel and I’m hoping that I secured it enough. I can hear her shouting and screaming so I go over to the trapdoor and close it.

  The second I’m away, a car approaches the house and parks.

  It’s a grey Renault Mégane. Damien and I hurry back into the kitchen, and I pull the rug back over the trapdoor as we duck outside the kitchen door, which I pull slightly shut.

  We can hear the gravelly footsteps, which silence as we watch Ian Stevens open the front door and step inside the house.

  “Annie? Ann?”

  He walks around the room, picking up trinkets and looking in the mirror. Then he goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge. He pulls out a stack of the clear plastic boxes and looks at the labels on them.

  “Annie. Hurry up. Come on, this place is crawling with coppers.”

  He’s standing directly over the trapdoor now, his back to us, and I pray that he won’t hear the noise from below. Stevens gets out his mobile phone and makes a call.

  “Leo. How’s it going? Yeah. I’m just making a pickup now.”

  There’s a pause while he listens, and I think I hear a car pull up on the gravel pathway.

  “Yeah, three potentials. Full samples. And a live one for . . . Yeah. This one. Yeah. OK. Cheerio now.”

  He walks to the bottom of the stairs.

  “Annie. Come on now. We need to get going.”

  The front door bursts open and two armed officers burst in.

  “Freeze! Police!”

  Damien nudges me and whispers.

  “That’s what I meant.”

  I open the back door and step inside. I show Ian Stevens my warrant card. He drops the samples on the floor.

  “Ian Stevens, I am arresting you on suspicion of abduction and murder. You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  I bend down and pull the rug away. Two more uniformed officers arrive. They go into the cellar and return a moment later with Christine. Or Annie. I look through some of her things. Annie Smith. The officers look dazed. I nod slowly.

  “Yes. You did see what you thought you saw. I think this is it now. Just waiting for SOCOs.”

  One of the officers pulls me aside.

  “Two of us will stay here and wait for SOCOs. You’re needed back at the station.”

  I start to protest, but he stares at me, stone-faced. Damien looks at his phone, then stares at me, too.

  “Arrest her, then they can take her in. Come on, Jan, it’s been a long day.”

  I turn to Annie. Her lips are slightly parted, and she looks dazed.

  “Annie Smith, I am arresting you on suspicion of abduction and murder. You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  She looks at me, right in the eye, then spits at me. The globule runs down my jacket, and she watches it. It’s all too much for me, and I turn away.

  “Take her. I’ll be right behind you.”

  They’ve gone. Suddenly the house is very quiet. I look at Damien.

  “What about those poor kids?”

  One of the officers takes a look down the trapdoor.

  “Are they . . . ?”

  I nod.

  “I feel bad
just leaving.”

  I run to the door and shout after Stevens.

  “Take his phone off him. He was making a call. Get that call traced.”

  Damien takes hold of me by my arms.

  “Jan. Stop. We need to go back to the station. We need to go now.”

  We walk out of the front door and over to the car. It’s always like this when I see a body. The life gone out of someone. But today it’s different. Because it’s a child. All the other times I’ve attended a crime scene with a deceased person, I’ve been caught up in the moment, wanting to do my job. Making sure that everything is covered. Even the last time with the boys at the Gables. I stayed to make sure the evidence was preserved.

  Then the police machine takes over, and I’m redundant. The body is there, the subject of the investigation, still a person, a living memory, resurrected in the story of what has happened and how it came about. Then suddenly, they’re gone, off to the lab to be opened up and investigated, another piece of evidence.

  So it’s always like this. I like to linger around, making sure the loose ends are tied in bows and the case is watertight. Nothing missed. But Damien has other ideas. I’m still looking back toward the house when he raises his voice.

  “For god’s sake, Jan. Get in the car. I’ll drive.”

  I get in, and he reverses out of the driveway. I watch as the chocolate-box cottage disappears. The playlist booms out, and Damien turns it down a little. The horrors of the case begin to sink in, along with all the remaining questions.

  What was going on? What was the medical equipment for? Where were they taking the children? If Ian Stevens was taking them somewhere, why did Annie Smith kill the others? Where are the missing children’s mothers? I hold them tight in my head as if somehow they are going to disappear before I get to the station.