by Louise Voss
Helen remembered that first look at Alice’s pretty little face then, back when it had been a blank canvas, no tiger whiskers or stripes of hidden resentment and secret fury. How she’d been so attracted to this sexy dad that she could barely paint the orange marks on Alice’s cheeks in straight lines.
‘And how did Alice cope with you going out with her dad?’
Helen sighed. ‘Not brilliantly. Tantrums and so on. It wasn’t easy, and if I hadn’t been so in love with Sean I might have given up. But we persevered, and now Alice and I are basically fine.’
‘Basically?’
‘She’s fifteen. Everything’s a drama. She’s not afraid of having a go at me – or at Sean. But she adores Frankie, and would never do anything to hurt her. She’ll be devastated that she’s missing. How long will you need to keep her here?’
‘Just till we’ve got her statement too. She’s what we call a Significant Witness. Your neighbours, Mr and Mrs—’ He consulted his notes. ‘—Jameson, have kindly offered to put you all up when we take you back. Your place is a crime scene for the moment, I’m afraid.’
‘Pete and Sally. Oh. That’s so kind of them. But OK.’
‘So, tell me, Helen, has Frankie ever wandered off before?’
Helen sat up straight, gritting her teeth with sudden fury. ‘Before? What do you mean, before? She’s never wandered off, full-stop, and certainly wouldn’t have done tonight! Once she’s asleep she rarely wakes up till dawn. There’s a stairgate at the top of the stairs that she can’t open, she can’t reach the front door Yale lock, and even if the back door had been left unlocked, she couldn’t have got out through the garden gate.’
Lennon’s reaction was calm, unruffled. He wrote a note in his black notebook, in such small squiggly writing that Helen couldn’t make out what it was. Then he gazed into her eyes again.
‘I didn’t mean anything. Some kids are wanderers, some aren’t. We just need to know that Frankie isn’t.’
‘She’s not,’ said Helen, visualizing Frankie fast asleep in her toddler bed, her cheeks hot and red in slumber, a snail trail of contented drool linking the corner of her mouth to her flannelette sheet, clutching Red Ted under one arm. The pain was like a knife in her stomach; she felt eviscerated by it.
Lennon stood up, walked across to a small table in the corner of the interview room and opened a cardboard folder.
‘When did Frankie draw this?’ he asked, removing a slightly crumpled piece of paper with one of Frankie’s crayoned efforts on it. Helen took it and frowned.
‘I’ve never seen it before.’
‘Really? It was on the desk in her room when we searched it, under a drawing of a cat.’
Helen looked more closely at it, and her hand flew to her mouth when she realized what it was. ‘Someone looking through a window at her? Oh my God!’
‘It might not mean anything sinister,’ Patrick reassured her. ‘Frankie’s bedroom window was still locked – we’re certain no-one came in that way.’
‘What if they put a ladder up, to look in?’
‘Well, there isn’t one there now. It’s probably nothing relevant, but we just need to document everything.’
‘I tidied up her room before we went out. There were definitely no drawings on the table then – she must have done them after her bath. When Alice was meant to be looking after her …’
‘What makes you think she wasn’t?’
Helen’s hand shook as she held the drawing. ‘Because Alice loves drawing too. She always helps Frankie with her drawings, adds background, does the bodies around the faces she draws, that sort of thing. They draw maps together too – funny little maps that Frankie calls ‘naps’. She dictates the landmarks and Alice draws them. They look so sweet when they get stuck into an art session, their heads together, tongues sticking out … She didn’t really like drawing without Alice there.’
Her voice trailed away.
‘Maybe Larry did come over after all,’ she said eventually.
Lennon looked up from his pad. ‘Larry?’
‘Alice’s boyfriend. She’s not supposed to have him round when we’re not there.’
The detective arched an eyebrow. ‘You don’t approve?’
‘Oh, no, it’s not that. But … well, I knew that if he was there Alice would be … distracted. When she was supposed to be keeping an eye and ear out for Frankie.’
Helen clenched her jaw as she watched Lennon scribble more lines in his fancy notebook. Why had she ever entrusted the care of her precious daughter to Alice? And what was all this about the drawing? Someone looking through the window … A wave of nausea hit her and it took all her strength to stop herself being sick.
She swallowed and looked up at the detective. When she spoke her words came out strangled. ‘Please find her. You have to find her.’
His expression as he returned her gaze was understanding and his words heartfelt: ‘Rest assured, Helen, I will move heaven and earth to get your little girl back safely.’
But it didn’t make Helen feel any better.
She keeps staring at me, shrinking away like she’s going to catch something. It’s irritating me, as are the flies buzzing around the van, three big fat buggers that keep bouncing off the windows and evading me. This morning I woke up to find one of them sucking on my arm, which almost made me vomit. I guess I smell like shit, being stuck in this van for the past 24 hours, sticky from the heat and the excitement and fear. I keep fantasizing about showers, but I’m going to have to wait. Patience is something I’m good at, after all.
‘Come on,’ I say, offering her a bottle of Fruit Shoot. ‘Have a drink.’
She screws up her pretty face and shakes her head.
‘How about something to eat? Look, I bought you some chocolate.’
It’s so hot in the van that when I unwrap the Freddo Frog, half of it squidges onto my fingers, the irritation this causes making my eardrums pulse.
‘Drink,’ I said, my voice firmer, pushing the purple bottle towards her. ‘Drink, or I’ll get cross.’
She looks at me with her big eyes, those beautiful lashes taking my breath away, just like they did the first time I ever saw her, and reluctantly takes the bottle, sucks from it.
‘That’s a good girl.’
I bought the sugary drinks and the chocolate and all the other food – the crisps and Haribo and fairy cakes – at the supermarket, scanning it all through the self-service machine, one of those wonderful inventions that makes it so easy to live without attracting attention. Okay, I had a brief moment of anxiety when there was an unexpected item in the bagging area, but the member of staff zoomed over and swiped her staff card without even looking at me.
It’s growing dark outside now. Shadows creep into the van. I can hear music thumping somewhere in the distance, probably a party somewhere out there in someone’s garden. You expect the countryside to be silent, just the hoots and scuffling of animals. But even out here, you can’t get away from everyone. I need to keep moving, but I can feel London pulling me back, like I’m attached to it by a piece of elastic.
The Fruit Shoot has given her a burst of energy that makes her tremble. She asks me for a piece of paper and a pencil so she can do a drawing. She draws a house with stick people smiling from the windows.
Then she cries for a bit, sucking her thumb. ‘Red Ted,’ she says. ‘I want Red Ted.’
That’s about the hundredth time she’s mentioned her teddy bear. I should have brought the bloody thing with me.
I suppress my irritation, helped because the flies have stopped bashing themselves against the windows, and tell her it’s time for bed. I lift the quilt cover and she slips under, facing away from me, her hair splayed on the pillow.
I slip under the quilt with her, though there’s barely enough room for both of us.
‘Come on,’ I say, and I put my arms around her.
Chapter 6
Patrick – Day 2
The first thing Patrick wondered when
he woke up was why his pillow felt like it was made of wood. He opened his eyes at the same moment he realized he was still in the office, asleep at his desk. A stream of dribble trickled towards the framed photo of his girls. In it, Gill was gazing joyfully at the baby, back when Bonnie still had milk spots and a tuft of blonde hair that was as soft as kitten’s fur. It was probably the last time he remembered seeing Gill truly happy and, like some kind of weird karma, the picture scraped at his heart like fingernails on a blackboard. He kept meaning to put it away, to replace it with a solo portrait of Bonnie now she was almost two. But he couldn’t bear to.
He tilted his head from side to side, listening to his neck crunch. He poked the space bar on his keyboard and the screen sprang to life. If only he could wake up as quickly as the computer. It was 8:07 A.M. He must have fallen asleep at around 5 A.M.
‘The guv wants to see you.’
He turned to see Carmella, looking fresher than a daisy on a dewy spring morning, holding out a Starbucks cup.
‘You’re an angel,’ he said, before burning his top lip on the scalding coffee.
He texted his mum on the way to DCI Suzanne Laughland’s office, and she replied with her customary swiftness, telling him that Bonnie was fine, that she’d slept through the night and was at this very minute carpeting the dining room floor with Weetabix. Bonnie was eighteen months into her messy phase and the thought of his mum stooping yet again to scrape soggy cereal off the floor, lift the toddler out of her seat and keep her entertained, change her nappies and deal with her tantrums, made him flinch with guilt. But Mum insisted she enjoyed it – as did his just-retired Dad.
It was not a conventional set-up, living with his parents at thirty-five, with his little daughter and without his wife, but right now it was the only thing that worked. The only way he could continue to do this job.
‘Patrick, come in.’
He entered DCI Laughland’s office and took a seat.
‘You look knackered,’ she said.
‘Don’t you start. I’m going to brave the shower in a minute.’
‘Rather you than me.’ The office shower was a pathetic, hastily installed addition to the unisex toilet, with water temperature that veered straight from scalding to freezing and back again. It was only ever used in times of dire need.
‘And you’ve got a pink mark on your face that looks like the edge of a mouse mat.’
He rubbed his cheek. Suzanne Laughland and Patrick had worked together for a long time, stepping up ranks in tandem over the last ten years, Suzanne always one rung above him. She had ash-blonde hair, tied back neatly, and huge blue eyes that made her look years younger than her true age, despite the worry-lines on her brow and the deepening crinkles around her eyes. She wore the lightest touch of make-up, no jewellery apart from her wedding ring.
She had a picture on her desk too: of her and her husband, Simon. They had no kids. Patrick had never asked her why she’d chosen not to be a mum, or if she had indeed chosen it.
‘I need you to give me an update,’ she said, ‘before we go in and brief the team.’
He told her about the interview with Helen Philips, and the subsequent interview with her husband, Sean.
‘Any conflict in their testimonies?’
‘Hmm. Not really. They both described the evening very similarly. They only disagree when it comes to Alice, the teenage daughter.’
Patrick watched Suzanne push a strand of hair from her face.
‘Helen thinks there’s a strong possibility that Alice had her boyfriend round – one Larry Gould. Carmella says that Sean is adamant she wouldn’t do that without telling them. I should mention that Helen is Alice’s stepmother.’ He briefly described the family history.
‘So Dad thinks Alice is a little angel who can do no wrong?’
‘Exactly. I’m talking to her this morning. Their neighbour’s agreed to come in and be her appropriate adult.’
Suzanne’s mobile beeped and she glanced at it, her face creasing with irritation. Simon, Patrick hoped, enjoying the thought that his boss would be in a grump with the smug git.
‘Alright, good,’ she said. ‘Keep me posted on that. I assume the FLOs are with the family now?’
‘Yes. Sandra Godden and Li Chen. They’re the most experienced FLOs we’ve got left. The others are with the Hartleys and the McConnells. The Philips family are staying with the next-door neighbours until the SOCOs are done.’
Suzanne came round the desk and perched on the edge of it, Patrick avoiding looking at her legs.
‘Find out what you can from Alice. But don’t spend too much time on it.’
He bristled. ‘You don’t need to tell me how to do my job, guv.’
‘I know.’ Her tone softened. ‘But we are surely thinking this is connected to the other two abductions, which means the Philipses are not suspects.’
‘I haven’t ruled anything out yet.’
‘But surely—’
‘Yes, I know. It’s either the Child Catcher—’
Suzanne winced. This was what the tabloids had started calling the unknown offender after a child at Sainsbury’s who’d seen Chitty Chitty Bang Bang had reported seeing a man with ‘a long nose’ in the supermarket the day Liam had been taken.
‘Sorry. Or it’s a coincidence. Either way, Alice Philips is our most important Sig Wit and if her boyfriend was there, he’s one too.’
‘Let’s go and talk to the team.’ She paused before the door. ‘We’ve got three missing kids now. Three! If we thought the public were panicking before … This is like a pandemic.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘What?’
‘A pandemic is when a virus crosses international borders. All of these crimes have occurred within the same borough. It’s an epidemic.’
She rolled her eyes and sighed. ‘You’re a fucking smart-arse, Patrick Lennon. Go and have your bloody shower and I hope it freezes your nuts off.’
But he was sure a smile flickered on her lips as they left the room.
As Patrick stood naked under the ridiculous trickle of alternately tepid, boiling and freezing water, he felt the ball of tension growing in his belly. Even now, after being the lead detective on a baker’s dozen of cases, he still experienced an icy dread whenever he had to face the team, ten pairs of eyes on him. A psychologist he chatted to at a party once had told him that the feeling you get when you do something that scares you – like public speaking – caused the reptilian part of your brain to scream ‘fight or flight’, releasing all that intoxicating adrenaline into your system. The feeling he got when he stood up to talk to a crowd was, apart from his enduring love of The Cure and Brighton and Hove Albion, the last thing that linked him to his schoolboy self. He dismissed the memory of himself as a schoolboy by glancing in the mirror above the basin – the shower wasn’t nearly hot enough to cause it to steam up. If he’d had those tattoos and muscles when he was fourteen, he doubted he’d have had the sort of problems he’d suffered at school when he’d been a skinny white misfit.
He replayed Suzanne telling him he was a smart-arse and the little smile that had appeared on her lips. It was the kind of exchange they would never have in front of anyone else, when they were strictly professional. It was difficult for men and women to be friends at work without rumours spreading about them, especially when one of them had authority over the other. It was irritating, just as it was irritating that some Neanderthals in the Force were resentful of women with higher ranks than them. Gill had asked him once if he minded that his superior officer was a woman and then joked that he liked to be given orders by powerful women. He smiled to himself. Maybe there was some truth in that.
He just about managed to get enough water over him to clean off the grime, and stepped out of the cubicle, drying himself with the tiny towel he’d had in his gym bag. It was hardly rejuvenating, but it was enough to make him feel halfway human again. He couldn’t help glancing nervously at the toilet door to make sure it was locked – t
he last thing he needed before a briefing was one of his team to walk in and catch him naked, muscles or no muscles. Old habits died hard. Besides, they’d never take him seriously again.
Five minutes later he was in the incident room, aware that his team were staring at the damp hair curling onto his collar as he wrote the names on the whiteboard – Sean, Helen, Alice, Frankie – and described to the team what they already knew. He had to dismiss a brief uncomfortable thought that they would all know he’d been so recently naked at work, chiding himself for the moment of self-consciousness when there was so much else at stake.
Someone had already hung an enlarged photo of Frankie alongside the pictures of Izzy and Liam, and Patrick let his gaze linger on it for the moment, inviting everyone to do the same. This was their focus. These children, their families. Sometimes, in the din that reverberated around cases like this, it was easy to forget that.
MIT9 was one of the Met’s twenty-four Murder Investigation Teams, all coming under the Homicide and Serious Crime Command. Despite their name, the MITs were not only responsible for investigating murder, but much of the other nasty shit that made Patrick wish his fantasy career as a rock star had got beyond a handful of terrible gigs in south-coast pubs. Manslaughter, serial rapes, infanticide, mass disaster – and missing persons cases where there was, to use the official language, ‘substantive reason to suspect life has been taken or under threat’. This was one line he would never repeat to the parents of the missing kids.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘You all know the drill by now.’ He nodded at DS Staunton. ‘Mike, I want you to coordinate house-to-house. Remember, we want any suspicious or strange activity over the last week – anyone seen hanging around, checking out the Philipses’ house, anyone spotted sitting in a car or van outside the house. I don’t even need to tell you this.’
