by Louise Voss
‘No. I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time. Our FLO said we’d be bound to get loads of hoax messages on Facebook,’ Helen replied sheepishly. She was surprised at Winkler’s reaction:
‘Well, Mrs Philips, I’m a firm believer in leaving no stone unturned. I’m on my way over now – please can you remain at home until I arrive? I’ll only be ten minutes.’
Helen put the phone down and tried not to feel too optimistic. She closed her eyes and hugged herself, imagining she was holding Frankie, tears rolling over her cheeks and onto her baby’s soft hair. This DI Winkler sounded like a man of action, like someone who could get things done. She was glad she’d been put through to him instead of Lennon.
Chapter 16
Patrick – Day 3
Entering the Hollisters’ enormous house in St Margaret’s was like walking slap bang into the middle of an explosion of noise and fur and utter, absolute mayhem of almost cartoonish proportions. There were kids everywhere: a boy running down the stairs with no shirt on, a girl plonking discordantly at a piano, a toddler in a nappy chasing a cat around the living room, another boy mowing down zombies at full volume on an Xbox. Two red setters and a Yorkshire terrier appeared to be engaged in some kind of doggy ménage-a-trois in the kitchen. The smell of dirty nappies and dog fur assaulted Patrick’s nostrils as he stepped over a pile of wooden bricks and almost skidded on a yachting magazine that had been left on the wooden floor.
‘Welcome to the madhouse,’ said Liza Hollister, the mother of the child who had seen something in Sainsbury’s car park. She was almost six feet tall, with scraped-back blonde hair and clothes straight out of the Boden catalogue.
Patrick introduced himself just as the shirtless boy of around eight dashed up and yelled, ‘Mum, Coco’s put Saskia in the toilet again.’
‘Oh for goodness sake.’ Liza stomped off and returned a few moments later with a wriggling toddler under one arm and a drenched cat under the other. She tossed the cat through the open French doors and Patrick watched it saunter off as if nothing had happened.
‘Daisy, stop banging that fucking piano,’ she shouted. She picked up a wooden spoon and banged it against a small gong that she obviously kept for such occasions.
‘Daisy, Dominic, Sebastian – go and play in the garden. And take Coco with you.’
‘Aw, mum, it’s boring,’ moaned Sebastian, the older boy who’d been playing on the console.
‘Go on the trampoline. See how high you can bounce. Go on!’ She turned to Patrick and muttered through clenched teeth. ‘Try not to land on your neck on the way down.’
The four trooped out through the French doors into the sizeable garden, followed by the three dogs, who ran around their feet and tripped the toddler over.
‘That’s better,’ Liza grinned. ‘Right, Detective Inspector. Coffee? You look like you could use one.’
‘That would be fantastic, Mrs Hollister.’
She leaned forward, giving him an eyeful of cleavage. He vaguely recognized her – then it struck him. She used to be on TV, presenting some late-night ‘yoof’ programme. She had been a ladette, always falling out of nightclubs with her knickers on display, boozing for England. She had married that rock star – what was his name? The one who played guitar in an indie band then went on to become a dance music producer.
She clattered about the kitchen making coffee – proper coffee, that she had to grind – and Patrick scanned the bookcases while he waited. There were a lot of books of erotic art. Then he noticed a photo of Liza hanging on the wall – it was her on the cover of FHM ten years before, naked, her nipples airbrushed away but her bottom on show.
Oh god, he thought. I bought that issue. He had taken it into the bathroom with him …
‘You alright?’ she asked, coming back with a steaming mug of coffee. ‘You look a bit hot.’
‘It is very hot in here.’
She nodded at the FHM portrait. ‘Ah, those were the days. The older kids find it terribly embarrassing having pictures of their half-naked mum hanging up, but fuck it. I was a looker in those days.’
You still are, he almost blurted. Instead, he said, ‘What do you do these days?’
She gestured around her. ‘This. I look after this bloody lot. Danny is in the studio most of the time, or DJ-ing. Leaves me looking after his spawn.’ That was his name! Danny Hollister. ‘But I’ve just had an offer to go on the next series of I’m a Celeb and between you and me I might just do it. See how he copes for two weeks without me. Ha!’
Patrick sipped his coffee. ‘Which of the children thinks they saw Liam McConnell?’
Liza frowned, the mood in the room changing instantly. ‘That’s Bowie. He’s up in his room. Let me get him.’
He expected her to go up the stairs but instead she shouted, ‘Bowie! Can you come down here?’
‘I’ve been over it with him,’ she said. ‘I wanted to be sure he wasn’t making it up, or had dreamt it. But I swear he’s not.’
‘I’d like to hear it in his own words,’ Patrick said. ‘But can you tell me why it’s taken so long? Did he only just remember?’
‘Oh, we were away. We’d stopped off at the supermarket on our way to the airport. We have a villa in the south of France and we were taking the kids there for the week. We’re heading back over there in a fortnight.’ She gestured out of the front window at the people carrier parked on the driveway. ‘We were in that thing – the tank, we call it. I went into the shop leaving Danny with the kids. I’m sure it was bedlam as always, the kids fighting and complaining. Danny would have been trying to get them to stop squabbling. But Bowie is quieter than the others. He usually sits still and reads books or looks out the window, daydreaming. We reckon he’s going to be a writer when he grows up.’
A skinny boy of seven came into the room. He was the spitting image of his mum, with long blond hair and big blue eyes. He looked nervous.
‘Babe, this is Detective Lennon. Lennon, meet Bowie.’ She paused, then started to giggle. Patrick laughed too – he couldn’t help it – but the boy didn’t crack a smile. His pale face remained serious, anxious, and Patrick remembered what he’d been like as a child. Just like this: scared of strangers, always ‘away in the clouds’, as his mum put it, preferring to sit with a book when his friends were out playing football.
Liza put her arm around her son’s shoulders and led him over to the sofa. He stared at Patrick, chewing his fingernails. Patrick sat down on a floor cushion to ensure the boy’s eye level was above his, to make him feel less uneasy.
‘Bowie.’ He felt daft saying the boy’s name. He’d probably change it to Joe or something when he was older. ‘Your mum tells me that you saw something when you were in the car park at Sainsbury’s just before you went on holiday.’
Bowie nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘I just need you to tell me what you saw.’
The boy spoke, his voice surprisingly clear. ‘It was him, that boy who’s in the newspapers. Liam. I saw his picture on the front of the paper when we got back. They said the Child Catcher got him.’ He looked over at his mum, then back at Patrick. ‘But it wasn’t the Child Catcher. It was a lady.’
Patrick could hear his own heartbeat. ‘A woman? Tell me what you saw.’
‘I was just, like, sitting looking out of the tank window, watching what was going on. This guy with dreadlocks had just dropped a bottle of drink and it had smashed and there was red liquid everywhere, and he was jumping about, so I was watching him. Then I saw this car – an Audi—’
‘You remember the type of car?’
‘He loves cars,’ Liza interrupted. ‘He knows all the makes and models. Knows a lot more about them than I do.’
‘Yes, it was a white Audi, one of the saloon models. I could see a little kid sitting in the back seat, his face pressed against the glass, like he was looking for his mum and dad.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I saw this woman walk past the car, and then she did … what’
s it called when you see something without realizing and then you stop and turn around?’
‘A double take?’
‘That’s it. She did that. And she walked back to the car window. She had her back to me. But then she opened the car door and lifted the little boy, Liam, out of his booster seat and carried him away.’
‘How did he look?’ Patrick didn’t want to ask leading questions.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I mean, could you see his face? Did he look happy, sad?’
Bowie thought about it. ‘He just looked kind of relaxed. He wasn’t struggling or anything. Or crying. I thought she must be his mum or auntie or something because otherwise I would have told my dad.’ He bit his lip. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Bowie, you have nothing to be sorry about. It’s great that you saw something and that you’re telling us. Did you notice if the woman had a car key? Did you see her unlock the door?’
He pursed his lips. ‘No. But she had her back to me. She might have had the key in front of her. I guess it would have been a remote one.’
Patrick nodded. ‘Did you see where they went?’
Bowie stared at the floor. ‘No. Because then Mum got back and she had ice lollies and everyone went a bit crazy. I mean, even crazier.’
‘And what about the woman. Would you recognize her?’
‘I think so.’
‘Could you describe her? I don’t mean right now – I mean, if you sat down with an artist, could you tell them what the woman looked like so they could draw her?’
‘I could try. She had sort of frizzy dark brown hair. She was short.’
Patrick smiled. In every investigation, you need a break, a stroke of good fortune. This could be his: finding the most observant seven-year-old in London.
He addressed Liza. ‘I’d like you and Bowie to come down to the station so he can sit with a sketch artist. It’s important to do it as quickly as possible.’
‘That’s fine. I just need to get someone to babysit. I’ll go and ask Sandy next door.’
She zipped out of the room, towards the front door, and Patrick found himself sharing an uncomfortable silence with Bowie. The boy stared at the rug and Patrick groped for a topic of conversation that this kid might be interested in. Cars, that was it. But then he couldn’t think of anything to say about cars. He was still fishing about in his head when Bowie said, ‘I expect he’s dead.’
Patrick looked up.
The boy glanced at the window to see if his mum was coming back. ‘The lady who took him. My brother said she’s a witch. She steals kids, sucks their life from them, then dumps their bodies.’
‘No, that’s not—’
‘And now I’ve told you I’ve seen her, she’ll come for me.’ His voice trembled but Patrick could sense he was trying to be brave. ‘Please catch her, Detective. Before she gets me.’
Patrick stared at the computer, his head filled with the image of a witch with yellow, gluttonous eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth designed for tearing and chewing children’s flesh. A woman. Bowie had said that Liam had been taken by a woman, and he was in with the sketch artist now, describing her. The news had raced around the station like chicken pox round a nursery.
And he’d said that Liam hadn’t been scared, had looked at her like he knew her. He picked up the sketch Frankie had made of the face at the window (the witch?) and asked himself, again, why the Philips girl hadn’t cried out or told her sister about it.
While he’d been out, Carmella had been through the book from the Eleven O’Clock Club and entered each of the parents’ names, and Jemima Walters had sent over the names of the staff. He scrolled through the lists. Each of these names was being run through HOLMES to see if they had a record, along with the Violent and Sexual Offenders Register, ViSOR.
Patrick squinted at the list. He really needed to see an optician; the edges of the letters were blurred, the words not quite in focus. Or maybe it was tiredness, though he didn’t feel tired at this moment. His whole body was popping with adrenalin.
He was about to get out of his seat and go to talk to Carmella, when a name on the list caught his attention. Denise Breem. Why did he know that name? He opened his web browser and Googled it, remembering in the split second before her image appeared who she was and what she was notorious for.
‘Fuck,’ he whispered. He jumped out of his seat and dashed out of the room, calling Carmella as he went.
Chapter 17
Alice/Larry – Day 3
‘Seriously, I’ve had it with living here. Can’t we get a place together?’
Even as Alice said it, she knew she didn’t mean it. Larry smelled far too bad for her to want to actually live with him. She, Georgia and Larry had only been in her bedroom for five minutes and she was dying to open the window. She leaned into his neck, experimentally inhaling his smell of sweat, weed and old socks, and wrinkled her nose. Would it be uncool to ask him to have a shower next time they went to bed together? Last time she had been almost gagging whenever his armpit came near her face. Shame, because she really loved him. He was so nice to her, and the first one she had ever Done It with. Besides, all boys stank, didn’t they?
‘Sure, darlin’, if you got a spare twenty-five grand a year to rent a one-bedroom flat round here … That’s a shitload of weed to sell,’ he replied, putting his arm around her shoulder.
‘That much?’ Alice and Georgia chorused, shocked. Then Alice giggled. She was a little high, she realized. ‘Actually I changed my mind. I wanna live with you, Georgie.’
‘Course you can, babes,’ Georgia said through narrowed eyes as she blew a neat smoke ring. ‘My mum fucking loves you. You could move in tomorrow.’
‘Really?’ Alice sat up. ‘I’m going to open the window, I’m boiling.’
‘Yeah. Wouldn’t that be cool?’
‘Yeah. And you smell so gooooood,’ Alice opened the hopper window then flung herself on top of Georgia on the bed and they rolled around together, half-wrestling, half-hugging.
Larry watched, reaching out a hand to Alice’s black nylon-clad thigh under her short school skirt. ‘Always fancied a threesome,’ he snickered, although his touch was tentative and his fingers shook slightly. Alice noticed the flicker of relief across his face when she pushed him off and sat up. ‘No chance!’
‘So why don’t you want to live here anymore?’ Georgia scrolled through the songs on Alice’s iPod, settled on a Lil Wayne track and replaced the iPod in the speaker dock. ‘I mean, obviously it must be shit, with Frankie gone …’
‘It’s really shit,’ Alice said with feeling. ‘Helen’s in a total state the whole time. Dad’s gone all quiet and won’t talk to anyone, the police are in and out – well, that Family Liaison Officer’s only just left us alone, she was there for days, like they were worried we were all going to, like, I dunno, stab each other or something … Which Helen and Dad probably would do if they got the chance. They totally think it’s all my fault that Frankie’s been taken. And now, to top it all off, my bloody Nan turns up.’
‘Don’t you like your nan?’ Larry enquired.
Alice snorted. ‘She’s a horrible interfering old cow. Even Dad doesn’t like her, and she’s his mum. She only turned up ’cos she thought she might have a chance to be on TV. She keeps going outside and talking to the paparazzi, offering them “exclusives”. It’s so embarrassing. Dad and Helen have even gone out for a drive just so they don’t have to talk to her. Still, at least it means we can hang out here without them hassling us …’
‘Do you really miss Frankie, babes?’ Georgia asked.
Alice had to grit her teeth not to snap back. ‘Of course I do! It’s so quiet here without her. And it’s just so horrible, not knowing what’s happened to her, whether or not some fucking paedophile’s doing … you know … stuff to her.’
Her voice cracked and two big tears dropped straight from her eyes on to her flowery Cath Kidston duvet cover.
Larry loo
ked simultaneously mortified and concerned. He hugged her, and this time Alice felt comforted by his odour.
‘But they don’t give a shit about me, about how I might be feeling. I mean, don’t they realize how freaked out I am that someone came into my house, while I was here, and took my sister? How do they think that makes me feel? I could’ve been killed, but does that occur to them? No! The thought of some stranger in my house, taking Frankie out of her bed and out the house – it makes me want to puke. I don’t want to stay here anymore. I’m gonna run away somewhere, I mean it. They wouldn’t even notice for ages, probably. All they care about is Frankie.’
‘Don’t do that, Al,’ said Georgia, tears now in her own eyes. ‘Please don’t do that.’
Alice felt comforted by the solid presence of her friends, one on each side of her, and at all the attention. She sniffed and swiped her hand under her nostrils.
‘Who’s this?’ asked Larry, keen to change the subject. A new track had come on the iPod.
‘Biggie Smalls,’ said Georgia.
Larry laughed.
‘What?’ Alice felt pissed off that he was laughing while she was in such distress.
‘It’s funny. Biggie Smalls, Lil Wayne. Got any Tiny Tempeh?’
‘No, but she’s got some Little Richard,’ Georgia said.
‘Medium Sean.’
‘You’re making that up! There’s no Medium Sean!’
Even Alice giggled, which quickly turned into that hysterical sort of gasping, heaving involuntary laughter that was hard to stop, long after the joke had ceased to be funny. The three of them clutched at one another and laughed until Georgia said, ‘Stop! A little bit of wee just came out!’ and they all laughed even harder.
There was a sharp rap at the bedroom door, and the locked door handle jigged. ‘Hold on,’ Alice called out, hastily concealing the ashtray containing the roach under the bed, and sprayed a generous whoosh of body spray around to disguise the smoky smell, filling the room with a cheap cloying scent. Larry made a mock-vomiting face. That’s rich, thought Alice, coming from him.
