What I Left Behind (The gripping prequel to the DS Jan Pearce Crime Fiction Series)

by Jacqueline Ward

  ‘Well, not what you’d expect from someone who’d been storing chemicals and had a plan to abduct a child. But I guess everyone has an angle.’

  It’s a little bit unfair to test my theory on Petra. She places a lot of pride in her unbiased nature and her ability to stay neutral. But I need someone to confirm what I suspect. I think about my own preoccupation with loud rock music and how it fills my senses to the exclusion of all my worries and fears. It blocks it out for me. Does it mean anything to me? Yes. From long ago and far away. That’s why I chose it. For the memories. Which brings me back to the Red Shoes and the paper dolls.

  They were scribbled over a sentiment that whoever wrote it knows by heart, and doesn’t really need to see written down. The writing of it reinforces it; just like me singing the word of the songs I play work their way into my memories like sticking plasters to close the wound. My list of favourite songs soothes me and helps me relax. Like a mantra.

  ‘Hmm. I have to wonder, Petra, who this perpetrator is. Male or female.’

  I watch her face for any sign of negativity, but she just raises her eyebrows.

  ‘The dolls?’

  ‘Yes. And the story. All devotional. Women’s words. And the subject is love and loss. Obsession. Women like to talk about it, men keep it in. But on the other side of the evidence there’s a car load on bomb making components and Maisie.’

  She stares hard at me.

  ‘Women are perfectly capable of abduction. Just like men. No reason to think not, Jan. But it is more unusual in the statistics.’

  It’s true. The figures show fewer women abducted than men, but there are some. There are some women capable of abducting a small girl, causing a mother this kind of suffering.

  ‘It’s not just that. It’s the looking around the bedroom, picking things up. I don’t know. It’s a gut feeling.’

  She thinks for a moment.

  ‘Well time will tell. They’ve got to make demands sometime, Jan. Otherwise, why? Why do all this and not make demands?’

  That’s what’s bugging me and I know it’s bugging Steve too. If this is Magellan, which is where all the chemical evidence is pointing, why leave it this long to claim responsibility and not state what they want? I change direction and let Petra off the hook.

  ‘Yeah, like you say. Time will tell. We’re doing an appeal this morning. Is there anything else I should know?’

  She reaches for a report.

  ‘The soother found in the grass isn’t Maisie’s. Belongs to another child. For sure.’

  I flick through the pages. Maybe it’s one of Maisie’s friends, someone from her nursery.

  ‘Right. Thanks. Anything else?’

  She shifts from foot to foot.

  ‘I just want you to know how dangerous this is. Ammonium nitrate is one thing, and dangerous in large consignments. But pure sodium is another thing altogether. It explodes on contact with water. And they’ve got a lot of it.’

  I stare at her. There’s fear in her eyes.

  ‘How the hell have they got hold of it?’

  ‘Two of them have chemistry qualifications. So they’d know what to go for, and what to do with it. You don’t need a special licence to buy any of these things, but you would need how to put it together. And this combination is lethal. Just a warning, Jan. It doesn’t look good for Maisie if whoever’s got her comes to the end of the line.’

  ‘Understood. I think we’ll get some positive results from this appeal. Thanks, Petra. Thanks.’

  I hurry off and stand in the car park for a moment. What would I do if I was hiding a child? Where would I be? Somewhere I could hide a large vehicle, because there hasn’t been one confirmed report of it anywhere.

  Maybe Maisie is being kept in the car. If so, whoever has her won’t have a TV and won’t see the appeal. It needs to be wider. On the radio. I rush into the SMIT operations room and tap Keith on the shoulder.

  ‘Keith. The appeal. It needs to go out on all national TV networks, but I also want radio coverage. On all the local and national stations. It needs to be all over everywhere, so, for once, let’s start the rumour ourselves.’

  He looks surprised.

  ‘Great. It’s usually the other way round. Keep it down. But whatever you say. You know what you’re doing.’

  I know what I’m doing and I know what I’m feeling. And I know what I’m going to do next will be a gamble for me, but it’s the only way. If my hunch is right it’ll get results.

  ‘Great. Oh, and one more thing. Can you get me a phone with an easy to remember SIM card number? Not connected to anything else as I’ll be broadcasting the number.’

  Keith stops tapping at his keyboards and swivels around to face me.

  ‘You’re going direct? Bloody hells, Jan, are you sure?’

  I am sure. It’s the only way I’m going to make contact with the perpetrator. By making it personal.

  ‘I am sure. Can you put a live-time trace on everything that comes through that line, location, numbers, anything else you get?’

  He taps the instructions into his console.

  ‘No problem. If the phone’s registered it’s easier. But if not we can still get the location in the cell network. It’s easier if it’s in a city, as the cells have to be smaller, the more people using the system the smaller the cell, and more of them. A few people in a rural area can get away with one large cell.’

  He goes to get me the phone and I see Steve arrive, doors swinging in his wake. He looks twice as tired as when I saw him last night. He hurries over.

  ‘Morning. All set?’

  I smile. I am set but he’s not going to like what I have to say to him.

  ‘Oh yes. I’m going to give a direct dial for the perp.’

  He looks shocked to the core. He hadn’t expected me to step up.

  ‘No, Jan, not to you…’

  ‘I know. I know all that. But I need to do it. I need to connect with whoever has Maisie.’

  He knows I’m right but he’s weighing up the odds.

  ‘But they’re a bunch of public schoolboys playing with fire. I don’t know how successful it would be. And it compromises you. I don’t think it’s worth it, Jan.’

  I know immediately that this is why I’m here. This moment, when difficult decisions have to be made, sometimes on a hair’s breadth of evidence, on the tiniest fraction of instinct, define everything about my job, and, I suppose, about me. I feel one way and Steve feels another way. He’s doing a brilliant job, trying to find Maisie and protect the city he loves, and I’m doing the same. Different reasons, same goal.

  ‘I don’t think it’s them. I don’t think it’s anyone on Glen’s list. I think it’s someone else, and I don’t have a fully formed idea yet, but I just don’t think it’s Magellan.’

  His face tells a story. A story of angry desperation and holding something in that I need to know.

  ‘About that. They’ve all been rounded up overnight. Everyone Glen Wright mentioned and all their contacts. Every one of them in bed or at home or doing something they’ve got an alibi for. For the last week. They’ve searched all their properties. They’ve found all sorts. Drugs, counterfeit goods, weapons. But no one year old girl.’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me all that last night?’

  He should have. It was something I needed to know. I know why he didn’t, though, because he doesn’t want the case to fall into the chaos of having no suspects. Back into the mire of nothing.

  ‘I told you earlier.’

  He did tell me part of it. But not the whole. He was avoiding telling me, because he knew we were out of options. He would have been hoping something else would turn up.

  ‘You told me the guys had been brought in not that there was no result. You should have told me. It’s never too late for something like that. I text you about the story. The Red Shoes. What do you think? And the dolls? It’s an individual. Come on, Steve, it’s glaring at us. Too big to ignore. You know it is.’

 
; He’s red with frustration now and he glances at the clock.

  ‘It doesn’t fit. We’re going live national in fifteen minutes and we haven’t got anything. All that stuff up at the Lewis'. And the paper. I know it’s connected but I can’t work out how. And there’s so much at risk.’

  He’s staring at me, waiting for an answer. Waiting for me to suggest something to make it right. But all I’ve got is the same evidence as him, seen in a different light. I step to one side, ready to get the phone from Keith who’s returned to his desk.

  ‘You’re just going to have to trust me then, aren’t you? Because if we’re starting at nothing…’

  ‘Just don’t make it any worse, Jan. By putting yourself at risk.’

  ‘I’m going to find Maisie. I’m going to connect with who’s got her. We all need to work at that now, because the other line of enquiry has got us this far then come to a dead end. Until something else turns up in London, let’s go with my gut feeling, and the dolls.’

  He shrugs and sighs. Double stressed. And I know how he feels. We’re backed into a corner and now I have to bait the abductor. There are only a couple of options open to them. Carry out their plan. Or plans. Demand money or action. The third one doesn’t bear thinking about but I have to. They could decide that none of this was worth it and dump Maisie. Dead or alive.

  They could have done that already, and this way we’ve got a chance of finding out. Give them a line of communication; appear to be playing their game. Tempt them out to tell us what they want. It has to work. But then it has to be handled in the right way, and I’m going to do it.

  Steve’s shifting from foot to foot now. He’s always nervous before an appeal.

  ‘You do know that once this goes out on National TV it’ll be a free for all. Everyone will have their twopenneth. No sorting out the wheat from the chaff.’

  ‘It’s OK. Keith’s got two officers specially trained to deal with it. And to find anything valuable amongst the general rubbish.’

  ‘What I’m saying, Jan, is that it’ll be visible. In the press. On TV. Everywhere. It’ll be visible and you’ll be visible. We all will.’

  He meets my eye but I’m back there, in my car. Laughing and singing along to Greenday with the roof down. Loud as you like. Scattering pigeons and watching as cyclists scoot past me, head down, bottom in the air. All serious on a sunny day. Tapping my finger on the steering wheel to the beat. Stopping at another set of traffic lights and seeing a couple in the next car kiss. The other way a woman pushes a double buggy up the road, her blonde haired twins identical. Brushing my hair out of my eyes as the light change to green…

  ‘I’ll take my chances, Steve. I know what you’re saying, and I appreciate it, but I’ve got a job to do and I’ll take my chances.’

  I look around and SMIT headquarters is perfectly still and quiet. Then I realise that I’ve been shouting. That’s what stress does to people, it makes them behave in ways that they don’t normally. It presses down on them until they have to seep out through the edges and finally, misshapen, emerge.

  I hurry over to Keith and grab the phone. I push it down my shirt and ping my bra strap over it. Two reasons to jump out of my skin. He hands me a piece of paper with the mobile number on it.

  ‘I’ve pre-loaded it with all our numbers so you can see if any of us call. We shouldn’t have to, but in any case…’

  ‘Thanks Keith. Can you start the trace straight away? I want it activated as soon as the appeal is aired.’

  I turn around and find the answerphone settings. I record a message.

  ‘This is Janet Pearce. If you’re calling to talk to me about Maisie Lewis please leave a message and I promise I will get right back to you. For anything else please call 101.’

  Steve follows me up the corridor and into the room behind where the appeal will be held. I peep through the door and see the waiting press and cameras. The director hurries over.

  ‘Any special instructions?’

  I look at Steve. He shakes his head.

  ‘OK. If I make this signal,’ I hold my hand high in the air, ‘Stop filming. I’ll only do it if any sensitive information is revealed. If this is the case Mr and Mrs Lewis will be removed from the room quickly. And at the end, I would like a close up shot of my face as I give my message to the perpetrator. I’d like this to be distributed as the header for the piece, the main sound bite. I’d also like the whole appeal and the separate sound bite to be issued to radio station, both national and local, for immediate release.’

  Steve joins in. He’s understanding where I’m coming from now.

  ‘Nice and even all the way through. Give the parents some respect, no close up shots, nothing to choppy. Just a steady image until Jan gives you the nod for her piece.’

  The director writes down the instructions.

  ‘Got it. I’ll let you see what we have before it goes out. You could always record it again, separately.’

  ‘No. It has to be in the context of the appeal. Emotional overload. One thing after another. I want to make a connection with the perpetrator, and I need it all to look spontaneous. Any hint of being staged and who knows what might happen. We need to get the bastard in one go.’

  I realise I’ve been a little over-assertive and he backs off slowly. He needs to know that this is a one shot setup. They only chance we have to connect with Maisie. It’s nine o’clock and thirty six hours after Maisie Lewis was abducted. Time’s running out.

  Chapter Thirteen.

  The door behind me opens and Lorraine leads Amy and Marc Lewis into the room. Out of their own environment they look forlorn and, as I always am at this point where the parents beg for the return of their beloved child, I am shocked by the rawness of it all.

  Amy looks drawn and tired and her eyes look more sunken than even yesterday when I saw her last. She feels her way around the backs of the chairs, so lost is she in the trauma of her missing daughter. Marc looks around the room, hands in pockets, then on his wife’s back, guiding her towards me. With each of their steps toward me I feel more and more determined to find Maisie by whatever means I have.

  As Amy approaches me I see she has brought the photograph, the one from Maisie’s bedroom. I’m glad she did. It shows the strength of them together, the happy scene before whoever did this cruelly ripped them apart. Marc’s grey skin and dark under-eye circles tell me he hasn’t slept. Eventually, after what seems like and age for me, and what must feel like a century to them, they reach me.

  I’ve worked on cases in London where children have been abducted and, when they are safely home, the parents have told me that time seemed stop at first, then move very slowly, then become elastic. Moments of thinking about their child that lasted second in real time were etched into their consciousness as if they were days.

  Those parents who hadn’t had their child returned reported that after this stage there are two sets of time rules. Normal time, where life inevitably must carry on and missing time, where there is an underlying slow-flowing river of emotions, separate from normal life, and increasingly more hidden. Hidden because people forget. People grow bored of hearing about other people’s pain. So it’s pushed under normal life, a parallel universe of unexplainable hurt.

  Parents never forget. Although the remembering might get less frequent, any little thing can trigger it. A smell, a taste, a touch, a sound. Anything. And the pain is back, just as strong as before. As strong as Amy and Marc’s pain is now, pushing them forward from the brink of nervous and physical exhaustion so that they can represent it for the nation to analyse through their TV screens. Lorraine hurries over and steps between them.

  ‘All set? Jan, can you give Amy and Marc the run down?’

  I look at their expectant eyes and summon up the blood. For me and on their behalf now.

  ‘Right. Keith will introduce the case. Just the bare minimum outline. Then I’d like you to speak. You first, Marc, then you Amy. Have you prepared something?’

  Lorraine
shows me two sheets, neatly written in her hand.

  ‘I’ve written it down for them, and checked it.’

  Marc looks at me earnestly.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’re not going to do anything rash. We’re doing exactly what you told us to.’

  ‘Great. Thanks for that. And before we go out there, I need to tell you that after you speak I will be making my own appeal and giving a dedicated telephone number, as well as the usual numbers. This is to gain trust. Get a connection.’

  I can almost sense what Marc’s next question will be.

  ‘Have they said what they want yet? Is there anything else at all?’

  I see Steve looking at me from the other side of the room.

  ‘No. There hasn’t been any contact yet. But we’re confident there will be after this. As you know, we’ve got ongoing enquiries in London.’

  I desperately want to blurt out the whole story, along with my new perspective on the case, but I know it’s not the time to throw even more into that slow-flowing river developing underneath Marc’s normal life. It’s not the time to hug Amy and rub her back, fetch her a cup of sweet tea. We all have to play it cool for now, play the game and make sure that the appeal makes the most of the opportunity we have to break through to the person who has Maisie.

  The door opens and we feel the buzz on the other side. The director nods and Steve leads us through. There’s a row of standard catering tables covered with a white cloth, and behind us a huge Greater Manchester Police logo on a pull down-backdrop. The room is crammed full of reporters, most of them regulars, and there are four cameras. Keith is standing at the back of the room and makes the letter T with his fingers, taps into a phone and I feel the gentle hum of the second phone under my t-shirt. I give him the thumbs up and we’re ready to go. Steve begins.

  ‘Thank you all for attending. I’m DCI Steven Ralston. We’re here today to appeal for the safe return of Maisie Lewis, the daughter of Amy and Marc Lewis.’

  I’m sitting next to Amy. I look at her and her scared wide-eyed face, unused to being on camera. I take her hand under the table and she squeezes mine.

  ‘I’ll give you some details and then Marc and Amy will make an appeal, followed by a few words from Dr Janet Pearce. We’ll take a few questions at the end. Maisie Lewis was abducted from her home at nine o’clock in the evening on Saturday the 27th May. We have made some progress and we’ve traced the vehicle that Maisie was taken away from the property in. The vehicle is a silver Range Rover registration number HT2 4SG. We’re conducting a country-wide search for this vehicle. If you have seen this vehicle, or if you see it, do not approach. Call 999 immediately. Maisie Lewis is just one year old.’ A huge picture of Maisie holding her favourite teddy bear replaces the logo behind us. ‘Her parents want her back home. Her father, Marc, will say a few words.’