“I’m sorry.” Page actually sounded it. “There aren’t any how-to books when it comes to your child being kidnapped. Half the time, I don’t know what I’m doing or saying. I’m out of my head with worry. I’ve lost Daniel. And I’m losing my wife...” He turned away. The raw emotion was at odds with the arsy attitude of a minute ago.
It moved Bev but Daniel’s ordeal moved her more. “One question, Mr Page, then we’ll...” Leave you in peace? Hardly. She waited, willing him to turn round, wanting the eye contact. “Mr Page?” It was a gentle prompt. She rose, moved nearer, almost reached out. “Mr Page, I need an answer. And I need the truth.”
Upstairs, Jenny was crying, the faint sound an echo of her husband’s sobs. The kidnappers were slowly destroying Daniel’s parents. God knew what they were doing to the boy. Page was listening but still not looking. She couldn’t wait any longer and there was no point pussyfooting round the privet.
“Are you dealing direct with Daniel’s kidnappers?” He muttered something she couldn’t quite catch. “Sorry?”
He was inches from her face when he turned, squared up to her. “I only wish I were!” Again the mood switch was sudden, unexpected; the voice dripped venom.
She stood her ground. Just. “I’d strongly advise...”
She flinched when he flung out an arm. “I don’t want your advice. Six days he’s been gone. And what have your lot done?”
“We...”
Like a child, he clamped hands over his ears. “I don’t want to know. Get out of my house. Don’t come back till you’ve got something worth saying.”
“Never asked, did he?” Bev was driving, needed to feel in control. Page’s verbal attack had left her trembling. Initially she’d put her response down as scared, but she wasn’t. She was fucking furious.
“Never asked what?” Mac lifted his glance from The Sun. Sports pages.
Her hands squeezed the wheel. “If we had any news.”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “We’d’ve said straight off.”
“Not the point, mate. If you had a kid and it was snatched, it’d be your first question.” She ignored his wince as the gears crunched. “Christ, Colin’s one of us and he asked before we’d set foot over the door.”
“Maybe Page was being protective.” He glanced at the speedometer.
Protective of who? His wife? Himself? Who was protecting their son? She slammed the wheel with a fist. “What if he was just dodging questions? Deflect us with a show of emotion? We got his Mr Mad-With-Grief and a bit from Mr Angry. Guy did the whole sodding gamut, didn’t he?”
“He’s going through it, sarge. Cut him a bit of slack.”
“I’m fresh out of slack, mate. Daniel’s hidden away God knows where...” She was welling up. The fury and frustration was aimed at herself and the entire police operation as much as the parents. Six days they’d been at it and were as far from a result as on the first. There’d not been the slightest move, let alone the sense of an imminent break. They were short of witnesses, suspects, forensics. “And we haven’t got a sodding clue.”
Compared with what they had got, smoke and mirrors looked like bricks and mortar.
The wall had a few dents, dirty smudges and the paper was flaking. Daniel collected the tiny white scraps each time so they didn’t stand out against the dark carpet. The nasty woman hadn’t noticed, or he’d have been smacked. But had anyone else noticed? The little boy had no idea who lived next door, or if they’d heard him knocking.
He always waited till he was alone in the house. Before leaving, the nasty woman would come to the bedroom and tie his hands and feet with a rope. She used a scarf like Mummy’s to gag him. He would wait until he heard the two doors close before shuffling across the floor on his bottom. The knocking wasn’t loud because he couldn’t work his hands properly. But he had to do something.
If he got out of here, Mummy would be so proud. He tried not to think about Mummy too much. It made him cry and hurt inside. The nasty woman seemed to like it when he cried. He sensed she was losing patience. She snapped at him more and more.
Daniel knocked on the wall as hard as he could, five knocks, then a count to five, then five more knocks. He repeated the pattern again. And again. And... The little boy pricked his ears, held his breath, then shuffled a little closer to where he thought the noise had come from. Maybe he’d imagined it.
He tried again: knock, knock, knock...
Suddenly the bedroom door flew open. He banged his head against the wall. Or had the nasty woman slammed it? It happened so quickly he couldn’t be sure. Like the five muffled knocks he’d thought he’d heard. Were they real or had he imagined them?
36
The seedy house was in a row of condemned terraces in a Stirchley back street. The sash windows were grimy, and grey weeds poked through the brickwork. SOCOs had already searched the property. DI Powell had spoken briefly to one of the officers before driving over to take a look. He left the Vauxhall straddling the kerb, waited as DC Pemberton joined him on the narrow pavement.
The place had been home of sorts to the couple who’d died in a stolen fume-filled car half a mile away. A scrawled note on the dashboard had led police here; led them to believe that the deceased were Irina and Josef Kupiek.
Powell glanced round. The couple had clearly been squatting. The houses were due for demolition and there was an air of squalor and neglect. Previous occupants had probably left the few bits of tatty furniture. Faded daisy-patterned paper hung off the wall in places; bare floorboards creaked underfoot in others. The electricity had been cut off, so burnt-out candles and used matches were in evidence. Little of the couple remained – no personal documents had been found – so why had the note pointed the police here? And how long had they been holed up? According to the housing department, the last actual tenants had been re-housed six months ago.
“Why stay in a dump like this?” Carol asked. “The council...”
“Hasn’t heard of them. They’re not on record.” Social services, job centre, immigration, national insurance, DVLA, you name it, the DI had been there but the Kupieks hadn’t. Officially they didn’t exist.
The two detectives wandered, looked round as they talked. “Do you reckon they were illegals?” Carol asked.
Powell had been thinking along the same line. Human trafficking was big business, especially across parts of Eastern Europe. The couple could’ve fallen off the back of a lorry, shoved by some ruthless bastard who saw them as nice little wage earners. It would explain the lack of documentation. It was a known fact that gang masters withheld passports, official papers, anything valuable as insurance till debt bondage was cleared. Like some time never. And until then, their human cargo was as good as slaves. Unless this pair had done a runner.
“More than likely,” Powell said. “Maybe they were hiding here.”
“From?”
“Whoever brought them in.” Organised-crime fat cats who feed poor suckers a pack of lies, backed up with violence and intimidation.
“Wonder where they came from?”
Albania? Kosovo? Moldova? Lithuania? “Probably never know,” Powell said. Photographs and details were being faxed to European emigration officials. But if the couple had come in by the back door, the authorities would never get a hit.
“What about the little boy? Think he was their kid?”
The DI nodded. The search hadn’t uncovered anything definite but circumstantial evidence pointed that way. He was pretty sure the relationship would be confirmed once they had the DNA results back. He couldn’t work out why the couple had left a note with this address in the car. And he was struggling with another mystery. Why did the child die? Why was his body left on waste ground two miles away?
Unless the gang boss had tracked down his parents and they’d paid the ultimate price. If the boy had been snatched, maybe the couple thought life wasn’t worth living, saw death as the only permanent escape. Was the note a final pathetic act of defiance against their
masters? Did they want to leave a fuller message, but didn’t have enough English? A million thoughts jostled: what a fucking mess. He turned, brushed a finger under his eye.
“You all right, sir?”
“Cut the Spanish inquisition, Carol.”
There was a shuffling noise outside. They spun round; the DI ducked as a brick hurtled through a window. Carol took off like a bat on a rocket. Powell was hard on her heels until his foot struck a rotten floorboard. The wood gave way under his weight, pain shot up his leg. He was thigh-high in flooring when Carol returned, breathing hard, swearing softly.
“Fucking little toe-rag got away on a bike.” Her eyes widened as she watched him prying himself loose. “Jeez, sir, you all right?”
“Hurts like shit. I’ll need a tetanus.” He winced as he gently lifted the ruined trouser material. The pale skin was broken, oozing blood.
Carol handed him a tissue. “Kid was this high.” She raised a hand four feet in the air. “Probably doing course work for the next ASBO.”
Her forced smile faded. She’d spotted something as the DI struggled to his feet. She knelt, reached a tentative hand down through the gap in the wood. The search team had done a crap job.
“What is it?” Powell asked. She shook her head, carefully untied a frayed pink ribbon from a few crinkled yellowing papers. As they were released, a stale smell wafted into the air. Human sweat. The DI picked up on it, pictured one of the couple strapping the bundle next to their skin. A makeshift body belt for items more precious than cash.
Handwritten letters, presumably from loved ones, and a photograph. The picture wasn’t recent, was badly creased and the light was poor. But it was unmistakably of a little blond boy with a sunny smile and sea-blue eyes. Powell had last seen his lifeless body lying on a steel slab.
Julia Tate only used the guest bedroom for sewing nowadays. Needlework was not a great passion; truth was, she didn’t really care for it. She was in there now, sitting in a wing chair, attempting to thread a purple silk for a fire screen. It would be a raffle prize for the WI Christmas bazaar. Julia gave a wry smile. Given the speed of her handiwork, it might just be ready for next year.
No, when it came to pastimes Julia preferred baking, or sitting down with a good detective story, a crossword, perhaps Sudoku. Enid always called it Sudafed. Julia laid her work down for a minute or so as she pictured her old friend. Her fond smile was tinged with sadness. Enid had died seven months earlier and Julia missed her greatly.
It was one of the reasons she’d hoped to make friends with the new people next door. Julia was sure now that it was a little family, not just the rather pretty young woman and the small child. Julia had heard a man in the house. And it wasn’t a voice on the television or the radio. The blush-making noises she’d also heard were not for public entertainment. Certainly not daytime.
Julia picked up her needle again. She’d hate to be thought of as an interfering old busybody but actually it was rather embarrassing. She wondered if she ought to mention how thin the walls were. Naturally she couldn’t make a direct reference; that would be so coarse. But a subtle hint?
Not that there’d been any opportunity. Sometimes she thought the new neighbours were deliberately avoiding her. A sudden noise made her jump. Her hand jerked and a bead of blood appeared on her thumb. She sucked it, frowning. Her hearing wasn’t what it was but she thought the sound had come from next door.
Yes. There it was again. Someone knocking on the wall. Then silence. Then another knock and another and... Julia struggled to her feet, laid her work on the chair, hobbled across the room. Having sat in the same position for so long, she was stiff. She lowered herself gingerly to her knees, ignoring the complaints from ageing joints. A pattern emerged. Five knocks, five seconds’ silence, five more knocks.
Was it the child playing games? Did he want her to answer? She gave a little smile, then rapped the wall with her knuckles – once, twice, three times, four, five...
The scream made Julia’s blood run cold. And the loud thump. Had the little one fallen? Was he hurt? Julia covered her mouth with her hand. The woman’s voice sounded very cross. Had she smacked him?
Clutching the wall for support, she struggled to her feet, torn with indecision. Maybe she was a just a lonely old woman letting her imagination run away with her. Maybe they’d been hanging pictures or something. But not once had she seen the child leave the house or a playmate visit. And surely he should be in school? It wasn’t healthy to be cooped up all the time. And the cries still haunted her.
The uncertainty had drifted too long. Julia headed for the stairs, mind made up. If the woman didn’t answer the door this time, Julia would phone the authorities.
Better safe than sorry, as her old friend Enid would say.
“Come in, come in. Sorry about the mess. You’ll have to take me as you find me.”
Darren New and Sumitra Gosh exchanged bemused glances as they followed a scrawny little woman through an immaculate hall into a pristine front room. Nell Fallon’s council house in Lords
The detectives were currently on loan to Operation Phoenix and DCS Flint had assigned them what Daz regarded as a particularly short straw. Long one was Sumitra. He’d clutch on to her any day. Sumi had the whole Bollywood thing going for her – blue-black hair, café-latte skin, dark chocolate eyes. Best of all, he reckoned, she was smart without being lippy. Well, she didn’t answer back. Much.
“I take it you’ve not heard from Liam, Mrs Fallon?” Daz’s glance took in spotless surfaces and hoover tracks in a speck-free carpet. Plastic sheets squeaked as he and Sumi perched in synch on a gold brocade settee. The air smelt of pine forests, sweet peas and bleach.
“Not a word, bab. It’s not like Liam. I can’t understand it.” Neither could Daz; he needed a phrase book to decipher her accent. The old woman’s hand signals were lucid. She was running bony fingers with bitten nails through lank greying hair.
Mrs Fallon clearly spent more time on the house than herself. Washed-out and weary, there was a slight though constant wobble to the cast of her head. It put Darren in mind of a cheesy nodding dog in the back window of a car. Poor old dear was either wired or in the early stages of Parkinson’s. He watched as she jammed pink chapped hands in the pockets of a blue nylon overall.
“Sit down, Mrs Fallon.” The hovering made him uneasy.
“There’s tea in the pot.” She edged backwards towards the door. “Shall I...?”
“I’ll get it.” Sumi smiled. “You stay and talk to DC New.”
There was a matching armchair, gold velvet, clear plastic. Reluctantly she took a seat, wringing her hands in her lap. “He never goes off. I worry, see...”
Darren nodded; certainly did. “Who does Liam knock round with, Mrs Fallon? Can you give me his mates’ names?”
“I would if I could. But you know what kids are. It’s all nicknames these days.”
He took out a notebook. “Tell me what you can, love.”
She ran through what little Darren already knew. That Liam had left the house on Monday night and she’d not heard a word since.
“Did he say where he was going, who he’d be with?”
She rubbed the back of her neck. “I’ve been racking my brains but I can’t seem to think straight.”
Senior moments? She was certainly getting on. Looked old enough to be Darren’s gran. “Is he seeing anyone?” The blank look was probably genuine. He prompted. “Has he got a girlfriend?”
She hesitated slightly, circling a thin wedding ring. “Not that I know of.”
The generation gap still bugged him. How to broach it? He turned back a page or two. “Can I just check Liam’s age with you, Mrs Fallon?”
She looked down at her hands. “Twenty-two. Just.”
“Only child, is he?”
Casual delivery but she stiffened, appeared to be debating whether to answer at all, let alone what to say. Darren opened his mouth but she spoke first, confirming his suspicions. “He’s not mine
. His ma did a bunk when he was a nipper. I’m his nan.”
It clearly gave her grief talking about it. Who else hadn’t she told? “Liam knows, does he?”
She bit her lip. “Found out a couple years back.” Her hands would be raw if she didn’t stop rubbing. “He’s OK about it. Still calls me Mum and everything.”
Darren nodded. “Can I take a look in his room, Mrs Fallon?”
“Oh no, bab. He wouldn’t like that.” She placed a hand against the side of her face. “I never go in there.” She jumped up, took the tray from Sumi and bustled about sorting cups. Her hands shook so much he thought she’d chip the china.
“Liam’s room?” Darren persisted. “It might point us in the right direction. Help us know where to look.”
“Maybe in a day or two.” Still playing mum, she couldn’t or wouldn’t meet Darren’s gaze. “If he hasn’t turned up.”
Sumi asked if she could use the loo and the old woman’s relief at the distraction was obvious. Darren could’ve forced the issue but the woman was a bundle of nerves. More pressure might push her over the edge. And there was more than one way to skin a cat. “Have you got a recent photograph of your grandson, love?”
A smile, the first since they’d walked in, lit her drab features. He waited as she searched the drawers of a heavy oak sideboard. “Here you go.” Liam Fallon didn’t take after his grandmother. Blessed with preppy clean-cut looks, he could do male lead in a soap – the Australian variety, not EastEnders.
“Good-looking boy.” He studied it a few seconds before slipping it into a breast pocket.
“What will you do?” She lifted a cup to her lips but was shaking so much couldn’t drink from it.
“It’s early days, love, and Liam’s an adult...”
“But he wouldn’t just go off. I know him, officer. He wouldn’t do that. He’d call, let me know where he was.”
Hard Time Page 19
