Little Girl Gone

by Stephen Edger

  The lines around his eyes deepened in shock. ‘A contract killer? I can’t believe my ears. Alex, no. Enough of this, please? Paying a killer makes us just as guilty of the crime. Can’t you see that? Can you even hear what you’re saying?’

  She could see the doubt in his face, and while he seemed to be questioning the person he’d married, it was she who felt let down by the man who’d once claimed he would do anything to protect their daughter.

  50

  Isla had seemed only too pleased to escape the house for the safety of her own flat, but had claimed it was to give them the space they needed to talk through the revelations of the night. Ray had roughed it on the couch. Not that he’d managed to get much sleep. Not even a half bottle of whiskey had been enough to switch off his over-engaged mind. The look Alex had given him last night left him in no doubt that she would do everything in her power to find and kill Jack Whitchurch, and the only thing stopping him from turning her in to Trent was the belief that her efforts would inevitably fail.

  While her attitude to the ultimatum had shocked him, he knew she wasn’t capable of going through with murder, and a lot of what had been said was in the heat of the moment. She wasn’t a killer, and that was a fact. There was too much kindness and positivity running through her veins.

  He hadn’t heard back from Jodie since he’d messaged her last night, and wasn’t surprised to find she wasn’t in the office when he arrived. Her coat wasn’t hanging from her usual chair, and her large handbag wasn’t beneath the desk. He hadn’t originally planned to come in himself, as there was so much to sort out with Alex, but when Owen had messaged to say they were bringing in Jack Whitchurch for a second time, and that Trent had agreed Ray could observe the interview from the viewing suite, he’d been unable to refuse the offer. It wouldn’t hurt to give Alex some space to decide what the future held. He was determined not to become an absent father, and if that meant jumping through hoops for Alex, then it was a step he was prepared to take.

  Owen’s message had told him to watch from Trent’s personal office, and Owen was sitting in Trent’s chair as Ray entered the room, the two exchanging silent nods, with neither willing to engage in small talk prior to something with such grave potential repercussions.

  ‘I got you a coffee,’ Owen eventually said, sliding the paper cup across the desk.

  ‘Oh, cheers,’ Ray said, reaching for it and taking a sip. Owen had forgotten to put sugar in it, but Ray choked back the bitterness. ‘Thanks.’

  On the screen before them, the door to the interview suite opened and Whitchurch shuffled in, dragging his feet on the carpet, and immediately reached for the table to steady himself. He looked every one of his seventy-odd years, older even. He wasn’t the first former convict who had aged badly while behind bars, though Ray couldn’t be certain that the vulnerability wasn’t being exaggerated for their benefit.

  ‘Jack?’ Trent began, when they were all seated and she had completed the formalities for the recording. ‘I understand from my colleague here that you’ve been having some issues with your hearing since you were released from prison?’

  Whitchurch leaned forward and mumbled something inaudible.

  Trent began emphasizing each vowel sound, ‘I said you’ve been having some problems with your hearing. Is that right?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he grumbled gruffly, sounding as if he hadn’t put in his dentures.

  ‘Okay, well if you don’t hear something I say, or you don’t understand, I want you to tell me so I can repeat it. Okay?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And to confirm,’ Trent continued, ‘you are not under arrest, and have attended the police station voluntarily.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Jack, can you tell me if any threats were made against you in the months prior to your release from prison? Or if you were contacted by anyone who made you feel uncomfortable in any way?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And since you were released from prison earlier this week, has anyone tried to contact you or made any threats towards you?’

  ‘How would they do that then? It’s only you lot who know where I am.’

  ‘As we told you last time, your name has come up in a current investigation, and as there is a threat to your life, we’re trying to identify who the aggressor is.’

  ‘Yes, the other lady explained all this the other day.’

  ‘That’s right, Jack. Another threat was received last night, and we have reason to believe you are being targeted by someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to work out, Jack.’

  ‘Eh? Come again?’

  ‘I said that’s what we’re trying to work out. Can you think of anyone specifically who would want to see harm come to you?’

  He grunted. ‘I can think of a pretty long list as it goes.’

  Trent picked up her pen. ‘Can you tell me who?’

  ‘Names? You want names? I don’t know who they are. I’m talking about the families of the … of those I harmed because of my sickness, like.’

  ‘Have any of the victims’ families tried to make contact with you?’

  ‘No, you asked who has it in for me.’

  The coffee swayed as Ray squeezed the paper cup. ‘This is a waste of time,’ he said openly to Owen. ‘Give me ten minutes alone with him, and I’d have a better chance of working out who’s behind all this.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Owen agreed. ‘I said to the boss we should use him as some kind of bait, try and lure the suspect out, but she says we can’t gamble with his safety.’

  Back on the screen, Trent looked like she was equally frustrated. ‘Has anyone contacted you since your release, Jack? Old friends? Anyone?’

  ‘No, not that I can think of.’

  ‘You’re in sheltered accommodation now, aren’t you? Have you met any of your fellow residents yet?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Have you met any of your neighbours, Jack?’ she repeated, louder this time.

  ‘Oh, no, I keep myself to myself. Better that way.’

  ‘We have reason to believe that whoever intends to do you harm is looking for it to be carried out in the next day or so. I’d like to leave one of my team with you for a few days for your own protection. Would that be okay?’

  ‘One of your lot in my home?’

  ‘That’s right, or positioned closely nearby. If this person comes for you, we would be on hand to stop them.’

  He snorted. ‘You must think I was born yesterday!’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Why don’t you want us to protect you?’

  ‘You just want to get inside my place so you can stitch me up again. I told that prison governor there was no way I was going to die behind bars, and you lot seem determined to put me back in there.’

  Bewilderment cloaked Trent’s face. ‘That’s not what this is about.’

  ‘No, of course it isn’t,’ he mocked. ‘I suppose you offer to protect all people like me, don’t you?’

  ‘If I had reason to fear for their safety I would. Let me make it clear, Jack, I believe the threat to your life is genuine, and I don’t want to see any danger come to you.’

  This time Whitchurch actually roared with laughter. ‘Pull the other one. I can see how much you despise me. You lot are all the same. You’re not concerned about my welfare.’

  ‘You’ve served time for your offences, Jack, so I am duty-bound to protect you as much as anyone else.’

  ‘How many people know my address?’

  ‘Five police officers – including me – are aware of your new identity and home location, and I can vouch for all of them.’

  ‘Well, then, how can I be in any danger? If the only people who know won’t say anything, I’m safer at home than in here.’

  ‘I agree, Jack, but I prefer to be cautious and would still like to—’

  He stood suddenly, again supporting his weight
against the table. ‘Have you anything else to say, or can I go now?’

  Trent stopped the recording as he shuffled out of the room. She turned and stared straight into the camera. ‘Well, Ray? Got any other ideas?’

  51

  Alex was convinced she hadn’t slept well, yet when the alarm sounded, it was a struggle to open her eyes and reach out to switch it off. The space in the bed next to her remained flat and unslept in. She hadn’t specifically told Ray he wasn’t welcome in their bed, but she’d been relieved to see him take a blanket from the airing cupboard when he’d headed downstairs. Of course, for all she knew he could have spent the night at Noemi’s. She hadn’t heard him leave this morning.

  Alex’s chest tightened as the memory of yesterday’s revelation hit her. Although she’d suspected for some time that Ray had been playing away, a tiny part of her had desperately clung to the hope that she was being paranoid. To have it confirmed in such a hurtful way was something she knew she would never forget.

  Alex had never felt so alone. The affair and the betrayal felt so meaningless with what had transpired afterwards. Seeing Carol-Anne happy and smiling on the video had given her a jolt of adrenaline, but Trent had now confiscated her laptop to prevent her replying to Simon again.

  Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Alex stumbled as she tried to stand, having to suddenly grip the bed to prevent herself falling forward. The wave of nausea passed within seconds – a gentle reminder of the new life growing inside her. Yet as she gently rubbed her belly, she caught herself smiling. Carol-Anne would make a great big sister to a little boy or girl. And although raising a child on her own without Ray would be hard, the excitement slowly built, and she could almost picture the baby being born. In the vision, Carol-Anne was being led into the maternity ward, in a pretty pink and purple dress, carrying a small wrapped parcel for her new brother or sister: a teddy of some sort.

  Alex’s eyes snapped open. Staggering to the bathroom, she heaved into the toilet, before showering and dressing. Then she headed to the kitchen, where she poured herself a glass of cold water. The thought of eating made her stomach turn, so she grabbed a slice of bread from the packet and nibbled on it. There was no sign of Isla yet, and Alex wondered whether Luke was the reason she was late once again.

  She spotted Isla’s handbag on the kitchen counter where it had been yesterday. Surprised, and now wondering whether Isla was already here and she just hadn’t seen her yet, Alex lifted the bag to carry it through to the living room. But it slipped and fell to the floor, some of the contents spilling onto the linoleum.

  Alex crouched and quickly gathered up a lipstick, a purse and a packet of chewing gum, before stretching for the chequebook, lying open and just out of reach. She shuffled forward and gripped the edge, amazed that anyone still wrote cheques in this day and age when payments could be made with a tap of a card and by text message. As she moved to close the front cover, her eyes fell on a name that chilled her to her core.

  Dropping to her bottom, and pressing her back into the cupboard door for support, Alex felt the walls of the kitchen closing in around her. On the balances page, Isla had scrawled the names and amounts paid, and the last three were all to the same name:

  Luke Simon Murphy.

  The last entry was dated yesterday when Alex had nearly bumped into Isla’s son leaving the property. Isla had been too ashamed to admit she’d yet again bowed to her son’s demands for financial support. Was it possible there was another reason Isla had been so willing to give him money? Why she’d been only too happy to act as Family Liaison on their case?

  Panic swamped her every thought as flashes of the conversations they’d shared filled her mind.

  It was impossible, surely; there was no way Isla and her son could be involved in the abduction of Carol-Anne.

  And yet, somehow Simon had managed to stay one step ahead of the police for all this time. And yesterday Isla had practically admitted to knowing Whitchurch.

  Clambering unsteadily to her feet, Alex looked for her phone. She needed to call Ray or Trent or somebody and pass on what she suspected, but she must have left it charging upstairs. She was about to head up and collect it when the doorbell rang.

  She opened the door, surprised to see a man with large tattooed arms standing there, smiling at her.

  ‘Alex Granger?’ he said, his voice gruff.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, who are …?’

  He thumbed at the van on the street. ‘Delivery, luv. I’ve got a parcel for you. Sorry, wasn’t sure if you were home as there was no car in the driveway. If you can print and sign your name, I’ll go and fetch it.’

  ‘There must be some mistake. I haven’t ordered anything.’

  He passed her the paddle for signing. ‘You are Alex Granger?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Well, the parcel is for that name at this address. You can refuse it if you want, and I can return it to the depot. If you then find out that it’s something from your husband, partner, or whatever, you’ll have to come down and collect it or call up and arrange a second delivery. Up to you.’ His broad smile was warm, even if his teeth were stained from nicotine.

  ‘Um … no … it’s okay,’ Alex said, the feeling of unease slowly passing. ‘Print and sign, right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said cheerily, whistling through his teeth as he returned to the rear of his van, opening the doors and pulling out a small rectangular package the size of a shoebox. He took the paddle from her and handed over the item. ‘You have a nice day now.’

  And with that, he turned and headed back down the driveway, not looking back.

  Alex returned to the kitchen, all thoughts of Isla’s chequebook temporarily forgotten as she tore at the lid of the box. As she saw what glinted back at her from inside, she screamed at the top of her lungs.

  The kettle whistled, and Sophie filled two mugs, swishing the teabags around. ‘I’m glad you called me,’ she said, offering another sympathetic look.

  Alex’s eyes hadn’t left the contents of the shoebox on the counter in front of her, where she’d been standing since Sophie had arrived.

  ‘And you’re sure the stuffed toy is Carol-Anne’s?’ Sophie asked as she slid a mug of tea over to Alex.

  ‘It’s Ballet Bunny, her favourite,’ Alex replied, her voice distant as she stared at the streaks of red now covering the bunny’s torso. ‘She had it with her in the car when she was …’

  ‘Have you phoned the police yet?’

  Alex shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to do for the best. I called you because I didn’t know where else to turn.’

  Sophie offered her an empathetic frown. ‘I’m the last person who would know what to do in this situation. Based on what you told me about that Isla woman and her son, and considering the other item in the box, I don’t think you have a choice: phone the police.’

  The gun sitting on the base of the box was still partly obscured by the bloody bunny, and Alex had yet to check whether it was loaded.

  ‘Where’s Ray? Do you want me to call him?’ Sophie cautioned.

  Alex shook her head. ‘No, don’t call Ray. Don’t call anyone. Not yet.’

  Sophie pointed at the box in exasperation. ‘Alex, somebody has just sent you your daughter’s favourite toy, smeared with blood, along with a gun of some sort. What if it’s from Simon?’

  ‘Who else would it be from?’ Alex whispered, lifting the bunny out of the box and putting it to her nose, instantly recognizing Carol-Anne’s delicate scent.

  ‘I don’t think you should touch any of it,’ Sophie warned. ‘Maybe the bastard left his prints or DNA. That’s what happens in those cop shows, isn’t it?’

  Alex inhaled the bunny’s smell again, before gently putting it to one side, for the first time spotting a typed note stuck to the inside of the box. Pulling it out, she unfolded it. ‘It’s an address.’

  ‘Alex, I don’t like this. You need to phone the police.’ Sophie marched out of the room,
returning a moment later with the phone in her hand. ‘What’s the number for the woman in charge?’ Sophie froze as she saw Alex handling the gun, checking its weight. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  Alex hadn’t felt this calm and in control for as long as she could remember. ‘I’m doing what I should have done from day one: whatever it takes to get my daughter back.’ She fixed Sophie with an assured stare. ‘Simon wants Jack Whitchurch dead, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’d rather spend the rest of my life behind bars than bury my daughter. If you want to be a friend, you’ll drive me to this address and wait for me.’

  52

  Flooring the accelerator, Ray dragged the squad car off the roundabout to a blare of horns. Raising an apologetic hand in acknowledgement, he gripped the wheel with both hands, swerving in and out of traffic. With the grill lights flashing and the siren loud and clear, he made light work of Thomas Lewis Way, and as the signs for the airport came into view he sneaked a glance at the dashboard clock.

  Not bad; the station to the airport in under ten minutes had to be some kind of record. He thought back to Jodie’s anxious call. Papadopoulos is fleeing this morning. You need to get to the boarding gate and stop him.

  She hadn’t wanted to admit where she was or why she’d abandoned her post outside Papadopoulos’s door, and there hadn’t been time to press her. If the Greek bookie made it past passport control and out to a non-extradition country, they’d never catch him.

  He couldn’t escape the guilt regarding his own part in Papadopoulos’s escape. Had he done as he’d said he would and relieved Jodie last night, he would have been there to stop Papadopoulos. Instead of doing his duty, he’d drowned his sorrows.

  And neither the bourbon nor his current course of action was bringing him any closer to finding his daughter. He’d been pestering Trent all morning about the last email Alex had received, and what action she was going to take to find Carol-Anne before it was too late. She’d been evasive, asking him to trust her. It was nigh on impossible to concentrate on anything but his daughter, though.