Lip curled, she lowered the toilet seat. Bloody men. Course, the fact that a decade back Caroline had been sleeping with Sarah’s then fiancée wouldn’t have helped. Or that he was gunned down during a covert police operation after Caroline screamed at the sight of the weapon. Her more recent one-night stand with dishy Dave Harries hadn’t gone down too well with the frosty cop either. Yeah, all that could have something to do with how well they got on. Caroline sighed. Flushed the loo. Why couldn’t some people just let things go?
She rinsed her hands then slaked her thirst from the cold tap. As she patted her face dry, she stared critically in the mirror. Good skin, bright eyes, barely noticeable lines. She smiled, reckoned she could forego the filler for a while. Though God knew how much longer she could get away with late nights and too much booze. She was nearer forty than thirty and had already found a smattering of grey hairs among the black. TV – news or otherwise – was still a young woman’s game, but she’d not go down the Cherry Blossom route. When her face no longer fitted, she’d find something else. Who knew? She might even settle down, get married, have kids. She pulled a face in the glass. Christ, she must have had a skin full.
She nearly jumped out of it when someone banged the door. ‘You in there, Caro?’
‘Give us a minute, Nat,’ she snapped. She’d taken on a lodger primarily to keep an eye on her inheritance while she was in London. When she was in residence, his presence sometimes seemed a high price to pay. ‘I thought you were away?’ she called, hoped to God he’d not been trying to sleep last night.
‘I told you I’d be back today.’ She rolled her eyes. Like she’d remember. ‘Look, Caro, are you—?’
‘Put some coffee on, Nat. I’ll be down in a tick.’
‘No prob. As long as you’re OK.’
Something in his voice made her stiffen. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘I saw the blood on the wall – the writing.’
‘Hey, can’t you read?’ Even the footsteps sounded tetchy. Sarah glanced over her shoulder. Mr Angry Young Man dashed towards them jabbing a finger at yellow lettering on the pitted concrete. ‘H.E.A.D, in case you didn’t know, spells “head”. And this isn’t a public right of way.’
Unimpressed with the lecture, Harries slowly slipped his ID from a breast pocket, displayed the card at eye-level. ‘And this,’ tilting his head, ‘is Detective Inspector Sarah Quinn.’
The classy vowels and cocky ticking off suggested deputy head to Sarah. Either way, the man’s regular features softened almost immediately. ‘Shoot. I’m sorry.’ He slapped his forehead, aped a Homer Simpson ‘Doh!’ ‘Given we’ve got more police on site than a double episode of The Bill I should’ve realized. It’s just we get a lot of trouble with people parking here and if I may say so you don’t look like a cop, inspector.’ The guy certainly didn’t lack confidence; the flirting wasn’t even subtle. She’d probably pull him up on it if he looked like Jabba the Hut but she’d always been into the dark hair, blue eyes, pearly teeth combo.
‘So what do cops look like, Mr …?’
‘Portman. Jake Portman. Caretaker of this parish. Well, one of them.’ He clicked his heels, offered a hand. ‘As to cops,’ he lowered his voice as if sharing a confidence, ‘butch, bald, beer-bellied, Burton suits.’
Maybe he’d come in on a day off. The natty grey two-piece was clearly a cut above chain-store gear. She curved a faintly amused mental lip. ‘And you base this vast knowledge on …?’
‘Crimewatch.’ He flashed a grin. ‘Mind, I’ve not seen it for ages.’ He’d clocked Harries tapping his watch though. ‘Where are you heading, inspector? I’ll show you the way.’
Queen’s Ridge comp was a throwback to the sixties, flat-roofed concrete blocks, lots of blues and greys, open stairways visible through picture windows, everything functional, nothing fancy. Unless you counted Portman, Sarah mused. He did the guided-tour patter as they walked in step, but she’d already done her homework, knew the school’s six hundred pupils spoke getting on for thirty languages. And that the diversity crowd called it a multicultural microcosm. She guessed like any school it had its share of bullies and baddies, but the police rarely visited for anything more vital than a crime prevention talk, until recently.
Glancing back at Dave, she reckoned he looked none too happy to be here now. Through an upstairs window – complete with well-post-Christmas cotton wool snowdrift – she caught a glimpse of a couple of PCs. If the police were treating the place as a crime scene the full FSI works would be out in force. Instead, her oppo in uniform had released half a dozen officers who were carrying out a methodical search of the premises. Given no one knew precisely what they were looking for it was a bit needle-meets-haystack. Not so much nose job as nous.
‘The main staircase is just down the corridor on the left.’ Portman gave a mock salute as he played doorman. ‘I’ll love you and leave you.’
‘Hold on, mate,’ Harries said. ‘I don’t remember seeing your name on the list.’
‘List?’
‘We’ve been interviewing everyone at the school,’ Sarah said. Surely he knew that?
‘I’ve been on leave, but I guess I should’ve cottoned on anyway.’ He spread his arms in mock surrender. ‘Feel free. I’m all yours.’
‘Leave in term-time?’ Harries sniffed.
Portman paused a second or two, the smile no longer in situ. ‘It was sick leave. I’m actually doing the head a favour coming in today.’
‘How jolly decent,’ Harries mumbled.
They used the staffroom. Portman had a bunch of keys. A low coffee table was littered with files, exercise books, two odd socks and a Mars bar with teeth marks. He offered a drink but going by the tannin rings in a couple of mugs on the floor, Sarah declined. As she sat, she spotted a can of air freshener in a bookcase. It patently didn’t work, unless nowadays it came in sweat-laced-sprout fragrance.
After running through the basics, Portman told them he’d worked at the school since January, one of a three-strong team, who looked after the grounds as well as kept an eye on the buildings. ‘Jake of all trades’, as he put it. He might have seen Caitlin round the school but hadn’t known anyone was missing until the head’s phone call late last night. He’d been too ill to catch the telly news let alone read a paper. Reckoned he’d never touch prawns again.
‘How well did you know Caitlin?’ Dave tapped a pen between his teeth.
‘I said …’ He glanced at Harries for the first time. ‘I might have seen her around. I thought you were supposed to be recording this.’
Sarah cleared her throat. ‘Before Queen’s Ridge, Mr Portman? What did you do?’
He’d been a full-time carer to his father who’d died six months back. Portman said he sold the family home in Rugby and moved to Birmingham just after. Sarah was on body-watch as well as asking the questions. His laid-back posture seemed as open as the relaxed manner, the twinkle in the eye a more or less permanent fixture. If he had longer hair, a parrot and a penchant for hoop earrings, she could easily picture Portman doing a passable Jack Sparrow. More easily than school dogsbody. Smoothing her skirt she said, ‘You’ve not worked as a caretaker before, then?’
He twitched a lip. ‘Is that a polite way of saying, what’s a nice boy like you doing in a crap job like this?’
‘Just answer the question eh, mate?’ Since when had Dave turned into Mr Grumpy?
Portman didn’t bat an eye, kept his gaze on Sarah. ‘I’ve never worked as a caretaker before, but beggars can’t be choosers. And when you’ve been out of the job market as long as I have, I was happy to take it.’
Beggar in a Boss suit? She raised a sceptical eyebrow.
‘I use the cliché loosely, inspector.’ Clearly he could read body language too. ‘I inherited a modest estate from my father but money isn’t everything. Life can be pretty lonely without work. Everyone needs to contribute, feel useful. And what better way to meet people, build a social life? Besides, we all need a reason to get out of
bed in the morning, don’t we?’
Full bladder usually works. ‘Tell me …’
Three heads swivelled when the door swung open and a woman reversed in, arms piled high with cardboard boxes. ‘Whoops, sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was here.’ Not surprising given her nose was pressed against the top box. As she lowered the burden, her glance fell on Harries and her turquoise eyes lightened. ‘Hello again. What are you doing here?’
From a teacher, Sarah reckoned it was a pretty dumb question. She’d little doubt of box lady’s identity. Dave’s hot blush wasn’t the only clue. The blob of red paint on Fox’s otherwise peachy cheek clinched it. Actually, Sarah ceded, on Ms Fox it was less blob, more fetching dab. ‘Silly me,’ the teacher unwittingly concurred. ‘Seeing someone out of context, it always takes a second or two to sink in. Like bumping into your dentist at the butcher’s.’ The girly giggle followed by a broad smile suggested she fancied herself as a bit of a wit. And Sarah wouldn’t be surprised if she was on first-name terms with her dentist.
‘Actually,’ Portman said. ‘We’re just in the mid—’
‘Of course. No worries. I don’t need to do this now.’ She raked her fingers apparently artlessly through the long blonde tresses.
Sarah rose. ‘Let me give you my card, Ms Fox. I’m Sarah Quinn.’ She was a good six inches taller than the younger woman. ‘If anything comes to mind …’
The teacher glanced at Harries. ‘I’ve already got—’
‘I’m senior investigating officer on the inquiry.’
‘Why not.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘The more the merrier. Catch you later.’
Throwaway remark or carefully targeted? Harries had his head down. Sarah resumed her seat, uncharacteristically rattled. ‘We were talking about your work, Mr Portman. Tell me, do you have close contact with the children?’ Christ, she could’ve phrased that better.
His mouth tightened and the twinkle went out. ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ Pique didn’t cover it; he was clearly pissed off.
She raised a placatory palm. ‘Not the best way of putting it. I’m sorry. What I’m trying to say is, are you in a position to pick up what goes on in school? Rumours. Playground gossip, that sort of thing. Would you know, for instance, if a pupil was being bullied, or bothered by something, someone?’
‘Apology accepted.’ He smiled. ‘But no, not really. I’ve not been here long enough for that.’
‘“Not really”?’ she quoted. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I’ve certainly not heard any buzz about the missing girl.’ He anticipated the obvious supplementary. ‘Or anyone else for that matter.’
She looked at Harries who shook his head. ‘OK, Mr Portman. I think that’s it for now.’
‘Let me have a card.’ He held out a hand. ‘If I think of anything, I’ll be sure to ring. Is your home number on here as well?’ He winked. ‘That was a joke. Seriously, though, I wish I could be more help. Maybe if I’d been around when Caitlin was …’ He held out empty palms.
‘Why?’ Harries couldn’t resist a final dig. ‘What would you’ve done?’
‘Who knows? But I presume an intruder entered the grounds again?’
Again?
TWENTY-SIX
‘So when did they get in? And come to that, how?’ Nat passed Caroline a black coffee, dragged a stool out from under the breakfast bar. ‘Sit down Caro, you look like shit.’
Her mumbled ‘Cheers, mate’ had nothing to do with the drink. What woman liked being told she looked less than hot? After seeing the artwork on the wall, Caroline felt like puking, still hadn’t taken her gaze off the bloody thing. She barely noticed her hand shake as she lifted the espresso to her lips.
‘I was scared I’d find you lying dead or something.’ Nat’s nervous laugh failed to take the edge off what he’d said.
‘Fuck’s sake, Nat.’ Dabbing coffee off her chin, brushing it off her chest. ‘Don’t mince your words, eh?’
‘Sorry Caro, but look at it.’ Hands deep in black denim pockets, Nat stood and surveyed the unwanted mural in all its gory glory. A child could have daubed it. The matchstick body, splayed legs, the corpse and limbs streaked red, the whole wall spattered scarlet. The semblance of blood had to be for shock value. It wasn’t real; paint fumes still lingered in the air.
‘Get the window, will you, Nat?’ Shivering, Caroline drew the dressing gown round her body more tightly. Presumably, the bastards had left it open on purpose. If she’d noticed the smell earlier she might have caught them red-handed. As it was the room could’ve doubled as a freezer.
Nat strode across the kitchen, his thin frame not exactly instilling confidence. As a reporter, Caroline knew he punched well above his weight. As for the real world, the jury was out. She slapped a hand to her mouth. Holy mother … What if? ‘Nat, have you—?’
‘The whole house.’ He brushed a boyish fringe out of his eyes. ‘Bathroom was the last place I checked. Whoever did it has long gone.’ He perched on a stool beside her, gave her hand a tentative pat. ‘And you still haven’t answered the questions.’
She’d certainly been giving them thought. The intruder/intruders had to have broken in while she and Ed were playing rabbits. Or maybe not? He’d left around six and she’d been dead to the world for the next four hours. She shuddered. Stupid sodding expression. Surely Ed would have said if he’d smelled paint? ‘Timing was most likely between six and ten. I can’t pin it down any further. What about the front door, Nat? Was it locked?’
‘Front and back. No sign of a forced entry.’ He swallowed a mouthful of coffee. ‘And the windows? Did you check before bed?’
‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure.’ On the other hand, she and Ed had been on the pop as well as on the job. Maybe she’d inadvertently provided a literal window of opportunity. Or could Ed have accidentally left the door on the latch? No way. Besides, much as she wanted to believe the break-in was a random act, she’d obviously been targeted. And the writing on the wall couldn’t be much clearer.
Nat tilted his head at the message. ‘It’s to do with the job, surely?’
The red scrawl had dripped like candle wax.
Badger’s Copse. 1960. Get digging.
She nodded. ‘It’s what reporters do, isn’t it?’ Narrowing her eyes, she slid off the stool, took a closer look. She’d not noticed them before. Tiny letters. Almost obliterated where the paint had dripped.
‘And cops.’ Nat shoved her phone across the bar. ‘You need to call them now.’
‘No, hang fire.’ She traced a finger over the initials: CR. It struck her the tip-off this time could have come from the horse’s mouth. CR wants you to dig. ‘I’ll do a bit of groundwork first.’
Unearthing treasure wasn’t high on Caroline’s expectations, but Caitlin seemed to think something had been buried.
Or someone.
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘Paulie, Paulie. Where are you?’ Susan whimpered. Gingerly, she raised her head a few inches but it hurt; she felt dizzy. She must have hit it when she went flying. Even without her glasses, she could see the root that tripped her from here. But no Pauline. Susan crossed her legs, whimpered again; if she wet her pants her mum would kill her. Wincing, she gently traced the outline of a huge bump at the back of her ear. Her fingers came away streaked with blood. She wiped it on her shorts. Oh my God, they were ripped. She was going to get a smack. She must have knocked herself out. How long had she been lying here? If Pauline had scooted off home, and right now was having her tea, tucking into spam sandwiches … Some friend, huh? Susan clenched her fists, tears pricked her eyes.
She struggled to her knees, then remembered why they’d fled into the copse. Even though her head spun, she cast wary glances round. No sign of him. And still no sign of Pauline. Susan covered her face with her hands and started to cry tears mingled with blood, snot, dirt. She remembered how the man had shouted at her to get lost, to leave Pauline alone. She felt a warm trickle down her thighs. This was the worst day of her entire
life. Then she gasped. Through her fingers she saw just the edge of Pauline’s sandal. The little monkey was hiding behind that tree.
She’d get a hiding alright. Susan ran the back of her hand across her mouth. A damn good slapping’s what she’d get an’ all when Susan got hold of her. Fear forgotten, she was hopping mad. Breathing heavily, she stomped over, hands on hips.
‘You’re gonna get it, you are, Pauline Bol—’ Her brain couldn’t – maybe wouldn’t – collate what her eyes saw. ‘Are you messing round?’ Playing dead? Pauline lay on her back a few feet from the sandal, arms stretched like broken wings. But the sandal wasn’t white any more. It was splashed with red. Susan took a tentative step towards her friend. Where had the jam come from? Pauline’s face was smeared with the stuff, great blobs all over her dress, her knickers. Wasps and flies buzzing round. Pauline didn’t even flinch when a great fat bluebottle landed on her eye.
‘No,’ she whispered, then ran to her little friend, grabbed her in both arms, shook her again and again. ‘Wake up, Paulie, wake up. I didn’t mean it.’ For a while Susan held her tiny body close, cuddled her, then held her out again, willing her to breathe. Everything sagged. Pauline’s head lolled like a rag doll’s; limp, lifeless. Susan gagged, slapped a hand to her mouth. Pauline dropped like a dead weight.
The noise started with a wail, then a loud howl, eerie, ear-splitting. Then another and another, endless. Susan had never heard an animal like it before. On and on it went – why wouldn’t it stop? Please make it— Startled, she pressed a hand to her cheek. The slap smarted but it was OK because the noise had stopped. Then she saw Mrs Bolton’s ashen face as she clutched Pauline to her chest. And knew nothing would ever again be OK.
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