An outsider? That’s what I am, thought Nicola. She’d never really known her mother. And now it was too late.
Placing the brush down, she studied her reflection in the three-way mirror; resented seeing traces of the old woman’s features, the button nose, the slightly full bottom lip. She raised a speculative eyebrow. Like mother, like daughter? Who knew? When it came down to it, could Nicola actually take a life? Was everybody capable; did everyone have the killer instinct? Let’s face it, she thought, if there’s a murder gene, I’ve got a hell of a head start. She gave a brittle laugh, her heart breaking.
She was looking at Catch 22 in a cleft stick. If she killed her mother, Nicola would in effect lose Caitlin anyway. A life sentence was mandatory and she’d be a fat lot of use to her daughter behind bars. It’s what the bastard wanted, of course. He wasn’t interested in a pound of flesh; he wanted bodies. Nicola would be doing his dirty work and at the same time digging her own metaphorical grave. But if she didn’t …
She reached for the silver-framed photograph to her right. Caitlin celebrating GCSE results; her first prom, they’d hired the ball gown. Nicola’s warm smile faded. There was no question really. She’d sacrifice anything – anyone – if it saved her daughter’s life.
‘Nic! You up there?’
‘I’ll be down in a tick,’ she shouted. What was Neil doing here? A quick call first wouldn’t have hurt.
‘I bought you these.’ He stood at the bottom of the stairs, sheepish smile on his face. Garage tulips. ‘Oh, and this.’ He whipped a bottle of Bells from behind his back. That was more like it.
She forced a token smile as she descended, took delivery. ‘What’s this in aid of?’
‘I thought they’d cheer you up a bit. I’ve been neglecting you, Nic. I’m sorry.’ He opened his arms for a hug. ‘I want you to know I’m here for you.’ Kind words and sympathy were more than she could take. She broke down, buried her face in his shoulder. He stroked her hair, let her cry. ‘Come on, let’s dry those tears. What is it, Nic?’ She wanted to share the burden but could barely speak. He led her gently into the sitting room, they sat close and he took both her hands in his. ‘Is it Caitlin? Is there news?’
Gazing down at their hands, she told him haltingly most of what she’d learned about her mother that day. He had little time for the old woman, he’d made no secret of it – and that was before hearing about her murderous past. As for Nicola’s putative murderous future, she’d yet to break that little nugget. ‘If you’d rather leave now, Neil.’ She made fleeting eye contact. ‘I’ll understand. No worries.’
‘Poor Nicola.’ He used a thumb to dash away a tear. ‘I assumed you knew about your mother. It’s why I never mentioned it. I thought you were protecting her.’
THIRTY
‘All I ever wanted was to protect you, love.’ Linda Walker sat in her chair by the fire, talking to a photograph that trembled in her fingers. The pose showed Nicola looking a darn sight happier than when she’d stormed out hours ago. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping it from you.’ The old woman stroked her daughter’s cheek then pressed the picture – damp with tears – to her lips.
With hindsight, she realized she’d protected no one. The past refused to be buried; secrets and lies had been unearthed. She’d exposed her daughter to pain and shame and would never forget the look of horror on Nicola’s face. She wouldn’t want to see her old mum again, certainly not when she found out more. It would be easy enough to check back; the case had been in all the papers. Mrs Walker shuddered. She knew reporters had got things wrong. What would happen if they got hold of the story again?
She hauled herself out of the chair, shuffled over to draw the curtains, shut out the darkness. Blanking it all out was how she’d coped over the years: Badger’s Copse, Pauline’s body, the lies, the bullying, the confession, the baying crowds. Closing her mind to it had been the only way she could live with herself, especially after being released from prison. Even inside she’d switched off, tried hard not to give it head room. That way madness lay. She thought she’d gone loopy anyway after Pauline’s murder.
How could she not? Frightened, confused, everyone shouting. It had been like a bad dream from which she’d longed to wake. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d consciously looked back on the events of that summer. Hazy memories surfaced still, in nightmares, blended with unreal imaginings. Even on the day, she’d found it difficult to distinguish fact from fantasy.
The old woman closed her eyes, tried hard to visualize the scene. Slowly she nodded her head. The man had been there that day. Susan knew she hadn’t imagined him.
‘Man? What man, Susan?’
Susan pulled back, cowered behind a grimy hand. She didn’t think her mum would hit her in front of people but her voice was scaring the girl something awful. Susan glanced round nervously, quailed at a sea of questioning faces. It looked as if the whole village had turned out: women still wearing pinnies, men straight off the fields with dust in their hair, on their clothes. And everyone waited eagerly, expectant.
‘I won’t ask again, young lady.’
Susan knew her mum meant the exact opposite and if she didn’t get a move on …
‘The man what gives Pauline lollies. His shirt was open, I seen his vest. He had a belt with a big shiny buckle. He—’
‘What man?’ Susan’s mum shouted. ‘Who’s been giving her sweets?’
‘Dunno his name. But I seen him on the building site lots of times, Mum. The one with all the tattoos. Anyway he come chasin’ us and Paulie and me, we ran like mad … He was coming up behind. I heard footsteps and I could hear his breathin’ and—’
‘She’s bleeding, look.’ One of the old biddies from the almshouses pointed a twig-like finger at Susan’s face.
The girl raised her hand instinctively, winced as her fingers touched the bump again, the blood must’ve trickled down.
‘How d’you get that, girl?’ one of the men asked.
‘I … I dunno … one minute we were running … screaming … I went flying … the next I seen …’ Everyone’s glance followed Susan’s to the right where Pauline now lay cradled in Mrs Bolton’s arms. Face and hands smeared with her daughter’s blood, the woman rocked steadily to and fro, her lips moving in a silent prayer. Susan wondered if she’d left the twins with Grace; she never let the babies out of her sight normally.
‘Look at me, girl.’ Susan writhed under her mother’s gaze. ‘This man. Did he hurt you too?’ She’d not even noticed Susan’s wet shorts or that she wasn’t wearing her glasses.
‘I … he …’ Her lips stuck together her mouth was so dry. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two women cross themselves, mutter under their breath. Sounded to Susan like ‘poor lambs’. She heard someone say that Mrs White up at the farm had called the police, that they were on the way.
Susan’s legs buckled; she grabbed on to her mother’s arm. ‘Help me, Mum—’
She woke in hospital. Two police officers sat beside her bed. And then the questions really began.
THIRTY-ONE
Caroline King tapped a pen against her teeth. Cooped upstairs in the home office, she’d barely noticed the light failing outside. Her face was cast in shadow, her focus still fixed on the monitor; the PC had taken quite a bashing. She’d lost count of the stories she’d read, features skimmed, notes made. As a journo, the research had been child’s play. The murder of a child in the summer of 1960 was then the most exciting event that had ever happened in the Leicestershire village of Moss Pit. It probably still was.
She swigged the dregs of her Coke then lobbed the can in the bin. Digging out the story had been easy; the harder part was knowing what was the truth and what bearing it might have on Caitlin Reynolds’ abduction. And that assumed her lousy interior decorator – she used the term loosely – wasn’t a fruitcake trying to drag Caroline into some bizarre fantasy.
Pen tucked behind her ear now, she angled the desk lamp at the pin board o
n the nearest wall. Pictures of the main players were posted there, plus a few reports she’d also printed out. Leaning back in the chair, the reporter rested both hands on her head and gazed at the girls’ likenesses.
Pauline Bolton and Susan Bailey: beauty and the beast. Had Susan had more than a touch of the green-eyed monster? Fatty four-eyes jealous of five-year-old cutey pants? Something had driven the Bailey kid to kill. Envy? Retaliation for all the verbal abuse. Forget that names may never hurt. Maybe the village kids had badmouthed Susan once too often, pushed her over the edge? And as we all know, Caroline thought, sticks and stones don’t just break bones.
Pauline’s death was down to a battering with a chunk of wood from a rotting tree trunk, weals on her legs and arms also pointed to repeated use of a thin stick. Police had discovered the weapons partially hidden in undergrowth in the copse. According to the prosecution, concealing evidence meant the girl knew she’d done wrong; it showed a cunning streak. Certainly there was no suggestion in court of diminished responsibility. That she’d tried to blame it on someone else really went against her. The judge said it indicated a ‘cold-blooded calculation almost beyond her years’. The really damning evidence came from the builder she’d tried to nail.
Caroline leaned forward, unpinned the reports that had caught her eye earlier and reread a few passages.
Police are questioning a thirty-year-old builder in connection with the murder of babe-in-the-wood Pauline Bolton. The man who can’t be named for legal reasons was arrested following information received from the public. It’s believed a ten-year-old girl, also in the wood at the time of the attack, was able to provide a description of a man she saw. Detectives have not called off the murder hunt and are still appealing for information.
Yeah right. Caroline recognized police-speak: what the last line meant was that from fairly early on in the inquiry the cops harboured doubts about the girl’s testimony. From where she sat, Caroline didn’t reckon the builder had covered himself in glory.
Thirty-year-old labourer Mr Ted Crawford told the court he’d seen the two children playing in the village several times before the day in question. He expressed regret he’d not thought to mention his concerns to the parents before. ‘She was always yelling at her, bossing her about,’ he said. ‘She was much older than Pauline but I felt sorry for the big girl too. The other kids were forever on at her.’
Get on with it. Caroline ran a finger down the page.
‘But she went too far that day. I could see they were playing teachers. Susan had this stick, using it like a cane she was, whipping dandelion heads off. When I saw her wallop Pauline I went racing over, shouted at her to leave the little one alone. That I didn’t chase after them – I’ll regret to my dying day.’
When asked why he hadn’t ventured into the wood, Mr Crawford told the court he’d been afraid of scaring the children. The first he knew about the murder, he said, was when two police officers turned up at his door the next day. Outside the court, Mr Crawford told reporters, ‘I wish her no harm but the fact is if Susan Bailey hadn’t eventually come clean, she could’ve got me hung.’
Hanged, Caroline murmured. She studied Crawford’s pic. Not that there was much to see in the single column, head and shoulders: clean-shaven, sleek short back and sides, eyes creased against the light. Crawford hadn’t actually witnessed the attack. Was it possible there’d been someone else in the copse? The real killer even? Someone scared that after all these years the truth would come out? Her reporter’s antennae twitched but the thrill didn’t last long. Susan Bailey had confessed, hadn’t she? Caroline ran her mind back over a catalogue of miscarriages of justices. Supposing the girl had coughed under duress? It was twenty-plus years before the police and criminal evidence act – and it had been brought in partly to stop heavy-handed police interviews.
Sighing, Caroline pushed back the chair. Whichever way you looked at it, Susan Bailey was the key to the babe-in-the-wood case. What she couldn’t see was how it fitted with Caitlin Reynolds’ story. The girl certainly wasn’t around to ask. Caroline would just have to make do with the mother.
‘I need to run a few questions past you, Mrs Reynolds.’ Sarah gave a tight smile. ‘May we come in?’
‘It’s late. I’m tired. Can it wait until morning?’
‘We’re here now.’ Unsmiling, Sarah tilted her head at the door. Like the DI wasn’t keen to knock off anyway? After a twelve-hour-plus shift and little to show for it? At least Dave was on overtime. She wondered vaguely why Reynolds was in a dressing gown. Half-seven was hardly the witching hour. ‘If we’d not been following leads, I’d have dropped by earlier.’
Nicola nodded, indicated a door on the left. ‘Go in. Sit down. I’ll be with you in a tick.’
Mentally open-mouthed, Sarah watched the woman drift off towards the kitchen and close the door behind her. The DI perched on the leather three-seater and, keeping her voice down, glanced up at Harries. ‘If your daughter was missing …’ Shouldn’t Nicola have been over them like a rash for latest developments?
‘I get the drift.’ Harries flopped next to her, helped himself to a tissue from a box on the floor. ‘What you reckon she’s doing in there, boss?’
Gesundheit. ‘Bless you.’ She shifted back even further. ‘Who knows? Dutch courage perhaps.’
‘Double Dutch.’ Harries sniffed. ‘Ask me, she’s already had a few.’
Tired and emotional then? Sarah thought the woman certainly looked knackered, distraught even. Must be a nightmare having a child missing, maybe she needed the hard stuff to soften the edges. Sarah cocked her head. Either Reynolds had the radio on or she had company.
Dave was restless already. Peeling himself off the sofa, he flicked the balled tissue at the bin. ‘Whoops.’ Nicola’s aim was as pants as Dave’s. He tidied the litter up for her then, hands in pockets, prowled round the room. Sarah pricked her ears. Two voices? Both female?
‘Do you want kids, boss?’ Dave had his back to her.
‘Not right this minute.’ She frowned. The ear-wigging was going nowhere; she gave it up as a bad job. What was Mr Snoop holding?
‘Fun-nee. You know what I mean – some time down the line.’
If she was honest, no. More than once she’d had to break news of a child’s death, witnessed the raw grief of parents, the broken hearts, shattered lives, families ripped apart. In Sarah’s book the old saying about children being a hostage to fortune was bang on. ‘I can live without them, Dave.’
‘No group hug for you then.’ Turning, he showed her the photograph in his hand, three generations of Reynolds women: Linda, Nicola, Caitlin, arm round waists, big smiles – all genes together.
Given Sarah’s mother – and father – were dead, even if she did have a kid there’d be no Team Quinn pose. ‘As I say, I can live with—’
‘Sorry about that, sergeant …?’ Nicola didn’t sound too apologetic.
Sarah sighed almost theatrically. The deliberate demotion for whatsername? Such an original put down. ‘Quinn. Detective Inspector.’
‘I was in the middle of a call. How can I help?’
Stop raking your hair and taking a seat will do for a start. Sarah bit her tongue. The relationship had started off on the wrong foot and slalomed fast. She found the woman impossible, unfathomable, knew she ought to build bridges. Tough. She was a cop not Kingdom Brunel. ‘The argument you had with Caitlin. Why hide it?’
‘Argument?’ The acting had gone up a notch.
‘Blazing row then.’ Reynolds still needed a cue. ‘Luke Holden?’
‘Oh that.’ She flapped a hand, squatted on the edge of an armchair. ‘As far as he’s concerned, Caitlin has a blind spot.’
‘Soft spot more like.’ What she’d read of Caitlin’s diary made that clear.
‘He’s no good for her. I told her to keep away. I didn’t … don’t … want her hurt again.’
Nicola’s hands were folded tightly in her lap but she still had the shakes. ‘Why are you askin
g all this anyway? Holden has nothing to do with what’s happening to Caitlin.’ The shouting seemed over the top.
Sarah held the woman’s gaze. ‘You sound very sure about that, Mrs Reynolds.’
She took a deep breath, briefly closed her eyes. ‘I don’t want you wasting time on him, that’s all.’
‘I won’t be.’ Sarah let a few seconds elapse. ‘Not for a while anyway.’ Holden, she revealed, was in intensive care in hospital after an apparent overdose. Reynolds’ surprise seemed genuine though she asked no questions, voiced no concern. Sarah let the silence ride again, then: ‘Is there any reason you can think of why he’d try to take his own life, Mrs Reynolds?’
‘As it happens, inspector, I’d rather concentrate on ways of saving Caitlin’s.’
Harries leaned forward. ‘Are you OK, Mrs Reynolds? Can I get you some water or something?’
‘No. I’m fine. Just ask your questions and go.’
‘That went well, boss.’
‘You are so predictable, Dave.’ It was the line he always came out with after an interview from hell.
‘You and Nicola Reynolds?’ He pressed finger and thumb together. ‘Not a cigarette paper between you.’
Lots of smoke – and mirrors – on Reynolds’ part though. ‘Dave, please.’ Her grip tightened on the wheel. ‘I’m not in the mood.’ She’d got naff all out of Nicola; Caitlin was still God knew where; the inquiry wasn’t so much stalled as in reverse. On top of that it was Saturday night, it was pissing down and the most exciting thing on Sarah’s horizon was hitting Tesco.
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