Child's Play

by Maureen Carter

  Caroline regarded the mural as her winning card, and after Quinn’s predictable hissy fit over the incident not having been reported, it partly did the trick. She knew Sarah wouldn’t fold completely but she did agree to keep Caroline in the loop. Given the reporter could potentially bring communication with the perp to the table, Sarah digging her heels in would have been counter-productive. That was Caroline’s take, anyway. ‘Shake on it?’ she asked, smiling.

  ‘Don’t push your luck, Caroline.’

  Halfway to the door, the reporter turned back. ‘You could’ve stopped me sooner.’ Before I made a tit of myself.

  ‘I was curious to see how far you’d go.’

  She’d seen nothing yet. Caroline hoisted her bag on her shoulder. ‘Nat sends his regards, by the way.’

  ‘Oh?’ Sarah hadn’t run into Caroline’s lodger for months.

  ‘Yeah. He was in Giovanni’s last night. He’d have come over to say hello, but he reckoned it looked like a private party. Dead cosy, he told me.’ She fluttered her fingers. ‘Ciao.’

  The sharp exit would have had more impact if King had a swipe card. She was back within seconds. ‘Can you let me out, please?’

  After summoning King a police escort, Sarah grabbed her coat and keys, dashed to the squad room and brought the few officers there up to speed on the killer’s bloodline.

  ‘Caitlin Reynolds’ granny?’ Paul Wood gave a low whistle. ‘Now that’s what I call a turn up.’ Going by the stunned silence, he’d voiced everyone’s reaction. Until now, the detectives’ phone bashing had been little more than speculative. Given the family connection, it had actually been bang on. They’d already amassed a list of names of people they needed to talk to. Near the top were Bolton family members. Pauline’s parents were long dead but there’d been an elder sister and a younger set of twins. A retired cop was still around somewhere, too. Harries sat at a desk by the window, making a call. Doubtless the list would grow as the day wore on.

  ‘So we’re thinking the motive’s revenge?’ Wood tucked a pen behind his ear. ‘Makes sense, I guess. To a sad git.’

  ‘Yeah, but what’s the sad git after?’ John Hunt tugged the ring-pull on a can of Red Bull. ‘He’s had Caitlin for three days now and not a word. If it’s Old Testament revenge he’s after, I don’t fancy her chances much.’

  A rookie DC’s blank look suggested religion wasn’t his thing. Huntie could enlighten the guy later. Sarah wanted out of there, soon as. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘“not a word” isn’t strictly true.’ She mentioned Caroline King’s un-commissioned wall art and the message ostensibly from Caitlin. A communal groan of incredulity followed. ‘I know, I know.’ She waved it down. ‘Tell me about it.’ She’d been so furious at the delay in reporting the incident, let alone loss of potential evidence, she’d threatened to slap King with an obstruction charge. She’d have thrown in a perverting the course too if the reporter hadn’t agreed to go home and wait for the arrival of a forensic team.

  ‘At least King tipped us the wink on the family connection.’ Holmes opened the bread roll in his hand, inspected the bacon content. ‘Hack doing favours is rarer than a straight coil.’

  ‘Greeks bearing gifts, Jed. Anyway,’ Sarah said, ‘it’s a link not the chain. To hear her bang on you’d think she’d cracked the case.’ King had bought them a bit of time, hardly saved the day.

  Hunt swivelled in a chair, brawny arms folded across his chest. ‘How come Nicola Reynolds blabbed to a reporter anyway?’ The tacit corollary? And not a word to us.

  ‘Good question, Twig.’ And one of the first she intended asking the bloody woman. ‘I’ll get back to you.’ Sarah jangled her keys as Harries ended the call.

  ‘Just coming, boss.’ He grabbed his leather jacket, drained whatever he’d been drinking from a paper cup.

  ‘You pair off to Nicola Reynolds’ now then, ma’am?’ Hunt asked.

  ‘Later.’

  She’d cut out the middle woman, deal with the matriarch first.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘Boss, about last night?’

  Here we go. Sarah tapped the wheel, had been wondering how long it would take. For twenty minutes now, Harries had prattled on about the weather (heavy cloud), the traffic (light flow), the up-coming interview (sooner you than me, boss). She’d not been fooled by the forced jocularity in his voice; it didn’t marry with the studiously avoided eye contact, same as at the early brief. Dave wasn’t lost for words, she reckoned, just a bit lost. That was no surprise, given Sarah wasn’t entirely sure about last night’s ramifications either. The promise she made to herself ten years back not to get into bed with another cop had bombed spectacularly.

  ‘Not at work, eh, Dave?’ Thank God she hadn’t said ‘not on the job’.

  ‘I’m just … you know … really sorry.’ Out of the corner of her eye she caught actual hand-wringing, Uriah Harries.

  ‘No sweat.’ She sensed his gaze on her profile. ‘Nothing to be sorry about.’ Wasn’t his fault he’d fallen asleep before they’d got down to business. Blame it on the booze. She certainly didn’t see it as personal. A professional failing, perhaps, if they’d gone ahead? ‘Next time, maybe?’

  He turned to face her. ‘Are you serious?’

  If the foreplay was anything to go by. Dead serious. Her spirit was willing, his flesh had been weak. He’d get over that. His coffee was crap too and she’d get over that. ‘Yes, I am.’ She cut him a glance: perky didn’t cover it. ‘One absolute no-no?’ She pressed a finger against her lips. ‘Or it’s curtains.’

  He did the ‘Scout’s honour’ bit, holding three fingers against a temple; the smile was beatific. ‘Trust me … mum’s the—’

  ‘Don’t even go there, Dave.’ The age gap wasn’t that big. Besides, on current experience, the last person she’d trust was a mother.

  Or grandmother.

  ‘You’d best come in.’ Linda Walker, in another life Susan Bailey, held the door open and shuffled back against the faded rose wallpaper. She’d smartened her act since last time. Sarah spotted a dab of lipstick, a dusting of face powder, the smell of fabric conditioner wafted from the get up of black skirt, baggy jumper; her down-at-heel slippers had been replaced by court shoes. Had the old girl been expecting a police visit? A knock on the door?

  Until less than an hour ago, the house call was more than Sarah had anticipated. In fifteen years as a cop she’d never come across a similar scenario. A child killer’s granddaughter abducted half a century after the crime? Shame there was no handy police guide. She’d have appreciated hearing the chief’s take, but her calls to him had gone straight to voicemail. Knowing Baker, he’d barge in and grab the woman by the metaphorical balls. Might not be a bad idea.

  Masking her distaste, Sarah brushed a load of cat hairs off the settee before taking a seat. At least the feline itself wasn’t in sight, though the stink of pee lingered. The room was like an oven; Sarah unbuttoned her coat. Mrs Walker stood in front of a blazing coal fire, smoothing her bun. ‘Would you like a cup of something?’

  The DI shook her head. ‘Sit down please.’ The brew last time had been undrinkable, and besides they weren’t at a tea party. ‘When were you going to tell us? About Pauline Bolton?’

  Her amber eyes narrowed a touch behind the thick lenses, sinking on to the wing chair, she clutched her chest. Sarah sensed Dave’s concern but she was unmoved. Clearly feeling differently, he leaned forward, asked if she needed water, pills, tea, anything.

  ‘No thank you, dear. I’ll be alright in a minute.’ She used a Radio Times to fan her face. ‘I suppose Nicola’s been talking?’

  Weird response. Nicola had been as forthcoming on the bloody subject as her mother. Sarah stared at the woman, found it nigh on impossible to marry the ordinary appearance, bland features with a child-killing past. She recalled her first impression, mentally likening Caitlin’s granny to a Russian Babushka. Bang on there then. ‘Pauline Bolton, Mrs Walker. Soon as you like.’

  She sighed, s
hook her head. ‘It was all so long ago. You have to understand I’ve not thought about it in years. I block it out, it’s too painful.’

  For who, Sarah wondered? Either way Walker needed to get her head round it now. ‘Did it not occur to you that your conviction for the child’s murder could be a significant factor in Caitlin’s abduction?’

  ‘No, never,’ she said, clinging to the arms of her chair. ‘I’ve told you, for me it’s in the past, dead and buried, over and done with.’

  ‘Was in the past, Mrs Walker.’ Coal shifted in the grate, sparks flew to the hearth. Impassive, Sarah waited for Walker to break her silence. Surely it was inconceivable that the woman hadn’t put two and two together?

  ‘If anyone hurts Caitlin, I’ll … I’ll …’

  Didn’t say. Walker dropped her head to her chest and started sobbing. Harries delved into a pocket for a tissue. Sarah shook her head, stayed the offer with a raised hand. ‘Never forgive yourself?’ she prompted. ‘Is that what you were going to say? Because I’d say whoever’s holding Caitlin likely feels the same way.’

  Harries cut her a don’t-hold-back look. She wouldn’t. Walker had held back and look where that had got them. If she’d revealed the pointer first time round, the inquiry could be a lot further forward. Walker’s emotional angst didn’t cut it with the DI, not when Caitlin’s life was at risk. She drummed her thigh with three fingers, mentally counting to twenty, reached fifteen.

  Mrs Walker sat up straight, wiped tears with the heels of her hands before folding them loosely in her lap. ‘I’m sorry, inspector, but I don’t think there’s anything to forgive. I paid for the crime. I’ll regret to my dying day what happened to Pauline. But I was locked up for ten years. I was bullied inside, beaten, spat on, verbally abused every day.’ Her fingers kneaded the skirt. ‘Believe me, prison’s no picnic. But I took the punishment, I served the time and I’ve tried to live a decent life since. I keep my head down, nose clean, never hurt anyone. Early on in life I learned a very hard lesson.’

  Sarah nodded. The attempt at dignity touched her slightly more than what she regarded as Walker’s previous histrionics. She took the point too, but clearly someone out there didn’t share the view. ‘Problem is, Mrs Walker, I think somebody’s trying to teach you another lesson. An even harder one.’

  ‘I’m an old woman. He can do what he likes to me. But not Caitlin. Why punish her?’

  ‘He?’ Sarah and Harries exchanged glances.

  ‘He, she, they. You know what I mean.’ Walker broke eye contact. ‘Slip of the tongue.’

  Was it? Sarah pressed her on whether anyone from the past had been in contact recently; whether she’d spotted anyone/anything odd over the last few days/weeks. Fast denials, firm head shakes. Too fast? Too firm? But why would she lie? She ran names past her, people who’d lived in the village, given evidence at the trial. Walker had no memories of them, she claimed, apart from the Boltons and the builder.

  ‘The man you tried to frame.’ Sarah said. It wasn’t a question.

  ‘He died while I was in prison.’ Walker nodded. ‘Hanged himself in the copse apparently.’

  ‘Who told you?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘One of the warders. I never got visitors.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Just the one. Pauline’s sister. Wanted to know why I’d done it. Grace, I think her name was.’

  ‘Was?’ Sarah glanced at Harries who was already making a note.

  ‘I read in the paper that she died.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Years back.’ Sighing, Walker took off her glasses, started polishing them with a sleeve. ‘I never got no cards neither. Birthday. Christmas. Not a single one. Everyone took against me, uncles, aunts, even my brothers and sister. My mum and dad never spoke to me again after Pauline … died.’

  Matter-of-fact tone, no self-pity. Sarah bowed her head briefly. Reports she’d read suggested the Baileys were no great shakes as parents but it must’ve been tough for a ten-year-old kid despite what she’d done to be disowned by her own flesh and blood. After her release, Walker told them, she had no home to go back to and never put roots down again. She kept on the move, changed her name a couple of times. To keep a roof over her head, she cleaned houses, took in ironing, worked in shops. Never married though, partly afraid it would all come out.

  ‘So Nicola’s father?’ Harries asked.

  ‘He didn’t want to know, did he?’ Nicola was the result of a one-night knee trembler round the back of a chippie in Walsall. ‘I never told her that neither.’

  Neither? Sarah frowned. So why had Walker assumed Nicola had opened her mouth? ‘She didn’t know about your past?’

  Walker shook her head. ‘Nothing. I cut myself off from the past completely. By the time I had Nicola it was like the whole thing happened to somebody else.’

  No wonder Nicola hadn’t breathed a word. ‘So when did she find out?’ Sarah asked.

  She stared down at her hands. ‘Yesterday. She was here. Someone sent her a message on her phone.’

  Secret pasts, hidden truths, buried lies. The Walker-Reynolds set-up was less tangled web, more weaving convention. Spiderwoman Nicola had some more explaining to do. Sarah made ‘go’ motions at Harries who nodded, stowed away the notebook. Walker was still in a world of her own. Sarah touched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘We’re off now, Mrs Walker. I’m not sure you should be staying here alone.’

  ‘Don’t worry, inspector.’ Lifting her gaze, she forced a wan smile. ‘It would’ve been easy any time for them to bump me off. It’s not me they’re after, is it? And you know what? I’d rather die any day than see Caitlin hurt.’

  Sarah nodded. She’d ask uniform to keep an eye on the place anyway. ‘Don’t get up. We’ll see ourselves out.’ Her business card was still on the table where she’d left it. ‘My numbers are there. Please call me, any time.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. And thank you for not asking.’

  Sarah paused at the door, turned her head. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘For not asking why I killed Pauline.’

  Everyone had. Police, lawyers, reporters outside court, people in the reform school, prison warders, fellow inmates, probation officers, psychologists, therapists. When she was first locked away, Pauline’s parents had posed the question several times in letters. The correspondence dried up when she failed to reply.

  Why did you kill Pauline? Why did you kill our little princess?

  They’d have visited, they wrote in one letter, if they could stand to be in the same room as her. Presumably why they’d sent Grace that time. God, if looks could kill. Thank God there had been a table between them and a couple of guards on duty.

  Shuddering, Mrs Walker wiped her eyes, threw a damp tissue on the fire. Her glance fell on the business card. She fancied she could still feel the detective’s gentle touch on her shoulder. It stirred a memory that made her flinch. Another detective. Another hand. Not gentle. She’d recoiled at any form of physical contact ever since, but DI Quinn seemed if not to sympathize then at least not to judge too harshly. She felt guilty not telling her about the intruder but she’d promised Nicola. Something to do with keeping Caitlin un-harmed. And Mrs Walker had meant every word when she said she’d rather die than see Caitlin hurt. At least that had been the truth.

  As to why she’d killed Pauline?

  Sighing, she leaned forward in her chair, stared unblinking into the fire. Reflections of flames danced across the thick lenses of her glasses. Her focus was on the images flickering in her head, jerky black and white pictures, jagged flashes of scarlet, dashes of dandelion yellow, tantalizing snatches of Pauline hopping in and out of frame – now you see me, now you don’t.

  Keep still, keep still, Paulie.

  Mrs Walker shook her head, desperate to dispel the disjointed visions, to dredge the full picture from her mind. It had to be swirling round in the depths. If she could only concentrate, coax it out. Sitting back in the chair, she slowed her breathing, squeezed her eyes tig
ht, willing herself to see, transporting herself back to August 1960, Badger’s Copse, the heat wave, the relentless stream of questions. The ghost of a smile parted her lips as a child’s image slowly developed in her mind’s eye. The plain face, barrel chest, defiant hands on chubby hips.

  She barely recognised herself …

  ‘Answer me, Susan.’ The detective wasn’t a kind man. Not any more. He sounded like her headmaster, only not so posh. He’d been nice to her in the hospital, but that hadn’t lasted long. She’d quite liked the fuss at first. That hadn’t lasted long though. Susan liking it – not the attention. She couldn’t escape it now if she tried. They were in the police station again, a small windowless room with sickly green walls and a wobbly steel table, a nearly full ashtray slap bang in the middle. The detective smelled of Woodbines and Brylcreem. He didn’t ask about the shouty man any more, but for what seemed like weeks now, he kept on and on and on. About why she’d hurt Pauline.

  ‘You’re not a baby, Susan. Take your hands away from your ears. Look at me properly, please.’

  Not so easy when she didn’t have her specs. They’d still be lying in the grass somewhere but her mum hadn’t bothered looking. Susan was supposed to be getting a new pair, but no one seemed in a rush to sort it for her. She could still see, of course, but everything was a bit fuzzy round the edges, and she felt lost without them. A little dizzy too, cos the place was hot and stank of sick and wee and she was tired and she was hungry and she was …

  ‘Sit up straight. And please stop yawning. Why did you hit Pauline?’

  She winced again. It hurt when she shuffled her bum, the back of her clammy thighs stuck to the wooden seat. ‘I already told you, mister. We were playing schools.’ She wondered when he’d lost the front tooth and the button on his blue shirt; one of the cuffs had frayed too. He reminded her of her granddad, only he died ages ago.

  ‘And I’ve told you, young lady. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Southern.’ She budged back when he pointed a fat finger at her. ‘You call me sir. And “playing schools” isn’t good enough. Why did you hit her?’