Stolen Children

by Michael Wood

  ‘You killed Keeley, didn’t you?’ Matilda asked, breaking the heavy silence.

  Jodie lost her grip on her emotions. The tears fell in a torrent and she struggled to keep her breath. She refused the offer of a break.

  ‘When Keeley told me what Dad had done to her,’ she eventually began, ‘I thought he’d finish with me and go to Keeley. I loved him so much. I just wanted him for myself. I loved Keeley, but she was getting in the way of my happiness,’ she wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.

  ‘What happened on Monday evening?’

  ‘I bought Keeley an ice cream from the van outside the school. Then, when we went to the Co-op, I told her to wait there until she’d finished it, then go and wait for me in the woods and I’d bring her a treat. I told her not to speak to anyone. We’d have a little picnic, just the two of us. I quickly did the shopping, took it home, made some excuse to Mum about Keeley wandering off then went to look for her. I phoned Mum not long after I’d left and pretended to be a kidnapper. Then I went to find Keeley. She was there, waiting for me by the tree, drawing in the dry ground with a stick, acting all sweet and innocent as if she’d done nothing wrong.’

  ‘But she hadn’t done anything wrong,’ Matilda said.

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if you saw the way she flaunted herself around the house – dressing up like a princess, sitting on Dad’s knee. It made me sick. I had to get her out of the way.’

  ‘She was nine years old,’ Matilda exclaimed.

  ‘So? Don’t let someone’s age fool you. She knew exactly what she was doing.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  Jodie picked up the plastic cup of water and took a lingering sip. ‘I smacked her over the head with a rock. It was easy. She didn’t scream. She just fell to the ground. She wasn’t dead though. I thought she was but suddenly she started to groan and squirm.’

  ‘Go on,’ Matilda prompted.

  ‘I strangled her,’ she said, matter-of-fact. ‘That’s harder to do than it looks in films. I made sure she was dead then I rolled her down the embankment. I came home and to tell Mum I couldn’t find her, but she was in tears thinking she’d been kidnapped. It was so easy.’

  ‘But why the fake kidnapping story?’ Matilda asked.

  ‘I have you to thank for that,’ Jodie smiled. ‘I knew you’d be leading the investigation; the great DCI Matilda Darke. I’ve read that book Carl’s mother wrote. I knew Keeley would turn up dead and the newspapers would see it as a kidnapping gone wrong. Then, all the attention would be on you for screwing up another kidnapping, and not me.’

  Matilda couldn’t believe what she was hearing. How was it possible for such a sweet and innocent-looking fourteen-year-old to be so evil and manipulative?

  ‘Jodie, were you behind the photos of Keeley we found on her iPad?’ Matilda asked.

  She smirked. ‘The ones of her in make-up and acting all sultry?’ Matilda nodded. ‘Of course I was. Who do you think did her hair and painted her face? She thought we were just having a fun day together, two sisters messing around. I put them online hoping some paedo would get a hard-on and snatch her off the streets. No such luck.’

  ‘My God!’ Christian said. He looked utterly disgusted.

  ‘And what about your mum?’

  Jodie’s face hardened. ‘I hated Mum for what she did to Riley, for causing him such pain. When I was with him, playing with him, looking after him, feeding him, he’d look at me with his dead eyes and he’d be crying and yelling and I knew, I knew he was telling me how much pain he was in. He wasn’t living. He was just existing. He was trapped in his own body and he wanted to be set free.’

  ‘How long have you been poisoning her for?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t remember. A while.’

  ‘What have you been using?’

  ‘Botulinum Toxin.’

  Matilda frowned. ‘What? Why? How did you even get hold of that? Wouldn’t something like rat poison have been quicker?’

  ‘Because I wanted it to be slow. I wanted her to suffer. She needed to know why she was dying. Have you seen the photos of Riley before she shook him? He was such a sweet baby, always smiling, always hugging. He was so cute. His eyes lit up when he saw me. After she tried to kill him, all that was gone. His eyes no longer sparkled. She’d ruined the most perfect little baby I’d ever seen. She had to suffer.’

  ‘Where did you get it from?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t easy. I spent hours and hours on the internet trying to find it. Did you know that it’s the same thing they use in Botox injections? It was fascinating.’

  ‘Why did you kill Riley?’

  ‘I wasn’t planning on killing him. My plan was to finish school and then I’d be his full-time carer and look after him and Dad. We’d be a proper couple, a proper family. But then I started thinking … he’d get older, but he wouldn’t grow up. I pictured him as a twenty-year-old, strapped in a wheelchair, still laughing at Pingu. That image frightened me. Nobody should have to live like that. He didn’t suffer. I promise you he didn’t suffer. I waited until he was asleep, and I popped a little piece of cheese in his mouth. He always slept with his mouth open. He didn’t know what was happening.’ She fell onto the table, her head in her arms. ‘He never knew what was happening.’

  Matilda’s heart ached as she watched and listened to a fourteen-year-old girl admitting to murdering her family. There was a little remorse there when she spoke of Riley’s death, but she knew the harm she had done to Keeley and her mother. Matilda was conflicted. Jodie had arrived here through years of abuse. Should she be labelled a cold-blooded killer or the victim of a perverted father?

  ***

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever needed a drink more,’ Christian said as he and Matilda left the interview room. He slumped against the wall and let out a deep sigh.

  ‘Come on. I know where we can get one from.’

  ACC Valerie Masterson always kept an emergency bottle of whiskey hidden in the depths of a filing cabinet for such situations.

  The room was cold and empty. It seemed strange to enter it while Valerie wasn’t in the building. Matilda went straight to the bottom drawer and took out the half-filled bottle and two glasses. She blew into them to clean away the dust.

  ‘It feels naughty being in here while the head teacher is away,’ Christian said, reluctantly sitting down on the comfortable armchair.

  ‘Do you really see the ACC as a head teacher?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t you?’

  She thought about it for a while and the many times she had cried on her shoulder. ‘Not really.’

  Matilda poured them both a healthy measure and they drank in silence.

  ‘What will happen to Jodie?’ Christian asked once his glass was empty.

  ‘I’ve no idea. She certainly needs to be assessed by a psychologist. She’s suffered years of mental and sexual abuse by her father and that’s led to her killing three people and trying to kill Sian and Ellen.’ Matilda finished her drink and poured them both another. ‘You know, I went into that interview wanting to catch her out as the cold-hearted psycho bitch I thought she was.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more sympathy for anyone than I do her. I just hope she receives the treatment she needs and she’s able to recover.’

  ‘Do you mind if I go home early today? I wouldn’t mind spending a bit of time with my girls,’ Christian said.

  ‘No. Of course I don’t mind.’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I need to go and see the Meagans and tell them the results of the DNA test. I’ve been sitting on them for too long.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘No. I’ll give Pat a call. She’ll be glad of an excuse to leave her husband in the garden centre on his own.’ Matilda stood up to leave. She placed a hand on Christian’s shoulder. ‘Christian, do me a favour. Go home, take your wife and daughters out for a nice meal, and be a
normal boring family for the night.’

  ‘I can do that. I’m Mr Boring.’

  She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I wouldn’t have you any other way.’

  Chapter 65

  Matilda and Pat were sitting in the Meagan’s living room nervously waiting for Sally to join them. She’d been in the shower when they arrived. Philip showed them in then went upstairs to fetch his wife.

  Woody remained in the living room with them. He’d taken to Pat in the months she had been coming to visit and she always had a treat for him in her handbag. Treat eaten, belly scratched, he curled up on the floor beside her, his head on her foot.

  Matilda looked around the clean, spartan living room. Carl seemed to be looking out at her from every picture frame. She looked at him in the silver frame on the mantelpiece in a snap taken one Christmas morning. His eyes were dancing in excitement, his smile wide as he marvelled at the mountain of beautifully wrapped presents in front of him. A picture of happiness tinged with sadness. When Matilda looked at the photo now, she saw a sad little boy, asking her, pleading, begging to find him and bring him home.

  Sally bounded into the living room. She’d hastily dressed in skinny jeans and a white sweater. Her hair was still damp and tangled. It was obvious she was struggling to hide her excitement at the thought Carl might actually be on his way back to Sheffield.

  ‘Philip said you had some news.’ She sat down on the sofa opposite. Philip sat next to her and they held hands. Their mouths were agape. Philip was more restrained, but Sally had already made up her mind that Carl would be sleeping in his own bed tonight.

  Matilda closed her eyes to compose herself. She took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sally. The boy in France isn’t Carl.’

  Sally took a deep breath and gripped harder onto her husband’s hand. Her bottom lip began to wobble. She wanted to speak but was clearly afraid to open her mouth in case a torrent of emotion fell out.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she eventually asked.

  Matilda nodded. ‘The DNA results came back two days ago. I wanted to have a few more questions answered before I let you know. The British ambassador has been in touch with Police Nationale to find out why this boy said he was Carl when he clearly wasn’t.’

  ‘But he looked so much like him,’ Sally said, her voice shaking.

  ‘He didn’t look that much like him, Sally,’ Philip said.

  ‘The boy in France has a disturbing mental illness. His parents have moved so many times they’ve lost count. He accuses neighbours of abusing him, school friends and teachers of hitting him. He’s gone into police stations many times to say his parents have kidnapped him. He always seems very genuine in his claims so the police have had to look into each allegation.’

  Sally had turned red. ‘Jesus! Shouldn’t he be locked away or something?’ she fumed.

  ‘Sally!’ Philip chastised.

  ‘I’m sorry, but someone like that shouldn’t be allowed on the streets. Doesn’t he realise what he’s putting people through with his lies?’ She stood up and went over to the mantelpiece. She picked up the photo of her son. ‘I genuinely thought we’d found him. I really thought he’d be coming home this time.’

  ‘I know you did. I did too,’ Philip said. He went over to her and put his arms on her shoulders.

  ‘This is heart-breaking,’ she cried. ‘I move on, you know. I don’t forget. I’ll never forget, but I’m able to function, to a degree. Then something like this happens and it’s like I’m right back to square one. My son is out there somewhere, I know he is. I can feel it.’

  Pat dug in her handbag for a tissue and wiped her eyes. Matilda remained impassive on the sofa.

  Sally stepped away from her husband and went back to the sofa. ‘So, what happens now? There hasn’t been a sighting for months. The emails have all but dropped off. I’m running out of things to do.’

  ‘I do have one idea,’ Matilda said, leaning forward. ‘I can arrange for you and Philip to do an interview for the media; you can talk about this past week, the boy in France, how your hopes were raised then dashed, mention the other sightings too. It will bring Carl back into the public eye and we can get the story printed in papers here and in France.’

  ‘No offence, but it’s not really a story, is it?’ Philip said. ‘We’re not saying anything fresh. Who would be interested in printing that?’

  Matilda thought of Danny Hanson. ‘I know a guy who owes me a favour or two,’ she said with the hint of a smile.

  Epilogue

  Tuesday 16th October 2018

  Gothenburg, Sweden

  8pm

  It was dark. It was cold and a bitter wind was blowing outside. Winter had come early.

  The young boy was sitting on the floor of the living room in front of the wood-burning fire. His legs were tucked up to his chest and he was engrossed in the first Harry Potter book. He’d never read it before, though he’d seen the film. Every time he turned a page he looked up at the couple on the sofa. He hated them.

  The old-fashioned clock on the cluttered mantelpiece chimed eight o’clock. He didn’t need telling what that meant. It was bedtime. He closed his book and stood up. The golden Labrador curled up beside him copied his actions.

  ‘You can read for one hour more then you must turn out your light,’ Marika said, looking up from her magazine.

  ‘Ok,’ he replied.

  ‘Kiss for me and your dad?’ she asked, putting the magazine down and holding out her arms.

  He took a deep breath. Reluctantly, he went over to Marika, leaned down and allowed her to hug and kiss him on the cheek. Her touch felt cold and his whole bodied stiffened. Her lips were coarse against his soft skin.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said, smiling that ugly smile. Her thin lips spread across her face and she showed her crooked teeth. It made him shudder to look at her.

  In the armchair, Martin was doing a crossword. He put it down and pulled him into an embrace, squeezing him tight. He kissed the boy on the forehead, his bushy blond moustache tickling him.

  ‘Sleep well and have pleasant dreams,’ he said in broken English.

  The little boy gave a smile and quickly left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. Usually he waited in the hallway, his ear pressed against the door, to see if they were talking about him; not that he could understand when they spoke in their own language. Tonight, however, he had things to do.

  On the way to the stairs, he stopped and turned to go into the kitchen. The dog followed. In there, Marika had left her bag when she returned home from work. Carefully, and as quietly as possible, he opened it, removed her purse and took out a fifty krona note. He stuffed it into his pocket and replaced the purse. He stood in the silence and listened. All he could hear was his own heart pounding in his chest and Woody breathing loudly with his tongue hanging out. He was about to leave the kitchen when he remembered Martin had been shopping today. From the pantry, he grabbed a tin of tuna and a can of dog food before hurrying out of the kitchen and taking the stairs two at a time. His faithful companion ran after him.

  In his cool bedroom, he closed the door and dropped to his knees to look under the bed. He pulled out a backpack. He stored the tins of food inside. He didn’t want to make the bag too heavy, but he needed there to be enough provisions as he didn’t know how long he would be on the road for. He found an envelope in the front pocket of the bag and placed the fifty krona note in it. He took a deep breath and found he was shaking. His mum and dad, his real mum and dad, had always told him stealing was bad, but it was all he could think of if he was going to make it home.

  ‘We’ve started now, Woody,’ he said as he jumped on the bed with the dog and cuddled up to him. ‘We’ll keep saving more food and I’ll wait until I have enough money. I just need to try and see Marika use her card at the cash point so I can find out her number, then I can take her card and we can leave.’ He smiled warming at the dog who licked his cheek as if sharing in the conspiracy t
o run away.

  Carl Meagan had put his plan into action when he read a story in an English newspaper at a shop in town. His parents were still looking for him. They’d suffered setbacks and had experienced heartache, but they were never going to give up. He tore the story out of the paper, put it in his pocket, and took it home with him where he read it every night and hid it under his pillow before going to sleep.

  His plan was simple. If his parents couldn’t find him, then he’d find them. He just needed to make sure he and Woody had enough food and money to survive the journey home as he had no idea how long it would take.

  By the dim light of his bedside table, Carl snuggled down under the duvet. He read the article again. His eyes teared up as he looked at the photo of an unhappy-looking Sally and Philip with his dog in between them. He couldn’t wait to get back home, to see his mum and dad, and for the two Woodys to meet.

  ‘Look, Woody,’ he said to his dog. ‘This is your brother. We’re going to see him soon. It’s going to be a long journey, and it might be scary, but it will be worth it. We’re all going to be so happy.’

  Woody whined and licked his face before curling up next to him. Carl turned out the light and lay down.

  Carl fell asleep with a smile on his face as he pictured the reunion. The last few years had been a nightmare, but it would soon be over. His mum and dad were going to be so proud when they found out what he’d gone through to get back home. They were all going to be so happy.

  Acknowledgements

  There were a number of behind the scene changes going on while writing this book, so I have a few more people to thank than usual.

  My former agent at Blake Friedmann, Tom Witcomb and my current agent at Ampersand, Jamie Cowen.

  My former editor at Harper Collins, Finn Cotton and the new people who are currently looking after me: Charlotte Ledger, Bethan Morgan and Hannah Todd. Also, my copy editor, Fran Fabriczki, many thanks.

  As always, I’ve had a number of people help me with research. For the last time, Claire Green gave me invaluable insight into digital post mortems before she took early retirement. She’s far too young to retire, but she deserves it so much. Philip Lumb is an eminent pathologist and I’m grateful for him for taking the time to answer my emails. Simon Browes for medical research (our text messages frighten even me at times), fellow crime writer, Andy Barrett has advised on forensic detail and a huge thank you to “Mr Tidd” for his police procedural advice. I say this every time, but any errors in this novel are purely mine. Please do not blame the experts, and remember, this is a work of fiction, after all.