by Jane Adams
‘And what about our so-called experts? Do they have any . . . insights?’
Croft shook his head. ‘Neither our medic nor the shrink we called in can find any evidence of irrationality or psychosis. We can’t charge her, sir, we’ve nothing to charge her with. We can’t have her sectioned either. The best they can come up with is maybe some neurological problem her own doctors didn’t detect, something that causes her to black out, to lose memory of certain times or places.’
‘Do they think she could commit murder during one of these so-called blackouts?’ Flint asked. He was clutching at straws and they both knew it. Even if Cassie Maltham had murdered the woman, there remained the problem of how she had hauled the body up to the top of Tan’s hill and got the child there in the few minutes that Croft and the others had been absent. Just how anyone could have done that was beyond Mike’s immediate comprehension, to say nothing of where they had hidden the body prior to this, never mind, the woman’s identity, why had she been so brutally beaten . . . Those questions were just for starters.
‘Her husband’s called their own solicitor. Called in the Psych that treated her as well, a Doctor Maria Lucas. She’s due here at any time.’
Flint made the same disgusted sound again. ‘So, and what does she hope to achieve? Anyway,’ he went off on a different tack, ‘how come they’ve got their “own” solicitor? What sort of person keeps a brief on tap?’
‘I couldn’t say.’ Mike smiled briefly. ‘For all I know he’s handled their house sale for them; drawn up their grandma’s will. You know how it is, makes people feel better to be able to lay claim to a legal type of their own.’
Flint snorted, not much mollified. ‘When’s this personalized brief likely to get here then?’
‘He’s not, not unless he’s needed.’
‘Oh?’
‘Like I said, we can’t charge her with anything and Fergus Maltham knows it. He’s just got help on standby.’
‘And meantime?’
‘Meantime, I’m keeping them on ice until the warrant’s passed and we’ve done a search of their van. Then, well, I see no option but to let Cassie Maltham go back there.’ Flint was frowning again, twisting his pen between his fingers and tapping alternate ends on the desk. Mike watched the familiar action. It was one of Flint’s strange affectations that he had an old-fashioned blotter on his desk-top, despite the fact he never used anything but a common or garden bail-point. Usually someone else’s.
‘What about hypnosis? If the memory really is lost . . . If she’s not making a convenience out of it.’
‘Already thought of that. It seems this Doctor Lucas has used it with Cassie before.’
‘Cassie?’ Flint said disapprovingly. He preferred formality, saw the use of first names as a sign of laxity.
‘Mrs Maltham,’ Mike corrected himself. ‘Our lot suggest we wait for her and discuss it. Apparently Mrs Maltham’s likely to respond better to someone she knows and trusts.’
Flint laughed harshly. ‘I damn well bet she is.’
‘Any attempt would be witnessed, of course.’
‘Damn right it will be.’ He frowned intently at Mike. ‘The child. You say her story’s the same. No chance the two of them . . .’
‘You think the child’s been hiding out somewhere with Cassie Maltham’s help?’ He sounded contemptuous, modified his tone, realizing that Flint was only trying on ideas for size. Wasn’t that what Mike himself had been doing for the last few days? ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t have an explanation.’ He paused again. ‘The hospital’s running every test they can think of. If the child was drugged we should know fairly soon. If that’s the case, well, when we know what was used that might give us some sort of lead.’
Flint nodded. ‘Hmm. Maltham. He’s some kind of chemistry teacher?’
Mike saw where he was leading. ‘Combined Science I believe it is now, but that’s pushing things a bit, sir.’
‘Maybe, maybe. Note it anyway.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What exactly does the child remember?’
‘As I said, nothing really. She keeps talking about a dark place and a woman’s voice, but she can’t recall any words. She says she was scared. Understandably so. Then this hand came out of the dark, she took it and found herself sitting between Cassie Maltham and a dead body on top of Tan’s hill.’
Flint snorted again. It seemed to be his day for odd noises. ‘Very Biblical,’ he commented scornfully. ‘A mystic hand reaching into the darkness and pulling her out.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘And that’s pretty much what the Maltham woman says too? That she found herself in some dark hole of a place, saw a hand, reached out and grabbed it and Bingo! Whammy, one Sara Jane Cassidy mystically produced on the hilltop. Good God, Mike! We’ll be getting stone tablets and burning bushes soon.’
Mike smiled wryly. ‘I expect the Cassidys are quite accepting of any miracle that’s given them their child back.’
He hadn’t been prepared for the sadness in his own voice, realized that Flint was looking sharply at him and saw his superior nod slowly.
‘Far as that goes, Mike, I’m quite happy to accept the miracle too. Thought by now we’d be looking for . . . Mike, it must have been hard on you, a case like this.’ He paused as Mike’s face hardened. Not the most perceptive of men, but even so, Flint nevertheless realized he might have trespassed too far this time. He tried again. ‘I know about your son, of course, I just—’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’ Mike cut him off sharply. There were very few people he could talk to about Stevie, and Flint certainly wasn’t on his list.
‘Right. Well, then.’ Flint began to sort through papers once more, putting rank between them once again. ‘You’ll brief me when this Doctor Lucas has shown herself and the path reports begin to come in.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mike rose to leave. Flint was already pretending he had left. Mike opened the door, slipped through and let it clang noisily behind him. Reluctantly, he decided to try and coax more out of Cassie Maltham.
There was one other odd bit of information that Bill had given him and that had confirmed one of Cassie’s stranger assertions. The child, Sara, had been dressed, not in her own clothes, but in blue shorts and a yellow shirt obviously meant for a child somewhat taller than she was.
‘Suzie was dressed like that,’ Cassie had said. ‘Didn’t you look at her clothes? Even the shoes Sara was wearing. They were fastened up but still nearly dropped off her feet.’
‘What are you getting at?’ Mike had asked her.
‘They’re Suzie’s clothes. Suzie’s shoes. Not Sara Jane’s.’
At the time it had seemed so absurd that, although of course it was on the recording of the interview, Mike had given it little further thought. Then Bill’s phone call.
‘There’s a funny thing, Mike,’ he’d said. ‘The little girl, when she was found, well, it wasn’t her clothes she was wearing. The shoes are too big for one thing.’ He’d paused as though uncertain whether or not to give Mike the next bit. Then, ‘Tell you another funny thing, Mike. Tynan says they match what Suzie Ashmore was wearing the day she went missing. They’ve gone to the lab, but we’re wondering . . .’ He hadn’t bothered to elaborate, didn’t need to. Layer upon layer, this case got more dementedly complex, more absurdly balanced on coincidence. There were times, Mike thought, when the whole thing seemed so bizarre it made the weirder cuttings in Tynan’s old books look, by comparison, almost desirably sane.
Chapter 14
Simon edged the car forward again, muttering irritably under his breath.
Each day since they’d left Fergus and Cassie, he and Anna had scoured every news programme they could get access to for news of the case; bought more newspapers in those few days than they normally read in a month, and Fergus had phoned them daily from the call box outside the village.
Fergus, they suspected had told them only a fraction of what was going on. He’d been so evidently worried about
Cassie, so reluctant to give specific details, that their already well-stoked imaginations had filled the void with wilder and wilder speculations.
Then this morning, seeing the live newscasts — Cassie and the little girl walking together from the entrance to the Greenway — there was no way that either could spend another day not knowing. Simon had phoned into work saying that they were both sick.
‘We saw the news as well,’ the secretary told him. Simon could feel her bristling attention, her readiness to interrogate.
‘Well, tell him something,’ he said, meaning his boss. ‘I’ll sort it when I get back.’
They’d driven non-stop. Non-stop until now, that was. The village streets, usually practically empty of anything but the odd pedestrian, were choked, and spluttered on an overdose of people, cameras, police and newsmen.
‘Looks like a frigging film set.’ Simon tried to edge forward again. ‘I mean, look at them all. Where the hell did they all come from?’
‘Try to back off. We’ll cut down the other way,’ Anna suggested. The milling crowd was pushing against the car, people bending to try and peer in at the window. A uniformed policeman appeared, gesturing at them to go back.
‘What the hell’s he think I’m trying to do?’ Simon complained, jerking the car into reverse gear and trying to back through the people already closed in behind them. They began to move, slowly, the crowd parting reluctantly to let them by. In his mirror, Simon could see the officer gesturing, guiding them backwards, then pointing to a farm gate which would allow them space to turn. Simon, still grumbling irritably, followed his lead and reversed into the opening.
The officer appeared suddenly at the side of their car.
‘It’s the Thomas’s, isn’t it?’
Simon frowned, wondering vaguely how he knew. Anna remembered though.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you’re the one who came to the cottage that morning.’
‘Yes, Mrs Thomas, that’s right.’
Anna was about to continue when Simon cut in, ‘What the hell’s going on here, looks like a flying circus. Can’t you keep it under control?’ Simon hated disorder of any kind, especially when it interfered with the smooth running of his day.
‘We’re doing our best, sir.’ The young man sounded aggrieved. ‘But it’s a public street. We can hardly call a curfew, now can we, sir.’
‘No, no, of course you can’t,’ Anna said quickly and placatingly, casting a frosty look at Simon. ‘We were trying to get up onto the headland, to the Malthams. They’re in a caravan up there . . .’
‘Yes, I know, Miss, but you’ll not find them there right now.’
‘Oh?’
‘No, Miss, they went with everyone back to divisional HQ in Norwich.’ He hesitated for a moment then said, ‘You know the little girl’s been found?’
‘Yes, we saw it on the news. I mean, that’s why we’ve come down now, instead of tomorrow. We just wanted . . .’ She trailed off, looking back at the crowd. She continued, suddenly slightly embarrassed, ‘I guess that’s why all these others are here?’
The constable nodded. ‘I expect it is.’
Anna smiled a little sheepishly. ‘We’d just been so worried, you see. We—’
Simon cut in sharply, in no mood to appease authority.
‘When will the Malthams be back?’ His voice sharp almost to the point of rudeness.
‘Simon!’
The constable’s face hardened, his whole body stiffened with official indignation. ‘I wouldn’t know, sir. No doubt when they’ve answered all of DI Croft’s questions.’
He began to head back towards his official attempts to keep order.
Simon tapped irritably at the steering wheel.
‘You didn’t need to be rude to him,’ Anna said.
‘I wasn’t rude.’
‘No?’
She let it drop. Simon wasn’t exactly in the mood for debate, particularly about himself.
‘So what now?’ she asked.
‘We find somewhere for lunch and we think about it.’
He slammed the car into first and hit the accelerator hard enough for the engine to scream protest.
* * *
‘ . . . Interview resumed at two-sixteen p.m. Those present, Mrs Cassandra Maltham, Detective Inspector Michael Croft and WPC Saunders.’ Mike looked thoughtfully at the hunched figure of the young woman seated at the table. ‘Would you like some more tea, Mrs Maltham?’
She shook her head without even looking up. ‘I want to see my husband.’
‘He’s outside, Mrs Maltham. I’ll bring him in shortly.’ He paused, crossed to the table, glancing over at the female officer seated by the door. There was no mistaking the disapproval in her look. Cassie Maltham had been growing more and more withdrawn. This last hour particularly, she had become visibly distressed, exhausted by what she so evidently saw as his meaningless questions. Mike sat down.
‘Cassie, listen to me. I want you to go through this with me just one more time.’
‘I’ve already told you all I can, all I know.’ Her voice sounded dull, uncaring, all sparkle gone from it. She couldn’t even be bothered to sound angry any more.
‘Humour me. Tell me again. One last time.’
The door opened and a constable handed the WPC a note, she brought it over to Mike. So, the Lucas woman had arrived, had she. Well, she could damn well wait.
‘Just one more time, Cassie.’ He softened his voice a little, coaxing.
‘I’ve already told you.’ This time her voice was barely above a whisper. She looked up at him, though, and Mike felt a moment of shock at how pale she looked. He felt a sudden surge of anger. What was he doing to this woman? What evidence had he that she had committed any sort of crime?
Sharply he reminded himself that she could merely be very clever, a skilled manipulator, totally unscrupulous. But somehow, looking at her like this, the very thoughts took on the absurdity of black comedy. He sighed.
‘Doctor Lucas is here. Will you tell her what happened?’ He’d spoken this time with conscious gentleness as though speaking to a hurt child, saw the WPC’s face and her disgust that he could be so downright patronizing, but Cassie nodded, eyes suddenly welling with tears.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell her.’
Croft rose from his seat and strode impatiently over to the door, shouted for someone to bring Mr Maltham and Dr Lucas into the interview room. He was well and truly sick of this whole thing, wanted nothing so much as to write up his report — fun reading that was going to be — and head for somewhere he could get a decent meal and a night’s sleep. Despite the fact that it was not yet even mid-afternoon, he felt he’d worked a double shift since that morning. Looking at her, he figured Cassie must feel the same.
He stood aside to allow Fergus Maltham and the doctor to come in. Fergus, blazingly angry, every instinct screaming to protect, crossed straight to his wife, gathering her to him. Croft turned away irritably, took a look at Dr Lucas, then took a second look and extended a hand. ‘I’m DI Croft,’ he said. ‘Mike Croft.’
She took the proffered hand with a wry smile, obviously used to the double take. Tall, black, elegant; he would guess she got a lot of men looking twice at her. Mike wasn’t certain what he had expected Dr Maria Lucas to be, but it certainly wasn’t this.
She released his hand, and went over to the Malthams. ‘Cassie? Hi there.’
Cassie looked up and managed a half smile.
Mike felt suddenly that he’d been usurped.
Maria Lucas reached across, commandeered the other chair and seated herself close to Cassie, taking her hands. ‘Now, what the hell have you been doing, sweetheart? You going to tell me about it?’
Her voice was soft but very clear. Educated, but the English wasn’t clipped or overformalized, tempered instead by a rhythmic quality. Like a story-teller, Mike thought. It was the kind of voice you wanted to listen to.
‘Hey,’ she went on, gesturing at the recorder, ‘do yo
u think we can have that thing off?’
Mike shook his head and Cassie put in, ‘I said I’d go through things with you here. Said I’d tell him what happened again.’ Her voice sounded small and brittle, rising querulously. ‘But I’ve told him everything, told him over and over again and I don’t know what else to say.’ She broke off, sobbing. Fergus moved to comfort her again and Dr Lucas awarded Mike a cool and disapproving look.
‘Hardly standard procedure, is it, Inspector?’
‘It’s hardly a standard case.’ He was losing her, he realized. The last thing he wanted was this woman as his enemy. She would, he sensed, make a very efficient adversary should it come to that.
He sighed, his tone placatory this time. ‘Doctor Lucas, all I’m trying to establish are the facts. All you’re trying to do is get to the truth of what Cassie’s been through. Do we have to fight over this?’
‘My concern, Mr Croft, is for my patient. That, first and foremost.’ She gave him a long cold look, then turned her attention once more back to Cassie. ‘Now, how about we start with waking up this morning?’
* * *
Simon glanced irritably around the small crowded interior of the bar. They’d driven in a wide circle, ending up only a village away from their original destination and finally taken a chance on this local watering hole simply because it advertised pub food.
This wasn’t one of the tourist pubs on the coast. It was, when they got inside, crowded with locals who looked askance at these two strangers. Simon was hopeless in these situations. He just glared at everyone, gave back questioning gaze for questioning gaze. Anna had hustled him into a comer where he could cause as little damage as possible to public relations and made her way to the bar, wondering for the umpteenth time how anyone like Simon — who earned his living charming complete strangers into parting with departmental cash — could be so socially inept off duty.
She smiled warmly at the landlord, made a point of answering his questions about where they’d come from and of asking his advice on what to order. Within moments she was involved in barside conversation, exchanging smiles. Simon, watching with a mix of pride and disapproval, shook his head. As PA to one of their companies chief execs, Anna spent most of her life smoothing feathers and building bridges. Most of the time she did it set on automatic.
