Detective Lucy Harwin 01-The Lost Children

by Helen Phifer

  THE LOST CHILDREN

  HELEN PHIFER

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  A letter from Helen

  Acknowledgments

  This book is dedicated to my amazing, gorgeous Dad, who I miss every minute of every day.

  PROLOGUE

  OCTOBER 1975

  ‘Alice? Alice?’ Lizzy hissed.

  Ward thirteen was unusually quiet. In fact, it was too quiet, and this was what had disturbed Lizzy. She lay on the too-firm mattress, afraid to move because her bed creaked louder than anyone else’s. Alice, who had been there much longer than Lizzy and was almost fifteen, was asleep.

  Looking around to see who was still awake, the first thing Lizzy noticed was that Tommy’s bed was empty. This afternoon he’d gone berserk and he’d been taken away for treatment. When they’d brought him back he hadn’t said a word. He’d lain on his bed, staring into space with even more dribble than usual running down his chin. Treatment – the very word struck fear into Lizzy’s heart. She was only nine years old, but she knew well enough that if you didn’t behave they would inject all sorts of poison into your veins and call it medicine. Where was Tommy? It was quarter past four in the morning now, and there were no nurses behind the desk like there usually were. Lizzy pushed herself up on her elbows so she could see into the small staffroom behind the desk. This was shrouded in darkness as well. Where was everyone?

  Feeling braver now, she tiptoed out of her bed across to Alice’s and tugged her arm. Alice groaned, then turned to look at her.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Where’s Tommy?’

  Alice sat up. ‘What do you mean?’

  Lizzy pointed to his empty, still-made bed.

  ‘Maybe they let him go home? Go back to sleep, Lizzy.’

  ‘Then why didn’t he take his teddy? And his pyjamas are still on the end of the bed.’

  Alice rubbed her eyes, threw her legs out of the bed and walked barefoot across the cold floor to Tommy’s bed, which was opposite hers. She picked up his teddy, then looked back at Lizzy, who was watching her, and shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know; maybe he got sick.’

  ‘This is a hospital; we live here. If he was sick, he’d still be here, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t know, Lizzy. Yes, I suppose he would.’

  ‘They’ve hurt him.’

  Alice looked at her carefully and nodded. ‘Yes, they probably have. And we should get back into bed before the nurses come back and catch us, or they might hurt us as well. Best not to ask any of them where he is either.’

  Lizzy turned and climbed onto the chair next to her bed to peer out of the large window, which looked out onto the back of the hospital grounds. There were fields, which were nice, and there was a cemetery for the patients who had died here. That wasn’t so nice. It was scary: there were rows and rows of simple wooden crosses, each one marking someone’s grave. On each cross was a number, and Lizzy had asked one of the nicer nurses what the numbers meant. She’d replied that they were the patients’ hospital numbers, so they knew who each one was. Lizzy had wanted to ask her why they didn’t just put the patients’ names on instead, but had been too scared.

  A small pinprick of light moved across the path that led from the hospital towards the cemetery.

  ‘Alice? There’s someone outside with a torch.’

  Alice climbed on the chair next to her, pressing her face against the glass. They watched as the beam moved slowly. They could make out a shadowy figure in the dark. Whoever it was moved as if they were dragging something heavy behind them. Lizzy’s small hand slipped into Alice’s and she whispered, ‘What are they doing?’

  Alice jumped down off the chair, pulling Lizzy with her before they got caught peeking.

  ‘I don’t know, but you should get back in bed and don’t say a word to anyone. Or you will end up like Tommy.’

  Lizzy clambered back into bed, her heart thudding so fast it was all she could hear. She lay on her side and pulled her covers over her head. What did Alice mean, she would end up like Tommy?

  Then she realised what it was that was being dragged behind the person with the torch. She rammed her fist into her mouth to keep herself from screaming.

  1

  The bright green Citroën with ‘ARNOLD’S ESTATE AGENTS’ emblazoned across the side stopped outside the huge, rusted gates. Cheryl Tate shuddered; she hated this place and cursed Adrian, the agent in charge of business sales, for ringing in sick today of all days. He had done nothing except brag all week about what a killing he was going to make on the sale of The Moore, and now he wasn’t even going to be showing the potential buyer round the place. Instead, the task had fallen to Cheryl.

  The Moore had once been the county asylum, serving the whole of this part of the north-west. It had originally housed thousands of patients, but over time the adults had been phased out until only the children were left. Every child with mental health or learning difficulties from all over the county had ended up in there. It had finally shut for good amid a patient abuse scandal in the seventies.

  Why anyone would want to buy this place was beyond Cheryl. The pictures in the file showed a grand building, which had probably been deemed one of the finest mental institutions in the country when it was built. Now, however, it was a wreck, the windows all broken and boarded up. The limestone exterior was covered in moss. There were weeds growing all around the outside, making it look scruffy. The roof had huge, gaping holes that were sprouting trees or bushes of some kind. It looked like a huge mausoleum. And perhaps that was fitting: the number of patients who had died from tuberculosis in here was legendary. No matter what you turned it into – a five star hotel, luxury apartments or a grand house – you would never be able to get away from what it once was. No one could ever be truly happy living there, could they? It would always have the dark, sad, atmosphere that lingered around it, clinging to the building. A mental asylum was not a happy place to develop, Cheryl thought, no matter how much money you might throw into it. However, this was only her opinion, and it wasn’t her place to say anything. Her job was to show this buyer around the parts of it that were deemed safe, and then
she would get the hell out of there.

  She got out of her car, the keys for the new padlock in her hand. She unlocked it, pushing the heavy gates wide open so she could drive through. The gates were damp and smelt of rust. Wrinkling her nose, she wiped her hands on her black trousers to rid them of the brown particles. She drove along the bumpy, overgrown drive until she reached the wide steps, where she looked up at the entrance and the imposing oak front doors and sighed.

  Forcing herself to get out of the car, she grabbed the large torch she’d brought with her, and the huge key ring that opened the many doors to the building, then walked up the steps. At least Adrian had had the sense to put a sticker on the key which opened the building, otherwise she might have been here until tomorrow figuring out which one to use.

  Trying to think about what she was going to make for tea to take her mind off where she was about to go, she twisted the key in the lock. The door opened effortlessly. It swung open, revealing the dim entrance. Turning on the torch, Cheryl swept the beam around to make sure there were no homeless people sleeping inside. Although if they were brave enough to sleep in here on their own, God forbid, who was she to turf them out? She stepped inside, her feet crunching on a carpet of broken glass. The torch beam picked out the faded blue graffiti which covered the walls. There was a faint smell of something gone bad.

  Cheryl heard the rumble of car tyres on the drive. Relief washing over her, she turned and walked briskly back outside. A huge, shiny black Porsche Cayenne came into sight. It looked expensive, with its privacy glass and personalised number plate. As it pulled up alongside her car and she saw the size of the man who was driving it, she felt a lot better about going inside the asylum. He got out of the car and smiled at her, his brilliant white teeth almost dazzling. He was at least six foot tall and had a very muscular build. She felt her stomach flip: he was so attractive she didn’t want to take her eyes off him.

  ‘Hello, you must be Mr Phillips? I’m Cheryl Tate.’ She held out her hand towards him and he took it, shaking it firmly.

  ‘I am, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms Tate.’

  She felt her cheeks begin to burn. ‘Please call me Cheryl. Well, I suppose we should get it over with, then.’

  As soon as the words left her mouth she could have kicked herself; she was supposed to sound excited. Enthusiastic, not scared shitless. Mr Phillips didn’t say anything, just nodded. Cheryl turned around to go back inside the building, wishing she’d worn flat shoes instead of courts. Leading him inside, she looked at the thick, peeling chunks of paint that were hanging down. The walls underneath were covered in furry black mould.

  ‘I’ll spare you the sales talk; I think you can see for yourself it’s in dire need of serious renovation.’

  He nodded, walking on ahead of her. ‘Thank you; I appreciate that. I knew it was going to be bad; I just wanted to see how bad. If I’m going to be asking my investors to back me, I need to be able to tell them I’ve seen it for myself. Do you know how long it is since anyone has been in here?’

  She tried to remember what Adrian had told her. Was it three or six months? She couldn’t remember.

  ‘I think it’s been around three months.’

  He sniffed the air. ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘I don’t know; I could smell it when I walked in.’

  ‘There must be a dead animal somewhere.’

  He walked towards a set of closed double doors at the far end of the entrance area. She followed him, trying her best not to trip over the glass and debris on the floor. He pushed the doors open. The smell which came out was vile, and she gagged. Lifting a hand to cover her mouth, she noticed that Mr Phillips did the same.

  ‘Wow, that’s bad,’ he said through his fingers, his voice muffled.

  Taking the torch from her, he shone it inside the entrance to the ward, the light reflecting off the worn metal patient trolley directly in front of them. It was the only object in the middle of the large corridor which led into what was an otherwise empty room. Mr Phillips lifted the torch higher – and the sound that erupted from Cheryl’s mouth was not one that she’d ever heard herself make before. Unable to register what she was looking at, she simply knew it was bad.

  Mr Phillips jumped at her screech, then he stepped forward. One arm lifted to cover his nostrils against the foul stench that was permeating the air, he slowly moved the light over what was strapped onto the trolley. A body. A pale, bloated body. Cheryl couldn’t take her eyes away from it. It was fully clothed, but the hands which were strapped down were purple and black. The worst thing was the face: the poor man, who had still had a head full of thick, silver hair, looked terrifying. His head was tilted in their direction, and where he should have had an eye, there was a metal spike sticking out of the socket.

  Dropping the torch in shock, Mr Phillips stepped backwards. Grabbing hold of Cheryl’s hand, he tugged her and ran towards the main doors. Cheryl was still screaming. Once they were outside, he gently slapped her cheek. Tears were falling from her eyes and he led her to his car, where he opened the door and helped her inside. She sat on the soft leather seat and he passed her the handkerchief from his suit pocket. Then he shut the door to drown out the sound of her crying, and phoned the police.

  2

  Detective Inspector Lucy Harwin drove through the quiet streets of Brooklyn Bay, once again thinking how sad it was that the once-thriving seaside resort was now more of a ghost town. She pulled up outside the row of large, brightly coloured Victorian townhouses, relieved she could park so near to where she was going, considering it was Thursday morning.

  She no more wanted to go inside and speak to Sara Cross about her personal problems than she wanted to tell Browning who she worked with. However, she had no choice, because it was what the doctor from headquarters had ordered. She would go through the motions as best as she could, although she’d rather be sitting in the studio getting her tattoo finished than being here. It would be far less painful than having that strange woman probing into the darkest depths of her mind.

  Lucy got out of her car and pulled her hood up, briskly walking across the road, afraid in case a police car turned into the street and one of her colleagues saw her going into the psychologist’s office. Some things were too private for public knowledge. Not that she knew half of the response officers now; they seemed to have had an influx of student officers, all under the age of twenty-five.

  She walked in and took a seat in the waiting room, which had once served as someone’s living room. Picking up a magazine from the impressive display on the coffee table, she began to flick through it, not taking much notice of its contents. The waiting room was sparse: some chairs that weren’t exactly comfortable, a coffee table, and some black and white prints of the older, more striking Victorian buildings that were the town’s landmarks. The walls were painted in what she supposed was a calming duck-egg blue, and the chairs were all cream. Lucy didn’t like it. It was too much like the woman who she was supposed to tell her innermost fears to – far too friendly. There was something about Sara Cross that Lucy didn’t like. Then again, Lucy didn’t really mix with most people; she’d never been one of the popular kids at school. It wasn’t that she didn’t like people, because she did. What she objected to was getting too close to them, and the inevitable hurt that always seemed to follow. They either moved on or died – and she hated the thought of anyone that she cared for dying. Her years working as a response officer had only confirmed her belief that the human race was destined for disaster. This had resulted in her growing even further away from anyone in her close circle.

  ‘Lucinda, you can come through now.’

  Lucy jumped; she hated her full name but Sara Cross insisted on using it, much to her annoyance. She stood up, pulling down the sleeves of her sweatshirt so her tattoos were hidden. That was a part of her she only showed when she was off duty; she never had them on show for work, and this was technically work. She always wore long-sleeved shirts or blouses, eve
n in the summer. Lucy was very proud of her ink, but she didn’t like to mix work with her private life. As far as she was concerned, the two couldn’t be further apart if she tried.

  As she followed the woman into her office, her phone began to ring: she’d forgotten to switch it to silent. Sara frowned at her.

  ‘You know the rules, Lucinda; no phones whilst we’re in session. Please switch it off.’

  Lucy muttered an apology then tucked the phone back into her jeans pocket, where it vibrated to tell her she had a voicemail message.

  Both women sat down – Sara behind the big white desk, which had a vase of crisp white lilies and a huge black notebook placed on it. Lucy tried not to sigh as she wondered what crap she could tell her today without actually revealing anything about her life.

  ‘How are you this week?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘How’s your daughter Ellie?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘So. Today’s the big day; it’s been three months since that tragic incident. Are you looking forward to going back to work this afternoon?’

  Lucy looked up at the large cream clock on the wall behind the desk. This was going to be a very long hour. Her phone began buzzing and vibrating in her pocket. She looked at Sara, who was watching her every move. The woman was waiting to see if she took the phone out of her pocket. Lucy tried to ignore it, then thought: Fuck it. She pulled out the phone and looked down at the screen.