by Mark Roberts
‘You?’ asked Riley. ‘You just said, They wanted me to hear them in action.’
‘I meant us, Gina,’ said Clay. ‘I’m exhausted.’ Clay turned her attention back to Hendricks. ‘The injuries to Mrs Patel...’
‘Of the ninety-eight, there’s one injury that stands out.’
A close-up showed her abdomen from the pubic bone to her navel. Clay looked around and saw that no one was sure what they were looking at. She too had been puzzled when she first saw it.
‘Next picture is a close-up of the left side of Mrs Patel’s abdomen, between her hip bone and ribs. Look closely for lines.’
The image appeared on the screen and the lines were now clear. Hendricks picked up the red board pen and drew over the shape. First of all he drew an incomplete oval, the outline of the shape. Then he drew over the lines within the oval, a pattern of four zigzags across the widest part of the oval.
Hendricks caught Clay’s eye as she watched the lights going on in her team’s faces.
‘Yes, it’s a footprint,’ said Hendricks. ‘Whoever stomped on Mrs Patel’s stomach did it with such force that they left the raised impression of the sole of their right foot. Dr Lamb and her assistant measured it. Over to you, Eve.’
‘Brace yourselves,’ said Clay. ‘It’s a size 2. I used to have a Saturday job at Clarks Shoe Shop in Church Street when I was studying for my A Levels. A size 2 is the average size for an eight- to ten-year-old child. It figures that this footprint was left by either a child or an adult with unusually small feet.’
Clay picked up a sheaf of papers and handed them to Stone. ‘Take one, pass them on,’ she said.
There were the same two images on each page. The top image was the close-up of the footprint on Mrs Patel’s skin; underneath was a drawing of the sole of the shoe, minus the heel.
‘They’ve gone in from the side,’ said Clay. ‘The clarity of the pattern suggests this footwear’s brand-new or close to it. We need to know which brand of shoe or trainer, which shops and internet sites sell it and who’s been buying it.’
Including herself, there were fourteen team members in the room.
‘Stone and Hendricks, I want you to stay here as team communication point and in case anything else comes in. Check your emails on your phones. Karl’s emailed each of you the name of one child, his or her age and address. They’re all in the Childwall and Belle Vale districts. The phone call to the Patels’ house came from a mobile stolen from a teacher at St Bernard’s RC Primary. Hence the exercise books. These are the twelve suspects for lifting the teacher’s phone and potentially taking part in a mass murder.’
Clay looked at her watch.
‘We all go to a different address at eight o’clock. When you’re through the front door, call back here to say so. First, you need to see the children in the family. You’re looking for extreme fatigue or signs of trauma in the children. If you see this, call me immediately and I’ll join you at your given address. You need to see the children’s footwear and find out what size shoe they take. We’re looking for a size 2. Karl Stone will email you a warrant from the duty magistrate if the parents refuse to cooperate. Everyone back here at ten.’
‘Eve?’ DC Christopher Dillon interjected. ‘We’re looking for a kid, right? For this?’ He looked bewildered, just like his colleagues.
‘We’re looking for a minimum of three suspects. One of them is possibly an eight- to ten-year-old child.’
‘Are you going to play the 999 call?’ asked Gina Riley.
‘Yes. Before we all go our separate ways.’
The clicking beats of the tongues and the broken syllables of the strange language resounded in Clay’s memory. Thirteen pairs of eyes looked at her.
‘Try not to listen to Alicia. Zone in on the sounds the perpetrators are making. If anyone can make sense of it, you’ll go to the top of my Christmas card list.’
Clay clicked play on her laptop and watched the hardened faces of her team melt into ill-concealed bafflement. When the sounds on the recording gave way to silence, she asked, ‘Anyone? Anything?’
No one replied and most of the officers didn’t look at Clay or anyone else in the room.
‘Let’s get on with the day. All back here at ten o’clock,’ she said.
As the team filed out, Clay turned to Stone and Hendricks.
‘If Liverpool Uni haven’t got back by nine, I want you, Karl, down to them with two copies of this recording.’ She handed him the pen drive and as he set about transferring it to his own computer, Clay said, ‘Stress to them that it’s a matter of life-and-death urgency and of the upmost confidentiality. We’ve got to be on them, and fast. They’ll do it again. And soon.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Hendricks.
‘Their actions so far. They have no mercy but they do have a ritual and ritual doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It serves a wider purpose and at the moment the perpetrators are the only ones who know what that is. Let’s proceed on the assumption that another family’s going to get massacred tonight.’
20
8.02 am
All eleven officers through the front doors and inside.
‘Good,’ said Clay to herself, reading the text message from Hendricks. She looked at the nondescript semi-detached house on Barnham Drive that she had parked outside five minutes earlier. Satisfied that the whole team were on track, she got out of her car and walked up the path.
The child Clay had picked out from the list, Faith Drake, one of the two described by Mrs Harry as ‘quiet’, was clearly up and out of bed. Inside the front room Clay saw a cartoon playing on the flat-screen TV, a CBeebies programme that Philip liked even though it was too old for him. She wondered if he was watching the same programme at that moment, enjoying the bright colours and loud noise.
A woman appeared in the frosted oval at the centre of the front door and Clay fixed her face into a neutral expression.
The door opened. Dressed in a navy blue skirt and red blouse, the tall, thin brunette stared directly at Clay and said, ‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Drake?’
‘Yes?’
‘DCI Eve Clay, Merseyside Police.’ She showed her white warrant card and noticed the small gold crucifix hanging from the woman’s neck. ‘Can I come in and talk to you, please?’
‘Yes. Certainly.’ The woman smiled. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘I’d rather discuss it indoors, Mrs Drake.’
As Clay moved through the narrow hall, she passed a metal silhouette of the Liverpool skyline on the wall. The Liver Building, St John’s Tower, the Roman Catholic cathedral and the Anglican cathedral against a white background.
‘Come this way, DCI Clay.’
As Clay followed Mrs Drake to the front room, she heard the sound of a ball being bounced in an upstairs bedroom, from the wall to the floor. Bounce. Bounce. Wall. Floor. Bounce. Bounce. Silence.
Mrs Drake pushed the front room door wider. The blonde laminate flooring of the hall carried on into the front room, as did the off-white walls.
‘Faith, turn the television off, please. We have a visitor.’
Without hesitation or argument, Faith Drake rose from the black leather sofa and turned the TV off. She was dressed in blue jeans with a chunky red jumper and thick slippers in the form of grinning reindeer. Her hair was auburn and tied up in a neat bun at the back of her head.
‘Hello,’ said Faith. She radiated a quiet intelligence and Clay thought she might be a good witness.
‘Have a seat, DCI Clay,’ said Mrs Drake.
As Clay sat down on a leather armchair next to the sofa, Faith headed towards the door.
‘Faith,’ said Clay. The girl stopped. ‘I’ve come to talk to you and your mother. I’m a police officer.’ The child looked at her mother, who placed a guiding hand on her shoulder and took her to the sofa.
Clay looked at Faith’s bulky slippers and asked, ‘Why are there two donkeys on your feet?’
‘Donkeys? They’re reindeer,’
said Faith, the darkness that had crossed her face on hearing that Clay was a police officer now replaced with an amused grin.
Clay made a show of looking closely. ‘I haven’t got my glasses on, but surely, Faith, your slippers are donkeys.’
‘No, they’re not. They’re reindeer.’
Clay held out a hand. ‘May I have a closer look? Please.’
Faith looked at her mother and took off her left slipper. Clay glanced at the fragile structure of the child’s naked foot. No marks or bruising. She examined the slipper from different angles. It was a size 4.
She handed the slipper back, saying casually, ‘I’m here about Mrs Harry’s phone. It’s been stolen.’
Faith frowned. ‘That’s bad.’ Clay watched the turning of the child’s mind as the frown on her face solidified into the early stages of panic. ‘You... you don’t think...? Me...? You don’t think it’s me?’
‘Calm down, Faith.’ Her mother held onto her hands.
‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that.’
‘I know you wouldn’t, Faith. But I’m sure DCI Clay has a good reason for being here. And you will explain, won’t you, DCI Clay?’
Bounce. Bounce. Wall. Floor. Silence.
Clay admired Mrs Drake. She was clearly a good mother and knew instinctively how to reassure her daughter.
‘Faith.’ Clay smiled when the girl looked at her. ‘There were twelve pupils in the classroom at the time we believe Mrs Harry’s phone was stolen.’
She paused to allow Faith to absorb this.
‘So, Faith, all the boys and girls who were in school on Friday will be having this visit,’ said Mrs Drake. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, DCI Clay?’
‘Absolutely. It’s routine.’
Faith looked reassured.
‘Like your mum said, Faith. And they’ll all be getting asked the same questions, the ones I’m going to ask you. Ready? Did you see anyone go into Mrs Harry’s bag before you went home from school on Friday?’
‘No. I’d have told Mrs Harry if I’d seen that happen.’
‘Did anybody say they’d been in Mrs Harry’s bag and taken anything out?’
‘No. If they had said that to me, I’d have told Mrs Harry.’
Clay handed Faith’s mother a piece of paper. As Mrs Drake unfolded it, Clay explained. ‘It’s a list of the names of the children who were in school on Friday. There are twelve of them. Was there anyone from your class in school that day who isn’t on the list?’
Faith studied the list in her mother’s hand and said, ‘They were all the kids who were in.’
‘Mrs Harry might have made a mistake, missed off someone on the register who was there?’
‘Mrs Harry doesn’t make mistakes. Not like that. She’s very... very...’
‘Precise?’ suggested Faith’s mother, pulling a face at Clay. Precise as in pain in the backside.
‘Precise,’ said Faith. ‘Yes. Anyway, we had a quiz at break time because it was too cold to go out and it was definitely six against six. Yes. We lost because Jon Pearson put his hand up and then couldn’t answer so she handed the question over to the other team.’
‘Is there anyone on the list who has ever been in trouble for stealing?’
‘Yes. Connor Stephens stole a packet of crisps from my lunchbox last term. He said he didn’t know it was wrong, but he did. He gave me the crisps back all broken into crumbs.’
‘Can I ask you a difficult question, Faith? One that I need you to answer truthfully, even if it is difficult to say out loud.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there anyone – or maybe there might be more than one – anyone who was in your class in school on Friday who you’re afraid of?’
Outside, snow started falling and Faith’s attention was drawn to the window. Her mother squeezed the little girl’s hands.
‘Sorry, Mrs Clay,’ said Faith.
There was silence as Clay locked eyes with Faith. ‘Come to think of it,’ she said, ‘there is someone I’m afraid of.’
‘Who?’ asked her mother, intercepting Clay’s question. It was clearly brand-new bad news to a devoted parent.
‘Mrs Harry. But everybody is.’
‘Mrs Harry said you’re a very quiet girl,’ said Clay.
‘I am quiet in class. I’m there to learn.’ She looked at her mother. ‘Aren’t I, Mum?’
‘I’ve drilled it into her, the need to be quiet and learn in class. She wants to follow her sister Coral and go to the Blue Coat School.’
Coral. Eleven years plus. Upstairs playing with a ball.
‘One more question, Faith, and then I’ll leave you in peace.’
Clay stared at the snow falling outside. Her heart sank at the prospect of another polar vortex gripping the city. She hoped it was only a winter shower.
‘If you think of anything, Faith, and you need to talk to me, I’m going to give your mum a card with information on how to contact me. No detail is too small. Have a little think for me, go over what happened on Friday in your mind and see if you can come up with anything a little odd maybe. Talk to your mum.’
‘We’ll talk about it, Faith, when I come home from work,’ said Mrs Drake.
Silence. ‘OK. Can I be excused now? I need the bathroom.’
As Faith headed for the door, Clay said, ‘Love your slippers.’
‘Thanks. Father Christmas brought them for me,’ said Faith with utter conviction.
Clay listened to the sound of Faith running up the stairs and noticed that some of the softness left Mrs Drake’s face. ‘She still believes in Father Christmas?’ Clay asked.
‘Yes. She’s young for her years. She’s not a cynical, streetwise child.’ Mrs Drake looked directly at Clay, her expression and voice challenging. ‘A DCI at eight o’clock in the morning over a stolen phone? We’d be lucky to see a community officer usually...’
‘It’s a lead in another case.’ Clay stood up and handed Mrs Drake her card. ‘Please have that little chat with Faith. She’ll be more relaxed around you and she may come up with some detail she didn’t mention to me. I’m sorry to have put her through this stress. Call me anytime, 24/7.’
‘Of course we’ll be in touch if anything comes along.’
‘Mrs Drake, where do you work?’
‘Why?’
‘I think I know you from somewhere and I don’t know where.’
‘I know you. You shop at Tesco’s on Mather Avenue. Don’t you, DCI Clay?’
‘Yes.’ Clay smiled, saw Mrs Drake smiling and making small talk at the checkout. Blue skirt, red blouse. Clay recognised the supermarket uniform.
‘That’s where I work, that’s how I know your face.’
Clay recalled Mrs Drake’s name badge. Anais.
Anais Drake smiled at Clay. As the front door closed, the snow fell hard and fast. Clay took out her iPhone. There were no calls to her from the other team members. Including Barnham Drive, twelve no shows in the panic stakes.
She dialled the Price’s landline. At the other end, the receiver was lifted and a young, fractured voice said, ‘Yes?’
‘Sandy Patel?’
Clay walked to her car.
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s DCI Eve Clay. I’m coming to talk to you. It’s earlier than I planned. Are you ready to speak?’
‘Yes, I’m ready.’
21
8.35 am
As Clay got out of her car, outside a large detached house on Menlove Avenue, she saw Sandy Patel standing against the gate that separated the front garden from the pavement.
He seemed oblivious to her as she walked towards him, his face lost, his eyes raw with tears and lack of sleep. He was a slim, youthful replica of his father and, for a moment, she saw his figure and face in the quadrilateral of corpses at the bottom of the stairs in the Patels’ house.
‘I’m DCI Eve Clay.’ She showed her warrant card, but he didn’t look.
‘I’m going out of my mind,’ he said. He walked quickly, his breath s
hort and laboured. Clay hurried alongside him.
They turned the corner in silence into Harthill Avenue and he walked into the gritted middle of the road, striding towards the Four Seasons Gateway of Calderstones Park. The four stone female statues – Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter – were obscured beneath dense layers of snow.
Clay had a job to keep up with his long, swift strides and she understood he was trying to do the impossible: to escape from the horror that engulfed him.
As they walked down the tree-lined path into the heart of the deserted park, a raven flapped from the nearest tree, wings beating against the falling snow. Sandy Patel gasped with fright.
‘Have you any idea...?’ he began.
Clay pressed record on her iPhone.
‘Have you any idea how it feels to have both your parents killed? Your sisters? For your grandmother to die like that?’ It was a desperate set of questions that played straight into her hands.
‘I never knew my parents, Sandy.’
He looked directly at her with a quick twist of the neck and she was there to meet him with a searching gaze of her own.
‘They abandoned me when I was a day or two old. I grew up in care. So I can’t answer your question about parents, sisters, grandmother, but I do have a husband and little boy. I can imagine what you’re going through. Hell.’
As they walked along, the only sound was the grinding of their feet against the snow. The cold, damp air sent Clay’s mind rushing back in time to the wet, icy darkness of her underground playground, and to one day in particular.
Eight years old, torch in hand, she followed the older kids. Although she laughed along with them, she grew more afraid the deeper they went into the darkness of an abandoned tunnel.
Cold, stale air pinched her face and the dripping of water echoed against the walls and ceiling. She felt like she was walking into the centre of the earth with only a torch to guide her in the pitch black space.
