Hastily, Flora ended the conversation before hanging up the phone. A set of curlers nestled on her head, and her dressing gown was open at the front revealing her full-length nightdress beneath. Her nightie, bed linen, candles and home accessories were all bought from The White Company. Amy often joked she should have shares in the place.
‘It’s a bit late for a phone call,’ Amy said, despite her earlier vow not to snoop. ‘Everything OK?’
Flora paled under the heat of Amy’s gaze. ‘It’s just Winifred flapping. She . . .’ She paused, shoving her feet into the slippers she had discarded next to the sofa. ‘She’s holding a surprise party for her daughter and has asked me to help out. She got one of those three tier cakes. She wants me to store it here.’
‘Is that the woman who had cancer?’ Amy said, remembering news of her remission.
‘One and the same,’ Flora replied, placing the phone back in its cradle. ‘She sometimes pops around with her mum for a cuppa. I don’t want her finding it in my fridge, and these things take up so much room.’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a slice of cake right now,’ Amy said. ‘I’ve barely had time to eat. Can I make you a coffee?
‘No thanks, love. I’m going back to bed. There’s some homemade apple pie in the fridge. Night, night.’ Leaning forward, she gently kissed Amy on the cheek. Gingerly, Amy patted her back. She had known from an early age that Flora had wanted a child she could squeeze and hug. Amy had been unable to fulfil her needs in many ways, yet her mother had stuck by her just the same. Kicking off her shoes, she half-filled the kettle and put it on to boil. The kitchen was just off the living room, and she found herself wandering back in and staring at the phone. Flora had said she was going back to bed. Surely Winifred would not have called at this late hour? Amy frowned. It had to be more than that. Picking up the phone receiver, she dialled 1471 to trace the call. Holding her breath, she awaited a response. The last number dialled was a private number. Private number? Then it couldn’t be Winifred. Amy had advised her to go ex-directory after a series of phishing calls, but the woman had been determined to keep her number public at the time. Flora had lied, and not for the first time. Abandoning her tea, Amy reached into the cupboard and poured herself two fingers of gin. After topping up her glass with soda from the fridge, she sat at the table, wondering if this day would ever end.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hemmy awoke with a start, blinking furiously. How long had she been asleep? She wrinkled her nose as the stench of rotting fish guts hit the back of her nose. Her confinement seemed different now it was light. She gazed at the porthole, now free of the wood that once covered it. When did that happen? Slowly, she crept to the end of the bed. The presence of food made her heart beat wildly, like a tightly wound clockwork toy. Someone had been here while she was asleep. Her eyes widened. The door. On wobbly legs she rushed towards it, stumbling over her stockinged feet. The handle was stiff and relentless beneath her fingers, and she screamed as it refused to give. Shaking her hand, particles of rust broke free. ‘Let me out!’ Her cries rebounded in the stinking space. Above her, a radio played a stream of eighties pop tunes, drowning out her voice.
A glance around confirmed her earlier suspicions. She was on the bottom deck of some kind of boat. Pressing her face to the porthole, she tried to glean a view of the outside world. The ceiling was low, but she barely noticed the cobwebs brushing against her head. Spiders were the least of her worries right now. The mud-smeared glass provided her with a view of the water outside and little else. Her breathing accelerated as she took in her surroundings, the bare timbers chilling the soles of her feet. The bed she had slept in was the only furniture occupying the narrow space.
She eyed the food. A Tesco tuna sandwich and a bottle of water sat next to a bag of cheese and onion crisps. Ripping open the wrapper she wolfed the sandwich down. She hated tuna. It brought her out in a rash, but she was in no position to be fussy. She recalled her mother’s words, taking strength from their meaning. ‘You have to be a strong woman to get ahead in a man’s world.’ Now was one of those times.
Unscrewing the lid from the bottle, she threw back her head and gulped, sighing in relief as the water eased her scratchy throat. A smell crept up from the floorboards to greet her. Urine. She felt so ashamed, but she’d had no choice. At least she was able to move around in her rust-coated prison, and she would do what she had to in order to get by. People looked on her mother as some wealthy celebrity, but Hemmy knew the sacrifices she had made to get to where she was. Renting a house in London, sending Hemmy to private school. Such things came with a price tag they could barely afford. If her captor was sending a ransom note, then her mum could never accommodate their demands.
Returning to the porthole, she gripped the bottle in her hand. If she could break the porthole glass . . . it would make a useful weapon, and maybe someone would hear her cries for help. But would she have the guts to stab her attacker if it came to it? She launched the plastic bottle against the circular window, a shooting pain travelling up her wrist as it bounced back, the glass intact. A shuffling noise behind the door stilled her movements. Someone was coming. She was about to meet her attacker face-to-face. Rushing back to the bed, she covered herself with a blanket, coughing as the damp spores invaded her lungs.
The sharp sound of a bolt being shoved across made Hemmy grip her knees to her chest. For the first time, she noticed the small steel-like shutter, allowing her captor to peer in. But what she saw made her blood run cold. They were wearing a black latex mask. A dry rasping breath rattled through the ventilation device. It was a gas mask. Why? Was this some kind of poison gas attack? Her mouth falling open, Hemmy’s eyes met those behind the hatch. The sight of the bug-like eyepieces looked like something out of a horror film. Swallowing the scream rising in her throat, Hemmy stepped forward on unsteady feet to plead for her life. ‘Please,’ she said, not realising she was crying until she tasted the salt in her tears. ‘Please let me go. I won’t say anything, I swear.’
Like two shiny coals, the eyes behind the mask were black and glittering, filled with dark intent. Biting down on her bottom lip, Hemmy tried desperately to contain her fear. She needed to show them she was strong. Formidable. That was what her father had once called her. Formidable. A force to be reckoned with. Only she wasn’t feeling quite so brave today.
‘Let me go.’ But her words came out as a whine as they echoed around the stinking space. ‘Please? There’s been some mistake.’
Shadowed by the rim of the mask, the cold, hard eyes of her kidnapper crept over her form. That breath . . . Hemmy thought. The torturous rattle dragging steadily through the respirator, driving a shiver down her spine. At last, it paused as he opened his mouth to speak.
‘I’ll keep you safe . . . As long as you’re a good girl.’ Another inhalation as the gas mask drew in air. Eerily, Hemmy’s captor watched through the bony structures of the eyepieces, the two glass lenses tinted every so slightly black.
Consumed by fear, Hemmy retreated to the back of the boat. The bump of a sudden lap of water made her grip the timber walls, and a splinter jabbed under her thumb. ‘Please, let me go.’ She winced at the sudden sting of pain. ‘I won’t tell anybody. I promise.’
‘Not if you misbehave.’ Her kidnapper’s words were muffled and distorted, adding to her fear. ‘You’re for the chop if you do.’
What did they mean? Were they going to kill her? And why were they staring at her like that? She clasped her arms over her chest. Despite her school uniform, she felt exposed. Should she be grateful they were wearing a mask? She read once that if a witness could identify their captors, there was less chance of them being set free. Was this even a kidnapping? It was preferable to the other thoughts that were frightening her half to death.
‘Purdy,’ she said, just as the thought struck her. ‘Where’s my cat?’
‘Asleep. If you’re good, then you’ll see her.’ A pause for breath. ‘If you’re not . . .’
‘I never did like cats.’ The sentence was punctuated by the sound of the hatch slamming shut.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
His brow furrowed, Paddy sighed, the weight of his burdens heavy on his shoulders. Yesterday he had returned to Elaine armed with an excuse for the burns on his neck. His job in the police had its uses. He had made up a story about a junkie coming at him with a homemade blowtorch, and she now thought he was some kind of action man. Geraldine had apologised of course, and like a gentleman, he told her they would draw a line under the whole thing. He was not blameless. He had broken their family. It was his fault she was driven to such extremes. The love between them may have died but how could he abandon her now? Scanning his tag, he opened the station door. Today he would take inspiration from his DI. Strong and professional, Amy Winter never allowed her personal life to interfere with work. She may have been suffering since the death of her father, but he knew better than to ask her to open up.
‘How’s it going?’ he said to DC Steve Moss, hanging up his jacket and brushing the inevitable flakes of dandruff that had gathered on its shoulders. Steve always made him feel scruffy. Steve’s suit was neatly pressed, unlike Paddy’s, whose tie already bore evidence of the fried egg sandwich he had made for breakfast.
Highly punctual, Steve was always the first through the doors. A fan of clean living, he ate well and didn’t smoke or drink, but womanising was his downfall. He spun his swivel chair towards Paddy, a look of mild irritation crossing his face.
‘Slow, it’s going slow,’ he said. ‘No new leads and a shitload of work. Where’s Her Highness this morning? Off on another jaunt?’
‘That’s hardly fair,’ Paddy said, knowing he was referring to their DI. ‘She had a good result with Lillian Grimes. The command team will be singing our praises when it hits the press.’
‘Come on, you and I go back a long way,’ Steve said. ‘Can’t you see what’s going on?’
‘Enlighten me.’ Whatever Steve had to say, he was obviously desperate to get it off his chest.
‘I get demoted for nothing, yet she strolls into a prime job on the back of her father’s rep. As for me . . .’ He poked himself in the chest. ‘I come from a family of grafters. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.’
‘Who pissed on your cornflakes this morning?’ Paddy said, a smile softening his features as he shook his head. He knew Steve of old. He was a good copper but a pessimist by nature.
Leaning back in his chair, Steve’s jaw cracked as he yawned. ‘I feel like I’m going backwards. We’re being told to focus on the kidnapping, yet our DI’s chasing a case that’s over thirty years old. All because Her Highness wants the glory.’
Paddy rubbed his chin. He had not slept properly in days, and the last thing he wanted was a sparring match with his old shift partner. ‘This is a high-profile unit and Winter handles it well,’ he said wearily. ‘You can’t get more notorious than Lillian Grimes. Which is why we can’t mess this up.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Steve said. ‘I just don’t see why women are getting these posts. What happened to blokes overseeing things?’
Paddy groaned. ‘Things have changed since we joined the job. It’s not all about brawn. It’s about perception and insight. Winter’s built up a connection with Grimes. The woman’s actually telling her stuff. From what I’ve heard, that’s a flaming miracle. Right now, she’s trying to find Wendy Thompson’s body so her mum can die in peace. Surely that’s worthwhile?’
Steve snorted. ‘And all while a fifteen-year-old girl’s been kidnapped and having God knows what done to her.’ He prodded the table before him. ‘Winter should be here, overseeing the case. Hermione’s the same age as my daughter. I’d be going out of my mind if that was me.’
Patience lost, the smile dropped from Paddy’s face. It was too early in the morning, and his neck still hurt like hell. ‘Well, put your bloody energy into the case, instead of whining to me. Why don’t you tell Winter how you feel instead of sniping behind her back?’
‘Because she’ll run off crying to DCI Pike. You know those two are thick as thieves.’
‘It goes to show that you don’t know Winter at all. She doesn’t cry. Not a tear. Not even at her dad’s funeral, and I know that hit her hard. You’re only pissed off because Pike demoted you. And that was your own stupid fault.’
‘And here was me thinking it would be good for us to work together again.’ Leaning over his desk, Steve picked up his empty coffee mug to make himself a brew.
‘Who are you kidding?’ Paddy replied. ‘You didn’t join this team for the pleasure of my company. Why are you really here?’
Steve shrugged. ‘I thought it would help me get back into the Chief’s good books, but there’s not much likelihood of that, with Winter’s nose stuck up her backside.’
‘Maybe if you improved your attitude instead of racking up complaints you’d get somewhere,’ Paddy replied. In the hall, a tannoy sounded, but the request was for someone else. He wanted to get to work instead of handbags at dawn.
‘You’ve changed,’ Steve said. ‘I remember the day you said there was no place for women in the police.’
‘I was wrong.’ Paddy hated being reminded of the ugly, misjudged comment he’d made in his youth. ‘I’ve watched Winter in action. She’s good. Either you get with the programme or move on.’
‘I was going to ask you out for a drink tonight, but I don’t think I’ll bother now.’ A sneer rose on Steve’s face. ‘Is your missus still giving you grief? That’s a nasty burn on the back of your neck.’
Paddy sighed. In his haste to get in early, he had forgotten to bring his scarf. ‘It’s nothing. And don’t go spreading rumours about Geraldine. She’s been through enough . . .’
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Steve interrupted sharply. ‘I’m good at keeping things to myself.’
Paddy knew what he was doing, flexing his muscles to stay in control. Steve was one of the few people he had confided in when things got tough, but that was years ago, and he had moved on since then. He should have been pleased when his old friend joined his team. He and Steve went back a long way. The problem was that Steve had grown bitter. He knew all Paddy’s secrets, too. He had a choice: bow down to Steve or tell his DI the truth. For now, he needed to focus on the task at hand.
‘Have you anything positive to take into the briefing?’ he said, changing the subject. ‘I take it you had nothing back from DIU?’ The divisional intelligence unit was a valuable resource but they were backed up with more work than they could handle, and their reports took time to obtain.
‘Nothing that ties in with this,’ Steve replied. ‘Social media has gone crazy, there are thousands of tweets and shares. She was trending at one point. Hashtag “Find Hermione”. Somewhere in the middle of all that could be a clue, but when are we gonna get time to trawl through it? Sometimes it feels like I’m pissing against the wind.’
‘You’ve more important things on your plate than Facebook and Twitter,’ Paddy said. ‘We’ve got a new DC starting today. Gary Wilkes. He’s completed part one of his sergeant’s exams and is keen to get some more experience under his belt.’
‘Good,’ Steve said. ‘We could do with some extra bodies around here. I’m going to a MAPPA meeting today to fill them in.’
There were three categories of offenders discussed at the multi-agency public protection meeting: registered sexual offenders, violent offenders and dangerous offenders known to police. Paddy liked that Steve used his initiative, but since his demotion, he had trouble getting to grips with the fact he was a DC. Rather than accepting the tasks that were set for him, he created his own. But while Steve had a hold over him, it was safer for Paddy to leave him be. ‘It’s just a shame there’s no ransom note.’ Steve locked his computer before walking away from his desk. ‘Hermione could be sex trafficked for all we know.’
‘The guy who did thi
s is an amateur,’ Paddy said, keeping an eye on the time. ‘And who’s to say there’s no ransom note? Tessa wouldn’t be the first parent to keep it a secret. Or maybe she’s in on it herself. I’ve seen her finances. She’s not exactly flush. Her face has been everywhere since it hit the news. Can’t be doing her career any harm.’
‘Which is why she’s listed as a person of interest,’ Steve replied, looking into his empty cup. ‘This coffee isn’t going to make itself. Fancy one?’
‘My throat’s dryer than a camel’s ball sack,’ Paddy responded. ‘So I won’t say no.’ His shoulders hunched, he took a seat at his desk. Unlike DI Winter, he did not have the luxury of a separate office, and he sat at the head of the room instead. He preferred to be part of the team. He had plenty to do before they filtered in, and sending an email to Winter would timestamp his early appearance at the very least. He had to show willing. His neck was on the line, in more ways than one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The endorphins gained from her morning gym session with Pike dissipated as Amy pressed the phone to her ear. She tightened her fingers around the receiver, willing herself to speak. Her impromptu caller filled her with dread, the sound of her voice drilling into her brain. Amy had loathed giving Lillian Grimes her direct line, but she could not stand to have another transferred call announcing her mother was on the phone. She reminded herself that contact was temporary: as soon as the final two bodies were recovered, then all communication with Lillian Grimes would cease. But deep inside the uncomfortable truth lingered. How could she get back to normal when she no longer knew what normal was? Breaking the news about Barbara Price had made her feel like such a fraud. She had no right to be in the family’s home. And as the daughter of prolific serial killers, did she even have a right to her job? As Lillian’s breath ruffled the phone line, Amy felt her day go from bad to worse.
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