She nodded with the assurance of one used to being located in the right.
‘Was it this Maddy you quarrelled about then?’
‘It was too! Maybe only indirectly,’ she qualified with reluctant honesty. ‘But she was behind it all the same. Why should her telephone number be such a secret? It’s public property, isn’t it? It’s in the book.’
‘It is if you’ve got a surname and address,’ said Cicero. ‘Do you?’
‘No. I never cared to ask what she might be called and I’ve no idea where she lives,’ admitted the woman.
‘And who was it you gave her number to?’
‘It was this friend of Jane’s, a really nice girl, well spoken, the kind of friend Jane ought to have if she must have them. She’d lost touch with Jane since college and she was so keen to see her again that I saw no harm in giving her this Maddy’s number. It was shaming enough to have to admit I didn’t have an address for my own daughter without pretending there was no way I could get in touch with her.’
‘What was her name, this girl? And when did she call?’
‘Week before last it was. And her name was Mary Harper.’
‘Did Jane remember her?’
‘No. But the girl was wearing a ring so it seems likely it was her married name. But whether she knew her or not, there was no reason to get in such a tantrum when I told her I’d given this Mary the telephone number. Well, I wasn’t about to be lectured in my own house by my own daughter, I tell you! So we had words and she stalked out.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Not long after they arrived. About half past four.’
‘How did she look, your daughter?’
‘Like she always does. A bit pale maybe. She doesn’t eat enough, never has done. All this athletics stuff, it’s not right for a girl. The men are built for it, well, some men, but it’s a strain on a female, bound to be.’
‘And Noll? Oliver?’
‘Now he looked peaky, I thought. I said to her, what’re you thinking of, putting that child through such a journey …’
And once more she stopped in mid-stride as the fear she was trying to control by words, by anger, by indignation, was edged aside by a darker, heavier terror.
‘All these questions, what have they got to do with anything? What’s really happened, mister? He’s not just wandered off, has he? Well, has he? What’s really happened, mister?’
He said, ‘We don’t know, Mrs Maguire, and that’s the truth. But we’ve got to face the possibility that your grandson may have been abducted.’
It was a choice of horrors. Little boy lost, wandering around in the cold midwinter weather, or a kidnapped child in the hands of a deranged stranger. She sat there rocking to and fro, in the delusive belief that she was facing the worst. This was no time to hint at the third and most terrible possibility.
The door bell rang. He looked at the woman. She showed no sign of having heard it.
He went out into the tiny hallway and opened the front door.
Father Blake was standing there, his face pale with anger. Before Dog could speak, the priest demanded, ‘What the hell are you playing at, Inspector? Coming here with your stupid lies! What sort of man are you?’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand …’
‘No, you don’t, do you? That’s clear enough. It’s people you’re dealing with … Why couldn’t you come right out and say it? Don’t we have a right to know what’s going on? Suppose that was how Mrs Maguire got to know, for God’s sake!’
His anger and anguish clearly went deep.
Dog said, ‘Please, Father. What’s happened? Tell me what’s happened and maybe I’ll be able to tell you what you want to know.’
The priest regarded him with deep mistrust, but he was back in control of himself.
‘All right, Cicero,’ he said. ‘I’ll play your game a little while. I’ve been sitting in my car listening to the radio, and I’ve just heard some policeman from Essex, Romchurch, isn’t it? That’s where you’re from?’
‘Yes,’ said Dog. ‘What was it you heard?’
‘I heard this man, Parslow, saying the reason you’re interested in Jane Maguire is because her son’s missing, that you believe he’s dead, and that you want to find his mother in order to charge her with murder!’
12
It wasn’t as bad as the priest made out, but almost. Close questioned, Blake calmed down enough to admit that Parslow hadn’t stated categorically that it was a murder hunt, only that the child was missing, the police were anxious to interview his mother, and the possibility of foul play could not be ruled out.
‘Look,’ said Dog. ‘Why don’t you go in and see what you can do for Mrs Maguire? She knows the boy’s missing and that’s been shock enough. I’ll get onto my office to see if anything else has come up.’
‘And you’ll let me know? The truth this time?’ said Father Blake harshly.
‘I’ll tell you everything I can,’ said Dog jesuitically.
Reluctantly, the priest went through into the sitting room leaving Dog to his thoughts.
The whole thing stank of Tench. He must have decided his devious purposes would best be served by going public. And he’d get no argument from Parslow. Steady Eddie would have made the statement dressed as Santa Claus, so long as his pension rights were safe.
Dog cooled down a little. Perhaps he was being unfair to both Tench and Parslow. Perhaps something new had come up.
He picked up the phone from the hall table and dialled.
‘Romchurch police, can I help you?’
‘CID, Sergeant Lunn.’
When he heard the sergeant’s voice, he said, ‘Charley, are you alone? What’s going on?’
‘Maguire, you mean? There was some kind of media leak, I gather, so they wheeled out the super to make a statement. But why he decided to throw petrol on the fire beats me, specially as I’d talked to the social worker who tried to see Maguire, and while he said a couple of odd things, there was nothing there to reinforce the murder theory.’
‘Tell me,’ said Dog.
‘This chap confirms he rang Maguire’s bell and got no reply. Then he had a word with Mrs Ashley, the old lady who’d made the complaint. He wasn’t all that worried, it seems, ’cos evidently it’s quite a hobby of Mrs Ashley’s ringing up with allegations about domestic mayhem. And in this case he reckoned she’d really slipped over into fantasy land because there was no record of a child living in the flat anyway.’
‘Maguire hadn’t been in the area all that long,’ said Dog.
‘All the same, kids usually figure in the records very quickly. Health, education, that sort of thing. I checked with the DHSS about Child Allowance and there’s no trace there either.’
Cicero said, ‘Would going to a private kindergarten make a difference to the records?’
‘Officially, no. I mean, children have to be accounted for and County Hall would have a record of all the Vestey Kindergarten kids. But until someone bothers to do a cross check, the fact that a pupil at the kindergarten doesn’t figure elsewhere wouldn’t come up.’
‘Whereas if the child had been registered at a local authority nursery school, it would automatically be fed into the whole system?’
‘Right. Why so interested in that aspect, Dog? It was the same when I told Parslow. That chap, Tench, from the funny buggers, was there and he didn’t seem much bothered that the child abuse thing was probably a fake alarm either.’
‘Oh, I’m bothered, Charley. Anything else?’
‘No. Oh yes. Five minutes ago they rang up from the desk to say there was this woman asking for you and did we know when you’d be back. A Miss Edmondson. Said she worked with Maguire.’
‘First name Suzie? Long blonde girl, not bad looking?’
‘Don’t know. Never saw her.’
‘You mean you just let her go?’
‘Of course not. I went down but by the time I got there, your Mr Tench had swallowed her up. Willy on the
desk, though, did have a languid look on his face so maybe your description fitted. She’s probably still in the super’s room … hang about, I hear Mr Tench’s merry laugh now … I’ll just have a word …’
‘No!’ snapped Dog, though why the word came out he did not know. But it was too late anyway. There was nothing on the end of the line but background noise of footsteps and a door opening, voices, distant and tinny, silence, more steps, then in his ear Tench, merry and bright.
‘Dog! Just been talking about you. How goes it, my son?’
‘What’s going on?’ said Dog. ‘Why have we gone public?’
‘No choice, had we? Press got onto it, probably one of the mums at the kindergarten tipped them off. You’ve got to cooperate with the media, Dog, or they won’t play ball with yours.’
‘But why stress the possible murder angle?’
‘Because that’s what it looks like more and more. Don’t knock it, my son. Once we’re absolutely sure it’s some batty slag topping her toddler ’cos he got on her nerves, I’ll be on my way and you can get back to the five-hour siesta!’
‘What did Suzie Edmondson say?’ said Dog, refusing to let Tench irritate him off course.
‘What? Oh, the girl from the Health Centre, you mean. You didn’t mention her, did you? Saving her for yourself, were you? Don’t blame you, very tasty. But she just about wrapped it up, Dog. Thought you were just enquiring about the Jacobs business till she heard the news. Then she recalled a couple of odd things Maguire had said to her this morning. Like when she got bawled out for being late, she’d told Suzie she was sick of this and was thinking of looking for a real full-time job with better money. Suzie said, what about the kid? And our little charmer shrugged and said she had a life to live too. Now I know it’s hearsay and what Suzie says about Maguire’s tone of voice would not be admissible, but it all adds up, my son. How’ve you got on with the mother?’
‘Maguire came up at the weekend. Saturday. With the boy. They didn’t stay. There was a row and she left.’
As he spoke his hand toyed with a spring-loaded index by the phone, its right angles exactly matching those of the highly polished table. He touched M. There was only one entry: Maddy, with a number after it.
‘A row, you say? What about? Any idea where she went?’
‘Oh, just the usual mother and daughter thing,’ said Dog. ‘And Mrs Maguire assumed she’d drive home.’
‘But we know she didn’t. Could be that’s when it happened, Dog,’ said Tench. ‘And she spent all Sunday thinking up her fantasy. Well, it’ll all come out in the wash. What time will you be back?’
‘Oh, a couple of hours,’ said Dog vaguely.
‘See you then if I’m still around. Take care, old son.’
‘I will,’ said Dog, replacing the receiver. He’d no idea why he’d lied, except as a defensive response to a gut feeling that Tench was lying too. But about what? He picked up the phone again, dialled Directory Enquiries, identified himself, gave the number next to Maddy, and asked for a name and address. It took half a minute.
Madeleine Salter, The Warden’s Flat, South Essex College of Physical Education, Basildon.
He went back to the sitting room. Father Blake was kneeling beside Mrs Maguire, holding her hands and talking urgently to her in a low voice, but there didn’t seem to be any response. Dog motioned with his head and the priest followed him into the hall.
‘Look,’ said Dog. ‘I’ve been on the phone to my station and it’s not as bad as it sounds.’
‘Will you spell it out to me, Inspector,’ said the priest grimly. ‘If I’m to help this poor creature, I’ve got to know how much reassurance I can honestly give her.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Dog. He gave a rapid digest of the facts, missing out any reference to Special Branch.
‘So there’s nothing to show that Janey had hurt the boy?’ said Blake fiercely.
Dog hesitated. Then he said quietly, ‘Father, be as comforting as you can, but until we can see our way clearer, it would be wrong to promise certainties.’
The gazes locked. It was Dog who turned away first, unable to meet the pain and anger he saw in the priest’s eyes.
‘I’ll get the local force to send someone round,’ he said. ‘It won’t be long before the press get onto her, I imagine, and it’ll take a uniform to fight those boys off. Take care of her, Father.’
He made for the door. At the telephone table he paused, wondering whether to ring the local station. Better to call personally as he passed. There would be anger there if they’d heard Parslow’s statement especially as Denver already suspected he’d been holding out on him earlier. He shrugged. The anger of colleagues was nothing compared with the pain he was leaving here.
He noticed he’d moved the telephone index slightly off square. Carefully he realigned it before he left.
It was the least he could do for Mrs Maguire.
Worse, it was probably the most.
13
The trip south was no better than the trip north. It felt like the wee small hours when Dog hit home territory, but his dash clock told him it was only eleven.
He saw the Romchurch sign, but kept his foot hard on the accelerator. When you’re on a rush, you don’t eat, you don’t crap, you hardly breathe. Just play. Gospel according to Endo.
Basildon. He looked at a map as he drove, located the college. Five minutes later he was parked on the verge by the main gate.
The college occupied a flat windswept site south of the A127. There was still agricultural land here but it would have taken an unreconstructed East Ender, or an estate agent, to call the location rural. The lights of housing prickled in all directions and there was a constant drone of traffic from the arterial road.
But, set in a couple of acres of playing fields, and emptied now for the Christmas vacation, these inelegant boxes of concrete and glass still managed to chill Dog’s heart like a Gothic mansion.
There was a hoarding by the gate bearing a diagram of the complex. He studied it, located the warden’s flat, then slipped through the gate. There was a caretaker’s lodge just inside but he didn’t want either the bother or the disturbance of explaining his presence so he cut away from it across the grass to minimize sound. The rain had finally stopped and the skies were clearing. Tendrils of mist from the sodden ground curled around his ankles and from time to time he stumbled in the tussocky grass. He doubted if this was doing his expensive shoes much good. Or his career.
He reached the block where the flat was located. The main double glass door was locked, but presumably the warden would have her own personal entrance. Even a college lecturer was entitled to a private life.
He moved cautiously along the flagged walkway running alongside the building. He had to make a full circuit to the other side before he found what he was looking for. There was a car park here with a solitary car parked in it, right outside a conventional single door with a bell push.
He could make out no light from behind the curtained windows. Cautiously he tried the door handle but it was locked. There seemed nothing to do but the obvious. He reached out to ring the bell. But even as he pressed it he caught the sound of light steps coming up fast behind him. He turned, but not fast enough. A fist drove into his kidneys, not hard but with painful accuracy. He flung out his left hand in a flailing blow. His wrist was seized, twisted, and as he involuntarily came round to negate the twist, his legs were swept from under him and he crashed heavily to the ground.
Suddenly he was bathed in light. The ebbing cloud had pulled back from a soaring moon. Standing above him was a tall, thin figure in a track suit with one foot raised threateningly over his neck. He fought off the temptation to grab at it. So far every one of his reactions had been expertly prompted and devastatingly countered. First break the cycle, then take control. He feinted at the foot and swung both his legs round in an effort to sweep his attacker off balance. But the track-suited figure rose easily in the air, to let the attack pass harmless bene
ath, then came down with both knees into Dog’s exposed stomach.
Or at least would have done.
But Cicero wasn’t there. Like an engine slow to start after long disuse, his body was at last reacting with the speed of trained instinct rather than the languor of rational thought. He pivoted his whole body through ninety degrees on his right elbow and as the falling figure took the sting out of its collision with the flagstones by turning its aborted attack into a forward roll, his knee came up into the base of its spine. The figure arched, screamed, then its head hit the ground and it lay there, crumpled and silent.
Dog scrambled to his feet, panting heavily. He had deluded himself that he kept in condition but now he knew differently. Ten years was too long between fights. Or too short.
He stooped cautiously over the recumbent figure before him. In the bright moonlight, the face confirmed what the scream had made him guess. It was a woman. American army fashion, there was a name on the track suit breast.
Madeleine Salter.
‘Oh shit,’ he said.
He felt in the pocket of her track suit tunic and found a Yale key. It fitted the door lock. He opened the door, found a light switch and flicked it on.
The woman groaned. He watched and did nothing. If there was any spinal injury, interference on his part could just make it worse.
She raised her head, looked at him.
He said, urgently, ‘Miss Salter, I’m a police officer. Look, there’s been a mistake but we can sort that out later. Main thing first of all is to check you’re OK. How’s your back? Can you move your legs?’
For an answer, she raised them slowly in the air one at a time, then gently flexed her back and, gradually taking her weight on her arms, sat upright. She winced as she did so.
‘Pain?’ he said anxiously.
‘Just my head.’
She touched it gingerly. He stooped and had a closer look through the short black hair.
‘There’s no bleeding,’ he said, ‘but I reckon you’ll have quite a bump. Here, let me help you inside.’
The Only Game Page 7
