by Tim Ellis
DON’T TRY TO FIND US
The cards were exactly the same. The printing on each card was by the same person – the unknown man.
He crumpled into a chair and put the cards down on the kitchen table side by side.
Slowly, the terrible truth forced itself through the fog of confusion: Ellie didn’t leave him – she was taken.
What a fool he’d been. All this time he’d imagined that she had left him and taken the two girls with her because she’d had enough of her life, or simply had enough of him.
Questions flooded his brain as if a lock gate had been opened on the Manchester ship canal. Where were they? What had that bastard done to them? Who was he? How had he made it seem so simple?
Why?
Why?
Why?
The reason must be revenge.
Someone who had a grudge against him.
He went back to the laptop and finished watching the DVD, but the remaining coverage told him nothing new. Why didn’t he know who it was? He printed off a freeze-frame of the man’s face.
Jesus!
A year wasted.
He should have known. Why hadn’t he realised that Ellie would never have left him like that and taken his beautiful daughters away?
Tears welled in his eyes and dripped onto the keyboard.
Maybe things had been bad between them, and it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility.
A whole year – fuck!
Why hadn’t the detective found anything?
Why had the man come back and left that card? He examined the tape again.
The visitor had been in his house before. As he walked round, he was re-acquainting himself with a place he had visited previously. He had left the card because he wanted Dark to know that he had Ellie and the two girls. Why? Were they still alive? They must be – otherwise why would he come back?
What now?
Where did he go from here?
Staring into the space between the here and now, he knew that if they were still alive he had to get his family back, but how?
He rang Hendrik.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s me.’
‘Hello, Mr Dark.’
‘Remember I said that I owned your soul?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you have a chance to get it back.’
‘How?’
‘You obviously know a lot about me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know about my wife and two daughters?’
‘I know that they left you a year ago today.’
‘That’s what I believed, but I don’t think that was what actually happened.’
‘Oh?’
‘The man that came into my house earlier today let himself in with a key.’
‘Okay.’
‘And he left me a card with “Happy Anniversary” printed on it.’
‘Is it your wedding anniversary?’
‘No. The only anniversary today is my wife and kids leaving me.’
‘How . . . ? They didn’t leave you, did they?’
‘They left me all right, but now it looks like they didn’t leave of their own free will.’
‘He used your wife’s key to come into your house.’
‘That’s what I think.’
‘And you want me to help you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘You’re the electronics genius.’
‘I am, aren’t I? Okay – let me sleep on it. I’ll ring you in the morning.’
The call ended.
He got up, found the private investigator’s report in the sideboard and . . .
His phone vibrated.
‘Dark.’
‘We’ve had another call.’
‘Hello, Chief.’
‘Get over to 503 Northenden Road in Gatley. The Barber family have just arrived back from an extended holiday in Crete to find that Santa has left them some unwanted gifts.’
‘On my way.’
He rang Lake.
‘Mmmm.’
‘I didn’t wake you up, did I?’
‘I fell asleep in the bath.’
‘A bath and sleep? How the other half live. Meet me at 503 Northenden Road in Gatley in thirty minutes.’
‘You’re fucking joking. I’ve only just . . .’
He ended the call.
***
0005 hours
Thursday, December 26
As much as he tried to focus on the case, his mind kept wandering to the revelation that Ellie hadn’t left him of her own accord.
Now, he had mixed emotions. On the one hand he was pleased he hadn’t been rejected as a useless husband and father, on the other he felt selfish for thinking about himself. What about Ellie? What about Coco and Cleo? Where were they, and what had happened to them?
He had a terrible thought then. Did Ellie leave him for that stranger? Had she fallen in love with him and decided to start a new life?
His mind churned over what little information he had, and created a million “what if?” scenarios to explain what had happened. He was exhausted. His mind was exhausted.
Number five!
He had to turn his mind to the case.
Were there more families that had yet to discover their gory Christmas presents?
What did the Chief mean when he said that the Barbers had just returned from an “extended holiday”. Was the extension planned or unplanned?
Lake was waiting for him outside.
‘Well?’
‘The smell is bad.’
‘Who’s inside?’
‘Polly Tyree.’
‘So, why are you out here?’
‘The smell is bad.’
‘You’ve said that already.’
‘I brought the family out of the house – George and Sandra Barber with their two children Peter and Sandrine.’
‘Why?’
‘The smell is bad.’
‘Will you stop saying that?’
‘They’re in the police car.’ She pointed to a Ford Focus with its lights on and the engine running.
‘What about Santa’s DNA?’
‘No match.’
‘And the partial plate from the red car?’
‘Transport are sending us a list.’
‘How many?’
‘Just over seven thousand.’
He made a sound with his lips as he walked over and climbed into the driver’s seat of the Focus. A five or six year-old boy was sitting in the passenger seat playing a game on a console.
Lake leaned in. ‘What about me?’
‘What about you?’
‘It’s freezing out here.’
‘That didn’t seem to bother you a minute ago.’ He banged the door shut and swivelled slightly so that he could see Mr and Mrs Barber. He introduced himself and then said, ‘Good holiday?’
‘Until we were delayed by snow on the runway and baggage-handler strikes,’ George Barber whispered. ‘That said, it was definitely preferable to what we found in our house.’
‘You’ve heard about the other four families?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are we whispering?’
Mrs Barber pointed at a two or three year-old child asleep under a blanket across their knees. ‘It’s been a long journey for Sandrine.’
He nodded and cranked his voice down a couple of notches. ‘Sorry. So, what do you do, George?’
‘Head of security at Manchester Airport.’
‘Does that entitle you to . . . ?’
‘Yes. There are still some perks left. Not what they used to be for sure, but we still get the standby flights.’
‘Have you any idea why you would be left . . . ?’
‘None. We’re just normal people trying to keep our heads above the poverty line in these desperate times.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘When can we get back in our house, Inspector?’ Sandra Barber asked.
He shrug
ged. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t answer that. It’s now a crime scene, unfortunately. Have you got somewhere else . . . ?’
‘Yes.’ She turned to her husband. ‘We could go to your sister’s house.’
George pulled a face. ‘Are you sure you want to do that? You know what she’s like.’
‘It won’t be for long.’
Just then, Sandrine sat bolt upright with a look of terror on her face, and then lay back down again.
‘Sorry,’ Sandra said. ‘She’s had a difficult childhood so far.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I won’t tell you what her real parents did to her. We adopted Sandrine four months ago.’
‘I see. Thanks for your help. My partner – DC Lake will need to talk to you, but then we’ll let you get to your sister’s.’
‘Thanks.’
He got out of the car.
Lake was still stamping about. ‘I’m going to die of exposure.’
‘More whining. Did you notice anything different about this family?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like they’re a white family with a black child.’
‘That’s nothing new these days.’
‘I thought you’d covered everything.’
‘I did.’
‘Did you ask them whether they were the biological parents to all their children?’
‘Who . . . ? Why . . . ? No, I didn’t ask them that, but . . .’
‘The Barbers adopted Sandrine six months ago. Did you also know that Billy Crumpsall was adopted as well?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘Stop trying to cover your arse. I want to know whether any of the other families have an adopted or fostered child, where they got the children from . . . everything this time. Do you think you can manage that?’
‘There’s no need . . .’
‘There’s every need. I want a partner I can trust, but it seems I can’t trust you. Well? What are you waiting for?’
She climbed into the Ford Focus and slammed the door.
He walked over to the house and squirmed into another paper suit.
‘Tyree?’ he shouted as he put a slither of vapour rub under his nose.
‘Are you having a wonderful Christmas, Josiah Dark?’
‘Is this any different from the others?’
‘No chit-chat – straight to the point as usual. We have a male right upper arm and lower left leg; and a female lower left leg and right thigh.’
‘Distinguishing marks?’
‘No.’
‘Access?’
‘Key.’
‘Are there going to be any more?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. There’s still some body parts missing – the male head, both hands, lower right leg and foot; and the female head, upper left arm, right hand, and left foot.’
‘Okay. Let me know if anything new turns up.’
‘Of course. How are you getting on with your new partner?’
‘Why? Are you sponsoring her?’
‘Just showing some interest in my fellow man.’
‘Well, don’t.’
He walked outside, stripped off the paper suit and headed for his car.
Lake hurried after him. ‘Don’t you want to know . . . ?’
‘Have you spoken to all five families yet?’
‘Well no, it’s . . .’
‘Do you know where the families have all gone?’
‘I . . .’
‘Make sure you have all the information by eight-thirty. I’m going home now. Don’t be late.’
‘You’re going to leave me here?’
‘Just get on with it, and stop whining.’ He climbed in his car, shut the door and switched the engine on.
***
0837 hours
‘You’re late,’ he said when Lake appeared looking like she was part of an exhibition about to leave for the North Pole. ‘If I can’t . . .’
‘I was early, but do you know how difficult it is to find a parking space round here?’
‘You should arrive with enough time to park your car.’
Her lip curled up. ‘I’m beginning to wonder how I ever managed before I met you.’
‘I’ve wondered that as well. So, did you contact all the families?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘They’ve all adopted a child from Sycamore Children’s Home in Knutsford within the past nine months.’
‘Finally, we have our link. If you’d have asked the right questions in the first place . . .’
‘You’re welcome. I haven’t had any sleep, you know.’
He hadn’t had any sleep either. He’d tried, but his mind kept turning cartwheels. Just when he was drifting off he’d think of some insignificant detail about last Christmas, and he’d then have to rationalise it and put it into context. In the end, he got up and paced around the house, re-examined the two white cards with a magnifying glass, watched the DVD again and drank enough coffee to sink a volcanic island.
‘You’re young, you’ll survive.’
‘I’m touched by your concern.’
‘Don’t be. Daddy should have told you that being a detective was a high-pressure job – weaklings needn’t apply. Right, let’s go to Knutsford. Have you got a postcode for my satnav?’
‘No . . .’
He walked towards the stairs. ‘You’d better get one then. I’ll be in my car.’
‘I want to be brought back here when we’ve finished, so I can get my car.’
He ignored her. She seemed to have an over-inflated opinion of her own importance. The lesson today was that the tail does not wag the dog.
1008 hours
While they were waiting for someone to respond to the jingling of the bell, they read the inscription on a plaque screwed to the brick wall outside the main door:
In 1755 the Earl of Warrington granted a lease in perpetuity for five shillings a year to the township of Altrincham so that they could build Sycamore Workhouse. Between 1892 and 1894 the workhouse was substantially enlarged with the addition of a new chapel and dining hall, kitchens, laundry and stores. Until 1937, the workhouse was in continuous use, and could accommodate 300 inmates. Although it was taken over by the military and used as a hospital during the Second World War, the buildings reverted back to an orphanage in 1945. Since then, it has had a variety names, but essentially it has remained a children’s home.
‘Hello? a female voice seeped out of the intercom speaker.
He pressed the square black button and said, ‘Police.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Not to stand here in the snow talking into a box on the wall.’
‘Hold your ID card up to the camera.’
He held his warrant card up to the CCTV camera, which he hadn’t noticed before.
‘And the female.’
Lake showed her ID.
The heavy oak door clicked open.
‘Wait in the entrance lobby until I get there.’
They went inside, shut the door and squinted in the dim light. It was as if somebody was on a mission to cut costs come what may. Engraved – in twelve-inch letters – into the stone lintel above the entrance to a corridor directly opposite the front door was “GOD IS GOOD”.
An overweight woman in a black dress with shoulder-length curly hair and a scowl for welcome clip-clopped along the tiled corridor towards them. Bouncing on her ample chest was a large engraved silver cross.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘About what?’ he said.
‘You tell me.’
‘You’ve heard about the body parts delivered as Christmas presents yesterday to houses in the Greater Manchester area.’
She crossed herself and rolled her eyes towards the arched ceiling. ‘Have I?’
‘It’s been in the newspapers, on the radio and television.’
‘None of which are permitted inside Sycamore to corrupt the staff or children.’
‘Is there s
omewhere we can go?’
‘Why?’
‘We’ve discovered that the five families in question have all adopted a child from Sycamore in the previous nine months.’
‘So, what are you saying?’
‘I’m not saying anything, but it’s the only link we’ve found between the five families.’
‘And what do you expect from me?’
‘Well, I’d like to discuss . . .’
‘I’m sorry – details regarding adoptions are confidential.’
‘We’re dealing with two murders, Miss . . . ?’
‘I’m sorry, but if I’m not mistaken you require a court order to access those details.’
‘We have permission from the families.’
‘They can’t give you permission to access our files.’
‘In that case, I’d like a complete staff list.’
‘For what reason?’
‘You’re not being very helpful, Miss . . . ?’
‘Your sordid investigation has nothing to do with Sycamore Children’s Home. I suggest, if you want anything further you should come back with a piece of paper that has been duly signed by a magistrate. Now, if there’s nothing else?’ She held her hand out towards the door.
Trying to think of a way to persuade the woman to be more cooperative, he didn’t move straight away. His mind was blank. The law was on her side. She knew he had nothing to go to a magistrate with.
What choice did he have?
He turned and followed Lake outside.
As she was closing the door he turned and said, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Why?’
‘For my report.’
‘Agatha Marwick.’
‘And you’re the manager here?’
‘Yes.’
The door closed.
His phone vibrated.
‘Dark.’
‘It’s Hendrik.’
‘Just a minute.’ He pointed his keys at the car and unlocked it. ‘Wait in the car,’ he said to Lake. Once she was warming herself in the passenger seat he said, ‘Go on.’
‘I have a name and address.’
