The Anna McColl Mysteries Box Set 2

by Penny Kline

Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  Sally, Sally, pride of our alley. Singing that was more like shouting, like a football crowd, except there were only four of them. Josie, Cherie, Tara — and Abigail. They had been waiting for her by the downstairs toilets and if she had tried to squeeze past they would have blocked her way, then let her by and listened outside the cubicle. Josie giggling. Abigail whispering. Her hair! Still, I suppose it looks a bit better since she took my advice and tied it back. Tara laughing, always laughing. Well, it couldn’t look worse.

  Sometimes, lying in bed, she thought she could hear Abigail, in the hall, or out in the garden. Abigail, Abigail Knox. I’m a friend of Sally’s, from school. Well, not a friend exactly. She’s in my class. But that was impossible. Abigail would never call round at the house …

  She was bursting, but she could last till she got home. She had to. Feeling behind her head, as she walked, half ran, she pushed up the blue rubber band, dragging the hairs on the back of her neck until her eyes filled with tears. The pain helped, so did the feel of the Crunchie bar in her blazer pocket. She took it out, tearing the paper at one end, glancing over her shoulder at the car that was following her. But not really. It was just a game she played. The driver was a woman, with dark glasses and glossy brown hair, tied back loosely so that some of it still covered her ears, and Sally could see she was a stranger to the area, crawling along, slowing down to check the name of each side street. There was no one else about. Perhaps the woman would stop and ask her the way. She was good at giving directions. Sometimes she rehearsed them in her head. The quickest way to Whiteladies Road? Yes, no problem. Turn right at the end there, then first left, then straight on …

  ‘ ‘Scuse me, love, I’m looking for Lincoln Road.’

  ‘Oh.’ The driver had her head turned to the left, studying a map. Her voice didn't match Sally’s image of her, and the car engine was terribly noisy, so she might have heard wrong. ‘You don't mean Linden Road?’

  ‘Could be.’ The woman climbed out of the car, still with her head turned away, and held out the curled-up map.

  ‘We’re here,’ said Sally, pointing with the long nail on her index finger that Abigail had said was common. ‘Only, if you want Linden Road you’ll have to …’

  She never finished the sentence. The woman grabbed her from behind, squeezing her so tight that when she tried to call out there was no air in her lungs. Struggling to break free, she caught her hand on the sharp edge of the car door and suddenly the terror that had made her so weak and helpless gave way to fury. Opening her mouth wide, she twisted her head, like an angry dog, and sank her teeth into the thin cotton of the woman’s shirt. For a split second the grip loosened. Sally ducked under the woman’s arm, then forced her legs to start running. The woman would catch up with her, she knew she would, but there was just a chance another car might come round the corner. Would the driver help, or would he think she was playing some kind of game? Unable to stop herself looking back, she was just in time to see the woman jump into her car and slam the door. A moment later it mounted the pavement, almost hitting a tree, then raced towards her, braked sharply, and spun round, facing in the opposite direction. As it turned, Sally caught sight of the driver’s face — the first time she had seen it properly — and let out a small cry of disbelief. It couldn’t have been. She must have made a mistake.

  Then, with tyres squealing, the car shot off in the direction of Shirehampton, swerving from side to side until it finally disappeared round a bend in the road. Still fighting for breath, Sally leaned against a tree, felt her body go limp, and watched dispassionately as the warm liquid trickled down the inside of her legs and soaked into her socks.

  Chapter Two

  If Superintendent Fry had called me in sooner it might have spared Sally Luckham a lot of grief. At the very least he could have made sure it was Sergeant Whittle who talked to her, not the new Inspector, DCI Ritsema who had the misfortune to believe he was ‘good with children’ and seemed to have treated the twelve-year-old as if she were about two and a half, then switched tactics and bullied her into silence. Lesley Stafford had given me a blow-by-blow account of the first interview. She had done her best to intervene but as a recent recruit to the CID, and a woman at that, her opinion had counted for less than nothing as far as DCI Ritsema was concerned.

  In the minds of the local CID there was a definite possibility that Sally Luckham’s attempted abduction had been carried out by the same person who had been responsible for a far more serious incident less than a month ago. Another schoolgirl had witnessed one of her classmates, a girl called Geena Robson, being pulled into a car by a woman driving down Cotham Hill. Since then, the girl’s mother — her father was living with another woman — had received a couple of silent phone calls, but nothing had been seen of the fourteen-year-old victim. Friends, relatives and the girl's teachers had all been interviewed, then interviewed again. Suspected sightings in various parts of the country had been followed up, but the police still had no real leads — until the attempt to snatch the Luckham girl. My job was to calm her down, then help her remember more details about the car and its driver. So far she had been unable to provide the police with any information, apart from the fact that the driver had been a woman, with ‘dark glasses and shiny brown hair’. Arriving home in tears, she had blurted out what had happened to the only person around at the time — the cleaning lady — then begged her not to report the incident. Fortunately the woman had picked up a phone and dialled 999.

  The Luckham house was on the far side of the Downs, not a part of Bristol I visited very often, although I knew enough about the area to be aware that Sally Luckham could hardly be described as coming from an underprivileged home background, at least in economic terms. According to Howard Fry she attended a private school, about a mile and a half from where she lived, and it was while she was walking home, around midday, that the attempted abduction had taken place. It was the last day of the summer term, which accounted for the early release of the pupils. Normally she would have been walking along that particular road at nearer four-thirty, so either the abductor knew she would be leaving before lunch, or she had followed her from the school, or — and this seemed the most likely explanation — Sally was a random victim who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  I kept thinking the abductor was a man, then remembering it was a woman. Why would a woman want to do such a thing, although it had been known before. A kidnapping? But in the case of Geena Robson there had been no ransom note. A woman procuring a child for her boyfriend? For some time the CID had been following up reports of two women who called round at people’s houses saying they had come to make checks on babies and young children, then drove away pretty sharpish when asked to prove their identity.

  Geena Robson’s abductor had been a tall woman, with glasses and her hair in a ponytail. Sally had seemed uncertain about the height and build of her ‘abductor’, but in any case, neither description bore any resemblance to either of the bogus health visitors. For reasons Howard Fry had not thought fit to explain, the police seemed convinced that Geena Robson had been murdered, and DCI Ritsema was certain Sally Luckham, if she would only calm down and start thinking straight, could lead them to the killer.

  Berry Drive, leading off Finefield Gardens, consisted of three large, detached houses overlooking the Avon Gorge. Not that the Gorge itself could be seen from the road, but Leigh Woods, on the other side, was just visible between the trees. The Larches was flanked on either side by Clifton Lodge and Westwinds. None of the houses was particularly old or particularly new. Each had a small garden at the front and a much larger one at the back.<
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  I parked outside Westwinds — mine was the only car in the road — and flicked through the notes Howard Fry had provided, refreshing my memory about the family set-up: Sally Luckham, aged twelve and a half, living with her widowed mother, Erica, and her eighteen-year-old brother, James. Then the name of her school, together with the time of day, and the name of the road where the attempted abduction had taken place. Erica Luckham had no job, neither did James, although he had left school the previous Christmas.

  In contrast to Whiteladies Road, where the traffic had held me up for ages, Berry Drive was amazingly quiet. Birds twittered, insects buzzed, someone in a garden called to a child to come indoors and put on some shoes. The sun had burned away the mist that had covered most of Bristol first thing, and now, at half past eleven, it could almost be described as a glorious summer’s day. It was good to be out of the office. For the first time in several weeks I felt keyed up, full of energy. Maybe I needed a new job, one that kept me on the move. Maybe I just needed a change.

  The Larches looked as if it had been built in the 1930s. Its white rendering and green pantiled roof must once have seemed the last word in modernity, and it was still an imposing place, if only because of its size, although, as far as I could see, the trees were all silver birch, with not a larch in sight. Beyond a half-open gate, with an ancient notice banning the entry of hawkers and traders, a short path, with rough grass on both sides, led up to a green front door that could have done with a coat of paint. The garage, a pebble-dashed building with a corrugated iron roof, was detached and had its own driveway, parallel with the path but outside the actual garden.

  I had no idea what to expect but it was important to get off to a good start. Howard had phoned Mrs Luckham the previous evening to explain who I was, but when I asked him how she had taken the news that a psychologist was calling round to interview her daughter, he had adopted his usual non-committal air. To tell you the truth, Anna, she didn’t seem that interested. Strange woman, but I daresay she’s still grieving for her husband, only stick to Sally, don’t try and combine your visit with a spot of bereavement counselling …

  I rang the bell, but there was no response. No sounds inside the house, no voices calling to one another. After waiting thirty seconds, I tried again and this time the door was pulled open at once by a thin woman with frizzy grey hair, a pink overall, and a look of mild exasperation on her face.

  ‘I’ve come to see Mrs Luckham.’

  ‘She’s indisposed.’ The woman had small, cold eyes, and appeared to have decided I was one of the forbidden hawkers.

  ‘Dr McColl,’ I said, irritated by the way she was looking me up and down. ‘I have an appointment to see Sally, but I think I should talk to her mother first.’

  ‘I told you, she’s indisposed.’ Her hands had been pushed into her overall pockets, but the glare had been replaced by something more like curiosity. ‘Come inside, then. I’ll see if I can find James.’

  She disappeared into the house and I heard her opening and closing doors. A dog barked in the distance and I thought I could hear someone crying, but it could have been a small child playing. Several minutes later the woman returned.

  ‘You’re the psychologist, then,’ she said crossly. ‘Why didn't you say? Sally’s in the drawing room. Mrs Luckham says it’s all right for you to talk to her now.’ She pointed to a half-open door, then switched on an electric polisher, shouting above the noise, ‘I’ll bring some coffee when I’ve finished this lot.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I pushed open the door and found myself in a room that, at first sight, seemed large enough to contain the whole of my flat. In spite of the sunlight on the parquet floor, and the vivid brightness of the lawn beyond the patio doors, it felt chilly. The sofas and chairs had been upholstered in an unattractive sludge colour, and the five or six rugs, that had been scattered about the floor, were all in various hues of beige or cream. The wall lights had been switched on — their shades were parchment-coloured with silky fringes, and the bulb-holders had blobs of imitation wax running down their sides — but several had bulbs missing. A girl was sitting in one of the large armchairs at the far end of the room with her arms folded across her chest and her pale, freckled face as expressionless as she could make it. She was watching me, but pretending she had no idea I had entered the room.

  ‘Sally?’ I moved towards her, then sat on the arm of a sofa. ‘My name’s Dr McColl. Anna. I think you knew I was coming to see you.’

  She stood up, then sat down again. She was dressed in green denim shorts that came to just below her knees, and a dark blue sweatshirt with a panda on the front. Her hair had been dragged back from her face and was kept in place with a blue rubber band that had been knotted several times. The skin close to her hair line was even paler than the rest of her face.

  ‘The cleaner said your mother’s not very well.’

  Sally’s shoulders twitched. ‘She’s all right.’

  ‘Is your brother at home?’

  ‘He’s still in bed.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Anyway, this won’t take long, I hope. How’ve you been feeling? That was a horrible thing that happened to you. It must have been very frightening.’

  A surprised expression was quickly turned into a frown. ‘I wasn’t hurt.’

  ‘No, I know that. Even so …’ I broke off, suddenly uneasy about conducting the conversation without Mrs Luckham being present. In a way, it made things easier, but it didn’t seem fair on Sally. ‘Listen, would you rather I came back when your mother’s feeling better?’

  ‘No!’ She shook her head vigorously, grasping her knees with both hands. ‘I mean, I don’t mind, it wouldn’t make any difference.’

  ‘All right, if you’re sure, but if you change your mind, let me know. Right, well I think the best thing is if you start from the beginning, describe exactly what happened last Friday.’

  ‘Didn’t they tell you?’ She had a nervous habit that made her twitch her nose repeatedly.

  ‘Yes, but I’d prefer to hear it from you. When something unexpected happens none of us are very good at remembering exactly what we saw, but sometimes a day or two later small details gradually start to come back.’

  She was picking at a small scab on her shin. Suddenly her head came up and she opened her mouth as if she was going to speak, then closed it again. I looked round the room, searching for a photo that might tell me something about the rest of the family. There were several paintings on the wall, including one of a field of sunflowers, but no photographs and very few ornaments. Perhaps it was a room they hardly ever used. The cleaner had found Sally in the garden, opened the patio door to let her into the house, told her where to sit, then returned to me, via the kitchen.

  Sally was staring at me, but as soon as our eyes made contact she returned to picking at the scab.

  ‘You were on your way home from school,’ I said encouragingly. ‘Where exactly is the school? Is it that one you pass on the way to — ’

  ‘I’ve tried to remember, honestly I have.’ Her body was tense with anxiety. ‘I just can’t.’

  ‘All right, don’t worry. I’m not sure what happened when Inspector Ritsema talked to you, but I’m certainly not here to put you under any pressure. Just take your time, start from when you first came out of school at the end of the morning.’

  ‘School?’ Now she was winding a few hairs round her little finger. ‘I’d walked quite a long way before …’

  ‘Yes, I know, but it's possible whoever was in the car had been following you for some time.’ As soon as the remark was out I regretted it. Poor kid, it was bad enough being the intended victim of a random abduction, now I was suggesting she might have been specially selected.

  ‘I’d have seen the car before,’ she said. ‘I mean, if it was waiting outside school.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you would.’ I wanted to ask her how she had managed to struggle free. A slightly built twelve-year-old would have stood little chance against a fully grown woman, even al
lowing for the fact that she claimed to have bitten the woman’s arm.

  ‘Will I be hypnotized?’ she asked, pulling her legs up under her and wriggling into a more comfortable position on the chair. ‘James said I’d have to lie on the sofa and you’d swing a watch on a chain above my head. Then they make you say whatever they want and you’re powerless to resist.’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ I said, smiling, and receiving a flicker of a smile in return. ‘Don’t make a huge effort to remember. Just try to relax, think about walking up the road, before it happened, as if it was an ordinary day.’

  Whatever she had been asked before I was determined to allow her to describe things in her own way. Mountains of research into what’s known as ‘reconstructive memory’ had demonstrated pretty conclusively how witnesses gather ‘information’ from leading questions and incorporate it into their ‘memory’ of an event. In one instance, hundreds of people were asked to say whether the broken glass from a road accident had been in front of the car or to one side; only a handful had reported accurately that there had been no broken glass.

  Upstairs, a vacuum cleaner had been switched on. So much for the promised coffee. Above the racket I thought I could hear someone shouting.

  Sally was screwing up her face, opening and closing her mouth, biting her lip.

  ‘What about the car,’ I said. ‘Was it a dark colour or a light one?’

  ‘That’s what everyone keeps asking, only I’m not interested in cars. I don’t know any of the makes.’ She was breathing hard. ‘It could have been grey. It was just a car. Everyone expects me to remember, but I’m not good at that kind of thing, not like some people are. You can ask anybody.’

  I waited until she calmed down a little, then tried again. ‘How long had the car been following you before it drew level?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She stifled a yawn. If anyone needed a lie in … but she seemed to be the only member of the family who was up and about. ‘They think it was like that other girl, don't they, only I’m sure it wasn’t.’