by Cara Hunter
In the girl’s room there is silence. But it is not the silence of sleep.
Vicky is sitting up in bed, her arms clasped tight round her knees, rocking a little. Then there’s a noise on the landing and her head goes up. She slips quickly to the door and tries the handle. It gives to her touch and she stands there for a moment, breathing heavily, her fists clenched so tight that the knuckles show against the bluish skin.
* * *
* * *
Sent: Tues 09/05/2017, 19.35 Importance: High
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Urgent – Frampton Road
Just to say I think I may have found a way to test your theory about the journal. And the lab have run those other tests you asked for. One set of results didn’t ring true so they ran them again. But there was no mistake. The room at the rear on the top floor – there are traces of meconium on the floor. You don’t need me to tell you what that means.
* * *
* * *
‘What’s that smell?’
Gislingham turns to see his wife at the kitchen door. He’s at the stove, pinny on, tea towel over one shoulder, spatula in hand. And he’s bloody enjoying himself. On the other side of the table, Billy’s in his high chair, and clearly far more interested in what his dad is cooking than the bland mush in his plastic bowl.
‘Brunch,’ he says. ‘I’m not due in till later so I thought I’d make the most of it.’
Janet Gislingham comes over to the stove and stares into the pan. ‘Sausages?’
Gislingham grins. ‘A small token of appreciation from a grateful member of the general public. Who just happens to be a butcher.’
‘Careful – the powers that be might accuse you of taking bribes.’
Gislingham lifts his hands, mock-terrified, mock-Cockney. ‘It’s a fair cop, officer. You got me bang to rights.’
Janet raises an eyebrow. ‘Shouldn’t that be bangered to rights?’
Gislingham laughs out loud, then turns to the pan and cuts off a bit of sausage. ‘Here – try.’
Janet hesitates a moment, but they smell just too good. She pulls the piece of meat off the end of the knife.
‘Hey – that’s hot!’ she yelps, flapping her hand in front of her mouth.
‘Fab, aren’t they?’
She nods. ‘Where’d you get them?’
‘Cowley Road. Finest Old English.’
‘I can’t remember the last time I cooked sausages.’
Gislingham can’t remember the last time she cooked anything at all, but it doesn’t matter. She’s smiling.
‘You’ve got grease all down your chin.’ He reaches out and wipes it away with his finger, then drops the spatula into the pan and folds his wife into his arms. Billy starts gurgling and Gislingham gives his son a wink.
It’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be all right.
* * *
* * *
In the canteen, Quinn is on day six of his own private nightmare. He’s giving off so much negative energy people are avoiding sitting with him, even though the place is always crowded at this time of day. He came in via Belford Street where Pippa said she was staying, but there was still no answer. He slams the phone down next to the plate of egg and bacon he’s barely touched. She’ll recognize his number now, so no surprises she’s not picking up – he needs to get someone else to try, and right now, there’s only one person he can ask.
He looks round the canteen. Where the fuck is Gislingham, anyway?
* * *
* * *
Just before 10.00, and Vicky and the manager of Vine Lodge are back in Interview One. Gow and I are watching them on the video feed. I took Wilcox to one side when they arrived and checked with him: she still hasn’t asked about the boy.
Gow glances across at the papers I have in my hand. ‘That was a shrewd call – asking Challow to run those tests on the journal.’
‘It was what you said about it not ringing true. It was just a hunch.’
‘That’s what makes you good at your job. Gives you a problem now, though, doesn’t it?’
I turn to him.
‘Because you’re going to have to disclose those tests to Harper’s defence.’
I pull a face. ‘I know. And we all know what they’ll do with them.’
There’s a knock at the door. Everett.
‘Are you ready, sir?’
* * *
* * *
When Gislingham finally gets into the office he goes to find Quinn.
‘Did we get those mobile records?’ he asks, perching on the edge of Quinn’s desk. Something Quinn usually hates. But when the cat’s in the doghouse, the mice take liberties.
Quinn shakes his head. ‘Magistrate said exactly what you said she would.’ He looks, if anything, even worse than he did the day before. ‘And now Fawley wants me to bring her in to charge her with giving a false statement. But the address she gave me – there’s no one there. And she’s not answering her phone.’
‘She probably recognizes your number – let me have a go.’
Gislingham punches the numbers into his mobile and waits.
‘Nothing doing,’ he says eventually. Even his indefatigable optimism is taking a bit of a hit. Or perhaps not. Because Quinn’s on the phone himself now, and he’s gesturing urgently at Gislingham.
‘You’re sure?’ he’s saying. ‘Definitely gave her name as Pippa Walker?’
His fingers clench into a fist. ‘Woods,’ he says, ‘you are a bloody life-saver.’
* * *
* * *
‘Thanks for coming back, Vicky,’ I say as we take our seats. ‘I’ve got DC Everett with me again, if that’s OK. Just in case I miss anything.’
She smiles a little. Nods. She’s playing with her jumper in her lap again.
‘I want to start by thanking you, Vicky. After what you said about the other girl, we searched the house again. And we found something. A plastic sheet.’
She raises her eyes to mine. Her lips move but there are no words.
‘There’s blood on it. We believe it’s from that other girl – the one who disappeared. So we think you’re right. He did kill someone else.’
She closes her eyes for a moment. Then hangs her head.
I glance at Everett. She gives a tiny nod.
I take a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid that wasn’t the only thing we found, Vicky. On the top floor of the house there are three empty rooms. It didn’t look like anyone had been in there for years. But we tested them all the same. Just to be sure. And in one, the smallest one at the back, we found traces of a very unusual substance. Only small traces, but you can never entirely remove a trace like that, even if you clean up really carefully. Not with the equipment we have these days. Do you know what that substance was?’
She’s not reacting.
‘It’s called meconium. It’s the waste matter babies have in their bowels when they’re in the womb. It’s unmistakeable, and it’s only present for a few hours after birth. There’s only one explanation, Vicky. A baby was in that room. In fact, a baby was probably born in that room.’
The girl raises her eyes to mine. Her face is defiant now.
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
‘Because I knew you’d start accusing me – just like you are now.’
‘Accusing you of what, Vicky?’
‘Of not escaping, of not getting away.’
‘So why didn’t you? Why didn’t you try to escape?’
‘Look,’ she says, ‘he only let me out when my waters broke. And he never left me alone up there. Not once. No way I could have escaped. No way.’
Everett looks up from her pad. ‘How long were you upstairs, roughly?’
She shrugs. ‘A few hours, maybe. It was night. It was dark outside the whole time. Listen, are you accusing me of something here? That bastard raped me – did the most disgusting things to me –’
‘We know that, Vicky,’ I say quietly.
‘Then why are you talking to me like I’m the criminal?’
‘Look, Vicky, I’d understand – we’d all understand – you were just trying to survive. And if that meant coming to some sort of compromise with the man who abducted you, well, there’d be no shame in that – not as far as I’m concerned –’
‘I’m not ashamed,’ she says, staring me straight in the face, her hands flat on the table between us, ‘because I never did compromise with that disgusting old pervert. Is that clear?’ There are spots of dangerous colour in her cheeks now.
‘OK,’ I say quickly. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’ I sift through my papers. ‘Yesterday, you said Dr Harper brought down your food in tins, is that right?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Do we have to go over all this again?’
Wilcox shoots a look in my direction. A look that says, what the hell are you playing at, can’t you see she’s distressed?
And she is. But not for the reason he thinks.
‘What about your baby, Vicky? Did Dr Harper get food for him? Your little boy?’
She flinches at the word. ‘I was breastfeeding. I didn’t want to, but the old man made me. He let me have my hands free while I did it and tied me up again after.’
‘Ah yes, I remember that now. But there is one other thing that puzzles me.’
‘Oh yeah?’ she says, sitting back and folding her arms. Gow’s always talking about the nuances of body language, but I don’t need his help to interpret that one.
‘That bag of rubbish in the cellar, there were some tins of baby food in there. So it wasn’t just breastfeeding, was it?’
She starts looking at her fingernails. ‘Yeah, he got the kid some stuff. Only recently though. When it got bigger.’
‘So where did Dr Harper get the food from?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ she snaps. ‘I wasn’t there, was I? Could be anywhere. There are shops all over the place round there.’
‘Actually, there are surprisingly few. And even fewer within walking distance. Dr Harper hasn’t been able to drive for at least a year, and with his arthritis, he’s not very mobile. There are only two shops he could have got to on foot. Yesterday afternoon, DC Everett here went and spoke to the staff there.’
‘And when I showed them Dr Harper’s picture they all recognized him,’ says Everett. ‘They’d served him many times. Mostly beer, by the sounds of it. But none of them had ever sold him any baby items.’
‘As you can imagine,’ I continue, ‘something like that would have stuck in their minds – an old man like him buying things like that.’
‘Ah,’ says Everett quickly, ‘but there was the supermarket order as well, wasn’t there, boss – perhaps that’s where he got them?’
Vicky looks at her. And takes the bait. ‘Oh yeah, I remember now.’
I glance down at my file. ‘You’re right. Some of the waste we found in the cellar did indeed come from Dr Harper’s supermarket order. The trouble is, that’s never included baby food. We checked. It was set up for him by his social worker and it’s never varied.’
She glares at me. ‘Look, I was in the cellar. I haven’t got a clue where he got it from.’
‘We took fingerprints from the baby food containers too. Yours are there, Vicky, and some others, mostly smudged. But there are none from Dr Harper. Some of the food tins have his prints, but there aren’t any of his on the baby items – none at all. Can you explain that for me, Vicky?’
She shrugs. ‘He’s the one you should be asking. Not me.’
‘Oh, we will. We definitely will. But to be honest, he’s not in a good way –’
‘Good,’ she says quickly. ‘I hope he rots in hell for what he did to me. Look, have we finished – I’m tired –’
‘Not much more, I promise. But you’re going to be asked for a lot of these details in court, so we need to hear what you’re going to say. About the journal, for instance.’
She frowns. ‘What about it?’
‘I asked our forensics expert to look at it again. He’s found something now he hadn’t picked up before. Something that never occurred to him to check.’
She says nothing, but her eyes have narrowed. She’s on her guard.
‘He used a special piece of equipment called an Electrostatic Detection Apparatus. It’s quite an old-fashioned piece of kit, these days.’
So old, in fact, that the machine in question has spent the last fifteen years stuffed in the back of a cupboard. It’s the first time I’ve ever been grateful that Alan Challow is such a terrible hoarder.
‘But it still has one very useful function,’ I continue. ‘It can give you a pretty good idea how much pressure has been applied to the paper. How hard the writer was holding the pen, in other words. Or whether they stopped and started at all while they were writing it. In that journal of yours, the pressure was remarkably even.’
‘Yeah, and?’
‘That’s very unusual. I mean, with something written over more than two years. You wouldn’t normally see that. It’s much more likely to happen if all the pages had been written at the same time.’
Wilcox shifts a little in his chair. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking.
‘The only sheet that was different was the last one. Where you talked about the water running out – about how desperate you were for someone to come –’
She bangs her palms down on the table. ‘That’s because I thought I was going to die. Don’t you get that?’
‘Oh yes, Vicky, I get that.’
Wilcox glances across at her. ‘Perhaps we can take a break?’ he says. ‘This stuff – it’s all pretty stressful.’
‘OK. We’ll get some coffee sent in and start again in about half an hour.’
* * *
*
The incident room is packed. Even Gow is there. The only ones missing are Quinn and Gislingham. I wonder in passing what exactly is going on there, because something sure as hell is. And now Gislingham’s got dragged into it too.
‘So Harper let her out?’ says Baxter as soon as he sees us. ‘Why the hell didn’t she try to get away?’
‘She had just given birth, Baxter –’
‘Yeah, OK, but that doesn’t mean she was completely incapacitated, does it, sir? Couldn’t she have broken a window, called out to someone? There must have been something she could’ve done.’
Everett is looking thoughtful.
‘What is it, Ev?’
‘When Donald Walsh was being charged, he talked about hearing something upstairs in the house. He thought it was the cat from down the road. It’s a Siamese. My aunt used to have one – bloody whingey thing. But you know what – it sounded unnervingly like a baby.’
Baxter is staring at her. ‘What are you saying?’
Everett shrugs. ‘How do we know she was only upstairs for the birth? Maybe he let her out more than once. Maybe she got that baby food herself.’
I turn to Gow. ‘Is that feasible? You said there could have been some sort of collusion between them.’
He doesn’t answer straight away; he always was one for the theatrical pause. ‘Yes, it’s possible,’ he says eventually. ‘That could have been the deal she made with Harper – he let her out of the cellar for periods of time, in exchange for some sort of concession on her part.’
‘Like sex, you mean?’ says Everett.
‘That’s the most likely. But a different type of sex to the rapes. She may have agreed to play along with him that they were in some sort of relationship. A family, even. There are hints of that in the journal.’
‘I still don’t k
now why she couldn’t have escaped if he was letting her out of the cellar,’ says Baxter. ‘Especially if he was actually allowing her to go outside.’
Gow looks around the room. ‘It’s not uncommon, in these situations, for the abductor to separate the mother and child for fairly lengthy stretches of time. To weaken the attachment between them. Harper could have allowed the girl out occasionally, but kept the boy locked up. So the child was, in effect, a hostage. The girl couldn’t escape without leaving him behind.’
Baxter shakes his head, strident now. ‘No way I’m buying that. I think she’d have left the kid there at the drop of a hat and good riddance.’
Gow smiles thinly. ‘I’m just setting out the range of possibilities, Constable. Profiling isn’t a sausage machine. You can’t just press a button and out pops the answer. It’s for CID to determine what actually happened.’
The door pushes open. One of the uniform PCs. He’s carrying a tray with coffee and a can of Coke. He looks around the room then spots me. ‘Your wife’s here, sir. She says it’s urgent.’
‘My wife?’
Alex never comes to this place. And I do mean never. She hates it. Says it smells of lies. Lies and lavatories.
He looks a bit embarrassed. ‘Yes, sir. She’s in reception.’
* * *
*
Alex is sitting on one of the grey plastic chairs lined up against the wall. The boy is next to her, standing on the seat and looking out of the window. She has her hand on the small of his back, taking care he doesn’t fall.
I walk towards her quickly. ‘You really shouldn’t be here,’ I say in a low voice.
‘I’m sorry, I know you’re busy –’
‘It’s not that – Vicky’s here. She’s in the building. It could be awkward – I mean, if she sees the boy.’
The boy starts to bang on the window and Alex reaches up to grab his hands.
‘Look, what is it, Alex – why didn’t you phone?’
