A Cry in the Night (17 page)

He scolded himself for such thoughts. He was tired, he’d not slept well during the stay at Lullingdale and clearly wasn’t thinking straight. He would get the girls to school, take the fallout from the case on the chin, and then work it all out on the back of a good night’s rest.

Helen’s polite nod and smile chided him. He wished he’d been better prepared for her. God, no doubt there wouldn’t be any eggs downstairs.

He opened his eyes. It was light. He must have slept, but it felt like he’d been arguing and ruminating all night. Still, it must be early, as the house was quiet. He sat up and then saw the clock on the bedside table. It was gone ten.

He hurried downstairs. The house was empty.

Hoping for a note or some sort of acknowledgement of his return, he went into the kitchen. But the table was bare. He slumped against the worktop and clicked on the kettle just as his phone pinged with an email. It was from Mr Frey. A meeting, in an hour.

Sam stared at his contorted features in the kettle’s chrome shell. He needed a shower and a shave. Cursing himself for sleeping so late, he hurried back upstairs. He looked for the bags by the door, but they were gone now, of course. As he thought about Helen Seymour again, he reminded himself to buy the girls fish and chips for dinner.

Zoe would often jog into work. She’d change once she got there, as this gave her an excuse to join in with the locker-room banter that she used to enjoy so much when she was a uniform officer. CID was great and she was proud to have made the grade, but she missed the more visceral, earthy tones of her friends who would soon be out on the streets, facing the world while she would be relegated to a desk and computer. Running in that morning, she’d thought about Lullingdale and the lake. The dull concrete and scattered litter seemed paltry compared with the steep slopes and sliding shale. But she was used to the thundering trucks, the graffiti and boarded-up windows. The familiarity of the drunk with his bottle outdid that towering sky. And best of all was the banter and easy camaraderie she knew was waiting for her. So she ran fast with a light step.

The locker rooms were in the station’s basement. The ventilation down here was poor and the air was a little
stale and damp. A massive boiler room nearby fed large pipes throughout the building, and these crawled along the basement’s ceiling. There were separate female and male shower rooms but the locker room itself was unisex. And here, anything was fair game. It was an age-old maxim, fostered to encourage a sense of togetherness. It was, after all, them against the world.

Zoe threw on the jeans and sweatshirt that she always wore when she had a day without meetings. She needed to write up her report on the case and doubted that she’d talk to anyone besides Sam. She then went through to the large locker room, where big blue metal lockers adorned three of the four walls. The other wall was lined with a long wooden bench. Three male PCs were already there, attaching radios and batons to their belts. She greeted them warmly. They were only a year or so into the job, and while they were laddish in each other’s company, they were still fresh-faced and eager to be a part of the team.

Zoe went to her own locker and listened to them discussing television from the night before and a failed date which had ended with an ‘early bath’. The jokes were tame and early-morning. But then she heard the door open and a rougher, tougher voice called out to her.

‘Bloody hell. There she is. The woman who let a child-killer waltz out the front door.’

Police Sergeant Malcolm Cartmell’s voice was gravelly
and came from the back of his throat. He was in his fifties, and while his bulk was softening with age, he was still a big, squat, bruising figure. His hair was jet-black and his neck seemed in a constant battle against his tight shirt collar, although he betrayed no discomfort. His dark eyes were always crinkled, as though he was on the verge of either a joke or a question. In actual fact, the most likely thing on his lips was a curse.

Zoe turned to face him, and gave him a cheery finger. This got a big laugh from the three PCs.

‘What happened, love?’

‘You heard about the QC turning up out of the blue?’ Zoe replied.

‘Just because some posh doris walks in, doesn’t mean you roll over and let her rub your tummy.’

‘The suspect’s out on bail. That’s all.’

‘Yeah? I bet Sam’s spitting nails.’

It was cheeky of Malcolm to call Sam by his first name when he himself was only a sergeant, but this was typical of him. He’d been in the job long enough to claim an invisible rank beyond measure. While he might have failed to make the move up to Inspector (and beyond) he was considered the ‘eyes and ears’ of the place. He called the tune. He opened his locker and rummaged about inside.

‘So what are we up to today?’ he asked. ‘Losing some paedophiles?’

Malcolm winked to the young PCs, who chortled on his behalf.

‘Why, have you gone and got yourself caught again, Sarge?’

A whistle from one of the boys, surprised she was up for the challenge. Malcolm turned and faced her square-on.

‘Are you calling me what I think you’re calling me?’

‘Oh I’d never call you anything to your face.’

To which Malcolm roared with laughter. ‘This one,’ he said, turning to the boys, ‘has got bigger balls than the rest of you put together.’

Zoe swelled with pride as he patted her on the back.

‘Sam thinks she did it,’ Malcolm said, and she wondered if he’d heard this for real or was just reacting to the arrest. ‘So you make sure we get her. I don’t want that type out. They’re the worst. Mums that kill. The worst of the worst. That’s a sacred bond they’re breaking there.’

The other young men all nodded earnestly.

Zoe looked at their eager faces and felt oddly set apart. They knew nothing about the case, and while she wasn’t above casual conjecture on someone else’s inquiry, something about this conversation reminded her of those finger-pointing villagers.

‘You go get her, Zo-Zo,’ Malcolm purred. Then he slammed his locker door shut.

Sam made it to the police station with five minutes to spare and was a little breathless once he’d raced up to the top floor to find the Chief Superintendent. His assistant wasn’t there, so Sam knocked on the door. Mr Frey was sitting at his desk, his pen hovering over a stack of papers. Clearly pleased to see Sam, he waved him inside with a matey grin.

Sam sat awkwardly before his desk as Mr Frey made coffee for the two of them. It seemed to take for ever. Finally he sat down and poured milk into both cups.

‘I’m sorry about the case,’ he said.

‘I moved too fast,’ Sam replied, trying to counter what must be to come.

‘I doubt it. Doesn’t sound like you.’

Sam sipped on his coffee and waited for the second shoe to drop.

‘Do you still think she did it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Hard to prove?’

‘Very. Unless we find the daughter.’

‘She’s alive?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘I’ve always liked talking to you. You’re not afraid to be honest. You can’t imagine the amount of smoke that gets blown up my arse.’

Sam just nodded. Behind him, he heard a small shuffle and Mr Frey stood up and went to the door of his office.

‘No calls for a while,’ he said quietly to his returning secretary. She nodded, glanced in and caught Sam’s eye. But then the door was shut and the men were alone together.

‘Are you okay to carry this on with just you and your girl?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Wasn’t helped by your unfortunate visitor last night.’

‘Sir?’

‘Helen Seymour.’

‘Oh. Yes, sir.’

‘What did you think of her?’

‘She knows her stuff.’

‘That’s an interesting way of putting it.’

Sam didn’t think it was that interesting, but he nodded and said nothing.

‘Did you read the files I gave you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you understand why I showed them to you?’

‘Not entirely, sir. No.’

The answer seemed to irritate Mr Frey, but he simply took a deep breath and broke into a smile.

‘Why do you think Ms Seymour appeared so swiftly?’

Sam noted the ‘Ms’.

‘I was surprised by it.’

‘I bet you were. There’s something you’ve missed in the files. Look at who defended every case.’

Mr Frey tapped the desk four times with his forefinger to make his point.
Hel-en
.
Sey-mour
.

‘Every one?’

‘That’s right.’

Sam considered the coincidence and it made him uneasy.

‘Do you know her, sir?’

Again there was that flash of irritation. Sam was asking the wrong questions.

‘I know her,’ Mr Frey said. ‘We’ve grown up on opposite sides of the track, if you like.’

‘And you think that …’ Sam spoke slowly, hoping the Chief Superintendent would interrupt or finish the sentence for him. He didn’t. ‘… her involvement in all of these cases is … suspicious?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I haven’t had time to form a proper opinion yet, sir.’

‘Come on, Sam, you’re not being interviewed here. What do you think?’

‘I think she clearly takes a particular interest in a certain type of case.’

‘Getting women off murder charges.’

‘I suppose so. Yes.’

‘And what does that make her?’

‘I’m not sure that I understand the question.’

Mr Frey looked up at the ceiling, as if becoming weary of how slow Sam was.

‘Do you believe the story she concocted for Sarah Downing?’

‘We don’t know it was made up.’

‘All that, in only a few minutes? After she’d barely spoken in the previous twenty-four hours?’

‘It’s unusual for a barrister with her reputation to risk inventing a story that quickly. It could easily backfire.’

‘Maybe she didn’t invent it that quickly.’

‘Sir?’

‘Maybe she had the story planned.’

‘But if that was the case, then she would have needed to know in advance that Sarah Downing was likely to be arrested. She would have needed to …’

‘Go on.’

‘Sir. Are you suggesting that there is some sort of conspiracy here?’

Mr Frey shrugged.

‘Because I don’t believe in conspiracies. They’re for nut jobs, generally.’

‘And that’s why you’re the right man for this case. You’re thorough, you’re sensible and you’re not easily swayed. Look, I don’t know what Helen’s up to. It may be she’s just a perfectly brilliant barrister who happens to have a thing for women accused of murdering children. Are you sure you’ve got enough resources with just you and the girl?’

‘I think so, sir. Yes.’

‘Come back to me if you change your mind. A child is missing. And if her mother did this, then there’s no way the bitch is getting away with it.’

He stood up and Sam did the same. A firm handshake sent him out of the door.

He walked back to CID slowly. He found Mr Frey strange and unreadable, but the questions of last night bubbled up again. Something about Helen Seymour. Something about her polite, calm professionalism. Something about the way she sat and watched.

Sam started to walk a little faster.

Zoe caught up with Sam on his return from the Chief Superintendent’s office. She’d gone out and bought a couple of takeaway coffees, expecting him to be brooding in his office after the night before. He was a bad loser. But when she found him, she was surprised to see that he was busy. He had several files on his desk and was working his way though them, his pen circling various facts and details.

‘What have you got there?’ she asked, placing his coffee on the edge of the desk for fear of it spilling onto the papers.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he replied, his voice distant.

She waited for him to look up, and when he did, he noticed the coffee she’d brought for him.

‘Sorry,’ he said a little sheepishly. ‘Morning.’

‘Morning to you, Guv’nor,’ she said, slumping down in one of his chairs and banging her feet on his desk. ‘I’ll write up the case this morning.’

‘Good.’

‘Show you a rough draft. But it’s all clear enough.’

‘I think so.’

‘You were right to arrest her.’

‘I know.’

‘Yeah, but this is me, your mate, backing you up.’

Sam waved his arms in faux worship, showering her with thanks, and they laughed and mocked each other like the old days. Eventually, however, she couldn’t resist the itch that had to be scratched.

‘What’s with the files?’ she asked.

Sam sighed, running his hand over the folder and then closing it as though its contents were somehow embarrassing. Zoe recognised their battered exteriors: these were the same files he’d had up at the Lakes.

‘I’ve been asked to see if there’s a connection between the Sarah Downing case and some others,’ he said.

‘It’s not the Sarah Downing case,’ she corrected him. ‘It’s Arthur and Lily’s case. Sarah’s not guilty yet, boss.’

He shuffled the files, a little awkward. ‘Yes, you’re right, of course.’

‘And so what are the files then?’

‘Crimes against children,’ he said.

By women. She knew the cases. Everyone knew the cases.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why would there be a connection?’

Sam shrugged. He was just doing what he was asked. By
the Chief Superintendent, he reminded her. Zoe nodded, but she didn’t like it. It smelled wrong.

There was a knock on the open door and they looked up to see Adam Brown standing there.

‘Sorry to bother you, Guv. Got a little job for Zoe if you can spare her.’

Zoe looked at Sam and could tell he was eager to get her out of the room.

‘Sure,’ Sam said. ‘What’s up?’

‘Just some thugs on the estate. Damage and whatnot. Uniform have called it in.’

‘Right-o. Zoe, you good with this?’

‘Whatever you say.’

She got up and followed Adam out. But before she left she turned back to watch Sam. She saw him pull open the file again and run his hand down a page. His eyes were narrow, his concentration utterly focused on whatever it was he was reading. Something about it, something about him, felt too keen.