Child's Play (14 page)

‘I'm sure you're right, love.' Mrs Walker struggled to her feet. ‘You get off home. I understand.'

‘Understand what?' Only half-listening, she read the message again, struggled to make sense of it.

‘You have your own life now.' She halted in the doorway, hand visibly trembling on the frame. ‘And when Ginger shows up he won't know where I'm gone. Next door won't look out for him, that's for sure. Not with that Alsatian of theirs. Mind, the dog's run off, she come round this morning in bits, asking if—'

‘Mum.' Nicola looked up from the phone. ‘What do you know about Badger's Copse?'

P
auline's sky-blue eyes shone as she shot a skinny arm in the air. ‘Miss! Miss! I know, I know. Let me, let me. Please, Miss!' Susan reckoned if the silly little beggar wriggled any harder she'd slip off the tree stump and land in a heap on the prickly grass. Her bum must be full of splinters as it was. Not that the stump was a real chair, or the fallen trunk more than a make-believe desk. Like the rest of the classroom, a lively imagination was all the girls needed. The cane was real enough though. Susan pointed it at her liveliest pupil who sat cross-legged, still waving her arm.

‘Pauline Bolton. You're showing your knickers again. How many times do I have to tell you?'

‘Sorry, Miss.' Focussed on her role as teacher's pet, her distracted tugs on the hem of the sundress were pretty ineffectual. ‘Let me answer, Miss, please, Miss.'

Susan glowered, pursed pantomime lips, pretended to give the request serious consideration just like Miss Morris at school. ‘All right, Pauline. But be very careful.' Fragments of rotting bark flew as she whacked the log with her cane. ‘You know what happened last time you made a mistake.'

They both glanced at the angry red mark on the little girl's leg. Going home with that on show was a complete no-no. Pauline's mum would kill Susan. She'd have to keep the kid happy for at least another hour before it faded. Unless they lied, told Mrs B that Pauline had fallen or something. It had been an accident of sorts after all. She couldn't have known Pauline would be dumb enough to walk in the way just as she was dishing out six of the best to the naughtiest boy in the class.

‘Well? Go on, girl.' Susan had almost perfected Miss's tone of voice and turn of phrase. ‘Cat got your tongue?'

Frowning, Pauline turned her mouth down, her lips still blood-red with juice from the illicit lolly. ‘Sorry, Miss. You took so long, I forgot the question.'

‘Blaming someone else?' Whoosh went the cane. ‘When you're at fault?' Thwack. ‘That'll never do.'

‘Not so.' The skirt rode up as she squirmed. Susan caught another flash of pink cotton. ‘Ask it again. Ask it again.'

‘'Kay. What's six times seven?'

‘That's not the question,' she wailed.

‘How do you know, missie? You said you couldn't remember.' Course it wasn't. Even Susan struggled with the seven times table and she'd be at big school next year. Pauline didn't stand a chance. ‘It's really not good enough, young lady.' The skin chafed on Susan's lardy thighs as she struggled to her feet. ‘Come on, think about it. One times seven is seven …' She continued reciting as she padded round the tree stump, poking and prodding Pauline's tiny body with the cane then halted, hands on hips, her shadow almost obliterating the little girl. ‘And six times seven is …?'

‘I dunno. 'Snot fair.' Tears glistened as they ran down Pauline's face, dripped from her chin.

‘All right. Who's going to help Little Miss Smarty Pants? I said who's—' Eyes wide, Susan froze, cane pressed against Pauline's chest. She'd heard something. Could swear it was a voice.

‘What is it, Sukie?' Pauline whispered.

‘Shush!' Ears pricked, Susan cocked her head. Sounded like it came from the copse. Somebody spying on them?

Spooked as well now, Pauline said, ‘Sukie, stop it.'

‘Shush, I said.' She drew back the cane. A dog barked, a branch snapped.

‘Please don't, Sukie,' she whimpered, then put her thumb in her mouth, sucked it like a teat.

Still straining her ears, Susan counted to ten. Nothing but the trickling stream, wood pigeons cooing, the faint drone of a tractor. Could she have imagined it? She dropped the cane, lowered her voice. ‘Did you hear anything, Paulie?'

She shook her head. ‘Like what?'

‘A voice. A man's voice.'

‘What did it say?'

Susan dithered for a few seconds, wondering if she should tell. ‘I couldn't make it out.' She tousled Pauline's curls. ‘Forget it.'

The little girl stood on the tree stump, gently removed her friend's glasses, stared into her eyes. ‘What did it say, Sukie?'

‘I told you – nothing. Come on, let's—'

She stamped her foot. ‘Were you just trying to scare me?'

‘Don't be daft.'

Not initially anyway. Now she saw a way of using the little girl's fear to get at the truth and hopefully allay her own unease. Because Susan really didn't think she'd imagined the voice or the words. And if Pauline had been telling the truth about the lolly …

‘On your mother's life, Paulie. Where'd you get the lolly?'

‘Cross my heart and hope to die, a man give it me.'

Pauline hadn't been making it up then. Susan felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. She grabbed both of Pauline's arms, forced her to make eye contact. ‘Did you get it from a stranger, Pauline?'

‘That hurts. Stop it.' She struggled free, rubbed the tender flesh. In the tussle, Susan didn't even notice the glasses fall from Pauline's grasp.

‘I won't ask you again, Pauline Bolton. Did you take it from a stranger?'

‘No,' she shouted, red-faced.

‘So you know him?'

The little girl looked down, started picking at the grass wedged in the soles of her sandals. ‘A bit. I seen him before. You know him too. I seen you with him in the copse.'

‘When? Who did you see?' She shook her hard.

‘Let me go or I'll tell on you.'

‘What did you see, you little liar?'

‘Nothin'.'

‘If you don't tell me—'

‘Sukie.' Eyes wide, Pauline pointed a finger over Susan's shoulder. ‘He's there.'

‘I
'm sorry. Say again.' Sarah's biro stalled mid-hover over an almost full page of notes: name, age, address, alibis that would have to be checked, yada yada, then: wham. Had she heard him right? A quick glance to her left suggested Harries was experiencing a credibility gap too – he seemed to be having trouble swallowing. Sarah leaned back, laid down the pen, studied Neil Lomas even more closely, certainly more than he reciprocated.

The criminology lecturer lounged in the chair opposite, skinny ankle lodged across bony knee, eau de pong wafted from a scuffed Hush Puppy. Part-bemused, she watched as he plucked a sandy hair from his brown cord jacket, held it to the light then dropped it on her carpet.
In your own time, sunshine.
Considering the guy had turned up early, he was certainly wasting it now. Shame the interview rooms downstairs were full; more formal surroundings often provided a kick up a cocky bum.

‘Which part can't you grasp, DI Quinn?' Finally meeting her gaze, Lomas flashed an emaciated smile at her and what looked like a wink at Harries. ‘That Caitlin hit on me? Or that I had to let her down gently.'

Both, actually.
Sarah hadn't seen Caitlin in the flesh but found it almost inconceivable that the striking girl in the photograph would have the hots for the tosspot facing her. It was difficult enough believing the sparse ginger hair and skin like undercooked dough ticked even Nicola Reynolds' boxes. Like Sarah's mum used to say, looks aren't everything. But to compensate for the shortcomings, Lomas must have a bloody big … personality. Sarah reckoned he hid it well.

Harries was up to something, too. She heard a rustle, glanced down,
so
wished she hadn't. He was miming a hand-job under the desk. The gesture's timing was unfortunate, given her next question. ‘Define “came on to me”, Mr Lomas.'

‘Do I really have to spell it out, inspector?' Pursed prissy lips.

She wondered if an expression could be simultaneously both pitying and patronizing, decided Lomas had perfected the art. Maybe it worked on his students. ‘Let's think. Yes.'

He gave a laboured sigh and ran both hands through the thinning hair before revealing that he'd started spending less time at the Reynolds' house because Caitlin seemed to have developed some sort of crush. Apparently she made a lot of eye contact, gave lingering pecks on the cheek and indulged in suggestive wordplay. Big deal. A lot of people might interpret Caitlin's actions as being warm and friendly. As for suggestive wordplay? It sounded to Sarah like weasel speak for talk dirty. Why didn't he just say what he meant? Harries leaned forward; he'd clearly had enough of the guy's crap. ‘Did she or didn't she ask for a shag?'

That was certainly one way of putting it. She masked a smile.

‘Screw you, constable.' Lomas scraped back the chair, flecks of spittle on his lip. ‘I came here freely of my own volition. I don't have to tolerate language like that or the offensive nature of the slur.'

‘Please sit down, Mr Lomas,' Sarah said evenly. ‘We're not finished.' She felt like pointing out the tautology but didn't think he'd appreciate the lecture. ‘And you've not answered the question. Did she explicitly proposition you?'

‘Not in so many words.'

‘Did her alleged flirting go any further than looks and innuendo?'

The bristling was almost laughable. ‘There was nothing alleged about it, DI Quinn. And it would've – if I'd let it.'

‘So why didn't you?' Harries asked. ‘Most men—'

‘I'm not most men. Some of us don't take advantage of pretty needy girls. And more to the point, I'm in a relationship with Nicola.'

Needy? Sarah made another note. ‘Is Caitlin's mother aware of what you say was going on?' Under her nose.

‘Good God, no. Nic thinks the sun shines out of Caitlin's ar— Pardon the French, Caitlin's posterior.' The guy's arched eyebrow was so knowing, she wouldn't be surprised to see it on
Mastermind
. Specialist subject: arrogant twats.

She unscrewed the cap on a bottle of water, took a few sips. ‘Let's say for a minute Nicola had found out. How would she react?'

‘I'd get the blame.' He threw his hands in the air. ‘I'd be out on my ear, my feet wouldn't touch.'

‘Would Nicola feel betrayed, angry even?' Sarah asked.

He snorted. ‘Surely you must've picked up by now that Caitlin can do no wrong in her mother's eyes?' She shrugged. Like some ham actor, he narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you trying to suggest Nicola's got something to do with Caitlin's disappearance?'

No, she wasn't. But she found it interesting that Lomas had mooted the possibility.

‘If Caitlin Reynolds fancies that knob-end … sod the hat, boss.' Harries glanced in the wing mirror, pulled out to overtake. ‘I'd scoff the effing wardrobe.'

The lilac-rinse wrinkly in the car ahead – a pristine powder-blue Morris Minor – was tootling along at tortoise pace. ‘Watch your speed, Dave.' They were in a thirty limit: penalty points on a cop's licence weren't a good look, and besides Sarah wanted to get there in one piece. ‘There' being Queen's Ridge comprehensive. The premises had been opened up by a caretaker and the deputy head would be on site too. Apart from touching base with the search team, Sarah wanted to check out call-me-Jude-my-body's-a-temple-Fox. The teacher's name didn't figure on the list drawn up by Dave and Shona but Dave just happened to mention she'd be in school painting scenery for the end of term play. Sarah hadn't asked how he knew.

‘You see it the same way, don't you, boss? A girl like Caitlin isn't gonna be that desperate.'

‘Sure.' She took a green apple from a pocket, started polishing it on her coat sleeve. ‘But why'd he put it out there at all?' She remembered the thought bugging her at the time. Lomas had already denied being what Dave called the snogger at the bus stop, claimed he'd been lunching in the canteen when Caitlin was indulging in a tongue sandwich. If the alibi checked, he'd be in the clear. So why mention Caitlin's so-called crush? If he'd kept his mouth shut, they'd have been none the wiser.

‘Come on, boss. He was blowing smoke up his arse.'

‘Charming.' She took a bite, pulled a face, turned to gaze at the Saturday shoppers out in force on Kings Heath high street. That reminded her, she'd have to hit a supermarket today; she was down to her last loo roll. Back to bums then. She raised a wry eyebrow – did Dave have a point? Lomas probably had a Masters in ego-aggrandisement. He'd certainly not featured yet in Caitlin's diary. The lecturer's early arrival at the station had bitten into Sarah's reading time. She'd considered passing the book/buck back to Shona but on second thoughts decided against, hoping the girl's own words might give some insight into her character. Sarah hated admitting she was little nearer knowing what made Caitlin tick now than on day one of Operation Vixen.

‘You heard about the sweepstake, boss?'

Face screwed, she looked at the apple: God it was tart. Shame she'd not grabbed a banana. Mind, she'd just clocked a bloke shuffling past shoving burger and chips down his bull neck. Why did it always seem to be lard-arses who ate on the hoof? Couldn't they wait to get home before topping up the fat levels? School kids weren't much better – every lunchtime all over the city, queues outside Greggs spilled onto the pavement. Not as bad as Glasgow though. She'd spent a month there on a case some years back and the first time she'd witnessed it she thought a riot had broken out.