Child's Play (25 page)

‘Got it in one.' She gave a brittle laugh, inched back further, calculating if she could get to the pepper spray in her bag before he'd worked out what she was doing.

‘Mounted variety?' Sniggering, he nudged a steel-capped toe into Fido's rounded rump. ‘Or dog division?' The animal bared its lips, emitted a low growl, so did the guy. His coterie started barking, howling, guffawing. ‘Bet it's bitch branch.'

The guy's sharp-ish comebacks suggested she'd under-estimated him. She needed to get away, but at the same time was nearly paralysed with fear. ‘Look mate, what do you want?'

‘What do you think, babe?' He made a kissing motion, swung his hips. She'd rather eat shit.

‘If it's money you're after …' Head down, she delved into her bag.

Snarling, he kicked the can out of her hand. ‘Yeah, definitely bitch branch.'

‘Please.' She hated the whimper in her voice. ‘Just tell me—'

‘Hey, Bounce, how's about a sniff round? Get to know the nice lady a little better?'

The dog strained at the leash, gasping for breath, the guy loosened his hold a touch.
Mother of God.
Bounce wasn't the dog's name. A youth in a hoodie had peeled off from the gang and loped towards them. ‘Nice one, bro. Oh yeah. This one's a hottie.' He danced around her, sniffing, pawing. ‘Fac' I reckon she's on heat.'

Her legs were about to give way. Would it stop if she screamed?

‘Hey, you lot.' Mrs Walker rapped on the window. ‘Leave her be. I've called the police.'

‘Bags a time then, ain't we, Granny?' Bounce's quip unleashed another round of guffaws and growls from the gang. From the corner of her eye, Caroline glimpsed four hunched, hooded figures, swaggering ever closer. In the street light, she caught the glint of a blade. Her legs buckled again and she fought not to faint; instinct told her if she hit the ground she wouldn't stand a—

‘Fuckin' ell.'

She hit the ground. The bastard had released his grip. The thugs tore off whooping and barking back towards the waste land. Caroline heard the twos before catching sight of the blues. She'd never been so happy to see a cop car even though it barely slowed down. By the time the cab pulled up she was on her feet, brushing God knows what shit from her designer gear. She knew one thing for sure: the driver could whistle for a bloody tip. Remembering Walker's intervention, Caroline turned to wave but the window was closed, curtains drawn.

The cops had got there so quick, Walker must have been calling the yobs' bluff, not triple-nine. Either way, Caroline was grateful. The woman jailed as a child killer had almost certainly saved her life.

‘H
e's not dead, boss.' Head down in a notebook, Harries strolled into Sarah's office, straightening his tie.

Attilla the Hun? Jimmy Savile? ‘Come in, do. Who?'

‘The builder?' The dig was lost. Dave sank into the chair uninvited as well. ‘Ted Crawford. Linda Walker said he hanged himself?'

‘In the copse. That's right.' Frowning, she pushed a sheet of A4 to one side. She'd asked Huntie to hold the late brief so she could put down a few thoughts for the up-coming news conference. ‘Didn't some prison warder tell her?'

‘Well they got it wrong.'
Wrong or wilfully misleading?
Dave flashed his notes at her. ‘I checked it out. Had a word with his missus. They're living in Worcester. Retired there ten years back. Three kids, all grown-ups now of course.'

She nodded. He'd be getting on a bit these days, early eighties. Even so they'd need to dig a bit deeper. Crawford had been a major player that day. ‘We'd best—'

‘He'll see us first thing, boss.'

She smiled, should've known Dave would have it sorted. ‘And the retired cop?' Another interview she wanted to handle.

‘Jenny Purslow. Sat in on the early interviews. She's happy to talk.' For sure they'd not be chatting to the boss man. DCI Ken Southern had gone to the great interview room in the sky twenty-odd years back. Mind he'd been near retirement at the time of the murder. Which reminded her. The chief was still incommunicado. She added a note to an ever-lengthening mental list. Dave handed her Purslow's number on a slip of paper.

The code didn't ring a bell. ‘Where is this?'

‘Texas. She married an American.' He smiled at the bleeding obvious. ‘As opposed to an alien, you understand?'

‘I got the drift, Dave.' She tapped a pen against her teeth. ‘Bloody cruel, wasn't it?'

‘Making her live in the States?' The gag was limp as well as tortuous. He apologized, excused it on the grounds he was in a good mood. He'd got two tickets for a gig, a Birmingham bluegrass band. Sarah reckoned Birmingham bluegrass sounded like an oxymoron but she'd agreed to give it a whirl. ‘I know what you mean though, boss. Telling Walker the builder had topped himself was a pretty shit thing to do.'

‘Precisely. Whoever told her couldn't have got it that wrong. Presumably they just wanted to pile on the guilt? How is Crawford?'

‘He was out playing golf but from what the wife said, he sounds pretty compos mentis to me, boss.'

‘Good. Shame the same can't be said for Luke Holden.' Holden's condition remained critical. Shona Bruce was keeping tabs with the hospital. She'd told Sarah she hoped to be on hand for the interview when Holden came round. Could hardly say no. It'd be in no small way down to Brucie
if
he came round.

‘Have you seen this, Dave?' Sarah held up the forensics report. One of the guys had left it on her desk. Top line? No evidence pointed to the presence of a third party at Holden's passing-out parade. Given the bed-sit could have doubled as a pharmacy it was beginning to look likelier that the overdose was deliberate and self-administered. So what had driven Holden to try and take his own life? And did Caitlin Reynolds' abduction figure in his reasoning?

‘I saw the quantities,' Dave said. ‘Reckon he was supplying the stuff?'

‘Have a word with Mel in narcotics.' Sarah slipped into her jacket. ‘See if Holden's on their radar.' Drug deals bombed, suppliers made enemies, coincidences happened. Maybe there was no Reynolds' link.

‘Before you go, boss' He slid a print-out across the desk. ‘At least we know the sister's not done a Crawford.'

Frowning, she reached for the sheet of paper. ‘Sister?'

‘Grace Bolton? Pauline's older sister? She's definitely pushing up the daisies.' The article was from the
Leicester Mercury
dated July 1994. There were only a few paragraphs and no mention of a babe-in-the-wood family connection. Forty-nine-year-old Grace Bolton had died from an overdose of anti-depressants and sleeping pills. Her teenage son had found her dead when he came home from school. An open verdict had been recorded.

‘So the coroner couldn't have had enough proof she did it on purpose.' She handed it back to Harries.

‘Either way she wasn't a happy bunny, boss.'

‘I wonder why neither of the twins mentioned it?' Pauline's younger siblings lived in Cornwall. Both women had been traced and eliminated.

Dave turned his mouth down. ‘Maybe didn't think it worth it. Or maybe the memory's still too painful.'

The ripple effect, Sarah always thought of it. One death, God knew how many people damaged in its wake. ‘We need to track down the son, Dave. He'd be, what, thirty-five now?'

‘Jack Bolton. The lad was taken into care. Seems to have slipped the net, but I'm on it, boss.'

Course he was. He'd walk the sergeant's exam. ‘Thanks, Dave.' She drained her glass of water, picked up the notes.

‘Good luck.' He held the door for her. ‘I won't say break a leg.'

‘You just did, dahling.' She smiled, ready for her close-up.

It hadn't been so much a bank of cameras, more a small ridge. Sarah – not a natural performer – hadn't been disheartened. Radio and newspaper reporters had put in an appearance and she knew the press office was following up with regular posts on the police Facebook and Twitter pages. The abductor only had to see or hear her appeal once. It had been tailored in line with the profiler's insight. Not dissimilar to hers and the squad's. For ‘intelligent, arrogant, manipulative', read ‘smart-arsed control-freak cock'.

She checked the mirror, pulled out of Tesco's car park. Her lip curved as she cast her mind back. Who says the camera never lies? Bullshit. She'd been tighter with the truth than Pinocchio's aunt. She'd implied throughout that the guy could walk free if Caitlin was released unharmed within twenty-four hours.
For whatever reason you're holding her
had been the key line. Sarah had shared the profiler's conviction. It was vital the abductor believed he was streets ahead of the inquiry and that the cops were still stumbling in the dark over motive.

She glanced at the dash. The clock showed 18:04. Flicking on the radio, she thought she might just catch the appeal on WM. Nah. They were on the weather already: cold, wet, same old. Just as well, she hated hearing her own voice. Besides, she knew every word. She'd wound up the piece to camera by urging the abductor to ring a special number, assured him she'd take the call personally.
Bring it on, sunshine.

Even if he didn't take the bait of the police hotline, she hoped the plea would prompt him into contacting Nicola again. The more he gave away, the more they'd have to go on. Right now, it seemed that particular cupboard, if not bare, was running low.

Unlike the Audi's boot. She allowed herself another smile. It had enough food and drink in it to keep a small army going. Not to mention a DC with hollow legs. She'd promised Dave – God help him – to rustle up a bite for them after the gig on Thursday. First, though the lucky man didn't know it, she had another date.

‘I hate flowers, fruit makes me fart and I'm on the wagon. What the bloody hell do you want?'

‘You sure know how to talk to a girl, chief.' Sarah's wry smile masked deep shock, and she could only see Baker's face.

‘Quinn, if I ever called you a girl, I'd be waving bye-bye to my boll—'

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.' She flapped a hand. Chianti, daffs and a bunch of grapes were tucked under the other arm. ‘Do I get to come in then or what?'

‘Another day, eh?' He scratched his head. ‘Place is a right mess.' And its owner. God knew when his jowls had last seen a razor; same went for the hair and a comb. At least food stains down rumpled pyjamas showed he was still eating. Tomato ketchup at least.

‘Give you a hand then, can't I?' She held an arm out.

‘Naff off, Quinn. I'm not a sodding invalid.'

‘I meant with the hoover.' Her smile wasn't returned. He was clearly weighing it up and the decision could go either way.

‘Come on, before I change my mind.' Opening the door, he stepped back. ‘First right.'

The sitting room was neat, near immaculate: clean lines, classy furniture, duck-egg blue and ivory décor. His wife must've had good taste. Sarah couldn't imagine Baker leafing through colour charts and comparing swatches. She'd half expected to see a buffalo head mounted on a wall and a display of his favourite whips – horse whips. Mind if she'd not seen it with her own eyes, she'd not have been able to picture Baker looking so knackered, so … pinched.

‘Take a pew then.' He grabbed a dressing gown. Paisley. ‘Can I offer you a drink?'

‘You're all right, chief. I'll not stop long.'

‘Thank God for small mercies.' Baker hadn't lost his bark – she wasn't sure about the bite, sensed he might be going through the motions for her benefit.

Two cream sofas faced each other across an expanse of taupe carpet, a glass coffee table divide held a huge bowl of fruit and a half-empty bottle of single malt. The place only needed a vase of roses and he'd have spun three lies on the doorstep. Sarah placed the goodies on the table then plumped for a low stool not far from the sofa where he'd clearly been sitting and, given the dregs in a glass on the floor, falling spectacularly off the wagon. She waited and watched while he lowered himself into a nest of cushions.

‘Thought you were off the booze.'

‘I only said it to get rid of you.' He folded his arms. ‘Never could take a hint, could you, Quinn?'

‘Mincing your words? Not like you, chief.'

‘Would straight talking have made a difference?'

‘No.' Her glance fell on a framed photograph, a young Baker in uniform, holding up some sort of gong. He was probably in his early twenties and though she'd die rather than tell him so, he looked seriously tasty. ‘What did you do to get that, chief?'

‘Rescued a mouse up a tree.'

‘Yeah right.' She strolled over, took a closer look.

‘Nosy sod, aren't you?'

‘Some mouse.' Press cutting on the back read he'd saved two kids in a house fire. Entered the place twice before fire crews arrived.

‘Ancient history, Quinn. Look, can you get on with it?'

She replaced the picture, retook her perch. ‘You're ill, you live on your own, you're not taking any calls, not responding to texts.' That he'd not called in to keep up with the Reynolds' case spoke volumes. ‘I'm allowed to show a bit of concern, aren't I?'

‘I need a few days off, is all.' Gingerly he reached for his drink. ‘You don't need me, any road.' He tilted his head at the TV. ‘You pitched it good, Quinn, hit the right note. Let's hope the bastard responds.'

Three compliments in a row? He was definitely off colour, or changing tack. ‘Nice try, chief. I'm still worried. Frankly you've looked better.'

‘Tell it like it is, Quinn.' Swirling the glass meant he didn't have to make eye contact.

‘OK, you look shite.'

He shrugged, carried on swirling.