Endangering Innocents (12 page)

The woman gave a tiny, cynical smile. “I’ve watched enough cop series on telly,” she said. “I know what you’ll do now.”

Joanna bowed her head.

The woman didn’t even know she was participating in the game.

“And thank you,” she added. “If these are Madeline’s they were meant to be found.”

You were nothing but a vehicle for the killer to make sure we knew he was playing now.

“Your observations and help will bring us closer to catching whoever it was abducted her. And incidentally protect other children.”

Again the woman’s eyes flickered away from Joanna’s face.

Tuesday May 2nd

In one way the discovery of the bag did pep up the morale of the investigating officers. It made them feel this was a tangible, solvable case rather than a pure void. There was a body. Somewhere. They simply had to find it. But for now they had to wait for the two day delay while forensics used a nit comb to glean the evidence from the clothes. It was a process that could not be hurried. Some stray fibre might well lead to a conviction. Although underneath Joanna was not hopeful. She was aware that whoever had abducted Madeline was playing with them as a cat plays with a mouse - or a bird - for entertainment. To an alerted population it had been predictable that someone would have found the bag. As he had
wanted
it to be found. Would someone so confident be so careless as to have left a stray fibre on the missing child’s clothes that would lead straight back to him? She doubted it.

The priority was that Carly should identify her daughter’s clothes but when she rang there was no answer. It would have to wait. Later on today they were planning a reconstruction. She had little faith that actually watching another small child walk out of Horton Primary would jog the memories of the public. To her it smacked of clutching at straws. But it was expected of her. And when you have
nothing
to clutch at, a straw can seem a lifeline. Anything was worth a try.

Today was the first day the children were back at school after the Easter break. Amongst them the
boisterous Sam Owen and his family, very recently returned from Spain. Their plane had been held up at Malaga airport for six hours so until now there had been no chance of interviewing them. They must have finally arrived back in Leek some time in the early hours of the morning.

She left Korpanski organising the reconstruction and drove the couple of miles to the Westwood housing estate, a neat, modern estate on the Southern side of the town.

Wendy Owen was knee deep in brightly coloured washing - shorts, t-shirts, beach towels, swimwear which still bore evidence of the sea. Sand rasped beneath Joanna’s feet as she stepped across the kitchen floor. In fact the entire house smelt of the Mediterranean - of coconut-scented suntan cream, of brine, of fish, of garlic and olive oil. With a pang Joanna realised how long it had been since she and Matthew had had a holiday together. A real holiday - not simply weekend breaks, visiting friends in London or York. But somewhere far away, alone, somewhere predictably hot. Their lives were overfilled with work. It was a mistake. There was not enough leisure time. She vowed to rectify the situation. If it was possible.

As she briefly outlined the investigation to Mrs Owen she soon realised that the six hour airport delay followed by an exhausted tumble into bed meant that Sam’s mother didn’t know anything about Madeline’s disappearance.

Visibly shocked, she dropped into the kitchen chair. “Oh poor Carly,” she said. “She must be feeling awful. Simply awful. What do you think has happened to little Maddy?”

It was the first time Joanna had heard Madeline referred to by a pet name.

She made no attempt to answer the question but shook her head and eyed Wendy Owen steadily, understanding that Sam Owen’s mum, at least, had held some affection for the quiet little girl - such a contrast to her own boisterous son.

Wendy Owen dropped her eyes. She could read what Joanna was saying. “The poor little thing,” she said. “She’s had an awful life.”

Joanna leaned forward. Any insight into Madeline Wiltshaw’s inner life could lead to her abductor.

But it was soon clear that Wendy was referring to the mother - not the daughter.

“Her first old man buggered off with her ex-sister-in-law.”

“Sorry?”

“Yeah. Paul. She won’t tell you all this. He took off with her brother’s ex-wife. I mean - things were rough.” She pushed the mobile phone aside, reached for a packet of Silk Cut and lit one with a disposable plastic cigarette lighter. “Drove Carly clean out of her mind that did. She went very strange. Wouldn’t go out of the house for weeks. I used to see little Maddy at the window, just staring out. Not smiling or waving. Just staring.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “I’d feel so sorry for her. I’d offer to take her out - with Sam. But that would have meant leaving Carly on her own. And she wasn’t keen. And then she has to take up with Mr Muscle. The bedroom cleaner. I just couldn’t understand it, Inspector. She isn’t even his sort. And he definitely isn’t hers. Believe me. And now Madeline.” She took another long drag on her cigarette and puffed the smoke out quickly. “Some people are just born victims.”

Joanna found it strange that all the sympathy was directed towards Carly Wiltshaw. None towards the missing child.

“Tell me about that last afternoon, Mrs Owen,” she said. “Good Friday. The thirteenth. The day you went on holiday. When the children came out of school.”

“Oh - it was chaotic.” Wendy ran her fingers through her short, blonde hair. “Sam was so excited about the holiday. And I’d clean forgotten the children were coming out of school early. So I was late. They were already streaming out of the playground by the time I arrived. Sam was shouting his head off, arms out, pretending to be an aeroplane, bashing into everyone. It was chaos. And so noisy.”

She met Joanna’s eyes. “I know what you’re going to ask me - whether I saw Madeline that afternoon or not. And I realise it’s important. But the trouble is that one day merges with another. I pick Sam up every day. Every day there’s chaos and noise and I see the same children. I don’t know whether I can separate them. I’m trying to think - to be sure that the picture I have of little Maddy coming out of school is on that day. Let me think… The children were holding little baskets with tiny chocolate eggs in. I think … and some pictures.”

“Take your time,” Joanna urged. “Please.”

Wendy pressed her fingertips to her temples. An
aide-memoire
. “I remember screeching to a halt at the end of the line of cars. And running up the road, towards the school. I was panicked. I knew that guy’d been hanging around and I didn’t want to miss Sam. I ran into the playground. It was already full of children and mums and dads. I met up with Sam somewhere near the doors. He collided with one of the little girls and she fell over and started crying.” She stubbed her cigarette out
in a pottery ashtray. “I can’t even remember which girl it was. Sheelagh, I think. I don’t remember seeing Madeline at all. Wait a minute. Maybe she was … No,” she said certainly. “I didn’t see her.” Her clear green eyes met Joanna’s with a trace of anguish, of guilt. “Although that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there. I might not have noticed her. She might have slipped passed when I was sorting Sam and Sheelagh out.” She licked her lips, as though feeling the need to defend her failure to notice the child. “She wasn’t the sort of child you would notice. She was always slinking around, hugging the inside of the pavement, eyes looking down. And you have to understand. She was so quiet. So very very quiet.” She frowned, reaching to a realisation she had not made before. “Abnormally quiet really. I can’t even think what her voice sounded like.” She smiled. “Not like my Sam. You could find him any old time - just by listening out. Hear him shouting. But Maddy - she was invisible. Carly hardly knew she was around, I should think. Unless she was different at home. Kids are, sometimes.” She fingered the cigarette stub. “But I don’t think so.”

Joanna didn’t want to put words into Wendy Owen’s mouth. She needed the truth without any distortion from her. But she did need specific questions answered.

“That afternoon. Where did you park? Did you notice …?”

Wendy Owen’s face changed. She looked shrewd and sharp. Dangerous. Protective. Mothers do protect their young - sometimes. She knew exactly what Joanna was asking. “You mean the toad who hung around in the blue van watching the children. No,” she said reluctantly. “No - I didn’t notice him. At least - I don’t think I did. Not on that day. I think I would have panicked if I’d seen
him - being late. But one day blurs into another. They’re all alike. And that’s no use to you, is it?”

She was obviously unaware that Baldwin was Joshua the clown.

“Facts are only helpful to us if you can be one hundred per cent certain, Mrs Owen,” Joanna said. She was aware of the prejudice that already existed against Baldwin. The last thing she wanted were incriminating statements manufactured against him if they were untrue. They could lead to - what they had already led to - attacks against him. They could lead to unsafe convictions and if Baldwin was innocent and wrongly convicted it would leave a guilty man free to reoffend. If he was guilty but they failed to secure a conviction he would go free. She wanted to emphasise this point to Wendy Owen.

Instead she broached the subject of the birthday party.

“Do you remember Sam’s birthday party?”

Wendy Owen looked surprised. “Yes,” she said. “We had a clown. Quite a good one too. He did lots of vanishing tricks. He was so deft. Why do you ask?”

“Joshua the clown is the guy who’s been hanging round outside the school.”

Wendy Owen’s mouth dropped open. “No,” she said. “No. Surely. I’d have recognised him.”

Joanna shook her head. “He arrived in costume?”

Wendy Owen nodded.

She rubbed the back of her neck. “Oh, no,” she said. “I feel so responsible.”

It was interesting that she had made the same assumption as Huke and his gang.

Baldwin had been tried, convicted, sentenced.

“I don’t know whether I wished I had seen him that afternoon or not.”

Maybe she was picking up on some of Joanna’s thought processes. Her eyes were troubled.

“Inspector Piercy,” she said, “I couldn’t swear in a court of law that I did see him on Good Friday afternoon. But if he was there he
might
have been parked round the corner - not in the line. I
think
I
would
have noticed. I
think
he
wasn’t
there because I parked right down the bottom. I was probably the last mum to arrive. Some of the cars had already pulled away. There were gaps but it seemed quicker to walk up rather than manoeuvre the car into a space. I’m not much good at reverse parking.” She met Joanna’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m not being much help - am I? The truth is I was really preoccupied with the holiday and being late and worrying about locking up the house properly - and packing everything we needed. Cancelling the papers.” She smiled. “You know what it’s like. There’s a lot to think about.”

“OK.” Joanna returned the smile. “Thanks. If you do remember anything. Anything at all - for certain - we’ll be interested.” She gave Wendy her telephone number and left.

It was no more than she had expected yet she felt a sharp snag of disappointment as she left Leek to drive back to Horton. Wendy Owen had been the only parent they had had no contact with since Madeline had vanished. She had pinned, maybe stupidly, some hope that she would learn something from her. Yet she had learnt nothing. A five-year-old had still vanished into thin air and they still had no clue in which direction she had gone - or been taken.

The roads around Horton School were once again jammed with cars. This time with the media. Local Press, radio, TV operators and the inevitable nosy public.
Joanna pulled up at the back of the line of cars and walked the rest of the way. As had Wendy Owen a little over two weeks ago. There was a small lane leading to her left which was empty now. She reached the school gates. The children were still in school, a few peering curiously out of the windows at all the excitement. She walked across the playground. There were a few loose ends to be tidied up before rolling on with the reconstruction. She checked with Korpanski.

As she finished speaking to Mike, the red Nissan Micra slid into view.

Now came the difficult task of telling Madeline’s Mum that her daughter’s clothes had almost certainly been found - all of them. Underwear too. It did not make it any easier that this time Carly was alone. No Huke. And quiet. She did not even cry as Joanna related the facts to her but sat with her arms wrapped around the steering wheel, staring through the windscreen, bleak and impervious to the activity outside, a frozen statue. Joanna asked whether she had heard and repeated her sentences. That clothes had been found in a rubbish bin and that in all probability they were Madeline’s. She let Carly draw her own conclusions. And she did, in a long, shuddering, hopeless sigh. She didn’t respond at all while Joanna explained that they could not be certain until forensic tests had been carried out but she did let Carly touch the bags with desperately clutching fingers as though the child was to be found inside them.

It reminded Joanna of Wendy Owen’s comments, that Carly had needed Madeline with her during her “difficulties”.

Madeline’s mother stared at the mark on the gymslip. “It is hers,” she said. Something flickered in her eyes.

Guilt
?

“I was angry with her about getting felt-tip pen all down the front.” She moistened her lips, flushed and dropped her head back over the steering wheel. “It. It didn’t come out in the wash, you see. I - we - thought we’d have to buy her a new one.” She clapped her hand across her mouth, stifling comment, and said nothing more except to whisper, “Is there … is there anything on them?”

Joanna knew exactly what she meant.
Blood. Semen.
She put her hand on Carly’s thin arm. “Nothing that I could see. But it’s better we don’t touch them. Contamination, you see. The lab …”

Carly Wiltshaw nodded, suddenly wise.

“Do you want to stay?”

Again Carly nodded.

Though she was three years older, superficially the other little girl was very like Madeline, particularly with her face set in serious, concentrative mood. She knew what she was being asked to do - and to some extent why. Some explanation had been necessary (couched in suitable terms) - “a little girl has walked from the school and got lost. Can you pretend you’re her and help us find her?”