Fallen Angel (17 page)

‘Okay,' Blackwell said finally. ‘Do you think he'll release Michael if we hand over the money?'

Rivers paused, considering her words carefully. ‘My preliminary conclusions are that he knew your protocols in cases of kidnap and therefore killed the first child to show that he wouldn't hesitate to do it again unless he got the
£
3 million on his own terms.'

‘Do you think he's a former police officer?' Collins asked.

‘Could be. He knows enough of your procedures. But then again he could have looked back on previous cases that got to court or, once again, searched the Internet.'

‘Does he take pleasure in brutalizing the child?' Blackwell asked.

‘That's an interesting question,' Rivers conceded. ‘Not sexual pleasure, certainly – we know there were no signs of sexual abuse. But the fact that he recorded himself beating Daniel Eliot and sent the video to his parents suggests to me that he derives great pleasure not only from the fear and desperation of the child and the love he has for his parents; but also from knowing that the parents' suffering is as acute as it can possibly be.'

‘Will he have done something like this before?'

‘It's highly unlikely that he's ever killed before. Hundreds of children go missing each year, and it's likely that a fair proportion of them have been murdered, their bodies hidden away somewhere where they'll never be found. But this man wants public recognition for what he's doing. That was the reason he left the body of Daniel
Eliot hanging in a church where he knew it would be found just a few hours later.

‘This man clearly has the intelligence and the wherewithal to find some remote farmland and dig a grave to dispose of the body, but he deliberately chose not to do so. The notes are another indication, a desire to ensure that the parents know of his existence in a specific, rather than a generalized, way. I think the likelihood is that if he had done anything like this before, he would have exhibited the same desire for recognition, so you would already have heard of him.'

‘This desire for recognition – is there any way we can use it to our advantage?'

Rivers pressed the tips of her fingers together in thought. ‘I think it might be an idea to get the parents to make a public appeal if you can. That didn't happen last time round, but I think it's important to get them to appear. You want the kidnapper to feel that he has all the power, that the parents are begging him to spare the life of their child.'

‘Doesn't that just flatter his ego?' said Collins. ‘I don't see how it helps us at all.'

‘It doesn't really,' agreed Rivers. ‘But it will make him believe that the parents are going to follow his rules and that everything is going according to plan. It makes him less likely to do anything unexpected or to the kill the child before the ransom is paid.'

‘Okay,' said Blackwell. ‘You say he hasn't killed before. What might he have done?'

‘All serial killers – which is what he is becoming – graduate from minor offences. He's hurt before. Look
for someone who's hurt children. There's also a strong possibility that he might have been involved in zoo-sadism.'

‘What's that?'

‘The torture and killing of animals. It's very common among those who grow up to become serial killers. They become fascinated with death, and killing animals is the easiest way for them to experience it close up and first hand. It's easier to kill an animal than a human.'

Collins suddenly thought about the dog that Sammy had mentioned. ‘The boy that last saw Daniel Eliot mentioned seeing an injured dog in an alleyway next to the white van.'

Rivers smiled at Collins for the first time. ‘That would be consistent with a progression towards serial killing.'

Blackwell said, with some frustration, ‘So is he a serial killer or is he after the money?'

‘I think what makes this case unique is that you are possibly dealing with both. His prime motivation is definitely the money; otherwise he would just kill the children. I know I've been talking to you as if you're dealing with a serial killer. That's because it's clear he enjoys his work. He enjoys inflicting pain on children and shows signs of progressing to the next level. The only reason I'm saying this is because I beleive that if he gets hold of the money and gets away with it, there will be nothing to stop him from doing this again.'

Penny Collins arrived back at her flat on the Blenheim Estate, having done the weekly shopping. John was in the lounge reading his book. The windows were open, but with no breeze it was still stiflingly hot inside.

She kissed her husband on the forehead. ‘I'm glad I got that out of the way,' she told him. ‘It's going to be such a hot day today. Is she up yet?'

‘No. I thought I'd let her sleep in. I think she's still upset after last night.'

‘Okay, I'll make a cup of tea and take it to her. Do you want one?'

‘Thanks, love.'

The curtains were drawn inside the spare bedroom, and, as Penny walked inside, she could see Sophie tucked up under the covers. She placed the mug on the bedside table and went over to the window. ‘Morning, darling, time to get up,' she called out cheerfully. ‘Let's not waste all day in bed.'

There was no reply and no movement from under the covers.

‘Come on, sleepyhead, up you get.' Penny went over to the bed and reached for Sophie's shoulder. Her hand sank easily down to the mattress. She pulled the cover back to find two pillows in place of her granddaughter.

Penny ran into the kitchen, picked up the phone and dialled Stacey's number.

After her argument with her mother on Monday night, Sophie had lain in bed going over her mother's rant in her mind.

She hated the way her mother was treating her at the moment – like a little kid. Every time she let her down, she would try to buy her way back into her affections with sweets and extra pocket money, when all Sophie wanted was for her mum not to let her down in the first place.

Her friends weren't treated like that, she was sure of it. Well, some of them, maybe, but not the older ones, not the ones she had been spending more time with lately. Mum didn't know about them, but that was nothing new. She didn't know much about anything Sophie got up to lately.

Soon after her mother had stormed out, she had reassured her grandparents that she was okay, kissed them goodnight and gone to bed. They were so gullible, so eager to make up for their daughter's shortcomings. It meant she could do anything, really. It was gone midnight when the blare of the television in the lounge came to a stop, by which time Sophie had been fighting sleep for at least two hours; the sound of them getting ready for bed, though, suddenly pinned her eyes open.

Once everything fell quiet, she waited for half an hour before silently slipping out of bed and changing from pyjamas into jeans and her red T-shirt with the strap that kept falling from her left shoulder. Carefully, and with a skill that belied her age, she applied scarlet lipstick and
eyeliner; she noted with approval that the make-up instantly made her look older. Quietly she opened her cupboard and rummaged around at the bottom, until she found an old shoe; she dug her fingers inside and pulled out a crumpled packet containing six Marlboro Lights. They had been stolen by her friend Katie, who was a full two years older than her; she had given them to Sophie in a gesture of big-sister solidarity. Truth be told, she didn't much like the taste of the cigarettes, but she wasn't going to tell anyone that.

She stuffed two pillows underneath the duvet, trying to make the shape of her sleeping body, turned off her light and peered out of the scrupulously clean but old-fashioned curtains. The room looked out on to a small grass verge that was always littered with debris and that faced on to an area where the residents of this part of the estate parked their cars. Sophie had lost count of the number of times she had been lulled to sleep by the whining sound of vehicle alarms. She looked left and right to check that nobody was watching, then opened the window and climbed out, closing it as best she could behind her and scurrying off.

She knew exactly where she was heading. Katie lived two blocks away with her mum, though her mum was very rarely there, at least not at night-time. It didn't seem to worry Katie much; she had become adept at cooking simple meals and skipping school. Once Sophie was well away from her grandparents' flat, she pulled out one of her cigarettes, lit it with a small lighter and took a series of tiny puffs, trying not to inhale too much; she didn't want to end up wheezing or collapsed in a racking cough.

As she had predicted, Katie's mother was out and Katie herself was still up. She opened the door to Sophie with a glazed look in her eyes. Sophie smiled at her, her mouth flickering slightly nervously, then took another drag on her cigarette. Katie turned without saying anything and walked back into the flat, leaving the door open so that Sophie could follow her.

The flat was musty and untidy. Sophie knew without looking that the kitchen would be piled high with unwashed plates and rotting, half-eaten bits of food; there was the smell of tobacco, and something else: a thick, almost spicy aroma that Sophie could never quite identify. The television was on, and Katie slumped down in front of it; she continued to watch the late-night goings on of the latest reality show as though Sophie wasn't even there.

‘So how's it going?' Sophie stood awkwardly by the door to the front room.

Katie shrugged. ‘All right.'

‘Where's your mum?'

‘Dunno.'

There was a silence before Sophie spoke again. ‘I've brought some fags …' she started to say, the adult words falling uncomfortably from her lips, but she was soon put in her place when Katie produced a fat hand-rolled joint from a tobacco tin.

‘Is that what I think it is?' she said excitedly. Katie didn't answer. Instead she lit the tip of the joint and waited until the flame died before taking a deep drag and then holding it out to Sophie.

She held it up to her lips and inhaled cautiously, this being the first time she had ever tried cannabis. As soon
as it hit her lungs, she began to cough violently and her throat felt raw. A few seconds later the coughing died down, and she took another drag, this one a little longer. She felt light-headed and sat beside Katie. As she passed the joint back, both girls began to laugh hysterically.

The girls' laughter was interrupted by the ringing of Katie's mobile phone. Katie's hands shot out to the phone. ‘Yeah,' she answered, her voice betraying none of the eagerness with which she had answered. Her eyes flickered over to Sophie as she listened to what her caller had to say. ‘I've got a friend with me,' she said finally. ‘Can she come?' Another pause. ‘Okay, we'll be there in twenty minutes.' She flicked her phone closed and turned to Sophie, smiling.

‘Who was that?' Sophie asked.

Katie grinned and jumped up to turn off the television. ‘Party.' She reached down the side of the sofa and pulled out a small money bag. Inside it was half of an off-white pill.

‘What's that?' asked Sophie, still giggling.

Katie broke the tablet in half, slipping one part under her tongue and handing the other to Sophie.

‘The start of the best night of your life.'

Stacey's car screamed through the streets of South London. She drove almost on autopilot, doing her best to keep her mind blank, trying not to concentrate on the horrible possibilities of what had happened to Sophie. She'd gone to play with a friend, she kept telling herself, slipped out without telling her grandparents. She'd be home by the time Stacey got there, asking for her lunch.

Stacey was doing her best to convince herself but without much success. She felt overcome by the nausea of dread.

She parked up on a yellow line outside her parents' ground-floor flat, clicking the car shut with her key fob as she ran to the front door. It was open. She'd told them more times than she could count to keep the door locked during the day, but they never listened to her – they'd grown up able to keep their houses unlocked, and they didn't like the idea of changing that, despite everything. Her mum was waiting for her in the hallway, an expression of the deepest concern, worry even, on, her face. ‘Oh, thank God you're here,' she started to say as Stacey strode straight past her and into the bedroom Sophie used.

The curtains were open, but the bed was unmade; Sophie's pyjamas lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Stacey heard her mother speak again. ‘Your dad's out
looking for her. I told him not to go, but he wouldn't hear of it.'

‘When did you last see her?' Stacey demanded, almost as though she were interviewing a key witness. The older woman stood in the doorway, her elderly hands clutched together. ‘Last night, love. She went to bed before we did.'

Stacey looked at her watch. Three minutes past eleven. ‘So how come you didn't know she was missing until now?'

‘Oh, I don't know.' Her eyes started to fill with tears. ‘We thought we'd let her sleep. She looks so tired sometimes. And especially after the argument last night …'

But Stacey appeared to be only half listening. She pulled the net curtains to one side and gently pushed the window: it opened with no resistance. ‘Shit,' she muttered softly to herself, before turning back to her mother. ‘Sophie let herself out,' she told her.

‘Should we call the police?'

Stacey gave her mother a withering look. ‘I am the police, Mum. I'll make some calls. If she comes back home, phone me immediately, okay?'

‘All right, love, but are you sure we shouldn't –'

‘Just leave it to me.'

Halfway to the front door, she stopped and turned back. Her mum was still in the bedroom doorway, watching her, her lips thin with fear. A pitiful sight. ‘Who does she see?' Stacey asked, seemingly out of the blue.

Penny looked back at her, not appearing to understand the question.

‘When she stays with you,' Stacey repeated impatiently, ‘who does she see? Who's her best friend?'

‘I don't really know,' Penny stuttered slightly as she spoke. ‘There's a lad called Stephen, lives in the next block. She sometimes goes and watches the telly with him.'

‘Where does he live?'

‘Flat 83, I think.' Her body started to tremble. ‘Oh, Stacey. She is going to be all right, isn't she?'

Stacey closed her eyes momentarily, then walked back to her mother and put her arms around her in a rare embrace. She felt her mother's body shake with a silent sob. Stacey clenched her jaw, forcing herself to keep from doing the same. If she started now, she'd never stop.

They remained in that quiet embrace for a few moments before the older woman spoke. ‘Sophie needs her mother, Stacey,' she whispered. ‘I can't do it all for you. I'm getting too old.'

Stacey didn't reply. She knew her mum was right, but what was there to say? She squeezed her tightly just once, then let her arms fall to her side. ‘I'm going to find her' was all that came out, delivered in a hoarse, cracked voice that almost sounded like that of a different person. Then she turned and walked purposefully out of the front door.

Stacey sprinted to Flat 83, and, less than a minute after leaving her mother, she was hammering vigorously on the front door. It was opened quickly by a matronly woman with a kind face, though it showed signs of concern at the way in which the person at her door was demanding attention. Stacey, towering above her, spoke before the woman had a chance to open her mouth. ‘Where's Stephen?'

‘He's inside,' the woman replied. ‘Who are you?'

‘Police,' Stacey said starkly.

‘Oh.' The woman put one hand to her mouth. ‘He's not in any trouble is he?' She stepped involuntarily away from the door as she spoke.

‘I need to speak to him.' Stacey pushed past her and strode into the flat, the little woman tottering worriedly behind her.

Stacey followed the sound of the television and found herself in an immaculately presented living room. The furniture seemed old but well cared for, and the room was dominated by an enormous wide-screen TV, in front of which sat a boy whose age Stacey found it difficult to determine – though he was certainly older than Sophie, she observed with a pang.

‘Stephen?' she asked, without the soft tone of voice she would usually use when interviewing a child.

The boy didn't respond; he just kept looking at the telly.

‘Answer the lady, Stephen,' Stacey heard his mother say from the doorway. Then she moved in front of him, bent down and turned off the television. The boy immediately looked sulkily outraged.

Stacey knelt on one knee in front of him and gazed unsmilingly into his face. At this distance she could see not very recently shaved hair sprouting unevenly from his chin, and she found it somehow repugnant. ‘I'm Stacey Collins,' she said in a low, even voice. ‘Sophie's mum. And if you know what's good for you, you're going to tell me when you last saw my daughter.'

Stephen's eyes flickered over to his mum before resting uncomfortably back on Stacey.

‘Don't mess me around,' she whispered dangerously.

Stephen's face twitched. ‘Saw her about a week ago,' he mumbled. ‘She's weird,' he added spitefully.

Stacey stared straight into his eyes. ‘You know I'm a police officer?'

Stephen nodded.

‘If I find out you're lying to me, I'll have you in for questioning before you know it. Your mum and dad too. Got it?'

Stephen nodded, his face giving nothing away.

Stacey stood up, pulled a telephone directory from one of the shelves and scrawled her mobile number on the cover. ‘You hear from her, you call me,' she told the boy, before throwing the directory on to the sofa next to him. She left the flat as quickly as she had entered it, slamming the door behind her.

As soon as she was outside, her demeanour changed. She almost fell back against the wall, leaning heavily against the stained concrete as she breathed deeply. The bright sun felt warm against her skin, but it did nothing to dispel the chill she was feeling. It was momentarily all she could do to remain standing as Penny's words rang in her ears: ‘Sophie needs a mother, Stacey.' She was right. Of course she was. And the guilt weighed more heavily on Stacey with each passing day, no matter how much she told herself that Sophie was just growing up, becoming a teenager, doing what every young girl had done before her.

The voices of children from a nearby playground broke into her consciousness, and, looking around her, she could see people going about their business. Sometimes the Blenheim Estate looked just like any ordinary community:
mothers pushing their kids around in pushchairs, a red post office van sitting by the kerb with its hazard lights blinking. No matter how much Stacey wanted to deny it, her daughter – just like the people she saw around her – felt at home here. Why shouldn't she? This was where she spent a lot of her time. She was no different to Stacey at that age; like Stacey, she had not yet been forced to grow up. Perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing. Images of her old friend Cat, gaunt and bedraggled as she sat in the prison visiting room, flashed through her head; and the picture of her dad, bloodied and unconscious on the concrete floor; and Daniel Eliot and Michael Dawney, one of them dead, the other as good as if Stacey didn't come through for him.

Growing up could be so brutal. Surely she wasn't doing Sophie a disservice, trying to delay it for a little longer? And yet, in the moments when she was most brutally honest with herself, Stacey knew that her daughter needed more from her. More time.

She knew things had to change, but it just wasn't that simple.

How long Stacey stood there, the whirlwind of emotions spinning through her, she couldn't tell. But suddenly she was brought back to reality by one simple thought: Sophie was missing. She had left the flat of her own free will, and she was here somewhere. Of that Stacey, with her mother's instinct, was sure.

She pulled out her phone and started to dial a number. As the phone rang, she heard a little beep indicating that someone was leaving her a message. Higgins, probably.
She knew she should hang up and listen to it, but she didn't. Finally her call was answered.

‘James,' she said curtly. ‘It's Stacey Collins. I need you to do something.'

James McNultie headed up the local station that had the Blenheim Estate under its jurisdiction – had done for years. Stacey had known him since he was a lowly sergeant going up through the ranks. Although McNultie was initially sceptical of the confident, brash young policewoman from the roughest estate in London, they soon struck up a wary friendship. Stacey quickly made it clear that she was very well informed about the goings-on in that place. Her information was never wrong, and McNultie never questioned her closely about how she came by it. As a result, he was one of the few people in the Met outside her own team that had any time for her. ‘Jesus, Stacey, I didn't expect to hear from you. Aren't you supposed to be dealing with this sick fucker from the radio?'

‘Listen, James,' Stacey said, ignoring his question. ‘You know my daughter, Sophie?'

‘Yes.'

‘She was staying with my parents last night and let herself out of her bedroom window, and she's still not back. I need you to find her for me.'

McNultie fell momentarily quiet. ‘Christ, Stacey …' he started to say.

‘She's on the estate somewhere, James.'

‘There're a thousand people living there. Isn't she answering her phone?'

‘It's switched off. I've left a dozen messages,' Stacey snapped.

‘Have you called her friends? You'll probably find she's with one of them, playing games.'

How could Stacey admit to this man that she didn't even know who Sophie's friends were? ‘Come off it, James. Kids don't sneak out in the middle of the night to play games. Can you find her or can't you?'

McNultie hesitated. ‘All right,' he said finally. ‘I'll do what I can.'

‘Thank you.' Her voice sounded more relieved than she felt. ‘Call me when you hear anything, okay?' She hung up and walked to her car.

Normally Stacey couldn't wait to leave the estate. This time, all she wanted to do was stay – stay and scour the place, to find Sophie and gather her up in her arms and say sorry. She looked fiercely through the windscreen as she negotiated her way around the grey concrete tower blocks and out on to the main road, leaving behind someone she loved when they needed her the most, and not for the first time.

On the way to Peckham, her phone rang, and she answered it expecting news of Sophie.

‘Hello,' she said anxiously.

‘Hello, Princess.'

‘Not now, Jack.'

There was a pause. And then: ‘What's wrong? You sound worried.'

Without even thinking, Stacey blurted out, ‘It's Sophie – she's been missing all night and no one knows where she is.'

‘Where was she last?'

‘She was staying with my parents on the estate.'

The sickening realization dawned on her that Jack Stanley and his associates knew the estate better than anyone.

‘Jack, you've got to help me find her.'

There was another pause at the other end of the line before Jack spoke again. ‘I'll help you, of course I will, but you know exactly what you have to do for me in return.'

.