From the Cradle (29 page)

Chapter 35
Patrick – Day 6

‘Here we are again,’ Patrick said.

Carmella craned her neck towards the tops of the tower blocks, where Adidas tops and Primark knickers flapped in the soft summer breeze. ‘At least when it all goes horribly wrong and we find ourselves living here, we’ll know our way around.’

They walked over to the building where they had encountered Martha and her dolls, just over a week ago. A group of teenage boys in sportswear and an emaciated girl in a belly top that showed off the tattoo that snaked around her midriff watched them from across the street. A young man with a Staffordshire terrier stood a little way apart from the group, also watching them, a sneer on his lips. Patrick recognised him: Jerome Smith, a small-time
gangbanger
who’d been up on a number of charges, none of which h
ad stuck.

This morning, Patrick had taken Martha into an interview room, wishing dearly that he had a cold so he couldn’t smell her, the reek of layer upon layer of body odour and uncleaned teeth, mixed with cheap alcohol. She was barely coherent but, between rants, she told an interesting tale.

‘Them kids – the boy tried to take my baby – and now he’s living next door with his girlie-friend. I saw it, I saw it in a paper – someone’s been stealing children, and now they want mine.’ She screwed up her filthy face and hugged the doll she’d brought with her, kissing its scraggy head.

‘Can you describe these kids, Martha?’

‘Yeah, the girl is, whatchamacallit, half caste, and pretty. Very pretty. The boy, he’s . . . white. He’s tall and he’s got these little eyes that look right at you and make you feel like he’s stripping you naked.’ She gasped. ‘That’s what he wants. He wants to take my babies and then have his wicked way with me.’ She squeezed the baby so tightly that Patrick thought its head might pop off.

‘And how long have they been there?’

‘Since . . .’ The pause that followed was longer than the gap between Stone Roses albums. ‘Yesterday. But I saw them, them and their friends, that evil boy and that other pretty girl.’ She began to sob. ‘Please, sir, you have to help me.’

Patrick assured her that he would.

‘So what are we going to do if it’s not Alice and Larry?’
Carmella
asked as they stepped into the building.

‘I don’t know. But it will be. I bet you my rare picture disc of
Disintegration
.’

Carmella wrinkled her nose. ‘Wow, now I really hope it’s not them.’ Then, ‘What’s a picture disc?’

‘You youngsters. You missed out. You probably feel nostalgia for cassettes.’

‘I don’t really remember them either.’

They reached the top of the stairwell and headed towards the flat where they’d found Martha last time. According to her, she’d moved back in a day after they’d chucked her out. Patrick wondered why she wasn’t in a hospital somewhere, how she had slipped through the cracks of the system. He wished he could do something for her, make sure she was taken care of. But that was something for another day, and if he was honest it was something he was unlikely to ever get round to. Now, all he cared about was finding Alice and Larry – and, he prayed, finally finding out what had
happened
t
o Frankie.

They stood outside the door of the vacant flat next to Martha’s. There were no sounds coming from within. Somewhere in the distance a baby was crying; a real one this time.

Patrick knew the flat had no back exit. The only way out was through this door or one of the front windows. He rapped on the door and waited, not expecting a response. None came.

He nodded at Carmella.
Ready?
She nodded back.

Patrick lifted his leg and kicked the door with all his strength. It gave immediately, swinging inwards and thudding against the wall. He ran into the room, Carmella behind him.

‘Police!’ he shouted, entering the first room he came to, what would have been the living room. No sign of them – but there were sleeping bags on the floor, a couple of empty pizza boxes, bottles of water, fag packets. The room was skin-meltingly hot and stank like a teenager’s bedroom turned up to eleven.

He heard a noise from somewhere in the flat and gestured for Carmella to follow him.

They found them in the gutted kitchen, standing against the back wall, holding hands. Alice looked terrified. Larry was trying his hardest not to look scared, but he was shaking.

‘Alice,’ said Patrick. ‘And Larry. Remember me?’

‘We haven’t done anything,’ Larry said.

‘A lot of people are looking for you two. Like your parents. They’re worried sick.’

‘I doubt that,’ Alice sneered, though her boyfriend wore a guilty expression, like he was concerned about his mum.

Carmella said, ‘We need you to come to the station to answer a few questions.’

‘What about?’ Alice asked, squeezing Larry’s hand like she was trying to break it. ‘We don’t know anything.’

‘Anything about what, Alice?’

‘About . . . I don’t know.’

Carmella took a step towards them, her arm outstretched, and Larry stepped in front of his girlfriend and pulled out a flick-knife. Carmella froze.

‘Larry? What are you
doing?
’ Alice cried.

Patrick and Carmella both put their palms up. Larry moved the knife from side to side, his eyes wild and shining with panic. ‘Leave her alone.’

‘Come on, Larry,’ Patrick said quietly. ‘Don’t be a dickhead.’

‘I’m not scared to use this,’ Larry said, jerking the knife from side to side, but his voice betrayed him.

‘Do you really want to go prison? They’d love you in there. Nice boy like you.’

Larry stopped swinging the knife and Patrick saw his opportunity, going in fast – grabbing the wrist that held the knife, grateful that his instincts were correct as Larry put up little resistance.
Patrick
pulled the boy’s arm behind his back and pushed it upwards, making Larry gasp in pain and drop the knife. Carmella darted in and snapped handcuffs over his wrists.

‘You got any weapons?’ Patrick asked Alice, who stood trembling by the filthy window.

She shook her head meekly.

He held up his handcuffs. ‘So I won’t be needing these?’

As they led the teenagers out to the car, Patrick caught the eye of the guy with the staffie. Jerome Smith. He had a wicked smile on his lips. He noticed Larry looking at him too.

‘Friend of yours?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Larry said quietly. ‘He’s a twat.’

Patrick put his hand on Larry’s head and eased him into the car. When he looked back up, Smith was gone, leaving just a steaming dog turd on the pavement to show he and his terrier had been there.

Patrick leaned on the coffee machine, wondering why he still bothered drinking this muck when its placebo effect, which relied on the drinker believing it was real coffee containing real caffeine, had long ceased working.

‘Patrick.’

It was Suzanne. She looked like she needed a hug, gorgeous and vulnerable. He stared at her lips then inwardly admonished himself. What was he thinking?

‘Update, please.’

He pulled the coffee out of the machine, some of the diarrhea-brown liquid slopping over his fingers.

‘Of course. We’ve got Alice Philips in interview room two and Larry Gould in four. We’re waiting for the appropriate adults to turn up. Last time, Alice had her neighbour but now she wants us to provide someone. Same with Larry. I’m going to alternate
interviews
.’

‘OK, good. Keep me posted, alright?’

She headed back to her office and Patrick checked his watch. He was pleased that the appropriate adults weren’t here yet. He wasn’t rushing to talk to the two teenagers – he wanted them to have time to fret, to imagine the worst. He took his coffee back to his desk and waited.

Winkler walked past and gave Patrick a wink.

‘Still think those kids did it?’ he said, pausing by the desk.

‘Piss off, Winkler.’

‘If you insist.’ He walked off, that smirk on his face again.
Patrick
took deep breaths.

Finally, the adults – a social worker called Janice Swift for Alice, and a youth worker named Colin James for Larry – were present and ready. So was Patrick. He gave Carmella the nod and they headed to interview room two first.

Alice sat slumped in her chair, her shoulders drooping. She looked exhausted but wore the same sullen, defiant expression as last time. She smelled bad, her hair was a mess and without her make-up she looked like a child. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for her but stronger than his pity was his need to do the job. To find out what had happened to her half-sister.

After checking the video camera was recording, Patrick said, ‘Alice. I expect you’d like to get home, have a hot shower.’

She grunted.

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

He had an A4 file on his desk and he made a show of opening it and looking over his notes. There was a photo of Frankie on top and he left the file open so Alice could see it, right in front of her. He saw her glance at the picture and swallow.

‘Alice, last time I interviewed you, you told us there was no one else present on the night of June ninth, the night you babysat Frankie. Are you still sticking with that story?’

She nodded.

He stared at her, not speaking. One of the techniques he commonly used was to leave long silences. Most people hate silence in conversations; they rush to fill them. But Alice remained mute.

‘We’ve got a witness who saw your boyfriend, Larry Gould, in the vicinity of your house on the night in question. As you know, we’re also talking to Larry today. Do you think he’s going to tell the same story as you?’

‘Come on, Alice,’ Carmella coaxed. ‘Answer the question.’

She shuffled in her seat. ‘Yeah, he will. Because it’s the truth.’

Patrick sighed. ‘Come on, Alice. Pull the other one. We understand why you don’t want to tell us the truth about him bei
ng there.’

A flicker of fear in her eyes.

‘But do you understand the seriousness of lying to the police? I expect you’ve heard of perverting the cause of justice?’

‘Larry didn’t do anything,’ Alice insisted. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’

Carmella asked, ‘How do you know he didn’t do anything if he wasn’t with you?’

‘What are you doing, trying to confuse her?’ Janice Swift said, leaning forward.

Patrick chipped in. ‘To be honest, it’s us who are confused, Alice. We don’t understand why you’re lying to us. Unless, of course, you have something to hide.’

The muscles flexed in Alice’s jaw as she bit down, a sign she was trying not to cry. Patrick leaned closer and stared at her until she was forced to meet his eye.

‘Where did you hide the body, Alice?’

She flinched like he’d tried to hit her. ‘What?’

‘Frankie’s body. What did you do with it? You can’t have gone far, though I suppose she was pretty light. I’m guessing the park down the road from your house. A shallow grave. Won’t be hard for us to find now we know where to look.’

‘No!’ Alice yelled. Now the tears came. Janice tried to pass her a tissue but Alice angrily waved her away. ‘Frankie’s my little sister. I love her. I’d never do anything to hurt her.’

‘So it was Larry?’

‘Oh my God, this is so fucked up. Larry thought the world of her too. He’d never hurt her either.’ She looked from him to
Carmella
and back. ‘You have to believe me. Please.’

Patrick said, ‘I’m suspending the interview.’ He stood up. As he was about to open the door, he looked back and said, ‘Why do you keep referring to Frankie in the past tense?’

He and Carmella left the room, closing the door on the sound of Alice’s sobs.