Mummy's Favourite (20 page)

And so it had begun.

He was nearly there now; he grunted in relief and pulled away, allowing himself to stare into those blank eyes as he did so. Helena McPherson would be dead soon, starved to death next to her favourite daughter, humiliated and abused until the moment of her last breath. The punishment would at least be fitting this time. Very soon he would start to dig another pit ready for the next pair. He punched the earth next to Helena's head and shouted in triumph.

Next time though, he would keep the favourite alive a little longer and punish them too for glorying in their favouritism.

Next time couldn't come quick enough.

*

Charlie pushed the doorbell several times before stepping back and listening. Hunter stood behind her, his radio in hand, having just alerted the officers at the rear of the flat they were about to go in.

She could hear the sound of movement from inside the hallway, a slow shuffle of slippers against wood flooring. The uniformed officers behind Hunter stood stock-still. She could feel her heartbeat quicken.

‘Who is it?' the voice sounded crackly and high-pitched.

‘Police!'

‘What do you lot want?'

‘Can you open the door?'

She heard a key turn in the lock and the door swung open. The face that peered around the edge was an elderly female, with deep wrinkles creased into her forehead and only two remaining teeth left, on the lower jaw. The woman glared at them, her expression angry and contemptuous as Charlie held out her warrant card.

‘Is Gary in? We need to speak to him.'

‘Of course he's in. But I can tell you now, he ain't gonna want to speak to any of you lot.'

‘Well he hasn't got a choice. We need to ask him about a missing person.'

She pushed on the front door and the old woman stepped back to let them through.

‘We wondered when you would be knocking on our door about that bitch.' She let out a screech of laughter. ‘We heard about it on the news. Well Gary ain't had nothing to do with her disappearance. And you lot should know why.'

She squeezed past them and pushed open a door into what appeared to be the lounge. The room was dimly lit, with just a small central ceiling light, and the curtains were closed. A TV flickered in the corner, directly in front of a navy-coloured armchair, its cushions so worn and compressed down as to be nearly flat. As Charlie entered the room, she saw a bed along the back wall with the figure of a man lying flat, his back and head propped up and supported by a number of large pillows. A drip fed into his arm through a tube running from a bag of fluids held up on a metal prop by the side of him. His hair was ginger and swept back off his face and his skin was pale from lack of sun.

‘Gary, there's some police here want to speak to you about Helena.'

He turned towards them, a sneer plastered across his face.

‘Well, well, well. If it's not the pigs! Sorry, officers. You're wasting your time. You see I've hardly been able to leave my bed, never mind abduct two women and their kids, since you lot made me come off that bike. If that is what you've come to ask me, yet again you've picked on the wrong man.'

He pulled the blanket to one side. His legs lay askew, misshapen and skinny from lack of muscle tone. He reached down and pulled at his left knee. It flopped across the bed when he released it, lying useless at an angle.

The woman moved over to the side of the bed and straightened it, covering him over with the blanket again.

‘Don't give them the satisfaction of seeing you like this, son.'

She turned towards Charlie and Hunter. ‘He ain't left this bed for near on three years now, and I would happily tell a judge exactly that. So I suggest you lot piss off and leave us alone.'

A lone crow perched on the corner of the church tower. Above it, the stone spire reached up towards the heavens, bathed, as they were, in the frail light of early morning. A metal weather-vane creaked gently on the point of the spire, its arrows barely moving in the light breeze. Below the decorative castellations at the top of the tower, a black and gold clock dominated the front aspect. Its hand pointed to exactly 7.05.

The crow ceased from preening its feathers as Charlie approached, casting a beady eye in her direction before stretching out its wings and swooping down to stand and watch instead from the top of a nearby gravestone. She picked up a twig and threw it in the direction of the crow. She didn't want it watching her. She didn't want anyone watching her. Bar, her mum being there, she wanted to be alone.

The crow did as it was bid and took flight, off out of the graveyard and away.

She waited for it to be completely out of her sight before setting foot through the gates and into the stillness of the graveyard. It was Wednesday, but not just any Wednesday. It was eighteen years to the day from the Wednesday when Jamie, her younger brother, had disappeared from her life. It was why she had always hated Wednesdays.

She could hardly bear to go to his grave. To do so was an acknowledgement that he was there, and even after all this time she still couldn't quite believe he was never coming back. In her hands she clutched his small teddy bear, the one with the sailor's hat and blue and white stripy scarf. She hated what it symbolized, the irony of the outfit, but she also knew it had been his favourite. She brought it with her every time she came here, just to show him she would always look after it; even though she had failed to do the same for him.

As she walked towards his gravestone, she could almost hear his excited voice the day he had decided that, just as his name ended in an ‘ie' so should she become Charlie. ‘Then we can go to-ie's, and fro-ie's'. He'd thought that so funny, repeating it time and time again, adding any word that ended in the same sound. Charlie, Jamie, happy, funny; laughing and laughing as he'd run up the beach at West Wittering, throwing himself on to the sand and burying himself up to his neck; pretending he was dead. How she wished it was pretend.

She rounded the edge of the building and trod the leafy path towards where his body was buried, in the shelter of a small cluster of conifers, whose colour remained solid and strong all year round, and whose height and thickness protected him from the winds and the worst of the rain. She liked that he was protected from the storm now.

As she arrived at the grave, she noticed the flowers, freshly planted, bright rainbow colours. She knew who they were from immediately and the knowledge only added to her loss. Closing her eyes, she stood silently remembering, trying to focus all her thoughts on the light, not the darkness, the happy not the sad. It was still so hard, even after all this time. Black was so much harder to erase than white, covering any brilliance in shadow. A raft of memories started to dance before her eyes. She concentrated on his face and felt tears spring up at the sight of his smile. She smiled back at him through the tears.

She didn't know how long she stood guard at the graveside. Nothing else mattered except clutching hold of all that remained of Jamie. Her reverie was broken at last by the screech of the crow. She opened her eyes and saw it land on top of the tallest conifer. The branch swayed and bent but held its weight. Her time with Jamie was over and she needed to return to work. It was, after all because of him that she had joined, to give others the justice that he had never had.

She glanced down at his name and age engraved in the headstone; ten years old. Way too young for his name to be etched in granite. She knew who the flowers were from, but like a wound that refused to heal, she decided to rub salt into it, pick at the scab further.

Bending down, she lifted the card and saw the neat, precise handwriting that she recognised so well.

To my dearest Jamie,
Always in my thoughts, my brave little man. Lots of love Mum xxxx

She placed it back in the same position, rubbing at the tears that were running freely down her cheeks. Why couldn't you have waited for me, Mum? Why turn me down and come by yourself. Why leave me alone when we both feel the same pain?

Touching her fingers to her lips, she blew a kiss towards the graveside before turning and marching smartly away.

‘Goodbye, baby brother. Sleep tight.'

A small, but steadily growing contingent of press were setting up outside the front of Lambeth HQ. Charlie noticed the group bustling for the best view as she approached the building and was immediately irritated. She was not in the mood today to deal with nosey reporters and pushy cameramen. Plus, after her earlier visit to the graveyard, she was now late.

Deciding she didn't want to elbow her way through the media scrum, she broke into a jog, before vaulting the car park barrier and waving her warrant card towards the attendant. It wasn't as if he didn't know her. But to her annoyance, he started to give chase.

‘It's only me,' she shouted towards the pursuing man, who gave up running and shouted at her instead.

‘For God's sake, Charlie! You're supposed to let me see your ID every time you come in or out. Especially at the moment, with that lot outside.'

‘But you know me, so what's the problem?'

‘Because we've got our orders and I'll get in trouble if they see me letting you in without checking.'

‘If someone is sat watching CCTV just to make sure that
you're
doing your job right, then
they're
not doing their job right. There are far more important things to be doing.'

‘I'd rather just see your warrant card next time, Charlie. It's much easier.'

‘OK, Point taken. You have my word.'

She sprinted across the yard, before tapping in the security code and disappearing through the back door into the bowels of the building.

She could hear Hunter's voice as she walked towards the office, puffing slightly from the exertion of the sprint and the ensuing jog up the stairs. Everyone else was already gathered and working.

‘Where have you been, Charlie? You're late and I've been waiting for you!' Hunter looked tired; his skin was lacklustre, his cheeks blotchy and his eyes bloodshot. Deep frown lines were etched into his brow and he was squinting towards her, as if trying to focus properly, a clear indicator that he was stressed. He ran his hands up across his face and over his head. She felt the irritation from earlier lift. When the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police was being made to squirm, everybody felt the heat. He was clearly under pressure.

‘I'm sorry, guv. It's Wednesday. I had to go somewhere before I came in. You know how it is. Then I got caught in the extra security measures downstairs.'

Hunter knew she was often late on a Wednesday but he had never asked her why, perhaps guessing it was a personal matter he'd rather not have to discuss. He didn't mind talking job, or sport with her; but anything else was left for Bet and the others in the office.

‘Be that as it may, we need to get on. Tidy yourself up quickly. You've missed the briefing, so we'll talk on the way.'

‘Where are we off to?'

‘They've found the car that was used in the abduction of Helena and Daisy.'

Hunter was already walking out of the office. He threw a set of car keys towards her and she caught them deftly, stopping briefly to run a brush through her hair, slip out of her trainers into her job shoes and grab a fresh jacket from the coat stand. She pulled a clipboard and several new pens from the top of Paul's desk, mouthing the words ‘thanks' before sprinting out. As well as being his driver, Hunter also expected her to make any notes that were required. As she ran to catch up, she saw him talking briefly to the DCI. He motioned her to pass him, so she ran on ahead to get the car, picking him up as he waited by the back door.

‘Where are we heading then, guv?'

‘Pollards Hill Estate, Mitcham.'

She swung the car up to the barrier and waited for the attendant to open it before squeezing out through the waiting journalists, many of whom shouted questions as they passed.

Hunter ignored them.

‘Good work by uniform in Merton. A member of the public rang to say a Black BMW had been left half across his driveway at some point, the night before last. He'd expected the owner to return, but by this morning they still hadn't, so he phoned in. Luckily the call centre staff recalled the circulation of the suspect's car as being the same model and colour and put two and two together. Got uniform straight there to check it out. It's almost certainly the right one; even has the cherry shaped air freshener. It's a hire car so I've had officers sent to the rental company. It was picked up by a man who fits the description of the abductor. The employee dealing with him recalls the same scar.'

‘Excellent, have we got a name?'

‘Yes, but so far it seems to be false. Hired with a fake driving licence and ID.'

‘Any CCTV in the office?'

‘Not working unfortunately. I've already had officers scanning CCTV for the nearby streets. He used the transport network to get to the car hire office but was careful to move around on it a lot, jumping from bus to underground so that we lost track quite quickly. Even when we can see him briefly he always wears a hat and keeps his head buried in a paper so we haven't any facial image for mapping.'

‘He knows what he's doing then?'

‘It doesn't take much thought these days to know how widespread CCTV is. Every other TV programme shows what people get up to on camera.'

They were travelling down Streatham High Road now, towards Streatham Common. As they got to the Common, they took a right, past the Greyhound Inn, the scene of the first big pub fight Charlie dealt with on arriving at Lambeth Borough.

‘What about the car? Anything of use in it?'

‘No, clean as a whistle as far as any possessions being left behind. No obvious blood or weapons either. The abductor must be confident that there's nothing for us to find, or else he wouldn't have left the car in such a conspicuous place. I think he's playing games with us. We don't really need to attend as it's just about to be taken off for a full forensic examination but the bosses wanted no stone left unturned. It'll be good to see exactly where it is though, especially in relation to the rental office and the McPherson house.'