Angel of Death (12 page)

‘And their kids?’

‘Mark and Charlotte are being treated in hospital.’

‘Will they live?’

‘I really couldn’t say. You seem to know a fair bit about Stephen Baxley’s family, considering you haven’t seen him in so long.’

‘Yeah, well he was a Park Hill boy done good. I’ve always kept an eye out for him in the news.’ There was a trace of heaviness to Reynolds’s step as he approached the bar. He poured himself a glass of fresh orange juice and gulped it down as if his throat was burning with thirst. ‘You’d best leave now, copper.’ He looked at Jim in the mirrored wall behind the bar. ‘I’m done talking.’

The same light Jim had seen on the stairs was back in Reynolds’s eyes, but it was no longer laced with amusement. Scenting that things could turn nasty, Jim was half tempted to prod Reynolds a little more, see if he could provoke him into totally losing his cool. There was nothing he would have liked better than an excuse to haul Reynolds down the station. Not that he thought it would serve any real purpose. Reynolds’s thousand-quid-an-hour lawyer would have a field day with the fact that his client had been questioned without probable cause or even reasonable suspicion. Still, it would put a smile on his and a lot of other cops’ faces to see the bastard locked up, if only for a few hours.

As if he’d read Jim’s mind, a knowing, humourless smile tugged at Reynolds’s mouth. ‘You can show yourself out, I’m going back to bed. You should too, Monahan. Remember what I said, if you want to look half as good as me, you’ve got to get eight or nine hours solid a night.’

Jim returned a crooked smile of his own. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

As Jim turned towards the stairs, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Beyond glass doors a man in jeans and a black bomber jacket was leaning against the balcony railings with his back to the room, smoking a cigarette. He was built like a brick wall. A lattice of pearly scars crisscrossed the crown of his shaved head, clearly the result of an axe or machete attack. Taking a mental note of his physical description, Jim descended to the front door. The bulldogs followed him all the way to the street. He shut the gate, resisting the impulse to snatch up a couple of stones and fling them at their snub-nosed faces.

He hadn’t got any new information out of Reynolds, but then he hadn’t expected to. What he had got was confirmation that Reynolds and Baxley’s relationship went well beyond that of estranged childhood pals. Reynolds’s muted yet intense reaction to the news of Baxley’s death had made him even more curious as to the true nature of that relationship. Reynolds had been lying when he claimed not to have spoken to Baxley in twenty-odd years, of that Jim felt sure. What he had to do now was find some way of breaking open that lie. His instincts told him that could be the key to cracking the case, and he always listened to his instincts. His phone rang. He put it to his ear. ‘What’s up, Amy?’

‘I think I’ve found the girl.’

‘That was quick work.’

‘She was top of the pile. Her name’s Grace Kirby.’

‘Grace Kirby!’ Jim exclaimed in recognition. ‘I remember her. She went missing back when DCS Knight was doing Garrett’s job. I didn’t work the case, but everyone in CID was given a photo of her.’ He closed his eyes, sifting through the thousands of faces he’d dealt with over the years. ‘Long, dark hair, blue eyes, slim, pretty.’
No, not pretty
, corrected his mind,
beautiful. She was seamlessly beautiful in the way that only children can be, her face untouched by the corruption of the world.

‘That’s her.’

‘I knew I knew that girl from somewhere.’ Jim pressed a hand to his stomach as it emitted a grumble of hunger. ‘Fancy a bit of breakfast at Joe’s Cafe? It’s on me.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘I’ll see you there in ten. Bring a copy of the Kirby girl’s case-file and Reynolds’s file with you.’

Jim drove back into the city centre through streets rapidly filling with rush-hour traffic. He parked outside a backstreet greasy-spoon not far from Police Headquarters. ‘Usual, is it?’ asked the woman behind the counter as he entered the cafe. He nodded, dropping wearily onto a chair at a Formica table. Margaret had always watched his diet for him. Saturday was fried breakfast day. The rest of the week it was cereal and toast. But after she walked out, he’d quickly got into the habit of eating a full English every day. Not that he had a particular love of fried food, but as with smoking in bed, he drew a small measure of satisfaction from knowing it would incur his ex-wife’s disapproval. He heaved a sigh. Christ, could he get any more pathetic?

‘Heavy night?’ asked the woman, setting down a steaming mug of tea in front of Jim.

‘Heavy like you wouldn’t believe.’

Amy entered the cafe. She ordered coffee and scrambled eggs on toast, then sat down opposite Jim. She placed a wad of photocopied papers on the table. He leafed through Reynolds’s file. A tattoo of a red devil on the back of Reynolds’s right shoulder and a six-centimetre-long scar on his left buttock where he’d been stabbed in prison were listed under ‘Identifying Marks’. He skimmed over the remainder of the file. That eighteen-month stretch had obviously made a big impact on Reynolds – although not in the way intended. Prior to it, he’d been in and out of court, getting slapped on the wrist for burglary, car theft and other petty charges. In prison he’d made contacts with older professional criminals who’d recruited him into organised crime. In the years since his release, his name had been linked to loan sharking, gambling, prostitution, protection and drug-dealing rackets. He’d also been picked up on suspicion of GBH in 2002 following an incident at his strip-club, The Minx. But investigators had never been able to make anything stick.

The file made for depressing reading. Jim turned his attention to Grace Kirby’s file. She stared up at him from a photograph paper-clipped to the first page: high-cheekboned, full-lipped, hair as black and glossy as coal. She was smiling, but there was a sadness about her eyes, as though she was sorry about something – maybe something she’d done, or maybe something that had been done to her. He looked over the case-notes.

Grace was fifteen years old when she’d gone missing on the sixth of February 1997. Her mother, Linda Kirby, had reported her disappearance after she failed to return home from school. Most of Grace’s clothes were gone from her bedroom, along with several hundred quid her mother had kept in the house, leading officers to conclude that she was a runaway – a belief reinforced by the fact that she’d gone missing on two previous occasions. The first time, she’d returned home of her own accord after twenty-four hours; the second time, she’d been spotted after a couple of days in a fast-food restaurant by a family friend.

Because of her history, Grace wasn’t classified as a critical missing person. Constables spoke to Jay Longford, the boy she was last seen with – he claimed not to know where she was – but a full-fledged search wasn’t initiated until three days had passed. Police and volunteers trawled the city streets, fliers were posted, dozens of people were questioned. All these efforts had generated only one paper-thin lead. Grace’s favourite hangout at the time was a playground at the corner of Wellington Street that was a popular haunt for skateboarders and drug dealers. A week before her final disappearance, she’d been seen there by a school friend named Tara Riley talking to someone wearing a grey mac. Unfortunately, Tara hadn’t seen that same someone’s face. An appeal had been made for whoever it was to come forward, but it went unanswered.

A runaway fifteen-year-old with limited resources can only stay off the police radar for so long. So when Grace still hadn’t been found after several months, the obvious conclusion was that an adult or adults were keeping her hidden. The question was whether she was being kept willingly or against her will. If the latter, chances were she would never be seen again – at least, not alive.

Over the next few months there were several reported sightings of Grace in Sheffield, but none of these leads came to anything. The case remained open, but by the end of the following year, with no new leads, active investigation was closed. Apart from the man in the mac, only one other ‘person of interest’ was mentioned in the case-file – Ron Kirby, Grace’s father. At the time, Ron was a groundsman at Hillsborough Stadium. He was also an alcoholic with a criminal record that included convictions for drink-related crimes such as common assault, disturbing the peace, criminal damage and indecent exposure. On several occasions Grace had turned up at school with suspicious bruises and burn marks. Her teacher had reported the matter to social services after her parents refused to come to the school to discuss it. Social workers had also met with a wall of silence. In the end, although they were well aware Ron Kirby was a hard drinker with a violent temper, they’d decided not to pursue the case.

Jim studied a photograph of Grace’s parents. Ron looked like an aging football hooligan – burly tattooed forearms, close-shaved grey hair. Like her daughter, Linda had obviously once been beautiful – far too beautiful for a Neanderthal like her husband – but her beauty had been worn away by life, leaving a timid shadow of its former self. Her face was thin, almost gaunt, and there were dark shadows and deep lines under her eyes. With her hunched shoulders and large, damp pupils, she looked like a frightened mouse. Not exactly the type of woman to speak out about abuse she and Grace might have suffered at the hands of Ron.

Jim’s gaze returned to Grace. Was it possible she was still alive? It came back to the same basic questions as in ‘97. Had she been abducted against her will? Or had she been picked up and groomed for sex? If the former, statistics indicated that she was long dead. If the latter, there was a small chance she was still alive. He’d seen many times how easy it was for children from loveless and abusive families to fall under the sway of someone who offered them affection. Like a junkie, they sometimes came to crave that affection so much they were willing to do anything for it.

Jim’s line of thought was broken by breakfast being set down. With a smile of thanks, he reached for his knife and fork.

‘So what happened with Reynolds?’ asked Amy. Between mouthfuls of bacon and egg, Jim recounted the details of their meeting. When he’d finished, Amy said, ‘Do you think he was telling the truth about Baxley?’

‘Was he bollocks. There was something between those two, some sort of bond that went beyond friendship. I’m certain of it. The question is, what is it that connected two blokes who moved in such different circles?’

Amy indicated Grace’s photo with her knife. ‘Maybe if we can find her, we’ll find the answer.’

‘Maybe. But even if by some chance Grace Kirby is alive, how the hell are we going to find someone who’s managed to stay unfound for the past fifteen years?’

‘I don’t know, but I’d say the best place to start looking is here.’ The tip of Amy’s knife moved to Grace’s parents.

Looking at Linda Kirby’s grief-stricken face, Jim sighed at the thought of stirring up all the old hurt and anguish. But even worse than that was the thought that they would also be stirring up hope – hope that was almost certainly false. Suddenly he was no longer hungry. He pushed his plate aside. ‘Come on then, let’s go do some work.’

‘Shouldn’t we report to the DCI first?’

‘What for? So he can put someone else on this?’

‘We’ve only glanced through the case-file. There might be other angles to this we don’t know about. We should really speak to someone who worked the case.’

Amy was right, Jim knew. But something within him urged him to act without delay. He had the sense that time was running out.
Grace Kirby’s been missing fifteen years
, an inner voice said.
What difference will a few hours’ delay make?
The answer was obvious – none. But this wasn’t only about the case clock, it was about his own internal clock. He could almost hear it ticking in the centre of his brain, pushing him, compelling him. He tapped the photo of Grace’s parents. ‘You said it yourself, Amy, this is the best and only place to start looking. If you want to talk to Garrett, fine. But I’m moving on this now.’

Picking up the files, Jim approached the counter to pay. Amy frowned after him. With a slight shake of her head, she stood and followed him to his car.

Driving against the flow of rush-hour traffic, they headed out of the city centre along the Penistone Road. The Kirbys’ house was a two-up two-down mid-terrace in the shadow of Hillsborough Stadium, its stone front black with industrial-era soot. ‘You think they still live here?’ asked Amy as they parked up.

‘People like them don’t move house.’

Jim knocked on the door. A moment later, Linda Kirby opened it in a dressing-gown and slippers. She looked the same as in her photograph, except the wrinkles around her eyes and the sadness in them had deepened with age. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could do so a man’s voice boomed down the stairs. ‘Who the bloody hell is it knocking me up at this time of the morning?’

‘Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Kirby,’ said Jim. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Jim Monahan. This is Detective Inspector Amy Sheridan.’

‘This is about my Grace, isn’t it?’ Linda’s voice vibrated with anxiety, but Jim noted that she didn’t seem particularly surprised by their presence.

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve found her, haven’t you?’

‘No, but some new information concerning her case has come to light. Do you mind if we come inside?’

Looking as though she wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, Linda motioned them into the house. ‘Are you deaf, woman?’ came another roar from upstairs. ‘I asked you a bloody question.’

‘It’s the police, Ron,’ replied Linda. ‘They’re here about our Grace.’

The detectives followed Linda into a neat little living room furnished with a three-piece suite that was as old and worn as its owner. The fireplace had been turned into a shrine to Grace. Dozens of framed photos of her cluttered its hearth and mantelpiece. More hung on the wall above. In some of the pictures Grace was a chubby-cheeked toddler, in others she was a smiling young child, and finally she was a sulky-eyed teenager. Linda took a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of her dressing-gown. She lit a cigarette and spoke through it. ‘So what’s this new information?’