Child's Play (19 page)

Mentally open-mouthed, Sarah watched the woman drift off towards the kitchen and close the door behind her. The DI perched on the leather three-seater and, keeping her voice down, glanced up at Harries. ‘If your daughter was missing …' Shouldn't Nicola have been over them like a rash for latest developments?

‘I get the drift.' Harries flopped next to her, helped himself to a tissue from a box on the floor. ‘What you reckon she's doing in there, boss?'

Gesundheit.
‘Bless you.' She shifted back even further. ‘Who knows? Dutch courage perhaps.'

‘Double Dutch.' Harries sniffed. ‘Ask me, she's already had a few.'

Tired
and
emotional then? Sarah thought the woman certainly looked knackered, distraught even. Must be a nightmare having a child missing, maybe she needed the hard stuff to soften the edges. Sarah cocked her head. Either Reynolds had the radio on or she had company.

Dave was restless already. Peeling himself off the sofa, he flicked the balled tissue at the bin. ‘Whoops.' Nicola's aim was as pants as Dave's. He tidied the litter up for her then, hands in pockets, prowled round the room. Sarah pricked her ears. Two voices? Both female?

‘Do you want kids, boss?' Dave had his back to her.

‘Not right this minute.' She frowned. The ear-wigging was going nowhere; she gave it up as a bad job. What was Mr Snoop holding?

‘Fun-nee. You know what I mean – some time down the line.'

If she was honest, no. More than once she'd had to break news of a child's death, witnessed the raw grief of parents, the broken hearts, shattered lives, families ripped apart. In Sarah's book the old saying about children being a hostage to fortune was bang on. ‘I can live without them, Dave.'

‘No group hug for you then.' Turning, he showed her the photograph in his hand, three generations of Reynolds women: Linda, Nicola, Caitlin, arm round waists, big smiles – all genes together.

Given Sarah's mother – and father – were dead, even if she did have a kid there'd be no Team Quinn pose. ‘As I say, I can live with—'

‘Sorry about that, sergeant …?' Nicola didn't sound too apologetic.

Sarah sighed almost theatrically. The deliberate demotion for whatsername? Such an original put down. ‘Quinn. Detective Inspector.'

‘I was in the middle of a call. How can I help?'

Stop raking your hair and taking a seat will do for a start.
Sarah bit her tongue. The relationship had started off on the wrong foot and slalomed fast. She found the woman impossible, unfathomable, knew she ought to build bridges. Tough. She was a cop not Kingdom Brunel. ‘The argument you had with Caitlin. Why hide it?'

‘Argument?' The acting had gone up a notch.

‘Blazing row then.' Reynolds still needed a cue. ‘Luke Holden?'

‘Oh that.' She flapped a hand, squatted on the edge of an armchair. ‘As far as he's concerned, Caitlin has a blind spot.'

‘Soft spot more like.' What she'd read of Caitlin's diary made that clear.

‘He's no good for her. I told her to keep away. I didn't … don't … want her hurt again.'

Nicola's hands were folded tightly in her lap but she still had the shakes. ‘Why are you asking all this anyway? Holden has nothing to do with what's happening to Caitlin.' The shouting seemed over the top.

Sarah held the woman's gaze. ‘You sound very sure about that, Mrs Reynolds.'

She took a deep breath, briefly closed her eyes. ‘I don't want you wasting time on him, that's all.'

‘I won't be.' Sarah let a few seconds elapse. ‘Not for a while anyway.' Holden, she revealed, was in intensive care in hospital after an apparent overdose. Reynolds' surprise seemed genuine though she asked no questions, voiced no concern. Sarah let the silence ride again, then: ‘Is there any reason you can think of why he'd try to take his own life, Mrs Reynolds?'

‘As it happens, inspector, I'd rather concentrate on ways of saving Caitlin's.'

Harries leaned forward. ‘Are you OK, Mrs Reynolds? Can I get you some water or something?'

‘No. I'm fine. Just ask your questions and go.'

‘That went well, boss.'

‘You are so predictable, Dave.' It was the line he always came out with after an interview from hell.

‘You and Nicola Reynolds?' He pressed finger and thumb together. ‘Not a cigarette paper between you.'

Lots of smoke – and mirrors – on Reynolds' part though.
‘Dave, please.' Her grip tightened on the wheel. ‘I'm not in the mood.' She'd got naff all out of Nicola; Caitlin was still God knew where; the inquiry wasn't so much stalled as in reverse. On top of that it was Saturday night, it was pissing down and the most exciting thing on Sarah's horizon was hitting Tesco.

‘You as good as accused her of lying about being on the phone in the kitchen.'

‘I know what I heard, Dave.' Two voices. She'd swear on it.

‘Ways and means, boss.' He was digging in a pocket. ‘I think you rub her up the wrong way.'

‘Thanks for the valuable insight. Now shut up.' She didn't need the lecture. Asking if Caitlin and Neil Lomas were close, perhaps too close, had very nearly got them thrown out, but the question had to be posed. Nicola's apoplectic denial was as predictable as Dave's verdict on the session. Neither was helpful. ‘Where d'you want dropping?'

‘Back at the ranch? If that's OK?'

‘Yeah, why not?' She peered at the screen through wipers that were barely coping. ‘That reminds me. The chief. Reckon we should organize a card, bottle of Scotch or something?'

‘Thought you said it'd only be a few days.' Could he sound less interested?

‘Even so. He sounded well down on the phone, Dave. The guy never takes time off.'

‘What's up with him?'

‘He wouldn't say.' She cut him another glance. ‘What
are
you doing?' He'd been fidgeting like a kid with fleas since getting in the car.

‘Checking Nicola's litter.'

‘Litter?' Of course, the balled-up paper around the bin. He smoothed out the sheet, blew off flecks of ash. ‘Well?'

‘Amazing what you can pick up,' he said. ‘Nicola Reynolds' kid's missing, right? Why do you suppose she's taking an interest in a child murder from 1960?' As a throwaway line, it took some beating. ‘Fancy thrashing it out over a drink, boss?'

Sod Tesco. ‘Your shout?' She smiled. He could put some of that overtime to good use.

N
icola Reynolds opened the door and wordlessly gestured Caroline into the sitting room.

‘Bad timing or what?' The reporter gave her now tight-lipped hostess a tentative smile as she slipped past. Like Nicola, she'd certainly not expected Sarah Quinn and the boy David to come calling. Not when she and Nicola had been getting on so well. No worries; they'd just have to pick up where they left off.

Nicola headed straight for the drinks trolley. ‘I won't have that woman in this house again. Who the hell does she think she is?' She flashed a bottle at Caroline. Gordon's. ‘I've a damn good mind to slap in a complaint.'

‘A small one, thanks.' The reporter sank back on the settee, the leather still warm from one of the cops' backsides. Caroline had skulked in the kitchen knowing just how ecstatic Sarah Quinn would have been to see her cosying up to Caitlin's mum. Fortunately the reporter had already played her ace before the Ice Queen showed. The top card – make that cards – was letting Nicola see the photos on her phone, the macabre mural in wide shot and close-up. The fact she and Nicola obviously shared the same mystery correspondent had helped forge a bond of sorts. ‘Cheers. The inspector's not everyone's cup of tea.' She tipped her tumbler at Nicola. ‘I wouldn't underestimate her though.'

Nicola's snort suggested otherwise. But Caroline knew Quinn wouldn't take long to put two and two together – once the inquiry established the Reynolds-Bailey link. The reporter had elicited it within minutes. She'd taken along a couple of cuttings and could've played snap with Nicola's collection. Snap, not Happy Families, given Nicola Reynolds was the daughter of a child killer. On top of that, the poor bloody woman had only just found out.

Talk about right place, right time – Caroline could hardly believe her luck. What's more, as soon as Nicola saw Caitlin's initials on the pic, she seemed almost eager to tell her tale. And what a tale. The more background that emerged, the more Caroline had to play down her growing excitement. She'd covered just about every sort of story in her journalistic career. This was unprecedented. To die for. A child killer's granddaughter abducted fifty years after the crime. And someone seeking retribution? The news potential was huge, margin for error massive: Caitlin Reynolds' life hung in the balance. Even Caroline felt an unaccustomed caution, a tad out of her depth.

‘I really think you should tell DI Quinn what you know.' She studied Nicola over the rim of her glass. With so much at stake the reporter had already decided to bring the cops in. Eventually. That didn't stop her wanting to get as much material as she could first.

‘No way.' Nicola shook her head. ‘I've told you why. He says he'll kill Caitlin.'

The guy could top Caitlin anyway but Caroline kept that thought back. ‘And you've absolutely no idea who's holding her?'

‘Believe me, I'd tell you if I did.'

Would she? Caroline wasn't sure. ‘What about a member of the murdered girl's family?' she asked. ‘The parents would be getting on a bit now, but I wonder if she had siblings, cousins?' The way Caroline saw it, anyone bearing a grudge was fair game.

‘How would I know, Miss King?' She put down her empty glass. ‘It happened years before I was born.'

Thinking of grudges. ‘The builder's a possibility. Ted Crawford? Your mother falsely accused him of the killing.'

‘Your guess is as good as mine.' She picked a loose thread from the dressing gown, rolled it between her fingers.

‘Guesswork's not going to do it, Nicola.' Logic dictated it had to be someone who was around at the time. Caroline knew how to dig, but the police had instant access to records and the resources and officers to follow trails. ‘Time's passing, Mrs Reynolds. The police—'

‘No. No. No.' She clamped her hands over her ears.

OK, OK, I get the picture.
Caroline leaned forward, softened her voice. ‘So what are you going to do, Nicola?' Conciliatory. Solicitous. She didn't want to lose the woman, or risk the exclusive.

Nicola needed a refill. She strode across the room, topped up the glass then turned to face Caroline. ‘You've asked all the questions so far. Let me ask you one. Whoever this … this … sadist is who's holding Caitlin … why's he involved you?'

As much as she once thought she'd been singled out, Caroline had changed her mind. ‘I don't think it's me,
per se
. I imagine he's just after press coverage, any high-profile journalist will do. He wants me to deliver.' She just wasn't sure what yet. ‘When was he last in contact?'

Slight hesitation. ‘Yesterday?' Quick sip of drink. ‘Yes. Yesterday.' She walked back to her chair. Cagey and evasive.

Caroline wondered why the woman had lied, what else she might be keeping back. ‘Do you know why he's holding Caitlin?' Reynolds' shrug seemed too casual. ‘Surely he's told you what he wants out of this?'

‘Nothing. No.' She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Look, Miss King, I've had a rough day. I need—'

‘Of course. Thanks for your time. We'll talk again.' Caroline grabbed her bag, rose to her feet. ‘Just one thing, Nicola.' She waited until the woman was standing. ‘When did your mother die?'

‘Die? What makes you think she's dead?'

‘I'm sorry.' She felt her colour rise. ‘I assumed from what you said—'

‘You misunderstood, Miss King. She has Alzheimer's, her mind's failing. I suppose you could call it as good as dead.'

The Alzheimer's was stretching it a bit but so what? Nicola didn't particularly want a nosy hack knocking on her mother's door. God knows what the old crone might come out with. Nicola wouldn't have been so forthcoming herself but for the pictures on King's phone. It was shock more than anything that had led her to invite the reporter in. Like the look on King's face when she realized the main player was still alive. Lying in bed now, Nicola sighed as she stared at the ceiling. Not giving King the old woman's name and address had only delayed the inevitable. King was a reporter. She'd find out sooner or later. Hopefully, by then it would be too late anyway.

‘Try and sleep, Nic.' She stiffened as Neil laid a proprietary arm across her naked stomach. He'd slipped back to the house after midnight. She was aware of where he'd been, what he'd been doing. She'd begged him to help: a few drinks in a few pubs, words in the right – or wrong – people's ears. Everybody hates child killers – even more than paedos. Neil's father, an ex-Fleet Street reporter, had covered the original case. He'd kept tabs on Susan Bailey for years thinking he might write a book about child killers, recognized a photograph Neil had shown him months back of Nicola and her mother. She and Neil had discussed tipping off the press: child killer in our midst, that kind of thing. But Neil said the media wouldn't dare touch a story like that these days. Besides, it would have taken too long and Nicola wanted her daughter back as soon as humanly possible.

‘Don't worry, Nic.' She tried not to recoil when Neil traced the curve of her belly with his finger. ‘We'll have Caitlin home before you know it.'

‘It's the last one on the right, boss.' Slurring just a touch, Harries leaned across her, pointing out the house. His finger was none too steady and pretty superfluous given the street had only one end-terrace. ‘'S good of you to drop me off.'