Child's Play (4 page)

‘That Indian you promised me on the way over.' The permanently starving and stick-thin DC grinned and patted his six-pack.

She arched an eyebrow; her recollection of the exchange differed. ‘What I actually said was let's see how it goes.'

‘And?'

‘On a scale of one to ten?' She tapped the wheel with an index finger. ‘Minus twelve.'

‘That's a no-no, then?'

Not buying. Not peckish. Not in the mood. The interview – if that's what you could call it – with Nicola Reynolds had left a bitter taste in Sarah's mouth. The woman's apparent obduracy still rankled. ‘Who's a clever boy?'

‘Thanks, mu–a'm.'

She twitched a lip at the swift switch from maternal to formal address. Mind, her patronizing tone had asked for the former. ‘Nice recovery, Batman.'

‘Hey, does that make you—'

‘Don't even go there, Dave.' She caught his broad smile in the wing mirror. It didn't take much to keep the guy happy. All she had to do was laugh at his jokes, tell him occasionally he still resembled a young Keith Richards and reassure him that one day he'd make senior detective. After working with him for three years, she had no doubt of the latter.

‘Funny though, 'cause there was me …' There was a glint in her eye when she met his glance. ‘There was me, thinking your mind was on the job and you were asking whether it was too late for Caitlin Reynolds.'

‘Boss! My mind's always on the job.' Dave's innuendo was as subtle as a flying brick with flashing lights and landing gear. Two or three times now he'd made his personal feelings clear. She knew she only had to say the word and their relationship would go beyond the professional. The potential pitfalls and myriad complications that could ensue –
would
ensue – were all that stopped her from crossing the thin blue line. As for the bottom line? He was well fancy-able. Not that she'd told him. She'd only recently admitted it to herself. She also knew that a relationship, fling, liaison, whatever was increasingly tempting. Like a lot of cops, Sarah was sick of going back to an empty house, lonely bed, solo breakfast. Maybe if fit guys were falling over themselves beating a daily path to her door?

‘OK, you win, DI Quinn.' He had in mind the verbal stand-off. ‘What about the girl? Is it too late?'

‘You're the budding Rebus. You tell me.' The faux goading was more of a prompt; she'd formed her own take, didn't want to colour Dave's.

‘Mole. Mountain. Storm. Teacup. Crown. Jewel.' He stretched impossibly long legs into the footwell, laced fingers in his lap. ‘A looker like Caitlin? My money's on her being with a bloke. Christ, if my ma had been anything like Nicola Reynolds, I'd have legged it way back.'

‘You're all heart, Dave.'

‘You did ask.'

‘Fair point. Well made.' His assessment of the woman was even harsher than Sarah's. Had he hit the nail on the proverbial? Nicola Reynolds to say the least had come across as flaky. But apart from gratuitous hostility, ‘least said' had been the woman's fall-back stance. Sarah hadn't been able to read her at all. Surely if Nicola really thought her daughter was in danger, she'd have moved heaven and earth with a toothpick to help, not stonewall every question? Sarah waited while Dave, who was on a call, brought whoever was on duty in the squad room up to speed, then said: ‘So, you reckon the girl might've done a runner?' He waggled an either-way hand, said it wouldn't surprise him.

They drove in silence for a while, Sarah mentally digesting Harries' input. With all the moles in mountainous teacups, he clearly thought the mother was making too big a thing of Caitlin's absence. She narrowed her eyes. ‘I don't follow, Dave. Why jewel, crown?'

‘Jewel
in
the Crown, boss. The Indian on the Moseley Road? Mind dropping by? I could murder a biriyani.'

Smiling, she shook her head. ‘OK. You win.'

‘Fancy playing something else, boss?'

S
usan used her sing-song voice again. ‘Where …
are
… you? I'm …
coming
… ready or not.' She giggled softly. Pauline's high-pitched squeal had just rung out from the copse. The silly little kid got so lathered up with excitement she could barely contain herself. Susan raced across the long grass and hid behind the gnarly old oak tree. Its massive pitted trunk was smothered in dark green moss. Susan hated touching it when it was damp, but it was hardly slimy at all now. Her glance darted to all the usual hidey places, but she couldn't spot any tell-tale sign. Usually she'd catch sight of Pauline's tiny white sandal or glimpse her curls. Not to worry. Susan only had to bide her time; she knew it wouldn't be long before she heard rustling or another squeal.

Head cocked, she pricked her ears, held her breath. A fat bumble bee flew near and Susan swatted it away. Was there jam on her face? Do bees even like jam? The bee was still too close for comfort. She flapped both hands until it buzzed off.

Still not a sound from … Susan stiffened. What was that? A splash in the stream. And another. She angled her head towards the noise. It wouldn't be Pauline; the kid knew better than to go near water on her own. Years ago a toddler had drowned in that stream and every parent in the village warned their kids not to play there. Anyway it had stopped now. Susan relaxed. It would've been a frog or a bird or something.

She dashed to the next tree then slowly peered round the trunk. Her nose wrinkled when she caught a whiff of smoke. She knew it was from a ciggie 'cause her dad smoked and she hated the smell on him. Odds on it was Alfie Marsden. He'd built a den in the copse and was always skulking there having a crafty fag. His mum had caught him last week puffing away on one of her Woodbines. Betty Marsden was only four foot ten but she'd marched the big lummock straight to the village bobby who'd given him a right telling-off. He probably wouldn't have understood though. Susan's mum said Alfie had the mind of a child. Other folk called him a gentle giant. Susan had overheard lots more comments but those were the kindest. She reckoned a lot of the village kids were cruel to Alfie but he couldn't help being a bit slow. Besides, he was always kind to her and Paul—

Pauline.
Where the devil was she? The little madam must have found a new hiding place. Darting keen glances left, right and centre, Susan sneaked to the next tree then the next then the next. Not so much as a peep. She did clock a dead useful bit of wood near a clump of dusty nettles though. Crouching down, she disentangled the fallen branch from the weeds and stripped off a few twigs. She held it this way and that. Abracadabra! It could be anything she wanted: walking stick, cane, sword, rifle, spear. Susan was pleased as punch with the find – just wait until she showed Pauline.

Clutching the stick, Susan tiptoed into the clearing and stood very still, just like the statues in the churchyard. A smile played at her lips. She'd have to sprout wings to be like those statues. She strained her ears so hard she thought her head would burst.

Right. Only one thing for it, she'd have to play the usual trick. Never mind squeal, Pauline sometimes wet her pants when she heard Susan's scary voice. Taking a deep breath, she cupped her hands round her mouth. ‘I'm coming to get you. Come out, come out, wherever you are.'

The birdlife emerged all of a flap. The sudden loud cacophony of squawks and snapping twigs startled Susan so much she ducked instinctively and very nearly lost her footing. She felt a right idiot and just knew she'd have beetroot cheeks. Thank God no one was watching. Pauline certainly couldn't have seen or she'd have split her sides laughing. Susan frowned. She couldn't have heard the monster voice either. She must've ventured further than normal.

Susan cupped her hands again and yelled louder. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.' Waiting. Listening. She'd have to shout even louder: ‘I'm coming to get you.' Not a bean. But the scary voice
always
worked. Cross now, Susan stamped her foot. What was Pauline playing at? The little madam had better look out or she'd be in for a damn good slapping.

S
arah studied her face in the bathroom mirror. Nordic colouring was all well and good but a whiter shade of pale? Either she'd looked better or new lighting might be a sound investment. Hands round the sink, she leaned forward and peered closer. The mauve shadows might well colour co-ordinate with the dove-grey eyes but the combined effect put her in mind of an anaemic vampire. She fumbled round in a minuscule make-up bag until her fingers found the Touche Éclat. The DI usually eschewed war paint, left it to the likes of her old – for want of a better word – friend, the journalist Caroline King, but this morning a little slap was definitely called for.

Her lip curved as she blended in the cream: Dave had been lucky not to get a little slap last night with his tongue-in-cheek suggestion about playing mummies and daddies. They'd not just dropped by the Jewel in the Crown – over the space of a couple of hours they'd shared a table and a lot of laughs. She couldn't recall in what context he'd come out with the quip but she knew she'd brushed it off. Knew too that the spicy food and two Cobras would mean a disturbed night. Had it been worth it? Yes. No. Probably. She rolled her eyes. Make your mind up, woman.

Either way, twice she'd had to get up to use the loo, taken the opportunity to check her phone at the same time. That there'd not been a peep out of Nicola Reynolds, she read as a good sign.

She examined her face again.
Result.
Forget the lighting; the concealer had worked its magic. Reaching for the mascara wand, she decided she might as well go down the King route for once. After a quick coat of lip gloss, she took less than a minute to expertly twist her long blonde hair into a well-behaved bun. Talk about fine art. Smiling, she saluted her reflection: DI Quinn reporting for duty. She looked down. Actually, clothes wouldn't be a bad idea. Still smiling, she retrieved her phone, padded back to the bedroom. The ivory satin duvet was barely crumpled; only one pillow bore a dent. Sarah pursed her lips. Mummies and daddies? There were far worse games to play.

‘What on earth were you playing at, Nic?' Neil Lomas dangled the mobile at arm's length as if it held the lurgy. Nicola thought he might be going down with something already: a pink flush darkened the dusting of freckles across his nose and a line of sweat glistened over his top lip. He'd inadvertently raked his sandy hair into unflattering tufts. ‘You so should have given it to the police.'

The remark stung, as did Nicola's eyes. Blowing out smoke, she appraised Neil through the haze, hoped she wasn't seeing him properly for the first time. Over the last ten hours, she'd beaten herself up so much, the last thing she needed was the man who supposedly loved her weighing in too. She'd thought he'd understand her actions, or lack of them. Brushing a layer of ash from her skirt she murmured, ‘Thanks for your support, Neil.'

His mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. Contempt? Anger? Disgust? Nicola couldn't read the signs, currently didn't care. She took a final drag on her umpteenth cigarette and ground the butt in a saucer. It had taken courage to confide in Neil, confide in anyone. He'd probably have come to the house earlier if she'd phoned, but she'd convinced herself the psycho holding Caitlin was spying, monitoring her calls. When she eventually rang, she'd been cagey, asked him casually to drop by before college. And when she'd showed him the images, she'd studied his face as he scanned the emails and notes. She'd hoped for a few words of comfort, not a bloody lecture. Slumped in her chair now, she watched him rest an elbow on the table, close his eyes, pinch the bridge of his nose. The Thinker pose was marred by shaving nicks on his neck oozing tiny pearls of blood.

The silence unnerved her. She reached for the radio, tuned to a local news station, just in case. Stupid, really. The police would have told her if …

‘I'm sorry, Nic.' She flinched when he laid his hand on hers. ‘Seeing her like that … I can't bear to think of it.'

‘
You
can't? What do you think it's doing to me?' Fractured sleep. Mental torture. The very thought of food made her gag. She'd gone over it again and again in her head, wracked her brain for reasons why this was happening. Who could be so cruel?

‘Then why …?' He swallowed. ‘Why the hell didn't you tell the police what's going on?'

‘I was scared, goddamn it.' She whacked the table with the edge of her fist. ‘
Am
scared.' She dropped her head in her hands, couldn't let her mind go there. She heard him get up, move across the kitchen, fill the kettle. Great. Tea but no sympathy …

‘I'll make coffee. You look as if you need it.'

The little sleep Nicola had snatched had been head down at the kitchen table. Stale smells clung to yesterday's crumpled clothes and vestiges of make-up lingered in the lines round her eyes. Not that his dig was aimed at her appearance. She knew the mouthwash had done little to mask her gin breath. She drummed the table with her fingers. ‘Don't hold back, Neil.'

He stiffened momentarily. ‘You're the one who held back, Nic.' Turning, he held her gaze for the first time that morning. ‘If you want my opinion, you need to call the police now. Work out what to say, why you failed to put them in the picture.' He raised a palm in apology for the unintentional pun.

‘Christ, Neil, you've read the email.' She snatched another cigarette. ‘“If you want to see your precious daughter alive again …” I can't take that risk.' Trembling, she couldn't hold the flame steady.

‘Nic, sweetheart.' He knelt, gentler now, held the lighter for her. ‘Whoever's doing this is toying with you, playing mind games. I bet he's just taking a punt that you called the police. He couldn't know for sure, could he? Unless …'