From the Cradle (22 page)

‘Precisely. These people are desperate. That’s why they took the children in the first place. I don’t think we should be out here waiting for them to make a move. We need to get in there. Now.’

Hardy turned to Suzanne. ‘That would be a mistake. We need to wait, re-establish contact. We’re not going to go barging straight in there. This isn’t the movies.’

‘I know it isn’t the fucking movies,’ Patrick interrupted. ‘In the movies, the kids always survive.’ It was his turn to appeal to the DCI. ‘We need to do something. I really think it’s a mistake to sit and . . .’

Fraser saved Suzanne from having to make a decision. He waved them over, clutching the phone to his ear with the other hand. He had the phone on speaker so they could all hear.

‘. . . let you tear apart my family.’ It was Koppler, his voice strained and angry.

‘Doctor,’ Fraser replied in a soothing voice. ‘No-one wants to do that. We want to make sure you’re all alright. Is there anything you need us to get for you?’

‘You know what I want.’

‘I meant any food, drinks, medical equipment?’ For a moment Patrick thought Fraser was going to offer to send in a carton of cigarettes.

‘No. All I need is to get my family out of here.’

‘We’re working on that, Dr Koppler, as hard as we can.’ He paused. ‘Would it be possible for me to talk to Sharon? I’d like to see how she’s doing.’

‘No! She’s very . . . fragile at the moment.’

In the man’s voice, beneath the veneer of arrogance, Patrick could detect fear. It was the voice of a man who was way out of his depth, who was probably wondering how the hell he had got himself into this situation.

There were several types of criminals. There were the career criminals, who knew exactly what they were doing. They might be street-level thugs, gang bosses or white collar fraudsters, but whatever level they were at, they were in this game and fully aware of the rules. Then there were the criminals who filled films and books and front pages: the psychopaths, the serials, the cold-blooded and the insane. They were the rarest type and the most slippery.

Finally, there were people like Koppler. People who, for whatever reason, be it circumstance, bad luck or love, found themselves breaking the law, doing stupid things. Whether it be the girl who stole much-needed cash from the till at work, or the guy who ruined his career by getting drunk and in a fight after a stressful day, or the professional who got drawn in to an insane plot, cooked up by two desperate people. Patrick was sure this was Koppler’s category. He had embarked on a journey with no comprehension of where it would lead, no idea that it would end in a house with two kidnapped children, surrounded by armed police. Koppler was not an idiot. He must know there was no way he and Sharon were getting safe passage out of here. He must know his career and reputation were destroyed, that he was going to spend the rest of his life in jail. The only alternative was death. And that was why Patrick was so scared about what was going to happen here.

‘Let me talk to him,’ he said to Fraser. It was hot in the trailer, and the air was becoming humid with their perspiration.

The hostage negotiator shook his head but Patrick turned to Suzanne. ‘Please, tell him to let me do it. I understand him and I’m the only person here he’s met, even if it did end with him whacking me with a paperweight. I’m the only one he’s got a rapport with, however messed up. Let me try to talk him round.’

The DCI hesitated for a moment then said to Fraser, ‘Let him.’

Fraser acquiesced, informing Koppler that he was handing over. He passed the phone to Patrick, who had to resist a brief temptation to wipe the sweat off it first.

‘Dr Koppler,’ he said. ‘This is Detective Inspector Patrick
Lennon
. How are you feeling?’

The psychiatrist didn’t answer straight away and Patrick thought he might have hung up. He knew this was risky. Then Koppler said, ‘I should be asking you that, detective.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about me. My head is made of steel.’

‘What are you trying to do, detective? Talk me round? Try to be my friend?’

Patrick was keenly aware that everyone was watching him.
Carmella
, Suzanne, Fraser. Hardy, still with his arms folded, a deeply sceptical look on his face.

‘No,’ Patrick said. ‘None of that. I just want to give you the chance to talk, and I’ll listen. Because I bet you never get the chance to do that, do you? In your profession, others tell you all their problems, and you listen to them. But I reckon you deserve the chance to do the talking for once. Let others know how you feel.’

He felt foolish speaking the words, they sounded so clichéd and ridiculous to him, and for a moment he wished he hadn’t insisted on trying to do Fraser’s job for him. If Koppler was a bona fide psychiatrist he wouldn’t for a second buy all that guff – he was a highly intelligent individual who wouldn’t be taken in by impassioned rhetoric.

But to Patrick’s surprise, Koppler seemed to take the bait: ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, I do, doctor. I know what it’s like to find yourself in a situation that you think there’s no way out of. When all you can see ahead of you is darkness. But I found a way through the darkness – and you will be able to as well.’

‘What makes you think I’m facing darkness? Ahead of me I can see the thing I’ve always wanted. A family. A bright future.’ There was a smile in the psychiatrist’s voice and it struck Patrick that maybe he’d got it all wrong. He had assumed that it was Sharon, with her history of losing her family, who would be so desperate to replace her dead babies that she would have pulled Koppler along with her. But what if it was the other way round? If Koppler was the driving force, the one who wanted the children? To do it, he would need a woman to help, and when he met Sharon he saw the perfect, damaged female, someone who would go along with it.

She
was the weak link. She was the one they should be talking to, trying to reason with, not Koppler.

He groped for something to say, to keep the conversation flowing, but before he could, he heard Carmella gasp and turned around to find her staring at the house on one of the TV monitors in the lorry, pointing at movement behind a window. A shot was fir
ed –
they heard it even from inside the artic, a sharp pop – and the curtains billowed outwards on the grainy monochrome monitor. A small boy crawled onto the balcony.

‘Go!’
yelled Patrick, and they all piled out of the trailer, running full tilt towards the house.

Chapter 24
Helen – Day 4

Helen could sense Alice’s mood as soon as she walked into the kitchen to start making a dinner that, in all likelihood, none of them would do more than merely pick at. But she and Sean had decided that they had to at least try to keep a grip on normality, and regular meals were a part of that. Sean had even been in his study most of the day, attempting to catch up on some of his backlog of work emails. That’s what he said, anyway, but every time Helen had stuck her head round the door, he had been staring blankly at his screensaver, a rotating collage of photographs of Frankie and Alice.

Alice had her back to Helen, but Helen could tell the sort of day she was having by the way that Alice was angrily spooning instant coffee into her favourite One Night Only mug. She was still wearing her sleep T-shirt and her black hair was all matted at the back, even though it was five in the afternoon.

‘Hi sweetie,’ Helen said, opening the freezer and wondering if she could defrost and marinate pork chops in the next hour. Remembering how much Frankie liked pork and, in the next
second
,
wondering
if someone out there was hurting her. The speed at which her thoughts always immediately returned to Frankie made Helen feel dizzy with pain.

‘You been in bed this afternoon? Thought you were studying.’ She winced as she spoke the words, realizing immediately that they would be perceived as a criticism. ‘I’m not criticizing,’ she added, taking out the chops and unwrapping them.

Alice’s shoulders were as stiff as the pork chops as she poured boiling water into the mug. ‘Get off my back, Helen,’ she muttered.

Helen gritted her teeth. ‘I’m not on your back, Alice, I was making conversation. Are you having dinner with us?’

Alice snorted. ‘You, Dad, me and Nan sitting round a table in silence? No ta.’

‘It’s not easy for any of us, Alice.’

‘What – it’s not easy for you to sit at a table and look at me, the person responsible for letting Frankie get taken out of her room while I was in the house supposedly babysitting? That’s what you mean, isn’t it. You hate me, don’t you? Why don’t you just come right out and
fucking say it!
’

Alice was already screeching, looking like a mad girl with her black hair all tangled and her face twisted with a rage that had slashed across Helen’s landscape, tearing it up without warning like a tornado. Normally Helen would have fallen over herself to placate Alice, murmuring platitudes and denials, but as she stared at her stepdaughter, something switched in her head. She was not going to be held hostage by an obnoxious fifteen-year-old, not any more, not with so many far worse things going on in her life. She put her hands on her hips and stared coldly at Alice, strangely feeling more in control than she had at any point since the night Frankie
disappeared
.

‘I don’t hate you, Alice. But I’ll tell you something – I’m not joining your little pity party, not this time. In fact, since you brought up the subject, why don’t you tell me exactly what you
were
doing that night? What was so absorbing for you and Larry – yes, I’m not stupid, you can tell the police or your dad till you’re blue in the face that Larry wasn’t there but I bet you anything he was – that neither of you noticed someone break into our house and steal my baby from under your noses? What was it? Sex? Drugs? Drink? All three?’

Alice’s mouth fell open and she stood frozen to the spot, with the black coffee in her hand. Helen idly wondered if she was going to throw it at her. Had anyone ever challenged Alice that directly before? She was pretty sure that neither she nor Sean had. A Tiny Tempah song came on the radio, one of Alice’s favourites. It seemed to snap her out of her reverie and she walked up to Helen, still holding the coffee, her teeth clenched in fury and stress.

Helen wondered which way it was going to go – confession, a plea for understanding, apology – or a resumption of the tantrum?

‘You miserable
bitch
,’ Alice hissed, slamming the mug onto the kitchen table and spilling coffee all over it.
Ah, OK
, Helen thought,
so it’s back to the tantrum
. Foolish of her to expect anything else. Alice was standing so close to her that Helen could see the faint constellation of spots on her forehead and see the sleep still in her eyes. Would they fight? Helen itched to slap her, but forced her hands to stay glued to her side, afraid that if they started they wouldn’t stop.

‘You can’t handle your guilt, can you, that you left your precious little baby girl with me while you and Dad swanned off to a fancy restaurant because you’re too tight to pay a proper babysitter?’

Helen couldn’t even be bothered to point out the illogicality of that question. Alice would have kicked up a massive fuss if they had got a ‘proper’ babysitter in when she was at home herself.

‘I don’t have anything to feel guilty about, Alice. Do you?’

Helen had been so determined to keep calm but, face to face with Alice and her rage, she could feel something seismic shift inside her, and the control she’d felt only moments earlier was beginning to desert her. Alice’s question about guilt echoed the words of many of the trolls on the Facebook page, adding velocity and heat to
Helen’s
rage. She hadn’t taken Marion’s advice; she still found herself compelled to read the comments in the way a tongue will repeatedly poke at a painful tooth.

Helen took a step forwards until her and Alice’s faces were inches apart like soap-opera protagonists.

‘I asked you a question, Alice: Do you? DO YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO FEEL GUILTY ABOUT? I think you do, don’t you? I’m going to ask you again – what were you doing that night? Do you have something to do with Frankie’s disappearance? How could you not have noticed someone stealing her? HOW COULD YOU NOT HAVE NOTICED?!’

That was it. The point of no return. Helen was screaming as loudly as Alice had been.

Alice made a noise, a sort of primal, guttural moan. ‘I
fucking
hate you, Helen, I really, really do. You’re an evil witch and a shit stepmother and I thank God you aren’t
my
mother. Frankie probably just
ran away
because she hates you so much! My dad regrets marrying you, I know he’ll never get over my mum, and if she hadn’t died he wouldn’t have looked twice at you and if you think I’m staying here in this house a minute longer with you then you’re deluded, I’m going—’

‘GOOD! I’LL HELP YOU PACK!’ Helen screeched back, and they made a lunge at each other just as Sean came running into the kitchen and stood between them.

‘What in God’s name is going on?’ he bellowed. ‘I could hear you through my headphones!’

‘Dad!’ wailed Alice, tears now streaming down her face, ‘
Helen
’s being such a bitch! You said she didn’t blame me for Frankie, but she does! She just screamed at me for no reason and said she does blame me!’

‘I didn’t say that, I just asked what she was doing that night. Perfectly reasonable question, I’d have thought.’ Helen made a monumental effort to regain control, not wanting Sean to see her lose it in front of Alice. She walked over to the sink and picked up the blue sponge, wiping up the spilled coffee on the table with shaking hands. Sean folded his daughter in his arms, and she collapsed into his chest, sobbing dramatically. Helen gritted her teeth.

The phone rang, and she rushed into the hall to answer it, desperate to get away from both of them. When she picked up she immediately wished she hadn’t – it was Eileen. The last person she needed to speak to. But when she managed to decipher what her mother-in-law was saying, she felt all the blood rush from her head and she had to cling on to the wall to stop herself fainting.

‘I’m round Margaret’s.’ Margaret was a woman who lived nearby whom Eileen had befriended. ‘Have you seen it, Helen, on TV? It’s on the news, turn it on, quick, there’s a siege, they’re saying the kidnapped kids are there, it’s only up the road from you in Richmond, oh my goodness, Frankie’s there, somebody’s holding them hostage . . .’

Helen dropped the phone and ran back into the kitchen, all her rage gone. ‘They’ve found her! She’s in a house in Richmond, quick, let’s go, Alice – bring the iPad and let’s find out where they are on the way, we have to go now, they’re saying that she and Liam McConnell are both there being held hostage – oh God, oh God, please let her be OK – come on, please, please . . .’