Make Believe
Authors: Cath Staincliffe
Make Believe
by
Cath Staincliffe
MAKE BELIEVE
This eBook edition published in 2013 by the author.
Cover photo and design by Tim Preston.
Copyright © 2013 by Cath Staincliffe
The moral right of the author has been asserted. This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Other titles by Cath Staincliffe
Saturday April 19th
T
he playground in the park was busy, a result of the fine weather and an increase in popularity that had followed the recent council refurbishment. Sammy loved it here and for Claire it was a welcome respite. They’d been cooped up out of the rain too much these last few weeks. A three-year-old needed exercise, fresh air.
Me too
, thought Claire. Time was she and Clive would go off every weekend walking the Pennine Way or the Derbyshire Peaks. But once Sammy was born it didn’t seem possible for them all to go. Claire knew some parents used backpacks and lugged their kids up hill and down dale but she and Clive had never really got into the habit. So today Clive had gone off on his own.
Claire
waited while Sammy climbed the steps up to the top of the slide then she walked round to meet him, scooping him up as he shot off the end. She set him down and followed him back as he trotted to the steps. One o’clock, mid April and it was actually warm. Claire called after him, ‘Sammy, come here. Let’s take your top off.’ He jiggled on the spot eager to be playing as she unzipped the fleece and pulled it off him.
Up the steps he went and stood patiently on the top
while the child ahead of him was coaxed down by her father. Claire took her place at the foot of the slide and Sammy slid down, stopping with a jolt near the end. His hands flew up to stop his glasses flying off. ‘Whoops!’ Claire said with a laugh, reassuring him that he’d no need to get upset.
She didn
’t mind Clive taking time out. Walking was a way for him to de-stress after the grind of the week’s work and although they could have arranged a babysitter so she could accompany him, she preferred to save sitters for those precious evenings out, dinner with friends or a party. Clive had picked a glorious day for it, not a cloud in the sky, a slight breeze.
Sammy reached the top again, checked she was there and launched himself off. He
’d learnt to lift his shoes off the surface so the friction wouldn’t slow him down. He laughed with delight as he slid down and she felt a rush of love for him. She glanced at his nose, looking for any redness. She had put sunscreen on at the house; he was so very fair skinned she had to be extra careful. With his curly blonde hair he looked so sweet; sometimes he got mistaken for a girl. Claire wondered whether to suggest he try the swings or the climbing frame though she knew the slide was his favourite. He ran back.
There w
as a sudden blur of movement at her side and a shriek. Claire turned in time to see a little girl on the floor. She’d skinned her chin and was wailing, face red and contorted. Claire bent to help, lifting the child upright, murmuring words of comfort and scanning the crowd for the accompanying adult. Sure enough a man with an expression part humour, part dismay hoved into view, thanked Claire and lifted up the girl who threw her arms around his neck and bawled even louder.
Claire
glanced over to the steps, looking for Sammy, blonde curls, chunky children’s glasses, the distinctive red shoes. Claire’s heart began to tighten as she realised he was not on the steps. She moved quickly to the front of the slide where a plump boy in an infant Manchester United football strip clung to the top resisting exhortations to let go. Claire felt her heart kick and tug wildly as she whirled around, her eyes racing over the grass to the swings, to the roundabout and the climbing frame and back to the slide. A plea screamed in her head already, please, please let him be here. She began to call his name, increasingly frantic until other parents heard the rill of fear in her voice, saw the naked terror in her face and offered help. Claire described her son, words tumbling like stones, as her eyes darted around the park. She felt sick with nausea and her limbs, her neck and scalp were slick with sweat.
She climbed up on top of the wooden boat, the highest vantage point and scanned the playground again, shielding the glare from
her eyes, calling all the while, ‘Sammy, Sammy.’ The atmosphere had changed, parents drew their children closer, some of them were looking in the shrubs that edged the area. Children stared up at her curiously; the weird lady shouting.
H
eart thumping hard in her chest, she scoured the area, anticipating a glimpse of him: blonde hair, dinosaur T-shirt, the wonderful release and relief as she saw he was there, fine, unharmed, that all was right with the world.
Nothing.
Could he have gone home? Only a couple of hundred yards. He knew the way. She scrambled down. Should check the rest of the park first. She ran round the park twice more, trying to be systematic, but it was hard when the place was so crowded.
‘
Sammy,’ she screamed, her voice becoming hoarse, ‘Sammy, Sammy.’ A tiny part of her brain observed all this almost dispassionately, hoping it was just a false alarm, that it would become an anecdote, a tale to offer at dinner parties and toddler group, self-deprecating, making out that she had been neurotic – her first child, an overreaction – imagining happy punch lines, he was by the bench all the time, he was playing hide and seek. But it was her body that knew the truth, not her brain, her body that was already turning from the park and sprinting towards their house, her body that was flooding her with adrenalin, that was spiking her blood pressure and making her mouth flood with saliva. Because whatever excuses her mind tried to present, her body knew.
Sammy had gone.
Monday April 2
8th
Chapter 1
Janine was about to leave, called to a suspicious death – she had the address but no further details – when Pete’s car pulled up outside the house. She felt the familiar clench inside, wondered exactly when things were going to get easier with her ex or if it would always feel this way.
Two years
ago he had left. Janine pregnant with Charlotte, their late unexpected addition to the family.
He
’d made a clumsy attempt to invite himself back into the marriage not so long ago but Janine had told him straight that it couldn’t work. They couldn’t turn back time and she couldn’t erase the sense of betrayal at his actions. Would it have been different if he had chosen to stay with Janine rather than move in with Tina? Might she have forgiven him the affair? Hard to tell and too late now anyway.
Eleanor
and Tom climbed out of his car carrying backpacks. Both gave her a hurried wave and rushed into the house.
Pete
didn’t even stop the engine, just wound the window down as Janine approached. In a hurry no doubt. Like they all were, all the time. When did life become quite so frantic? Janine thought.
‘
Good weekend?’ Janine said.
‘
Yep.’ He nodded, slowly, repeatedly. God knows why.
‘
Did you take them out?’
‘
Yes. Cinema, pizza.’ Almost monosyllabic. Like their teenager, Michael. Why was he behaving so oddly?
‘
Is everything OK?’ she said, deciding to be direct. Perhaps he’d rowed with Tina, or the kids had done something irritating.
‘
Fine. Great,’ he said. More nodding. ‘Yes, fine. See you then.’
Janine, puzzled, watche
d him go. He hadn’t even made time to pop in and see Charlotte having breakfast with the nanny, Vicky. That was sad. But then if he was running late maybe he just didn’t have the time.
She
called Richard Mayne, her DI, offered to give him a lift to the scene. She knew his car was in for repairs, he’d been complaining about it, the wait for parts.
‘Er, no,’ he said stammering a little, ‘you’re fine.’
‘You risking the bus?’
‘No, I… er ...
I’m sorted.’
‘See you there
, then.’ Why was everyone being so weird today?
The crime scene cordon on the residential street had been set about fifty yards from the address where the body had been found. 16 Kendal Avenue. The place was a hubbub of activity, crime scene vans were within the cordon and outside the house itself. Neighbours stood in twos and threes speculating with each other. As Janine pulled on her protective suit, another car arrived, her colleague Richard Mayne in the passenger seat. And look who’s driving, Millie Saunders from the press office. Janine watched Richard kiss Millie on the cheek before getting out and waving her off.
‘Hi.’ Richard came over, ‘Have you got a spare suit?’
Janine stared at him, eyebrows raised in question.
Richard rolled his eyes at her, gave a laugh, sighed.
‘Millie Saunders,’ he said, ‘press office. Satisfied?’
‘
Was she?’ Janine said dryly. Richard laughed. She turned and picked another suit out of the stash she carried with her in the car boot and passed it to him.
Janine felt
the teensiest pinch of jealousy. Unfair she knew. Richard and her were mates, that’s all. Work partners and pals. Yes, there was an attraction, they flirted with each other now and again but would never take it further and risk ruining their friendship. Janine had the odd fantasy – he was gorgeous, tall, dark, and the rest. But that’s all it was, fantasy.
When he was ready they approached
the officer in charge of cordon, showed her their warrant cards and walked up the road.
‘Not a bad area,’ Richard remarked.
Janine agreed.
Large, solidly built, semi-detached houses, the sort with decent sized gardens and enough roof space to make conversions. Some sort of improvement was going on at this place, a skip on the pavement, rubble and debris in the front garden, windows boarded up, bricks stacked at the far end of the drive. An inner cordon was rigged up around the driveway where a white tent had been erected to preserve the scene. Janine introduced herself and Richard to the crime scene manager, a man called John Trenton.
‘
Young child,’ Trenton said, ‘in the main drain.’ He led them into the tent where there was a manhole, rectangular, nothing visible but murky water. Sammy Wray? Janine’s first thought. The city was awash with posters of the three-year-old missing for the past nine days. Sammy’s picture photoshopped to include the clothes he’d last been seen in and the heading, ‘Have You Seen This Child?’ Each time she’d driven past one of them Janine had felt a surge of sympathy for his parents, for the unimaginable horror they must be living through. And the professional in her knew that with the time that had elapsed the probability was that if Sammy Wray was ever found he would not be alive.
