The Game Changer (32 page)

Kate sat upright in the chair, rigid, living the girl’s horror in her mind. She looked at the statement reference at the top right (S1 of 3). Adam had said there were more statements. She placed the pages on the desk, as if she was distancing herself from them, as if
the physical gesture of moving them further away would give her the opportunity to come back to the here and now, and get her away from that locked room. She had relived everything the girl had written, right from the description of the abduction, the room she was taken to, and what had followed. Parts of it belonged to her memory too, the knife at the throat, the smell of alcohol and now more. She remembered the room and the sounds from outside, the constant stream of traffic, the fear, the desire to escape and knowing she couldn’t, the intermittent sound of a lone dog barking, all part of her recent dreams. But the sexual attack, that recollection, felt like the other girl’s alone. Kate knew she could have blocked it out, but she had connected to those other details so surely part of that would have come back too if it had happened to her.

Hearing the door to Adam’s office open, she jumped.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

She didn’t reply.

‘You’ve read it, then?’

‘It’s one of three statements.’ Her voice was steady, although her mind was turning over.

‘I’ll try to get the rest. They might have felt there was enough to work on. As I said last night, they’re not inclined to share information unless a definite link is made.’

‘We live in a horrible world,’ she muttered.

‘I know. If I could get those bastards, I don’t know what I’d do to them, especially … if that girl had been you.’ He let his words hang in the air.

When she didn’t reply, he said, ‘You wanted to know Kevin’s surname? It was Baxter, his mother’s name. She died of an overdose a couple of months after his death.’

‘Adam, I want you to ask the PIU something.’

‘What?’

‘Ask them what the girl saw when she looked out of the window.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. If the man who took that girl is the same man who
attacked me, I think I was in that room. I remember the windows and the door, and the sounds. I also remember what I saw when I looked out.’

‘You could have … what do you call it? Superimposed her memory on yours.’

She thought about what he had said. It was possible, she knew, but all of it had felt so real, like something she needed to grasp. It was as if all the things she thought she understood, the pieces that made up her life, her decisions, her drive, were now redundant. It had been reduced to that room, where she was a scared young girl, where she had had no control, and even though she hadn’t understood, she’d known something bad would happen. Was she in denial? Could she have got to this point in her life and not realised she was a victim? How could that be possible?

‘Kate?’ Adam was holding a cup of water in front of her. ‘Drink this.’

She tasted the water, had a couple of sips. ‘Kate, take your time, but tell me what you saw when you looked out of that window.’

Her words came out slowly, as if she was telling herself at the same time. ‘I saw a patch of recently dug-up soil.’ What did that mean? Why did she remember that? ‘I …’

‘Keep going, Kate.’

‘And some low hedge. In some places, the hedge was broken.’ She swallowed more water. Why was that important? Because you felt trapped – everything was important.

‘What else?’

‘Beyond that, there was a path. It was made of sand.’ She looked up at Adam. ‘It sloped upwards. It was as if the Portakabin was at a lower ground level.’

‘You’re doing great, Kate.’

‘Am I? I don’t feel great. I feel …’

‘It’s okay.’

‘No, Adam, it’s not okay. None of this is okay.’

‘I know that.’

‘Can I have a copy of the statement?’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Does the PIU know the location of the cabin?’ Her mind was still reeling.

‘No, but considering the sounds the girl heard …’

‘The sounds we both heard.’

‘Sorry, the sounds you both heard. The place is probably off a motorway, but which motorway and where it is is anyone’s guess.’

‘The maze keeps expanding.’

‘We’ll keep digging, Kate, and we’ll find answers.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because I cannot accept the alternative.’

LEE TOOK A LARGE CARTON OF JUICE OUT OF THE fridge, his mind not yet ready to close down for the evening. They had received new information on the Mason murder. Emily Burke, the victim’s sister, had had a call of conscience. By itself, it didn’t mean a whole lot, except to add credence to the questionable nature of the Dublin grouping. She described her late brother as a weak man, saying that even though the group was set up with good intentions, it wasn’t long before the scope went beyond intellectual conversation and cognitive studies. Emily had admitted to Lee’s colleague that, while she had been visiting her brother the previous year, he had gotten very drunk one evening. Tom Mason had confessed to things that, otherwise, he might not have. The grouping, according to him, had decided to evaluate a wider base sample. They wanted their evaluation to have more diversity, thus ensuring their educational development theories had a better scientific basis. They had started looking at children from lower socioeconomic groupings. These children, Emily told Lee, were vulnerable, not only because of their age but because, in some cases, the lack of parental or family support made crossing the line less risky. They had hired a thug called Willy Stapleton to trap a couple of children. Willy had addiction problems, and needed the extra money, so he was easily convinced. Mason admitted the situation had got out of hand, with one thing leading to another. He hadn’t expanded beyond this, except to say that a decision was reached to draw a line across the continuation of the study. He had clammed up after that and, anyway, Emily hadn’t wanted to know any more.
It was all a long time ago, and both of them had started their new lives in the US.

Lee would speak to DI O’Connor in the morning, but none of it brought them any closer to finding Mason’s or, potentially, O’Neill’s killer. The widow was now another victim, but even so, what did they have? A lot of questions about a grouping from over twenty-five years earlier, one that had included Mason and O’Neill, a crime scene with DNA leading them to a Dublin suicide victim, and now a fatal hit-and-run. The child pornographic images on Mason’s computer, and O’Neill’s rumoured weakness for young boys, added a darker element to the eighties group, along with the suicide of the O’Neills’ foster son, Kevin Baxter. If Emily’s statement did nothing else, it compounded the notion that there could be unknown victims from back then, and victims had been known to reverse roles. He knew O’Connor was looking at statements from a historical case being dealt with by the Irish Paedophile Investigation Unit. He also knew O’Connor’s live-in partner, Kate Pearson, was tied into the mix in any number of ways. Her father, Valentine Pearson, had been a member of the grouping, and she had been abducted as a minor, but was released unharmed. Kate had spoken to O’Neill’s widow prior to her death. The fact that Kate was receiving anonymous threatening notes might or might not have anything to do with the investigation, but it added to the conjecture, and right now, nothing was sticking.

Swallowing the last of the juice, he fired the empty carton into the recycling bin, pondering the latest line of enquiry, the one supporting extortion of money from the Dublin victim, and a potential tie-in with Irish missing-person cases. This investigation could add up to a lethal cocktail, filled with sexual abuse, revenge, murder, large-scale extortion, and any number of people paying for the sins of the past. The problem, despite the many strands, was that they were no nearer to homing in on the killer. The net kept widening.

Systematically peeling back the investigative onion in his mind, he figured that of those associated with the investigation who were
still alive, certain people were constant. One was Kate Pearson, and another the psychologist Malcolm Madden. His wife had given him an alibi for the evening O’Neill had supposedly committed suicide, but she wouldn’t be the first spouse to lie for a partner. O’Connor was concerned about the anonymous notes sent to Kate. Lee wondered how well he would conduct an investigation if Marjorie was still alive, and it was her, not Kate Pearson, under threat. At the moment, everything pointed to potential fallout from previous events, but as yet, with the killer unidentified, there was no guarantee that only one killer existed or that any of these various strands were actually connected. If they could get to the bottom of
why
, a great many aspects of the investigation might fall into place – or collapse like a deck of cards.

His trip to Dublin to extract that DNA sample might have to be brought forward. If Kate Pearson was too close to all this, then so was O’Connor. The danger of the Irish detective missing something happening right under his nose wasn’t a possibility that Lee was prepared to entertain.

THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, THE LIGHT IN ADDY’S ROOM changed again. Someone was at the door, but this time, whoever it was had a torch. He watched the light move, filtering through the grille and the slit under the door. He got out of bed, and when he was close to the door, he asked, ‘Who’s out there?’ Nobody answered.

‘I know someone’s there. I can see your shadow moving.’

‘It’s me again, Donal.’ The boy’s voice was barely above a whisper. He sounded frightened.

‘Are you okay?’ Addy kept his tone soft, not wanting to give the boy any reason to flee.

‘I’m sorry about before. There were too many people around upstairs.’

‘How are you getting down here?’

‘Through the water-pipe chambers, but I have to be careful.’

‘Donal, listen to me. I need you to look for a key, something to open the door.’

‘You’re safer where you are.’

‘No, I’m not. I need to get out.’

‘If you’re missing, they’ll come looking for you.’

‘I can’t stay here.’

‘If they wanted you dead, they would have killed you by now.’

‘Who would have?’ Christ, what did he mean? He reminded himself that he was talking to a kid.

‘The leaders – they decide everything.’

He didn’t want Donal doing another disappearing act, but he needed to push him.

‘Donal, why are you pretending to be dead?’

‘If they knew I was alive, they’d kill me too.’

‘You’re talking about the leaders again?’

‘Yes.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘I’ve seen what they do. I’ve seen the graves.’

Addy closed his eyes, telling himself to keep cool. All of this could be nonsense, but one way or another he needed to keep Donal talking. ‘How many graves?’

‘I don’t know. Sometimes they use the same one for a couple of people.’

Addy heard the boy’s nervousness. ‘Donal, are you scared?’

‘A bit.’

‘I’m scared too. It’s not a nice feeling.’

‘I told Chloë I was going to swim home, but I was lying to her. I’d seen them the night before. They knew someone was watching them, but they weren’t sure it was me. My foot slipped, so I ran, and they ran after me. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I told my mother.’ He sounded like he was about to burst into tears.

‘Donal, are you okay?’

‘Yeah.’ Now his words came fast: ‘I can’t be sure she told them. She didn’t believe me. She told me I was making it all up, and that lying was wrong. I ran outside and hid, and when I started walking back, I saw some of them look at me, like they knew it was me all along. I thought they’d wait till it was night. That’s when they have their secret meetings. The ones only the leaders go to.’

The boy didn’t answer.

Addy didn’t know how to respond, and the silence felt like a gulf between them. Finally, he said, ‘Donal, that doesn’t mean your mother doesn’t love you.’

‘I watch her sometimes.’

Another silence.

‘Donal, can I ask you something?’

‘What?’

‘Does anyone else know you’re alive?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What age are you?’

‘I’m eleven this month. It’s October, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah – I’m nineteen.’ Addy still felt uncertain about what to say next, but then Donal began to open up.

‘I broke into a cemetery once. My friends dared me, so I did it.’

‘Oh?’

‘I mean, I didn’t want to, but then I remembered my dad was there, so I went to his grave, and I …’

‘What did you do, Donal?’

‘It’s stupid.’

‘Tell me anyway.’

‘I dug a small hole with my hands. There were stones on top of the grave, pebbles, and under that, loads of muck. I lay on top of it, on my stomach, with my hand down the hole. I couldn’t reach the coffin or nothing, but the clay felt cold and damp. I didn’t cry because I knew Dad wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.’