Child's Play (7 page)

For her part, Nicola had at last supplied a few of the names they'd asked for: Neil Lomas, her current partner; Luke Holden, Caitlin's one-time boyfriend; a whole bunch of school besties plus the girl's grannie, Linda Walker. Of her own volition, Nicola had offered up the name of a neighbour who claimed he'd spotted Caitlin on the day she disappeared. Ronald Gibson reckoned the girl had been on the wag but according to witnesses at the school she'd been there all day. It was a loose end that needed tying.

‘Stupid sodding woman,' Baker muttered, opening the Merc door, chucking in his briefcase.
Give it a rest, man.
Nicola Reynolds had certainly rattled the chief's cage but Sarah reckoned his anger was down to more than that. She sensed he blamed himself for letting the woman wrong-foot –
back
-foot – the inquiry. What did they say about the best form of defence? Sarah knew the feeling: been there, done that, shrunk the t-shirts. Course, it might have something to do with the imminent PCC meeting. New developments meant Sarah couldn't sit in for him this afternoon.

She held the driver's door as he struggled into his seat belt. ‘Yeah, well, Shona won't take any shit, chief.' At Sarah's suggestion, DC Shona Bruce would pick up the Nicola Reynolds' interview where they'd left off. Apart from Baker and the DI having fresh fish to grill, squad legend had it that Brucie could get a corpse talking. Beth Lally's interview technique wasn't in the same class; hers was a watching brief. Sarah smiled to herself. Bruce and Lally. Sounded like the next TV cop show. Eat your hearts out, Scott and Bailey, Cagney and Lacey. Scrub the last one, it showed her age.

Baker pulled the door to, wound down the window. ‘Something amusing us, Quinn?'

‘You know me, chief.' She wiped the smile off her face. ‘Always looking on the bright side.'

‘Regular ray of sunshine you, missus.' The wink meant he knew he was pushing his luck.

‘Yeah, well, I can't see Reynolds pulling another fast one.'

‘Fast one?' He started the motor. ‘Over my dead body. And get that bloody news conference sorted, will you?'

C
aroline King knew how to give good sound bite. Live TV interviews beat recorded every way, every time: the adrenaline buzz, the immediacy, the margin for on-air error and all that. But beggars can't be choosers and for once, network journo Caroline wasn't calling the shots. The not-so-big gun today was Colin Ford, a BBC regional reporter who, Caroline suspected, harboured delusions of adequacy. Still, needs must. She'd smile, be a good girl and say all the right things for the wannabe. But then Caroline, an award-winning journalist as the back flap trumpeted, would do almost anything to promote her first book. Pressing an artless slender finger against her expertly painted lips, she thought she just might baulk at selling her soul. But renting parts out? What's not to like?

Her wandering notions prompted a wry smile, though soon as Ford got his act together, she'd sharpen hers. Shiny-suited, shifty and a touch shambolic, Ford was tailor-made for a part on
Drop the Dead Donkey
: he even looked a bit like hapless hack Dave.

‘Sorry, 'bout that, Caz.' Rolling conspiratorial tawny eyes, Ford stowed a smart phone in his single-breasted jacket pocket. ‘News desk. Still, you know all about that, don't you?'

A damn sight better than you, sunshine. ‘Not a problem, Col,' she gushed, flashing a beam that could put Blackpool illuminations in the shade. Glancing round she wished it could work its magic on a grey gloomy Friday in Birmingham New Street. Waterstones' Georgian façade provided a decent enough back-drop for the interview, but in Caroline's metaphorical book, Ford's choice of location was lazy and predictable. As for her actual book, well,
Bad Men
hadn't yet set the world alight. The signing she'd just done inside had gone OK, probably down to the posters plastered across town. Even if she did say so herself, she looked pretty damn hot in the Armani suit and author pose. That plus a simpatico piece on the telly could only grab more readers and kick-start sales. She'd inveigled Ford's boss for the airtime: Eddie owed her a favour or five.

‘Lucky you're a Birmingham girl, eh? Born and bred? Home grown?' Ford winked. Cocky sod. Caroline could probably give him ten years and from what she'd seen he'd be lucky to set foot out of the place. She'd fled the family nest at eighteen, only to inherit it from her mum two years back. Fed up with trying and failing to flog a Selly Oak redbrick, she'd taken it off the market and now acted as mostly absentee landlady to lodger Nat, another old mate in the news trade.

‘Why's that then, Col?' She cast a surreptitious glance at her reflection in the lens. Yep, the red jacket teamed brilliantly with the jet top, the glossy black-ink bob was still silk-smooth. The reporter cocked an eyebrow, like he was about to let her in on a state secret.

‘Local interest, isn't it? We don't do plugs as a rule.' He made the money sign, rubbing together grubby thumb and fingers. ‘Free advert for you, isn't it?'

Bloody nerve. Her fulsome fake smile very nearly faltered. In his shoes, scuffed desert boots as it happened, she'd probably feel similar cynicism: ‘author writes book' wasn't going global any time soon. On the other hand, she needed all the coverage she could get and she had the sort of industry clout Ford could only dream of. ‘No worries, Col. If you have a problem interviewing writers about their work, let's call it a day, cut our losses, eh?' She made scissor motions with two fingers then turned away, left a two-second gap before calling over her shoulder. ‘Oh, and tell Ed I'll pick him up at seven.' Eddie the editor. Sounded like something out of Thomas the Tank. Caroline smiled. She'd teased Ed about it a few times; they went back a very long way. If she'd read Ford right, she'd not be going anywhere any time soon.

‘Hey, Caz, stop, I didn't mean …'

Slowly, she retraced her steps, licked her lips. He had the look of a one-legged rabbit caught in a laser beam. She sashayed closer, very close, in-your-face close. ‘Word of advice.' It wasn't a question. ‘Say what you mean. Mean what you say. Don't try and be clever. And don't ever call me Caz.'

The interview lasted ten minutes; it wasn't Ford's finest hour. Caroline knew she'd have elicited twice as much in half the time. She was editing it mentally as she strode towards the station car park, simultaneously hoping her BMW would still be there, preferably with a full complement of wheels.

She'd already told Ford which bits of chat were worth using and which dumb-ass questions to drop.
Where'd you get your ideas?
Pur-lease.
Are your characters based on real people?
Really?
Bad Men
was a hard-edged exposé of street groomers featuring rare interviews with schoolgirl victims and input from senior cops, social workers et al. She glanced at the copy peeping from her shoulder bag, stupid really but she carried the book everywhere. It was the first she'd seen in print, and held in her hands, it gave her huge professional pride. Ford hadn't even read it, the little shit. Reckoned he could write one though. She shook her head. As a parting shot, he'd bragged about turning out a blockbuster soon as he ‘had the time'.

Yeah right. Chuckling, she unlocked the motor. Her mirth wasn't entirely down to the fact the car was still in one piece. She was recalling the look on Ford's face when she'd delivered her final not-so
bons mots
: For you, hun, there's not enough time in the world.

She slid behind the wheel, checked her face in the mirror. Yeah, the lippie was still good. She aimed the bag at the passenger seat but misjudged and as it toppled over,
Bad Men
slipped to the floor. She might have left it there – you could eat dinner off the carpet – but she spotted a loose page sticking out. Shit. The damn thing wasn't falling to pieces already, was it? She leaned across, lifted the book and frowned. It wasn't a page from
Bad Men.
It was an envelope with her name on. And it hadn't been there when she left the house. So how and when did it get there and who'd played postman? Her frown had deepened. Christ, she'd need Botox if she didn't open the bloody thing soon.

Hey Ms Ace Reporter

A Birmingham schoolgirl's been snatched off the street. Why no police hunt? Why isn't it all over the news? Why aren't you giving the cops a hard time? The tip-off's free – this time.

From a secret admirer.

‘Flattery will get you nowhere, pal,' she muttered. After reading the note a second time, she tapped it against her teeth, brow still in ploughed-field mode. No matter how much she loathed being manipulated, the content begged a bunch of questions and piqued her reporter's curiosity. Not least, how and who had gained access to her tote? Still pensive, she slipped the note back in the envelope, fired the engine, reversed the motor. She'd been meaning to give the Snow Queen a buzz anyway, ask if she liked the book; might as well drop by the Ice Palace. As for giving a cop a hard time, she'd been there, done that with dishy Dave Harries. Shagging almost on your own doorstep wasn't good news. Like a lot of other actions in her past, it had pissed Quinn off royally.

With relations less frosty nowadays, would Caroline really want to risk the fragile rapprochement for the sake of an exclusive? Lip curved, she glanced in the wing mirror, addressed an imaginary Mr Whippy. ‘Make that two scoops, pal.'

‘W
here'd you get it, Pauline?' Susan was so cross she could barely speak. No wonder she'd not been able to find the little madam. The sneaky little so-and-so must have run home, grabbed an ice lolly and scoffed it when she was supposed to be hiding. Susan would bet any money Pauline had nicked it from behind her mum's back. Mrs Bolton was dead fair about treats and sharing and that; she'd never see Susan go without. Unless the greedy little beggar had polished off a lolly meant for Susan as well as her own.

‘Get what, Sukie?' Eyes wide, she had a thumb in her mouth, sucking away like there was no tomorrow. She must think Susan was born yesterday.

‘Don't play the innocent with me, Pauline Bolton.' The evidence stared Susan in the face. From the kid's garish clown mouth to the red juice snaking down one of her skinny arms; even a few curls were tinged pink.

‘What's “innocent”, Sukie?' The little girl toed the grass with her sandal.

God, the lisp was getting on Susan's nerves. She'd a good mind to shove the kid over and leave her to it. Instead she raised the cane and started decapitating dandelions. ‘Innocent is being good.' Whoosh. ‘Innocent is telling the truth.' Whoosh. ‘Innocent is not going round thieving.' Whoosh.

‘I didn't thieve nothing.' She pointed to the cane. ‘Can I have a go?'

‘No, get lost.' Whoosh. Whoosh. More weeds lost their heads. ‘Not until you tell me where you got it.'

‘Got what?' It was a bare-faced lie, unlike the kid's own mug. The clown mouth gave her a mocking lop-sided grin. Maybe that was what made Susan see red.

‘Are you laughing at me?' she hissed. God, she could have done with that lolly. She was boiling.

‘Course not. Come on, let's play.' A wheedling tone had crept into her voice. ‘Please, Sukie.' She stretched out a grubby hand, snatched it back sharpish when Susan made to whack it.

‘Not till you tell me where you got the lolly, Pauline Bolton.'

She stared at her feet. ‘Not had one.'

Whoosh. Whoosh. She was beginning to like the sound of it. Whoosh. What really bugged Susan was Pauline's dirty trick, the trying to make a fool of her; the thought of a little kid trying to get one over. She cut the air with the cane again. ‘You pinched it, didn't you? I'm gonna tell your mum on you.'

‘An' I'll tell Grace on you. An' she'll beat you up again.'

‘Oh yeah?' She drew the cane back. ‘Your snotty sister doesn't scare me.'

‘Anyway you're wrong, so there. I didn't nick it.'

The cane stilled. ‘You did have one then.' Susan's eyes glinted behind her specs. ‘You little liar. Did you eat mine too?' Pauline teared up and her bottom lip went through the same old quivering motions. The histrionics cut no ice with Susan. ‘You know what happens to naughty little girls who tell whoppers, don't you?' Advancing on Pauline, she tapped the cane gently across her own palm.

‘I didn't nick it, Sukie. He give it me. He said—' Eyes wide, she slapped a hand to her mouth.

‘He?' Susan froze. ‘Who's he?'

‘Dunno.'

She'd taken stuff from a stranger? If she had, she was in big trouble. ‘This man. What did he say to you?'

‘Can't remember.' She couldn't even look Susan in the eye.

‘What did he look like?'

Swinging a leg. ‘Can't remember.'

Yeah right. Must've been the invisible man. Like heck. It was more big fat porkie pies. ‘Okay. I believe you. Let's forget it.' She'd get the truth out of her eventually.

Pauline looked up, an uncertain grin on her mucky face. ‘Do you mean it, Sukie? You won't tell anyone?'

‘'Course not.' Smiling, she took the little girl's hand. ‘We haven't played schools for ages. Let's play that.'

The little girl skipped along as they made their way back to the copse. It was like taking candy from a baby, Susan reckoned. Only in this instance it was the baby who'd done the stealing, and the baby who needed to learn a lesson. ‘Sit there, Pauline.' Susan wielded the cane, whipped the head off a foxglove. ‘I'll be Miss.'

‘B
y Christ, lad, they didn't make 'em like that when I was at school.' DC Jed Holmes dabbed a grubby hankie round his rubbery lips. Harries shifted slightly in his seat, distancing himself from what passed as a wisecrack while keeping his gaze firmly fixed on Jude Fox's pert buttocks as she left the office, one of two at Queen's Ridge comprehensive currently commandeered into service as an interview room.