Kim was saved any further explanation as she spotted the door number she sought. She parked the car quickly and knocked.
Time had not been kind to the woman that answered.
Kim knew Jenny Cotton was thirty-six years old and the first thirty-five years of her life had undoubtedly been kinder than the last one.
The light brown hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, exposing premature greying at the temples. Faint lines were visible around a downturned mouth.
‘Detectives Stone and Bryant, Mrs Cotton. Could we have a word?’
The tired eyes registered a stab of hope.
Kim shook her head. ‘There's no news on Suzie,’ she said, quickly, to dispel any false hopes immediately.
The case of Suzie Cotton would remain open until they brought her home.
Mrs Cotton stepped aside, allowing them to enter.
Kim moved through the house to a small kitchen-diner that spanned the width of the property. Immediately Kim saw the absence of life. The room was devoid of character or personality. It was clean and functional and looked out on to a small garden covered in grey slabs. There was no tree, flower or plant pot.
They had stumbled into a life on pause.
Jenny Cotton stood in the doorway. The light jeans she wore were loose on a size-eight frame. The grey sweatshirt was baggy at the neck and the shoulder seams rested halfway down her upper arms. Flip-flops graced her feet.
Kim sensed that it was a triumph that Jenny managed to dress at all.
Kim suddenly hated the coldness of the visit. She had nothing to offer the woman in relation to the absence of her own daughter, yet Kim wished to glean information, even if it meant forcing the woman to remember the most horrific time of her life.
But right now she had two missing girls and that was Kim’s priority. Every day she loved the job she did, but some days she didn't like it all that much.
‘Mrs Cotton, I understand this might be difficult but we need to ask you some questions about what happened last year …’
Intelligent eyes speared her. ‘Why?’
‘Mrs Cotton, I can't—’
‘Of course you can't tell me anything,’ she spat bitterly. ‘It's not like I have any right to know, is it?’
Kim remained silent for a moment. This woman was entitled to her anger. Her child had not come home. She couldn’t share any details of the current investigation but when Kim's gaze met the sad, desolate eyes facing her she hoped that Jenny Cotton would understand.
There was a sharp intake of breath before the woman closed her eyes and pursed her lips.
She understood.
‘Ask me anything you like but please don't pretend to understand. Because you can't.’
‘You're right, I can't,’ Kim agreed, softly. ‘But if you could talk us through your own experience from that first day I'd be grateful.’
Jenny Cotton nodded as she sat at a round wooden dining table, indicating that they do the same.
‘Don't expect me to remember what happened on what day because I can't. It's all now a blur of activity, inactivity and tears. All I know for certain is that they both disappeared on Monday morning and Emily was found on Wednesday afternoon. God, it seems so much longer than two days.’
Kim hated every moment of what she was having to put this woman through but if she was dealing with the same crew this time the information was invaluable. Investigating the first attempt could offer crucial clues. An MO became refined over time. Elements were perfected, lessons learned. Identifying possible mistakes the first time around could offer insight.
‘Suzie was taken from the shop halfway between our home and the school. Emily was grabbed fifty metres from her home. I received a text message at eleven and so did Julia.’
‘Do you have any idea how the girls were identified?’
She nodded. ‘They did a radio appeal together for Children in Need. They'd raised over five hundred pounds by washing cars. My husband was quoted in the article. He owned a limousine hire service, well, he still does as far as I'm aware.’
She smiled sadly. ‘It's another life. It feels like a past life. Julia's husband, Alan, owned a string of estate agencies. It was not a fair fight.
‘I called the police immediately and they interviewed us both at my house. We were all such good friends, so close. Spent almost every weekend together; took holidays together.
‘Julia and I held on to each other for dear life. Until the third text message.’
‘Were you advised not to make contact with the kidnappers?’ Kim asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And did you?’
‘Detective, if you had children you wouldn't even ask that question. Of course we did.
‘Suddenly, everywhere you looked people were trying to hide the private conversations that were going on. Even the police stood in corners whispering.’
‘When was the deadline?’ Kim asked.
‘Wednesday afternoon.’
Barely more than forty-eight hours after the abduction, Kim noted. They were an hour away from that exact same marker.
‘What did you do?’
‘We sent an offer. It was everything we could get together: savings, second mortgages, help from family. We received an immediate response that the others had offered more.
‘Offers went back and forth until Wednesday morning. We were offering amounts we had no chance of getting but when you're in an auction for the life of your child there is no other choice.’
Kim sat forward. There was a cruelty to this situation that repelled her. In a normal ransom situation there were all kinds of emotions but this trade-off strategy offered the parents an element of control: that they could influence the outcome if they could just get enough money together. And if they couldn't …
‘When Suzie didn't come home it destroyed me. I lost everything. I couldn't look at my husband because all I could think was that if he'd had a better job we would have got our daughter back.’
Kim allowed the woman to talk. It was the least she could do.
‘And people grieve at different rates. The first time I heard Pete laugh afterwards the last few feelings I had for him died. I understand that the body reacts and that defence mechanisms kick in, but mine hadn't.’
And Kim suspected she was still waiting. This woman was a shadow, existing through time. She had not found a way forward but those around her had.
Kim had a sudden thought. ‘Mrs Cotton, do you still have the mobile phone?’
Jenny Cotton moved back her chair and walked to the kettle. ‘No, Inspector, your lot took it as evidence.’
Kim looked at Bryant. He made a note. If the phones were still in evidence there may be something they could use.
Mrs Cotton stared out of the window; the water overflowing out of the spout of the kettle.
‘I used to dream of holidays and perhaps another child.’ She paused, her hand hovering above the running faucet. ‘And now all I dream of is being able to bury my daughter.’
She turned and fixed Kim with a hard stare. ‘Can you help me with that, Detective Inspector?’
Kim held the gaze but said nothing. She would not make promises she didn't think she could keep.
‘Mrs Cotton, what do you think prompted the early release of Emily?’
‘I'd have thought that was perfectly clear. Julia and Alan paid the ransom.’
Forty-Seven
Kim's finger had pressed the call button before she'd reached the car.
‘Stace, work harder on tracking down the Billingham family. They may be far more important than we thought.’
‘Already started looking, Guv,’ Stacey answered. ‘But this is a family that don’t want to be found.’
Kim was not surprised. ‘Keep on it, Stace. We’re not sure but it’s possible they paid the ransom.’
She heard the intake of breath on the other end.
‘There's nothing in the files to indicate …’
‘There's nothing in t
he files to indicate much of anything, Stace.’
‘On it, Guv.’
Kim ended the call. ‘So far, we've assumed the crew got panicked because the news broke in the media. We never considered that one of the families actually paid.’
Bryant nodded. ‘And if they did then they had some further contact with the kidnappers: an instruction, a drop point, something.’
As horrific as the thought was, Kim had to consider that the actions of the other family had resulted in the death of Suzie Cotton.
Forty-Eight
Symes smiled. Nothing could spoil his mood today. He had a lead on the loose end that would very soon be tied up.
Yeah, he could go running around the area, chasing after Inga, expending pointless energy re-treading her steps. Or he could remain where he was and wait for her to come to him. And she would.
The stupid bitch had been on the run for almost forty-eight hours. She would be tired, dirty and scared out of her fucking mind.
Her body would be exhausted by the constant moving to avoid danger. Her mind would be drained of rational thought. Desire for self-preservation would be running low.
To catch her was to understand fear.
After two tours of Afghanistan, Symes knew the choices prompted by deep fear. It was a fear that didn't live in the everyday world. It only existed when you were frightened for your life.
Before a bungee jump, fear surged around the body mixed with excitement and adrenaline. But real fear left no room for any other emotion. It worked in from the skin and burrowed until it reached the bone.
It didn't become a part of you. It became you. Every breath, every glance, every movement was filled with fear and no amount of breathing exercises would make it go away.
In the army that level of fear was accepted, daily, but Symes had chosen to trick his subconscious. Rather than spend each day trying to live, he'd spent a minute each morning preparing to die.
Every day of his tours he had convinced himself this was his day to die. Every morning he had pictured his own death and every night was thankful to be brushing his teeth.
If Inga feared both himself and the police, it was only a case of what she feared least. And Symes already had that answer worked out.
He smiled and cracked his knuckles.
Forty-Nine
Inga put one foot in front of the other and hoped for the best. The fear inside was gnawing away at her flesh. Everywhere she looked, people were staring at her. Every male she saw was either Will or Symes. Every shadow had been placed strategically to terrorise her.
The whole world was closing in. Her surroundings were a mass of right angles and dangerous shapes, ready to pounce at any second.
The last couple of days had been a lifetime. She couldn't recall the weeks, months and years that had come before. She couldn't remember a time when every cell of her being wasn't weighted down with fear.
Menace lived everywhere.
Although she'd been on the run for forty-eight hours, these last few moments felt the most hazardous.
Her target was no more than a hundred feet away. She could see it. All that lay between her and sanity was a surging lunchtime crowd, a pelican crossing and a busy crossroads.
She allowed the rushing throng to nudge and push her across the road.
Seventy feet; she didn't take her eyes from the building for fear it would disappear.
She would tell them everything. She would start with what she'd done and then take them to the girls. They would be safely home by tea time; back with their families and she would happily take her punishment.
Thirty feet away she stumbled over a raised kerbstone. She managed to right herself. A couple of males sniggered behind her.
She didn't care. Another twenty feet and she would laugh along with them.
The safety of a police cell called out to her. Whatever her punishment, she was ready to accept it. Nothing could be worse than this.
Five feet away from the entrance, her body began to relax.
The hand on the back of her neck was strong and forceful. It turned her away from the door to the police station that had been almost in touching distance.
‘Nice try, yer little bitch, but not quite.’
Inga felt herself being carried along by his grip. Her feet were barely touching the ground.
‘If you make one sound I'll slit your throat right here.’
Inga couldn't speak as she felt the muscly arm land around her shoulders. She tried to scream but the moisture had been sucked from her mouth.
Symes used her stunned silence to shepherd her into an alleyway behind the police station.
She had been so close.
To onlookers it would look like a loving embrace. Only they couldn’t feel the strength of the fingers crushing the bones in her shoulder or the fact her feet were barely touching the ground.
The noise of the high street died in her ears.
‘We're just gonna go and have a little chat; get yer head straight.’
‘No, no,’ she cried, trying to get her feet to land on the ground.
She summoned her last reserve of energy to flail her arms. His grip moved to her neck. The pain seared up into her head. She knew he was capable of breaking it with one move.
‘Please … don't … hurt …’
‘Yer shoulda thought about that before yer did what yer did.’
Inga wasn't too proud to beg. It was now her only chance to live.
‘Symes, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have … I just got … scared …’
He chuckled as he opened the door of the van. ‘Not as scared as you're gonna get.’
He slammed the door closed and sprinted to the other side. He pressed a button that locked both doors.
Inga fought the urge to cry. Suddenly the moments she had left were precious. She knew she was going to die and only one thing mattered now.
‘The girls?’
He turned to her. His eyes were alive with excitement, the anticipation was shaping his mouth. His gaze was almost trancelike. Every inch of him was in a heightened state, waiting to take her life.
‘The g-girls,’ she stammered.
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Because of you, they're dead.’
Fifty
There was an eerie silence to Hollytree as Dawson parked the car in front of the row of shops that marked the entrance to the sprawling estate.
It was commonly known that once beyond the boundary of the shops, you were ‘in’ the estate. Although it was like entering another country, it wasn’t a passport that ensured safe passage, but rather an ASBO, prison stretch or possession of illegal substances.
Many other council estates in the Black Country were cleaner, healthier and happier because of Hollytree.
Each community breathed a sigh of relief as a problem family was evicted, but they had to go somewhere and it was never a good idea to put them all together. The result was a gang-ruled community that operated independently of any local authorities.
Dawson acknowledged the irony that Dewain Wright had lived in a flat above one of the shops. At the edge of the estate. Closest to getting out. It’s what the poor kid had been trying to do.
Gang culture was not new to Dawson. He understood it better than he would care to admit, but not on the level of Hollytree.
As a child he’d been weighty. There was no underlying hormonal imbalance or obscure medical condition. His excess weight was simply the result of a single, working mother who relied a little too heavily on the ease of the frying pan.
By the time Dawson was fifteen he would have done anything to belong to a group, any group. And he almost had.
There was a day in his teens that still incited a shameful blush to his cheeks and it always would. But it was a day he’d never forgotten.
When he’d turned sixteen he’d enrolled in a gym, prepared all his own food and watched his saturated fats. He would never go back there again.
Dawson accessed the properties
using a stairwell at the rear. Although classed as flats the properties were split over two levels. The terrace of each dwelling was separated by a single metal railing and looked on to a maze of rented garages, very few of which were used for storing cars.
He negotiated the outside space that was littered with two rusty barbecues and a collection of mismatched patio chairs. A discarded doll pram sat to the right of the door.
He knocked twice and instantly saw a form darken the patterned glass.
The door was opened by a girl Dawson guessed to be in her late teens. From the photos he knew that he was looking at Dewain’s older sister, Shona. Her hair fell in tight, glossy curls around an attractive face that was scowling at him.
‘Whattdya want?’ she asked, having obviously decided he wasn’t welcome.
‘Detective Sergeant Dawson,’ he said, showing his card. Her eyes never left his face. He’d seen the quality of fake ID cards that circulated around Hollytree and most of them looked more authentic than his own.
‘May I speak with your father?’
‘What for?’ she asked.
‘It’s about your brother,’ he said, patiently. As irritating as her attitude was, this family had suffered a loss and the police force had failed to prevent it. ‘There have been developments.’
‘What, he ain’t dead no more?’
‘Is your father home, Shona?’ he asked, firmly.
‘Hang on, I’ll check,’ she said, closing the door in his face. These flats consisted of two bedrooms, a lounge, a kitchen and a toilet. He suspected she knew if he was at home.
A few seconds later the door opened.
Dawson looked up into the face of Vin Wright. The expression was neither pleasant nor hostile. Just set.
‘What’re you wanting, son?’
Being called ‘son’ narked Dawson. His own father hadn’t called him that, not even the night he left to find himself in the Scottish Highlands. For all Dawson knew he was still looking.
But that wasn’t the only reason he disliked it. He was a police officer, a member of CID and he was not this man’s son.