Silent Playgrounds (34 page)

She felt the surge of adrenalin take her, and she was through and onto the stairway. The stairwell smelt damp, smelt of cats and the musty smell of rodents, and of other things she didn’t want to identify. She went up two flights, listening, thankful that she was wearing soft shoes. Then she stopped. Listened. There it was. Maybe just two landings above her, the sound of feet on the stairs, the muffled pad of rubber on concrete. She ran up the next two flights, feeling as light as if she were truly in a dream, flying up the stairs, then stopping again, listening.

Above her again, but closer now. A soft
pad, pad
on the stairs, someone who was getting tired with the climb. Her energy seemed inexhaustible, but she slowed now, so that she wouldn’t get too close, wouldn’t alarm the climber on the stairs until he had led her to the flat.
Another landing. They must be near the top now. And another landing. Her chest felt tight and her legs felt strangely weak, but the energy was still pushing her on. She stopped again to listen. No one climbing above her. He had been just one landing ahead. He must have left the stairs at the next landing. She moved quickly but more carefully now. She kept in the shadows as she looked up towards the top of the next flight. No one.

She went up, keeping close to the wall, and when she got near the top, she crouched down and looked along the walkway. A long, concrete path, a street in the sky, with the doors of the flats on one side, and the drop into space on the other, protected by a waist-high wall and railings. Up here, the boarding on the flats seemed intact, as though the looters couldn’t be bothered to climb this high in search of booty. Or maybe they’d been stripped, and then boarded up again, once there was nothing to interest the thief. Vandals would be deterred by the climb.

She needed to find the flat. The walkway stretched behind and in front of her. The person she had been following could have gone either way. She listened again. Just silence now. She hesitated, then decided. If he had turned left, she would probably have seen him from the landing below. She turned right, and crept past the doors of the flats, listening, looking for signs of entry, signs of life in the deserted tower. Each door was boarded up. Each window was a blank sheet of chipboard, solid, unbroken. She was coming to the place where the walkway joined the next block. She reached the end and was faced with bars. She couldn’t get any
further. She remembered the bars at the entrance, and shook them, but they seemed solid and immovable.

Then a voice spoke quietly behind her. ‘You can’t get through there. And you can’t go back now.’

Her heart lurched as she spun round. He was there behind her, just a shape in the darkness. She couldn’t make out his features, but her eyes were drawn down to his hands. He was holding something that glinted in the moonlight. A knife. ‘Lee?’ she whispered.

There was a soft laugh. ‘No.’ Then he took her arm and drew her back along the walkway. ‘Don’t fight,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t try anything. You won’t be the first one I’ve used this on.’

The children!
Just let me be in time for the children!
It was too late for anything else. She followed.

McCarthy tried to keep his mind focused on the now, but his usual detachment had left him. His mind made pictures of Lucy telling him about Tamby and about the monsters, tears trickling down her face and into her hair as she spoke. She’d knuckled them away fiercely, leaving smears of dirt on her cheeks. He thought about skates with wheels in the wrong places and drawings of imaginary dogs and cats, and real brothers and sisters. He thought about Lucy choking in the mud.

There was a flicker of light under the trees and, as they moved forward, the sound that had been there in the background for a while, a sound of running water, a churning sound, suddenly loud as it reflected off the trees, hit him. He remembered that sound, and he was running as he gave the command to go, running towards the yard, running towards the pit where the wheel turned and turned, carrying the water down into darkness.

McCarthy was over the fence into the wheel yard before he’d had time to think about the obstacle. He could hear feet running behind him. He kicked his shoes
off and vaulted the low railings round the wheel, stopping himself on the wall to drop as carefully as he could into the pit. The wheel, massive and heavy, was still turning, and if it caught him, it would drag him under and crush him. The water was up to his thighs, and the suction made him stagger. A child couldn’t fight against this. He remembered the museums expert, John Draper, telling him about the conduit: fifty metres long, small and narrow. The perfect place to hide small bodies. He knew where it was, the stone tunnel under the water. He was finding it hard to keep his balance. There was no room to move. The wheel turned relentlessly behind him, threatening to pull him under the water and grind him against the wall. He could hear confused shouts, voices from above him, but he didn’t see how anyone could help. He ducked down, trying to feel the tunnel entrance, but there was nothing there. He came up, choking, and yelled to Martin and Griffith who were at the railings. ‘Get that fucking thing stopped! And get some lights!’ and ducked under the water again. This time he was thinking more clearly. He could do nothing if the children had been sucked into the conduit. It was too small to give him access. He came up for air, ducked down again, feeling down the wall, and as he felt the pattern of the stone change he felt something soft and heavy. It was cloth, thick, like a blanket, jammed in the remains of the metal bars that had kept detritus out of the waterway.

It was jammed tight. He reached into the tunnel, got a firm hold of it. It was wrapped round something heavy, something that the current was trying to suck away from him. He pulled hard, then, as it came free
of the conduit, he got his arm round it and twisted to free it from the bars. For a moment, he was stuck. He needed to breathe, but he couldn’t get his head above the water without letting go, and if he let go now, that would be it. With his lungs in agony, and flashes of light exploding in front of his eyes, he wrenched at the iron, and the blanket came free. He stood up, choking and gasping for air, trying to support himself against the walls as the water swirled and sucked at him. The wheel slowed, slowed and stopped. He lifted the bundle up to the reaching arms, trying not to see the white face and the yellow hair, trying not to feel how cold she was. Lucy. His arms felt heavy as he got hold of the railing to pull himself up, and then he was falling back into the water as there was a soft
whoof
behind him and a blast of heat as the windows of Shepherd Wheel blew out in a sheet of flame.

Barraclough followed Corvin as he ran to the Shepherd Wheel workshops. She could hear the noise from inside, the sound of the grinding wheels. The men were already swinging a ram against the padlock hasps which separated from the wood on the second blow. Barraclough stopped in the entrance to the second workshop, overcome by the chaos of the spinning crown wheel, the spindles driving the belts and pulleys of the grindstones. And the smell of petrol choked and almost overwhelmed her. She heard Corvin shout, ‘Back!’ as she saw that the light, the intermittent light they had seen from beyond the trees, was sparks jumping from the spinning stones.

She seemed to be aware of everything at once. She could hear voices from behind the workshop, urgent shouts over the sound of the turning wheels. She dithered for a second. The children! In the water or in the workshop? She had her torch in her hand before she knew what she was doing, shining it round the room, gagging on the fumes of the petrol, hearing the lurch and creak of metal on wood. Corvin was talking urgently into his radio, but he gripped her arm as her torch passed across one of the bulky shapes of the grindstones. She swung the torch back.

There was something huddled on the far side, something that was moving or trying to move, flopping like a rag doll tangled up in the web of belts and pulleys that operated the equipment. Its movements seemed random and uncoordinated, and, as Barraclough watched, the child’s head – it was one of the children! – flopped sideways, close, very close to the spinning stone. Then Corvin was past her, inside the fume-filled workshop with the sparks, and Barraclough ran after him, dragging the child away from the wheels as Corvin hacked at the flying belt. He was going to lose his hand if he wasn’t careful. Then she pulled the child free and she was running towards the door when something hit her hard in the back and she went sprawling on the gravel of the path as the air above her ignited in a wash of flame.

McCarthy was glad of the warm summer night. One of the paramedics had given him a blanket, and tried to persuade him to come along to the hospital. A heavy
smell of smoke and petrol hung in the air. They’d been lucky, the fire officer said. Whoever had set the fire in Shepherd Wheel had been in too much of a hurry. He must have expected the sparks from the grinding wheels to ignite the petrol, and gone, thinking the workshop would become an inferno in seconds: an inferno in which little Michael Harrison was struggling his way out of a drugged stupor. Fire for Michael and water for Lucy.

Or was it, McCarthy wondered, that the desire to kill was not as strong as they had thought? Lucy had been thrown into the mill race to drown, but the killer had not held her under the water as he had apparently held Sophie under the mud. Nor had he killed her before throwing her under the wheel, as he had with Emma. Michael had been dumped like a piece of garbage and left to take his chances with the fire, poor though they would have been, unlike Ashley, who had had the life choked out of him before the fire was set. Maybe the final action of throwing a lighted match onto the petrol had been too much.

McCarthy hadn’t wanted, or felt he needed, to go to the hospital. He was cold, frozen in fact, but he was starting to warm up. He’d radioed back to the station for the spare set of clothes he kept in his locker. He was trying to keep his mind on the practicalities. They didn’t know yet whether either of the children had survived. They didn’t know how long Lucy had been under the water, what drugs had been given to Michael, or what damage the tangling belts of the grinding wheel had done to him. The Punto had been found under the trees
close to Shepherd Wheel. The killer must have left the park on foot, through the woods or through the allotments.

McCarthy went back to his car and stripped off his wet clothes. He was buttoning up his shirt when he heard Corvin calling as he came along the path. ‘There’s been a call from Brooke. We’ve got to get back to the incident room. Something’s happened.’

McCarthy felt the chill of the water round him again. He pulled his shoes on and got into his car. He dialled Brooke’s number. He needed to know if the call back meant that Lucy was dead. He needed to know if they had a name for the man they were hunting. He listened to Brooke’s terse message, then pulled the car round in a tight turn and floored the accelerator as he headed towards town.

The door closed behind her with a heavy
chunk.
Suzanne stayed where she was. She didn’t want to look at him. Her ears were listening for other sounds, the sound of children, frightened, maybe crying, maybe just asleep, just breathing quietly, but there. The flat was cold and dead. It was pitch black, and the silence pressed round her. She heard his voice again, still a whisper. ‘They’ll be pulling this down soon.’ She heard the sound of footsteps,
pad, pad
like the footsteps on the stairs. A dim light came on. She kept her eyes down and the feet came into view, wearing muddy trainers that looked worn and battered. ‘Look at me.’

Suzanne kept her gaze lowered for a moment and heard the impatient catch in his breath. She looked at
him. The light was faint; it came from a lantern hanging from a hook in the ceiling.

She knew before she looked at him. She knew his voice. His face was shadowed in the lamplight. But she knew it so well. Heavy black hair, dark eyes, pale skin. Only now he made no attempt to disguise the intelligence in those eyes, or the anger. ‘Ashley,’ she said. And it was unreal, it was a dream. She knew she was going to wake up soon, and she would be in bed, and Michael and Lucy would be in bed upstairs. She looked at him again. He was standing by the doorway, watching her, the way he had that night when …
Ashley!

He seemed to pick up her thoughts. ‘I didn’t plan it,’ he said. ‘I got lucky.’ He frowned. ‘I should have thought of it. Simon looks … used to look … enough like me.’ He lit a candle on the table in front of him and his eyes met hers. ‘He followed me. I thought I could keep Simon out of it, but he was starting to get worried. He thought I was going to hurt Luce.’ He made a gesture of helplessness. ‘I had to …’ His face was sad. ‘He was looking for me and he found me. “It’s just a dream, Si,” I told him. But he wouldn’t listen. He always listened before. They’ll find out. They’re not as stupid as you’d think.’ He was standing close to her, and he touched her hair. ‘You came looking for me,’ he said.

There was something so familiar about him now, that stance, that gentle, knowing smile. She had felt that flicker of recognition often, felt that she knew him. Jane talking that day in the garden … ‘He had a child from his marriage.’ She looked up at Ashley’s face, so close to hers she could feel his breath on her hair. ‘Joel,’
she said.
Joel!
And that smile … But where Joel’s smile was empty, Ashley’s had been warm and gentle. Not any more.
The children!

‘Phillip Reid,’ he said. His voice was calm, but there was something in his eyes that made her stand very still, very quiet. ‘He isn’t
Joel.
He isn’t Severini. He thought he could just forget us if he changed his name. There was only me knew that. I didn’t tell the others. Only Simon. Simon doesn’t talk.’ He smiled at her, holding the knife close against her neck. ‘I found him, you see. Our dad. He was stupid. He didn’t really change his name. It was on all his business stuff. I told Simon what to look for. Simon found it on the computer. Simon’s good at things like that.’ Now he was breathing faster, and his eyes were glittering in the candlelight. ‘I went to see him. He didn’t know me. I’ll show him who I am!’ His eyes were looking through her, but the knife was level and firm against her.

‘Sophie found me. She had a letter. Our mother had written her a letter.
No letter for me! I couldn’t even read it!’
His voice was ragged. His foot lashed out and the table crashed over, sending the candle rolling across the floor. Then, as quickly as it had come, his anger went and his voice was quiet and reflective again. ‘I knew about Emma. Uncle Bryan was always talking about Emma. And Sandra. “That poor lass! If you turn out like your dad I’ll …” Uncle Bryan. I took him a bottle of whisky. He told me where they lived. “You’re a good lad, Ashley,” he said. “It’s all water under the bridge.” Under the bridge …’ He laughed. He looked at the candle on the floor and picked it up. It was still burning.

‘Sophie wants us to be a family. It’s good, that …’ He smiled, but his smile was blank and joyless. ‘We’re going to get a house, all of us. Me, Simon, Sophie, Emma – and Luce. Emma and Sophie, they don’t know about Luce. They don’t know they’ve got another sister. It’s a surprise. They’ll like it. When I tell them. Somewhere by the sea. I’ve never seen the sea.’ His eyes glistened in the light.

‘Only Sophie wanted to stop it in the end. She wanted to leave me and go back to her nice, safe family on the farm. I couldn’t let her do that.’ He held the knife between them, the point just touching her. She stood motionless, her breath tight in her throat. ‘I had it all planned. Simon got a room in the house next door, and he got one for So. They always give Simon what he asks for. He didn’t want it, but he’d do it for me. He did what I said …’

He looked at her to make sure she understood. ‘Sophie likes children,’ he said. ‘I knew she’d make friends with Lucy. But I had to make sure. I said, “Ask if she wants a babysitter.” I knew she would. She didn’t look after Luce properly. She let him near her.’

‘She let him … ?’

‘Her father.
My
father.’ He was breathing fast again, and his eyes that had been unfocused were sharpening again.

She had to keep him calm. ‘It’s all right, Ashley,’ she said. ‘Just tell me.’ He smiled, and now it was the smile she remembered from the Alpha Centre, from that night at her house.

‘You see, Sophie would watch her, keep her safe,
while I got rid of him. Emma sold him the pills. She sold her dad the pills, and he didn’t even recognize her.’ He laughed quietly, then his face changed, grew cold and angry. ‘He started hitting on her,
his own daughter!
Buying her things, telling her she could dance in his club. He wanted the pills, see. He wanted to know where she was getting it from. But I’ve fixed him. “He knows how to make us all rich,” Emma said. “Stop pushing me around. I’m going to do what he says and you can’t stop me,” she said …’ His eyes were unfocused again. He shook his head. ‘I get angry,’ he said.