Bedlam (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

Clarissa rang him as he headed back to Bedlam. He pulled to the side of the road and fumbled with the unfamiliar replacement phone. He was grateful for the distraction. His hands shook. George’s outburst had broadsided him, the words of a man consumed with guilt and loss, but they were in his head now and the voices were back. Not Kit’s whispered smiles or even Nell’s soft taunts, someone else stirred in the dark recesses, someone he recognised from long ago.

“I have something for you, honey.”

He stared at the phone, took a moment to register Clarissa’s words and then finally mumbled his response.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Not a lot. Comparable, it seems, to your enthusiasm.”

“Sorry, Clarissa, busy peeling onions.
I can’t see straight.”

“Well, that’s life, detective, and I’m guessing you have a few layers to go.”

“Maybe. Go on … what did you find?”

“To be honest, honey, I’ve had the office junior on this. Nineteen eighty-eight was a busy year and I’ve got better things to do than loop through microfiche until my eyes scream for mercy. Despite a considerable amount of tragedy and mayhem as befits Bedlam, there was nothing that jumped out as being worthy of more than a few days’ angst or particularly fitting the
bill as per your remit. There were only a few front page items that may be of interest to you. The first was a bus crash that killed four passengers and one pedestrian. The bus collided with a removal lorry. The driver was drunk. It wasn’t the first time and he went to prison. He came out a few years later and hung himself.”

“Was one of the passengers a child, a little girl?”

“Yes. Seven years old. Emily Parker. She was killed with her mother.”

McNeil scowled. Sad though it was, that wasn’t it, though he didn’t know what
it
was meant to be. “Is that all?”

“No. Reports were circulated of a man driving a grey transit van who tried to lure a child.
The usual ‘Come see some puppies’ kind of thing.”

“Did he take a child?”

“No.”

“Was he caught?”

“No, the story fizzled out. The kids were vague about what had happened. There was a suggestion that they’d made it up to cover up the fact they were late home.”

“How old were the kids?”

“Eight and nine.”

“Too old.
Anything else?”

“More than a few murders -
drug-related, domestic, the usual run-of-the-mill. There was one particularly gruesome discovery of two bodies that had lain undiscovered for a number of years, but you probably have more information than me on those.”

“Any involving a little girl?”

“No. There was a drowning. Pretty tragic.”

McNeil perked up.
“A child?”

“A girl.
Ball in the water, you get the picture.”

“Where?”

“The lake at the town park.”

“I didn’t know Bedlam had a park.”

“It did twenty-five years ago. Now I guess you’d call it a nature reserve. Basically, the money for maintenance ran out and it was left to run wild.”

Yeah, that sounded about right for Bedlam, society’s nettle patch, complete with burned-out cars and leaking chemical waste. Maybe things were different twenty-five years ago. He couldn’t remember.

“So, no reports of a missing child?”

“Nothing.
Sorry if that’s not what you want to hear but I did my bit. We need to get together for your side of the deal. I need that exclusive. I’m holding the front page.”

McNeil nodded distractedly, disappointedly. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected her to find. “Sure. I’ll get back to you in a day or so.”

“Make sure you do.”

“One last thing, Clarissa.
The name of the kid that was drowned?”

McNeil heard scrabbling as Clarissa checked her notes.

“Elizabeth Foulkes, aged two. Tragic. Church picnic. Pony rides and merry-go-rounds. The story dragged on for a week or so, with petitioning by locals about safety. Apparently another child drowned there in eighty-six.”

Tragic indeed.
He felt the leaden weight of guilt sink to the pit of his stomach as he recalled the way he’d spoken to George. The man had taken his eye off his child, let her hand slip from his and lost her forever. No wonder he was beside himself with grief. No wonder George hated him for doing exactly the same with his remaining child.

He ended the call, laid the phone on the dash board and sat for a moment staring out at the snow. He wasn’t sure what he’d achieved or where to look next. He was running out of options. Perhaps he should do as everyone else suggested and accept the fact that Kit was dead. But he knew he could never do that. He knew he wouldn’t give up until he found her. Just like he hadn’t given up on Nell beneath the viaduct, and she in turn had stood by him. He felt like an unwilling participant in a game of pass-the-parcel. Sooner or later the last wrapper would come off and he was certain he wouldn’t like the prize. He rubbed at weary eyes and refocused. He had to find Nell. She was the only
one who knew what was really going on, and crazy or not, he would make her tell him.

The scent of candy floss and toffee apples wriggled its way into his consciousness and drew his eye to the rear-view mirror. A red balloon bobbed against the roof of the car. The boy was back, and for once McNeil was almost relieved to see him, his paranoia providing a realm of almost comforting insanity. Their sense of connection was growing, their separation less bearable. Like a drug, he wanted more, yet feared the addiction and its consequences.

The boy sat in the middle of the back seat, feet pulled up awkwardly, one arm draped around a small huddled figure. He was soaked. Tendrils of pond weed clung to his hair, his lips were blue, his skin translucent, his grey eyes wide open and scared. McNeil absorbed his fear. It started as a tremor at his fingertips and soon his whole body jumped with it. The need to run, to scream, to fight, had his heart banging in his chest. He began to hyperventilate, dragging in oxygen in massive gulps as if in competition with another, and only one of them could survive.

The boy opened his mouth to speak and water gushed from it, spewing minnows and pond skaters. The little girl at his side held out her pale hand. In her palm a tadpole wriggled, flipping tail and head in a frantic attempt to stay within the diminishing supply of water that dribbled between her fingers. The tadpole
slipped from her grasp and the boy took her hand gently. They inhaled in unison, McNeil’s heart slowed and the children, entwined in each other’s fragile embrace, turned to him and smiled.

Chapter Thirty-Four

He attracted some attention when he turned up at the station. The curious glances were mostly disguised beneath handshakes and choruses of 'Well done', and, 'Nice one, mate', which was curious in itself because, as far as McNeil was concerned, he hadn’t done anything noteworthy - yet. Regardless, he accepted the congratulations on his miraculous survival, which he reckoned had little to do with any prowess on his part but was nevertheless worth celebrating.

The squad was busy interviewing suspects, crossing
Ts and dotting Is, to ensure a case that would ultimately meet the approval of the Crown Prosecution Service and stand up in court. The arrests now numbered twelve. Number thirteen he hoped was being reserved for king rat, Curtis. That, of course, was supposing he could either convince them of Curtis’ involvement or the investigating officers were able to squeeze some youthful throats tightly enough so his name popped out of its own accord.

McNeil scanned the squad room. Dennis was seated on the corner of his desk, phone at his ear, putting the world to rights as he lambasted the unfortunate on the other end of the line. He caught his eye, and Dennis frowned and gestured for him to wait. McNeil had other plans. Weed was still in the holding cells
awaiting a formal charge and he needed to speak with him before he was shipped out elsewhere.

Dennis caught up with him as he waited for the lift. “Hey, what are you doing here? You’re meant to be resting up and taking advantage of the Department’s less-than-generous sick policy.”

McNeil leaned a shoulder against the wall and smiled. “I was bored.”

“Where are you headed?”

“I need a quick word with Weed.”

“Sorry, Joey, I can’t allow that. On this occasion you’re a victim, not a copper. You need to stay well away from all the little bastards. I don’t want anything going wrong with this case.”

McNeil reached out to call the lift.

“I mean it, Joey.”

“So do I. Five minutes, that’s all I need.”

Dennis shook his head. “It’s not happening, Joey. You go in there and start shouting the odds about Kit and Nell and God knows what, and we’ll end up with the kid’s defence buying you a bloody drink and the judge throwing out your evidence as unsound. We have to be smart here, Joey. Ultimately you’ll have the last word - just not here and not now.”

“I thought you were meant to be helping me.”

“I am. That’s what I’m doing now. At the moment you’re a bloody hero and the public loves you, Christ only knows why. The whole give-Bedlam-back-to-the-people
brigade are holding you up as an example. While you were getting your vitals tweaked in hospital, the placard-carrying public were laying siege to the ruddy council about extra funding from central government for street lighting, drug rehabilitation schemes, extra bobbies on the beat, you name it, and they’re chanting it from every street corner, cranked up, no doubt, by your new best friend and confidante, Ms. Clarissa, who’s backing you like you’re running for bleedin’ parliament. I’m not even going to ask what all that’s about, but if you go in there and start mouthing off about bloody ghosts and ghouls, and riding the ruddy dragon to enlightenment, where do you think we’ll end up? I’ll tell you where - with no bloody case.”

McNeil’s face twisted sourly. Dennis was right. Despite his current kerb appeal, he was essentially the weak link in the chain as far as the case was concerned. In direct contrast to the Free Bedlam Brigade, the do-gooders would be tumbling out of the woodwork to find justification for the appalling actions of the mob, citing bottle-feeding, broken homes, missing father figures and whatever else they could imagine. It would be madness to provide them with more ammunition by suggesting that he was less than perfect himself or by illustrating that notion with an ill-advised interrogation. Public opinion was
pivotal and there was too much at stake to jeopardise the case. He would just have to get his information from elsewhere.

“I suppose when you put it like that …”

“Good lad. Now, come on, let me buy you a cuppa. I’ve got ten spare minutes before I go bang some more heads together. I’d stand you a pint but I don’t think that would help matters, would it? So, on this occasion, Betty’s twice-brewed will have to do.” He steered him away from the lift and down the corridor toward the canteen. “Maybe there’s something I can do to help you without rocking the love boat.”

“Do you have the address?” McNeil asked as he stirred his tea unenthusiastically. “That would help.”

“The address?” Dennis had added a bacon and egg buttie to his order despite the fact that it was long past breakfast time. He munched as he spoke. McNeil averted his eyes as a combination of grease and egg yolk made a bid for freedom down Dennis’ chin. His stomach still hadn’t recovered. He doubted it would until he had Kit back with him. He concentrated instead on Dennis’ bulging notebook laid next to his plate, a virus-free pseudo computer that never crashed, but with limited storage capacity, hence the overstretched elastic band holding everything together.

“The address of the hospital, for Nell.”

Dennis raised a long-suffering brow. “Are you still banging on about that? I told you. Leave it alone, she’s barmy.”

“You promised to help me.” McNeil waited patiently as Dennis finished the last morsel and licked his greasy fingers clean.

“The wife’s at her sister’s,” said Dennis by way of explanation as he rose from his seat. “Might just get myself another while we’re here. Save the gas at home.”

“The address?”

“I have it somewhere on my desk. I’ll check when we get back. Sunny Hill, Sunset Towers, Seventh Heaven, Psycho’s Rest, something beginning with ‘S’ …”

“Psycho doesn’t begin with 'S'.”

“Well, bugger me. I always knew that ruddy phonics malarkey was headed for disaster.” He left the table with a grin and headed back to the counter.

McNeil waited until Dennis’ back was turned before pulling a card from the notebook.
Serenity House, Bedlam
. He doubted it lived up to its name.

“Forget the address, Dennis,” he called as he rose from his seat, one hand clasped to his side. “Maybe you’re right after all. I came back too soon. Bloody wound is giving me jip. I’m just going to check something out and then I’m off home to rest up. You enjoy your fry-up.”

Back at his desk, he logged onto his computer, resisting the lure of the on-going enquiry, the statements of the youths and the crime scene photos of char-grilled Bales, and focused his attention instead on a little girl called Elizabeth, who, twenty-five years before, had slipped from her father’s hand and disappeared into the darkness of a forgotten lake. Two years before that, the lake had stolen another child - three year old Jonathan Miller. What Clarissa had neglected to tell him was that neither child’s body had ever been recovered.

According to the records, Bales, the water bailiff, had assisted police with both searches of the lake. His experience of all the local waterways, the gullies and underwater currents had proved invaluable to the search teams, and within twelve hours, when it became evident that the toddlers had met a tragic end, they were downgraded to recovery teams. Divers had searched without success and it was accepted that the tiny bodies had either sunk beneath the silt at the deepest part of the lake, to be consumed in the fullness of time by water creatures, or been carried by underwater currents through one of the many channels that ultimately led to the sea or the sewer. It was little wonder that the Reverend
Foulkes was beside himself with grief.

Bales, again.
The man was everywhere. He’d been present at the scene of both Kit and Elizabeth’s disappearances and assisted police in their search. He’d also been acquainted with Curtis, and now he was dead. Why had no one made the connection? McNeil used the mouse to position the last pictures of the two children side-by-side on the screen. Elizabeth’s photo, presumably taken at the picnic prior to her disappearance, showed her clutching a red balloon. Jonathan’s earlier shot was an evidential Polaroid snap of a battered child who had evidently suffered physical abuse throughout his short life, ending his days, perhaps mercifully, in the cool waters of the lake. Statements from his parents, who were noted to be intoxicated at the time of interview, suggested the child had wandered away from them at the annual church picnic.

He zoomed in on the children’s faces. Elizabeth was a picture of concentration, tongue poking between her teeth as she struggled to keep the balloon string from slipping through her fingers. Her eyes were downcast, her attention on the task not the photographer. Jonathan’s eyes were also hooded, puffy and red from crying. His face was dirty, his lip swollen, fresh sutures stood out starkly from a wound on his brow.

I warned you.

The oily voice slid into his mind as cold black water lapped at his feet. He gasped as the water flooded him, slowly from the bottom, as if he were a sponge filling up with regret and sorrow.

You wouldn’t listen.

It bubbled in his gut, churning like a stormy sea, eddies and currents revealing dark things that had lain hidden in the silt far too long.

I told you what would happen.

It was up to his chest, tight and heavy, constricting his heart, filling his lungs. He struggled against it, his breathing erratic,
his panic overwhelming.

Are you sorry now?

The water was in his mouth, on his tongue and forcing its way between his teeth …

Say it!

… up into his nose, stinging and sharp. He couldn’t breathe. His lips were sealed tight. Cruel fingers pinched his nose. He felt a howl erupt from within, and the force of it ripped the hand from his nose and tore his lips apart. He ducked his head instinctively and Betty’s twice-brewed white-with-no-sugar missed the computer screen and sprayed the waste-paper bin instead.

His heart pounded. His head was crammed to bursting with images that refused to budge. He wiped tea from his chin with the back of his shaking hand and inhaled.
Get a fucking grip.

“Sorry …” he murmured vaguely to those closest to him who had narrowly missed the spray and now shared uncomfortable glances. “… I should probably go.”

He stood unsteadily, one hand braced on the desk, and turned away from his judgmental audience. He could feel their communal alarm at the mess he’d made, at the mess he was.

“Fuck, Joey. Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a bloody ghost.” A friendly voice, full of concern and it was almost his undoing.

He glanced back at the computer. The screen was blank, the power light off, but he could still see the children. Their eyes were no longer downcast but open and focused intently on him.

I hear you
, he murmured silently.