Make Believe

Chapter 1

Janine was about to leave, called to a suspicious death – she had the address but no further details – when Pete’s car pulled up outside the house. She felt the familiar clench inside, wondered exactly when things were going to get easier with her ex or if it would always feel this way.

Two years ago he had left. Janine pregnant with Charlotte, their late unexpected addition to the family.

He’d made a clumsy attempt to invite himself back into the marriage not so long ago but Janine had told him straight that it couldn’t work. They couldn’t turn back time and she couldn’t erase the sense of betrayal at his actions. Would it have been different if he had chosen to stay with Janine rather than move in with Tina? Might she have forgiven him the affair? Hard to tell and too late now anyway.

Eleanor and Tom climbed out of his car carrying backpacks. Both gave her a hurried wave and rushed into the house.

Pete didn’t even stop the engine, just wound the window down as Janine approached. In a hurry no doubt. Like they all were, all the time. When did life become quite so frantic? Janine thought.

‘Good weekend?’ Janine said.

‘Yep.’ He nodded, slowly, repeatedly. God knows why.

‘Did you take them out?’

‘Yes. Cinema, pizza.’ Almost monosyllabic. Like their teenager, Michael. Why was he behaving so oddly?

‘Is everything OK?’ she said, deciding to be direct. Perhaps he’d rowed with Tina, or the kids had done something irritating.

‘Fine. Great,’ he said. More nodding. ‘Yes, fine. See you then.’

Janine, puzzled, watched him go. He hadn’t even made time to pop in and see Charlotte having breakfast with the nanny, Vicky. That was sad. But then if he was running late maybe he just didn’t have the time.

She called Richard Mayne, her DI, offered to give him a lift to the scene. She knew his car was in for repairs, he’d been complaining about it, the wait for parts.

‘Er, no,’ he said stammering a little, ‘you’re fine.’

‘You risking the bus?’

‘No, I… er… I’m sorted.’

‘See you there, then.’ Why was everyone being so weird today?

The crime scene cordon on the residential street had been set about fifty yards from the address where the body had been found. 16 Kendal Avenue. The place was a hubbub of activity, crime scene vans were within the cordon and outside the house itself. Neighbours stood in twos and threes speculating with each other. As Janine pulled on her protective suit, another car arrived, her colleague Richard Mayne in the passenger seat. And look who’s driving, Millie Saunders from the press office. Janine watched Richard kiss Millie on the cheek before getting out and waving her off.

‘Hi.’ Richard came over, ‘Have you got a spare suit?’ Janine stared at him, eyebrows raised in question.

Richard rolled his eyes at her, gave a laugh, sighed. ‘Millie Saunders,’ he said, ‘press office. Satisfied?’

‘Was she?’ Janine said dryly. Richard laughed. She turned and picked another suit out of the stash she carried with her in the car boot and passed it to him.

Janine felt the teensiest pinch of jealousy. Unfair she knew. Richard and her were mates, that’s all. Work partners and pals. Yes, there was an attraction, they flirted with each other now and again but would never take it further and risk ruining their friendship. Janine had the odd fantasy – he was gorgeous, tall, dark, and the rest. But that’s all it was, fantasy.

When he was ready they approached the officer in charge of cordon, showed her their warrant cards and walked up the road.

‘Not a bad area,’ Richard remarked.

Janine agreed. Large, solidly built, semi-detached houses, the sort with decent sized gardens and enough roof space to make conversions. Some sort of improvement was going on at this place, a skip on the pavement, rubble and debris in the front garden, windows boarded up, bricks stacked at the far end of the drive. An inner cordon was rigged up around the driveway where a white tent had been erected to preserve the scene. Janine introduced herself and Richard to the crime scene manager, a man called John Trenton.

‘Young child,’ Trenton said, ‘in the main drain.’ He led them into the tent where there was a manhole, rectangular, nothing visible but murky water. Sammy Wray? Janine’s first thought. The city was awash with posters of the three-year-old missing for the past nine days. Sammy’s picture photoshopped to include the clothes he’d last been seen in and the heading, ‘Have You Seen This Child?’ Each time she’d driven past one of them Janine had felt a surge of sympathy for his parents, for the unimaginable horror they must be living through. And the professional in her knew that with the time that had elapsed the probability was that if Sammy Wray was ever found he would not be alive.

‘Sammy Wray?’ she said aloud.

‘Could well be. The size of the body is right,’ Trenton said, ‘the T-shirt.’

She glanced at Richard, his face set for a moment, then his eyes met hers, a look of trepidation and resignation. This will be a hard one. Child murders always were, grim and heartbreaking.

‘Looks like a blow to the head,’ Trenton said, ‘impact to the back of the skull.’

‘We’ll get the parents to ID him?’ said Janine.

‘Too distressing,’ Trenton replied. ‘The effects of the water, and animals.’ He cleared his throat. ‘An appalling scenario for all concerned.’ He held up a video camera, ‘Would you…?’ he invited.

Janine nodded.

She watched the shaky footage. The scene in the drainage tunnel lit garishly. The camera panned up the sewer a couple of feet to reveal the bundle, a white sheet torn and stained, the mess that had once been a little boy. She swallowed.

‘Pathologist on their way,’ Trenton said.

‘Good,’ though there was no doubt in anybody’s mind that this was a suspicious death.

‘Who alerted us?’ Janine said.

‘Flood reported by the neighbours at the other side.’ He gestured towards the adjoining house. ‘The Palfreys. They called the builders, thinking it might have something to do with them, a blockage or whatever. Builder came out and called the utility company. When the water guy goes down he finds the body.’

‘The water’s gone down now,’ Richard said.

‘Yes, flash flood apparently, old drains, they’re too narrow to cope with the run off and we’d several inches of rainfall in the early hours.’

‘We’ll speak to the parents. Fast track the DNA,’ Janine said. I don’t want them waiting a minute longer.’

They set off immediately. She was eager to reach the Wrays before they heard any whisper of the morning’s discovery. On the way, she alerted Lisa, one of her detective constables, asked her to start setting up an incident room and to call in the rest of the team. Then she spoke briefly to the officer who had been co-ordinating the missing child operation, informed him of the discovery and got an overview of their investigation to date.

Chapter 2

The Wrays’ house, a well appointed Edwardian terrace, stood on Foley Road, a stone’s throw away from Withington Park where Sammy Wray had last been seen and about half a mile from the Kendal Avenue crime scene.

At the front door Janine took a moment, bracing herself for what was to come. Richard waited, then gave a rueful smile, cocked his head. Ready? Janine nodded and he knocked on the door, three loud raps.

Claire Wray opened the door, her husband Clive close behind her and at his side a woman who was acting as their family liaison officer, Sue Quinn.

‘Mr and Mrs Wray, I’m DCI Janine Lewis.’

Claire’s eyes darted between Janine and Richard as if searching for something but Janine could tell Claire knew, even before she spoke, fear quaking in her voice. ‘You’ve found him?’ She knew. After all it had been nine days, nine days waiting for this knock at the door, expecting redemption at first, living on crazy hope and air, then nerves shattered and sleep deprived, craving any news, anything at all.

Claire sought the answer in Janine’s expression, in the silence, and understood. Her face crumpled.

‘Can we come inside?’ Janine said gently.

The house was stylish, clean lines and natural materials, wood floors, a slate hearth. Framed landscape photographs hung on the walls, some child’s drawings too. Clive was a graphic designer, ran a small firm. Claire did French translation for an import company.

Janine watched Claire clutch at a small navy blue fleece on the arm of the sofa and hug it to herself as she sat down. Sammy’s, Janine assumed. Totem. Security blanket.

Clive hovered, coiled, tense.

Janine told them what she had to. ‘I am so sorry. I’m here to tell you that we’ve recovered a boy’s body matching Sammy’s description.’

‘Get out,’ Clive Wray yelled. A normal reaction, Janine had come across it often before, shooting the messenger.

Claire bent double, crying out, ‘God, no. No.’

‘Get out,’ Clive wheeled around.

Janine continued calmly, ‘It’s terrible news, I know.’

Claire was sobbing, howling really.

Janine exchanged glances with Richard, some mutual support in a harrowing situation. After a few moments she indicated he should pick up the thread.

‘Until we have the DNA result, to confirm identity,’ Richard said, ‘we will not be releasing Sammy’s name.’

‘Why can’t we identify him?’ Clive said.

‘I’m afraid there is extensive damage to the body,’ Richard said.

‘Oh, God,’ Claire looked up, her face blotchy with tears. ‘Where did you find him? Where was he?’

It was important to be honest but sometimes it just felt like pouring salt into the wounds, thought Janine. ‘The victim was found in a drainage tunnel, at a property in Withington.’

Claire whimpered and Clive turned away from them.

Sue came in bringing a tray of tea. She placed it on the coffee table and then stood at the back of the room, unobtrusively.

‘Sue will carry on as your family liaison officer and she’ll remain with you,’ Janine said. ‘I’m now going to be leading the investigation and DI Mayne will be working with me.’

Clive Wray passed Claire a drink but her hand was shaking too badly to take hold of it.

‘I know you’ve already made statements to the missing person’s inquiry but as circumstances have changed we need to look at everything again. Can we do that now? Or we can take a break and come back later,’ Janine said.

‘Now,’ Claire Wray said.

‘Claire?’ Clive looked at her, obviously concerned for her emotional state.

‘Now,’ Claire said again, steel in her voice. Was it just determination or was some of that metal directed at her husband? The loss of a child often tore relationships apart. Was that already happening for the Wrays?

Janine nodded her agreement and opened her briefcase, got out her daybook to record notes. Clive sat down beside his wife on the sofa.

‘Can you describe for me what Sammy was wearing on the Saturday he went missing?’ Janine said.

‘His navy trousers, a dinosaur T-shirt. Red shoes.’ She looked at Janine, a flicker of hope, as if Janine would suddenly tell her those didn’t fit with what they had found. Janine didn’t evade that look but she answered it with one of regret.

‘You went to the park,’ Richard prompted her.

‘About quarter to one. He loves the slide. One minute he was-’ she faltered. ‘I only turned round for a minute and he was gone.’

‘Then you raised the alarm,’ Richard said.

Claire said, ‘Yes. I looked round the park, I ran back here. There was no sign and I called the police.’

Richard turned to Clive, ‘And you arrived home-?’

‘At four. The police were here, I couldn’t… you never imagine…’ he said as if re-living the shock of it. Then the reality of the new nightmare hit him. ‘Oh, God.’

‘You’d been walking?’ said Janine.

‘Up Kinder Scout, Hayfield,’ Clive said.

‘On your own?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you think of anyone who could verify that?’ Janine said.

There was a horrible silence and Clive Wray stared at her as he recognised the implication behind the question.

‘It would help us eliminate you from the inquiry,’ she said, ‘ I realise that may seem insensitive but it is routine procedure. If you can think of anybody-’

‘No,’ he said quickly, ‘it was pretty quiet. I passed a few other walkers but they were strangers. I’ve no idea how you’d contact them.’

Claire started crying again. Clive Wray made a move to comfort her, his arm reaching out but she froze at his touch, shrank away and he let his arm fall.

Leaving the Wrays, as Janine was putting her case in the back of the car she found one of Charlotte’s shoes there, and some crayons. For a giddy moment Janine imagined Charlotte lost, missing, hurt. There but for the… No point in dwelling on it. Janine’s job now was to use all her professional skill and that of her team to find out who killed Sammy Wray. And her integrity, her dedication was all she could offer the Wrays. Empathy yes but not sentimentality.

‘Odd atmosphere, didn’t you think? Lot of tension,’ said Janine.

‘What d’you expect?’ Richard said.

‘Not directed at us, though; with each other,’ she said.

‘Could have been having problems before this,’ Richard said. ‘Don’t they reckon having a child stresses a relationship?’

Sure does. Janine knew how the business of sharing the care of children was fertile ground for spats and resentment between her and Pete both before and after the separation. That old chestnut of both people working full-time but the woman also doing the bulk of the parenting and the housework. Did Claire still work full-time now they had Sammy? Maybe she was a stay-at-home mum. All the family background would be in the files from the missing person case. She’d have to get up to speed on it to brief her team.

‘Maybe she blames Clive for not being there,’ Richard said.

‘Or he blames Claire for losing Sammy,’ Richard said.

‘Yes,’ she said. Janine’s stomach flipped over as she remembered one time when she had lost Tom. She had taken the kids to the Trafford centre. It was BT (before Tina as she thought of it) and BC (before Charlotte). Eleanor had helped herself to some sparkly crayons in the stationery shop, which Janine only realised once they had moved on to the gaming place. Michael was absorbed in playing the games and Janine told Tom to stay with his big brother while she took Eleanor to give back the stolen goods.

On their return, with Eleanor bawling, Janine found Michael, slack jawed and glazed eyes, trying a shoot-em-up game, and no sign of Tom.

Janine’s blood had turned to ice. Tom was found, none the worse for wear, after the security staff were alerted and announcements made. He’d gone looking for candy floss.

Pete never blamed her, not for that, but she blamed herself. Pete’s blame centred on how much her job impacted on her time at home. But Janine loved her job, just as she loved her kids, and refused to let Pete guilt trip her about it. She could do that all by herself on a bad day, thank you very much.

Chapter 3

While the incident room was being set up, Janine familiarised herself with the files on Sammy Wray. She passed eyewitness statements from the park to her sergeants, Shap and Butchers, to read and asked Richard to liaise with the crime scene manager and the CSIs for any information emerging from the scene. Then Janine attended the post mortem.

There was an understandable pathos to the sight of such a small figure on the table.

‘No trousers, no shoes,’ Janine observed as the pathologist’s assistant photographed the child first wrapped in the torn sheet, then with the sheet removed in a T-shirt and underpants.

‘No, no socks either,’ the pathologist said.

All sorts of debris had clung to the sheet and the exposed parts of the victim from the filthy sewer water.

Janine waited patiently while more photographs were taken and notes made of the external appearance of the child. X-rays were taken too before the internal examination began. Janine was there for confirmation of the cause of death and she soon got her answer. A substantial fracture to the back of the skull had killed the child.

‘It’s over a wide area, so we’re looking at impact with a large item,’ the pathologist said.

‘A brick?’ Janine asked, thinking of where the body was found, the building materials to hand.

‘Don’t think so, no linear edge and no brick dust in the scalp which I’d expect. I’ve seen injuries like this before with falls or where a child’s been swung against the wall.’

Janine steadied herself. ‘So, we’re not looking for a weapon as such?’

‘No.’

‘Any sign of sexual abuse?’

‘No.’

‘The other damage?’ Janine said.

‘I’ve more tests to do but I’d say almost certainly post-mortem, and all consistent with the site where the victim was found, the sewer.’

That was something, Janine thought. Whoever had snatched Sammy Wray had not tortured or raped him.

‘If you find any trace material on the body that might be significant, will you let me know straightaway?’ Janine said.

Butchers had only nipped out for a butty but when he returned his heart sank. His desk was decorated with helium balloons, a joke gallows and noose and an inflatable plastic diamond ring. It was common knowledge then.

He should never have mentioned it to Shap. In fact he never intended to but Shap had a way of worming things out of a person, tricking you into saying more than you intended. A handy talent for a copper, but a pain in the arse when you were the fall guy who found all your best kept secrets dragged into the light for all to see.

Shap’s eyes lit up as he saw Butchers was back and he said, ‘She called it off yet? You wanna get the rock back if she does, mate. Stick that in the pre-nuptials.’

‘Who’ve you told?’ Butchers said. ‘Have you told everyone?’

DI Mayne and DCI Lewis chose that moment to walk through the room. Butchers sat down quickly hoping to evade attention but he heard Richard Mayne say to the boss, loud enough for the whole room to hear, ‘Someone finally said yes to Butchers.’

‘Anyone actually met her?’ the boss said.

‘Mail order, eh, i’nt she?’ Shap cackled. ‘Twenty eight days money back guarantee.’

Butchers grinned, feeling sick. Brilliant. Totally. Brilliant.

Bang on time at ten-thirty and Janine’s boss, Detective Superintendent Louise Hogg came in, Millie Saunders at her elbow. Janine glanced at Richard in curiosity. He gave a shrug, no idea why his new squeeze was at the briefing. Staff were still busy setting up computers and extra phone lines.

Detective Superintendent Hogg stepped up to the boards, which contained photographs from the scene at Kendal Avenue, notes of evidence, summary of the post-mortem report, a map of the area, pictures of the sheet and the clothes. At one side – linked by a dotted line – were the details of Sammy Wray’s abduction, nine days earlier, and a question mark beside his photo.

‘A small boy, killed and left in a drainage tunnel. It’s the sort of case we pray won’t happen,’ Hogg said. ‘If anyone needs to step down at any point – do it. Counselling likewise. I don’t want to lose you.’ She surveyed the team for a moment. ‘Now, most of you know Millie Saunders, press office. It’s a high profile case, and Millie will be developing and managing our press strategy.’

Millie gave a nod of the head, by way of greeting. She was slim, dark haired, extremely attractive and always impeccably turned out. She was bright too, quick thinking, Janine knew. She had to be in her role – a link between the media who were always ravenous for news and the police inquiry. As press officer she had to act quickly to make sure the right information reached the right people at the best time and that adverse publicity was kept to a minimum.

‘Janine?’ Louise Hogg stepped away, inviting her to take over.

‘We have three lines of inquiry,’ Janine said, ‘the family, the park and the crime scene. The post-mortem shows death due to a fractured skull consistent with a fall or collision with a large flat surface, a wall for example. There’s no sign of sexual abuse. The child was wrapped in a sheet, generic poly-cotton, chain stores carry them, catalogues. Clothes as per description: popular high street range.’ Janine pointed to the photograph from the poster-appeal and to the recent images of the tattered T-shirt taken from the child’s body. ‘But footwear, socks and trousers are still missing. Estimated time of death is at least a week ago but that is only an estimate. We do not at present know where the primary crime scene, and by that I mean the site of death, is. The property at Kendal Avenue is being examined. The pathologist reported two hairs found on the body, short, straight, brown so not belonging to the boy,’ Janine said. ‘ OK, ideas: family?’

‘The Wrays kill him then they report him missing as a cover up,’ Shap said. ‘Kendal Avenue, that’s only a few streets away from the Wrays’ house.’ Everyone knew the statistics, inside out and upside down. Eighty-eight percent of victims knew their killers. For kids it was even higher.

‘But Claire was seen at the park with Sammy,’ Janine said.

‘Clive’s got a dodgy alibi though: no-one to verify where he was,’ Richard said.

‘Claire didn’t see anyone making off with the child,’ Janine said.

‘She was distracted and whoever did it moved quickly and had the advantage of the slide obscuring them from view,’ Richard pointed out.

‘Unless she’s covering for him,’ said Shap.

People did sometimes, Janine knew only too well, they were persuaded into deceit because they were too fearful to tell the truth, or because they were complicit in the behaviour that led to a death, or because they believed the murderer, who said it was an accident, or a mistake, or a moment’s folly. But a child, an only child, she found it hard to credit that Claire Wray would do such a thing. The woman was heartbroken, it didn’t seem plausible that she’d be able to maintain any fiction about events.

And Clive? Clive felt harder to read. Janine sensed something off-key, small but resonant when they talked to him, as though there was some other business claiming part of his attention.

‘Then why draw attention like that?’ Janine said. ‘Why not hide the whole thing instead of crying abduction? If she was colluding, she wouldn’t have raised the alarm.’

‘Perhaps Claire only discovered later that Clive was involved. Yet chose to stand by him,’ said Butchers.

Janine shook her head. It didn’t mesh with what she’d seen of Claire so far.

‘So Clive does it on his own. Grab the kid, turn and walk away. Pretends it’s a game: let’s hide from mummy,’ Shap said.

‘Suppose he was involved – why bury Sammy so close to home?’ Janine indicated the locations on the map.

‘Opportunistic?’ said Lisa.

‘Perhaps,’ Janine said. ‘Can we examine that lack of an alibi? Shap, get onto the wardens, park rangers whatever. See if they can help. CCTV between here and Hayfield, speed cameras. Anything that’ll flag up Clive Wray.’

Shap gave a groan and Janine saw Butchers gloat at the mention of CCTV, it was a tedious task at the best of times.

Janine saw Louise Hogg nod approval and gave herself a mental pat on the back. She didn’t usually have the boss in on her briefings and it always unsettled her, though of course, Hogg was a far better prospect than her former boss Keith Hackett who had taken great delight at undermining her at every turn.

Janine gestured to the whiteboards. ‘Moving on – the crime scene. The Kendal Avenue property is being refurbished. We’ll be talking to the contractors. Butchers, you lead door-to-door with the neighbours. Why this place? We know the child was already dead when he was put in the drain. Was it simply handy? People panic when they kill. Most murders aren’t meticulously planned and executed, people have to improvise. Perhaps the manhole on Kendal Avenue is simply the first hiding place the killer found for the body.’

Richard held up a report. ‘From CSIs, a screw from a pair of glasses fell from the sheet as the body was recovered. We also have fragments of optical glass on the pavement near the manhole cover.’

‘Sammy had his glasses on at the park,’ Janine said.

There was a moment’s quiet as everyone absorbed that – the evidence reinforcing the possibility that this child was the missing boy.

Janine looked at the boards, the photograph of the child, the round glasses.

‘The sheet,’ Lisa said, ‘well, it’s like a shroud, isn’t it?’

Janine considered this, nodded at Lisa to elaborate.

‘Not just dumped in a bin bag.’

‘A mark of respect?’ said Janine.

‘Or he just grabbed what was at hand,’ Richard said.

‘Yes. OK, now the park,’ said Janine, one eye on the clock. She had a press conference to front. She gestured to the section on the whiteboards that detailed information on the abduction. ‘Sammy Wray was abducted, on Saturday the nineteenth of April shortly after one pm. Plenty of reports of Sammy and Claire, of him playing on the slide. Claire stops to help a child who’s tripped up and that’s when Sammy disappears. All this is confirmed by independent witnesses. Butchers?’

‘We’re reviewing eyewitness statements but to date no-one saw the actual abduction.’

Richard checked the board. ‘Three sightings were cross-referenced but not yet traced?’ he said.

‘Yep,’ said Shap, ‘we still need to trace a woman on her own, an elderly couple with a dog and a bearded man seen acting strangely by the swings.’

Somebody groaned and Louise Hogg spoke up, ‘I know there’s always a bearded weirdo acting strangely but don’t dismiss it completely.’

‘You all clear what you’re working on?’ Janine asked. Nods and agreement. People were eager to get cracking, to get the investigation up to full steam. ‘As always details remain confidential and we’ll be keeping to the basic known facts for this morning’s press conference. Lots to do,’ she said, ‘let’s get on with it.’

People dispersed. Millie whispered something to Richard and he roared with laughter. Janine tried to hide her irritation. ‘Millie?’

Richard hesitated a moment but Janine waited until he moved away before speaking. ‘Can we avoid sensationalising it?’

‘Do my best,’ Millie said, ‘but the nationals will be onto it, the Sundays. Big story.’ She checked her watch. ‘You ready?’

In the conference room, Millie stood at the front observing while Janine stepped up to the table to address the journalists. As soon as Janine opened her mouth, a battery of flashlights went off.

Janine took a breath and then spoke directly to the crowd. ‘At approximately eight o’clock this morning, police were called to Kendal Avenue, in Withington, where the body of a young child was recovered from a drainage tunnel. Cause of death was a fracture to the skull. We are not yet in a position to confirm identity.’

‘Is it Sammy Wray?’ one of the journalists called out. Not local, perhaps up from London.

‘We’ve not made a positive identification yet but we are investigating that possibility,’ Janine said, choosing her words with care. ‘We still have individuals we would like to talk to who were at Withington Park on the nineteenth of April and who we have not yet spoken to. I would ask those people to contact us as soon as possible. We would also ask anyone with information, anyone who saw or heard anything on Kendal Avenue, anyone who thinks they know something, no matter how small, that might help the inquiry, to please come forward, contact your local police station or ring the police helpline. In cases like this the help of the general public is invaluable.’

Hands went up and people shouted questions but it had already been made clear that Janine would not be answering any questions after the official statement. She nodded by way of thanks, turned and followed Millie out of the room.

Chapter 4

Butchers, on door-to-door, had spoken first to the Palfreys at number 14, across the driveway from the empty house where the body had been found. They had reported the flood but had absolutely nothing else to offer, though they were helpful as could be. Both retired local government workers, they were distressed at the events unfolding on their doorstep and appeared guilty that they hadn’t seen or heard anything untoward that Butchers could write down.

Second on his list were the Staffords number 18, the property adjoining the house. It was mid-afternoon and Butchers knocked several times before the door was opened by a middle aged man with a monk’s tonsure and a sour look on his face. The householder was in pyjamas.

‘What?’ he demanded.

‘Mr Ken Stafford? DS Butchers, you’re aware of the incident nextdoor?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’re interviewing everyone in the vicinity,’ Butchers said.

‘Can’t help you. I didn’t see anything.’ Ken Stafford shut the door.

Butchers felt a flare of impatience. Mardy-arse. They’d a little kiddie dead in the house next-door and this idiot was being awkward about talking to the police.

Butchers hammered a tattoo on the door again, twice. He wasn’t going anywhere until he’d got what he came for.

With a show of irritation, Ken Stafford let him in.

Inside, the living room was cluttered and dusty. The video game cases littering the carpet in front of the TV and console and a pair of battered skater-boy shoes in the middle of the room suggested a teenager lived there too.

Butchers took in the photos, also dusty, on the wall. Mum, dad and child, a boy.

‘Can I talk to your wife, as well?’ Butchers said.

Ken Stafford took his time replying, ‘She died.’

Butchers cleared his throat, ‘Sorry.’ He indicated the photos. ‘And the boy?’

‘Luke, at school.’

‘You say you’ve not seen anything suspicious.’ Butchers opened his notebook. ‘What about regular comings and goings?’

The man shrugged, no.

‘Neighbours, builders?’

‘Builders, that’s a joke,’ Ken Stafford said caustically. ‘Permanent go-slow. Don’t see them for days then they turn up at the crack of dawn. I work nights. But they don’t give a toss.’

‘Can you remember when you last saw them?’ Butchers said.

‘A week ago. The Monday, McEvoy was around. Is that it?’

There was a noise from the hall and someone came in, shutting the door so hard the whole house rattled.

The lad stood in the doorway, slight, skinny, dark hair, he’d piercings on his face among the angry-looking acne. ‘Luke?’ said Butchers.

‘The police,’ Ken Stafford said, ‘want to know if we saw anything.’

Luke Stafford shrugged. ‘No,’ he said, ‘just the coppers and that this morning.’

Butchers spent another ten minutes with the Staffords but made no further progress, nothing he could take back to the inquiry. They were both miserable buggers, the lad you could understand, embarrassed at that age to be asked anything, but the father Ken, curt and short-tempered, just seemed bitter. ‘If you do remember anything,’ Butchers said, as he was leaving, ‘seeing anything, hearing anything in the last ten days, please let us know.’

‘Is it Sammy Wray?’ the kid said, his face flaming red, when Butchers moved to the hallway.

‘Waiting to confirm identity,’ Butchers said. The standard reply.

Work at Kendal Avenue was being carried out by a local builder Donny McEvoy and his mate Joe Breeley. Donny McEvoy had come out to the site when the flood was reported and had been there when the body was recovered. He’d left details where he could be contacted with the police.

The site was in Gorton, a tract of land that had been cleared of old warehousing and was now being re-developed for small, industrial units. Janine and Richard made their way to the office and Richard asked the site manager for Donny McEvoy. The manager pointed to the far side of the yard where a man was operating a cement mixer.

As they reached him, he pulled off his gloves. A fine coating of cement dust had settled in the lines on his face, his eyebrows and glasses giving him an almost comical appearance. He pulled off his specs, rubbed at them with his fingers.

‘Donny McEvoy,’ said Richard.

‘Yeah. This about the murder?’ His eyes lit up.

‘That’s right,’ said Richard.

‘I was there – when they found him,’ McEvoy said. ‘Huge shock. Have you got any leads? They reckon most cases like this, it’s the family.’

‘When were you last working there?’ Janine said.

‘Last Monday, the twenty-first,’ said McEvoy. ‘Mate called in sick so I’ve been filling in here since.’ He leaned in closer to them. ‘The child, he’d been there a while, hadn’t he?’

‘How come you were there this morning?’ Janine said ignoring the man’s question.

‘Called out when the neighbours saw the flooding. Was me got the water company in.’

‘Did you notice anything that might help us?’ Richard said, ‘Either today or at anytime in the past nine days.’

‘Nine days,’ McEvoy nodded his head as if wise to some great secret. ‘That’s ‘cos you think it’s Sammy Wray, isn’t it? Nine days since he was snatched.’

The avid gleam in his eyes, the spit that glistened at the corners of his mouth revolted Janine. He was a ghoul, one of those amateur sleuths who liked to think they could compete with the police, who got a prurient kick from being close to sudden violent death. Was it any more than that? McEvoy had access to the drains. Had he any previous form? Her mind was running ahead, something she cautioned in her officers. Gather the details, steadily, precisely, then analyse.

‘Did you notice anything?’ Janine said, coldly.

McEvoy shook his head. ‘I’ve been wracking my brains. And it was a fractured skull,’ he said swiftly, ‘do you know if he was killed somewhere else and moved? There was this case in Florida-’

Janine held up her hands to stop him. ‘Thank you Mr McEvoy. If you do think of anything that may be significant please get in touch with the inquiry. Where can we find Mr Breeley?’

Joe Breeley was outside his council house working on a maroon Vauxhall Astra with the bonnet raised. Janine took in the neglected front garden, grass and long weeds, a pallet and some bags of sand, a white van parked alongside the car.

‘Not too sick to play mechanic,’ Richard said as they went to greet him.

‘Joe Breeley? DCI Lewis.’ Janine introduced herself as the man raised his head from over the engine.

‘DI Mayne.’ Richard showed his warrant card.

‘You may have heard the body of a child was recovered from the site where you are working on Kendal Avenue,’ Janine said.

Joe nodded. ‘Saw the news,’ he said. He closed the car bonnet. ‘Terrible.’

‘Could we have a word inside?’ she said.

He wiped his hands on the front of his jeans and took them into the house.

‘I couldn’t believe it,’ Breeley said leading the way into the living room. ‘Mandy, it’s the police. They’ve come about that little kiddie. Here, sit down,’ he said, clearing a pile of children’s clothes off the settee.

‘It’s horrible,’ Mandy said. She was winding a baby, rubbing at its back, the empty bottle of feed on the side table. Janine guessed she was in her early twenties, a little dishevelled. Probably too busy with the baby to get time for herself.

The room was scattered with toys, more baby clothes draped over the large fireguard in front of the gas fire. Daytime TV was on but Joe Breeley muted it with the remote. On the walls Janine saw the family photos, Joe and Mandy and two children. A good looking family, the children fair like their mother. Mandy was attractive, slim with huge eyes and long, fine hair.

‘How long have you been at the site?’ Richard said.

‘Six weeks, it’s a big job. Place needed gutting,’ said Breeley.

‘And when were you last there?’

‘Week last Saturday. Till lunchtime,’ he said.

Janine heard the rising wail of a child from upstairs.

Mandy got to her feet. ‘You take him,’ she said to Breeley and handed the baby over to him. ‘Our John,’ she explained, ‘miserable with chickenpox.’

Janine groaned in sympathy, Charlotte had it only last month, it had gone round the neighbourhood like wildfire, left her little girl with three pockmarks on her face despite Janine’s best attempts to stop her scratching.

Mandy left them.

‘And who’s this?’ Janine nodded at the baby.

Joe Breeley smiled, ‘Aidan.’

‘Did you see anyone acting suspiciously, or anyone close to the main drainage?’ Richard said.

‘Is that where they found him?’ Joe Breeley frowned. ‘Christ! When you’ve kids of your own, you…’ He shook his head. ‘No. No-one,’ he answered.

‘You’re not at work today?’ Janine said.

‘Bad back,’ he grimaced.

He’d looked fine bent over the car Janine thought. She glanced at Richard, sharing her scepticism and they waited it out.

Joe Breeley sighed, looked slightly shamefaced as he added, ‘Well, weather like we’ve been having. The rain – takes twice as long to do a job. And with John being ill… We’ll finish on time. Get paid by results.’ Then it seemed to dawn on him that no work would be happening at Kendal Avenue for some time to come, in the light of events. ‘Course… now…’ he faltered.

Mandy came back in and took Aidan from Breeley. The baby had drifted off and didn’t wake as she lifted him up and cuddled him.

‘Last Saturday,’ said Janine, ‘what time did you start work?’

‘Just after nine.’

‘And lunchtime was when?’ she said.

‘One-ish. Came back here,’ Breeley said.

‘And that afternoon?’ Janine said.

Joe Breeley gave a shrug. ‘We just did stuff in the house.’

Mandy gave a small laugh. ‘He’s that busy fixing other people’s houses, I’m always on at him to sort this place out.’

‘Was there ever any sign of intruders in the property, anything odd like that?’ Richard said.

‘No, nothing,’ Breeley said.

‘If you do think of anything that might help please get in touch,’ Richard said, ‘anything at all.’

Breeley nodded.

‘It’s awful,’ Mandy said again and hugged Aidan tighter as if she was anxious to keep him safe.

Chapter 5

Claire Wray felt numb, crushed by the dreadful news. It was as though she had been pulled frozen from the cold sea, no sensation anywhere beyond a gnawing dark ache in every muscle, deep in her bones.

Her mind stumbled around knocking into memories of Sammy: his birth over-shadowed by the theatrical antics of Clive’s ex Felicity who had claimed the spotlight with a cruelly timed suicide bid; their worries when they first realised Sammy couldn’t see properly and all the worst scenarios of blindness or worse plagued them until the tests had all come back and it was known to be simply short-sightedness; Sammy’s passion for tractors and diggers and steam-rollers; the slight lisp he had; the feel of his hand in hers.

Then her thoughts would trip over the grim facts, the drainage tunnel, a sewer, her baby in a sewer. Preposterous. Life wasn’t meant to go like this. Sammy was supposed to grow and thrive, become a schoolboy, a teenager, a man. All those futures.

She shuffled on the sofa, pressed Sammy’s fleece to her cheek. Who would do such a thing?

At the back of her skull she felt the tingle of unease, the mistrust that had been growing there ever since Sammy had gone. And Clive had come home.

Something about Clive’s manner, almost imperceptible but a taint of distance, of awkwardness, she could sense even in her distress and anguish. He was holding back. He was guarded.

At first she took it to be Clive’s way of masking his criticism of her, of hiding how he blamed her. She had lost sight of Sammy and Sammy had been taken. Her watch. Her fault.

Clive was a good man, she believed that, a kind man. He rarely raised his voice, she had never seen him lash out, couldn’t imagine him being violent. But perhaps he was a little too kind. Weak. Like the way he fell for Felicity’s stunts time and again, instead of accepting that he couldn’t be held responsible for her actions.

But as the days had gone on, interminable and tense, as they had waited for sightings, for leads, for fresh appeals, as Sammy’s disappearance fell from the news bulletins and front pages, Claire began to wonder whether Clive was- too hard to put into words, something so foul, so unnatural. He loved Sammy. He was walking that day, wasn’t he? If only he’d gone with a friend then she wouldn’t even be thinking like this. But he’d been alone, unaccounted for, if you like. And that reserve in him had not eased; if anything it had grown stronger. While Claire blabbed about everything she could, dredging up memories from the park, keen to colour in every last detail, Clive’s responses to the police and investigators was always vague, muted, minimal.

She didn’t like the way her mind was working. Perhaps it was a distraction, a defensive thing, if she was fretting over Clive it diverted her from facing the probable truth about Sammy. That he was dead. That he was never coming back. He would never need new shoes again. She would never hold him in her arms again.

Clive came in then. ‘I’m going up,’ he said quietly. ‘You want anything?’

She shook her head.

‘Sue said she’d sort out some shopping tomorrow, should be back here mid-morning.’

Like I care, Claire thought. Then felt uncharitable as tears burnt her eyes. Sue was only trying to support them and Clive was just passing on the message. ‘ OK,’ she said.

He made no move to touch her, to give her a goodnight kiss but turned and went. Just as well, really, she would only have rebuffed him. Her body language communicated what she’d not been able to articulate, that she mistrusted him.

She listened as Clive made his way upstairs. She heard the creak of the floor in their bedroom above.

I can check, she thought, put an end to all these stupid fantasies and then concentrate on Sammy, on what really matters. Probably find out I’m wrong, that Clive was doing exactly what he said he was and this is just him knocked sideways by the abduction. Easy enough to look. It had been wet for weeks before that Saturday. One reason why the park had been so busy, the fine weather was a relief. It had rained again since, the good spell only lasted a couple of days. People were talking about the wettest spring on record. Where had Sammy been then? When the rain came back? All those days since? Wet and cold, somewhere? Hungry? Or by then had he-

She wrenched her train of thought back to Clive. The ground would have been waterlogged, wouldn’t it? He’d put dubbing on his boots the day before, she knew because Sammy had been asking a stream of questions: what was it, why, could he have some on his shoes?

Claire listened again for any movement upstairs and then, satisfied, got to her feet. She felt hollow and shaky, as though she had flu. She went through to the utility room at the back of the house and switched on the light, pausing again and listening. No sound from above.

His boots were on the bottom of the rack. She lifted them, they were heavier than she expected. She turned them over. No mud in the cleats, nothing. She examined the uppers, a uniform dull sheen on the brown leather from the dubbing. No new cuts or scrapes, no smears of dirt.

Her stomach dropped and a clammy sweat erupted all over her skin. It doesn’t prove anything, she tried to tell herself. But a voice was clamouring in her head: he’s lying, you know he’s lying.

Was he? Perhaps he’d taken a route that was paved, avoided the boggy parts and the rough tracks that criss-crossed the great peak. But she knew herself from walking there with him how few sections were paved. Any halfway decent walk meant navigating peat bogs and gullies, fording streams and tramping through heather and bracken.

She put the boots back. His Barbour jacket was hanging on the pegs. Her hands trembling she felt in the pockets. A tissue in the left, a piece of paper in the right. Folded. She opened it out. A flyer, and a parking ticket tucked inside. The leaflet read, Sports Bonanza. Sport City. All welcome. She was about to dismiss it as the sort of thing left on the car under the windscreen wiper, until she noticed the date. Saturday April 19th.

The same date on the parking ticket.

She felt her heart kick and skip a beat.

April 19th. Sport City.

She couldn’t bear to think what this meant beyond knowing that Clive had lied. Oh God. She perched on the buffet in the corner, shivering, her pulse galloping. She stared at Clive’s jacket, at her own hanging beside it, at the lower row of pegs for Sammy’s things. Her eyes blurred with tears.

Why would he lie?

She would tell the police. She had to. For Sammy.

Chapter 6

Michael, her eldest son, had agreed to feed the kids and for that Janine was so grateful. She would clear up, couldn’t expect him to do that as well. Vicky, the nanny had gone out, didn’t work evenings, except by prior arrangement and with lots of notice, but she would have put Charlotte to bed before leaving.

After Janine had taken off her coat and slipped off her shoes she went into the kitchen, catching the tail end of conversation.

‘Charlotte will be two and you’ll be ten,’ Eleanor was telling her little brother, and I’ll be thirteen.’

‘It’s still warm,’ Michael told Janine, nodding at the remnants of a lasagne.

‘It’s bound to have dark hair,’ Eleanor went on.

‘Wonderful,’ Janine thanked Michael and sat down next to Tom. ‘Shove up,’ she said, ‘make room for a little one.’

Michael passed her a plate of food.

‘Why?’ Tom said to Eleanor. ‘Why would it?’

Janine took a mouthful and tried to catch up with the conversation. ‘What’s this?’

‘Tina’s baby,’ Tom said.

Baby! Janine felt the thump in her chest as her heart jumped. She choked on the food, coughing and spitting it out. Eleanor stared at her and Michael turned round to see what was going on but Tom, oblivious, carried on, ‘Eleanor thinks it’s well good just ‘cos Dad said she can babysit. I’m not having it in my room. All babies do is cry.’

‘You didn’t know?’ Michael said, shocked.

‘I do now,’ Janine said.

‘Dad probably didn’t get chance to tell you,’ Eleanor said.

A baby. How could he? Starting a family with Tina, did he not see how hurtful that would be to Janine? To the kids? As if what he had, two sons, two daughters, was not enough.

Janine’s eyes stung and she sniffed hard, cleared her throat.

‘He wanted to surprise you,’ Tom announced, navigating the strange territory of the grown ups’ world.

He’s done that, all right, Janine thought. ‘Yes,’ she smiled at Tom.

‘But it won’t go in my room, will it Mum?’ he said.

‘No,’ she promised.

The kids barely got enough attention from Pete as it was, a new baby would make it even worse. No wonder he had been so awkward that morning, eager to escape. He was like a child sometimes, pretending that hiding a thing meant everything was all right. Just as Janine had hoped life was getting back onto an even keel, he’d provided her with another huge complicated mess. It felt the same as when Tina and he had shacked up together. Bloody awful.

The kids were in bed, apart from Michael who was on the computer. Janine stood over Charlotte’s cot and watched her sleep. Charlotte sucked her thumb at nights but had relaxed enough now for her to lose the suction and her hand was against her chin, a thoughtful pose. Janine saw the slight movement of the cover as Charlotte breathed, shallow and slow. Being parents was the one thing Janine and Pete shared that Tina wasn’t party to. It was special. It had been theirs for the last seventeen years, that and the marriage. It had been a comfort of sorts that although Tina was now Pete’s partner, she wasn’t the mother of his children. Janine knew she’d get used to it in time, she’d have to, but now she was feeling stupidly jealous and raw.

Her phone rang and she moved out onto the landing and checked the display. If it was Pete she’d not answer. She didn’t trust herself to be civil and bawling at him down the phone was not what she wanted to do. Well – she did but it wouldn’t achieve anything but cement the hostility that kept flaring up between them. When she read Shap’s name, she accepted the call. ‘Hello.’

‘Boss.’

‘Shap, if you’re angling for overtime, you can forget it,’ she said.

‘Clive Wray,’ he said, ‘Hayfield was hosting a fell race that day. Hundred and forty entrants, stewards and supporters. If he was there, he couldn’t have missed it. He said there was no-one much about to alibi him. He’s lying to us, boss.’

Janine felt a surge of energy. This was just what they needed to keep the investigation moving forward. She wasn’t surprised by the news, people lied a lot, lied to the police as long as they thought they could get away with it. Shap’s earlier comments speculating about the family being involved suddenly looked a lot more likely.