Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (41 page)

Doncaster! Alex had to vacate her seat, and fast. She should have done it long ago. Turning round, she surveyed the situation.

Two rows behind her, a woman was beginning to collect her bags and struggle into her coat. Her companion was also stirring. Maybe she was in luck!

Indeed, the couple made their way down the aisle before the train had reached Doncaster station, and Alex was able to ascertain from the little tickets that their seats had been reserved only from King’s Cross to Doncaster. That meant she ought to be safe in those seats all the way to Edinburgh. She waited till the train pulled into the station and the doors opened, then she made her move.

After Doncaster the scenery opened up as they entered into the Vale of York; coming into York station she had a fleeting
view of the cathedral, white and majestic, the ornate curlicues of the window tracery reminding her of a heart.

York. They must be at least halfway to Edinburgh.

The countryside was more interesting after York, and Alex forgot about the family, now three rows ahead of her.

Just before they reached Durham, though, she heard Henry’s voice, unmistakable, loud and penetrating. ‘Mum, I have to go to the loo.’

‘Oh, all right. But be careful, Henry.’

Alex didn’t look at him as he went by; she was fascinated by the remarkable sight of Durham Cathedral, rearing high above the train on a bluff, looking as though it had grown up in an organic way out of the cliff. Surely no one could have built it like that.

A few moments later, when they’d left Durham behind them, he slid into the seat next to her and spoke more quietly than she’d imagined him capable of. ‘You don’t have a ticket, do you?’ he whispered.

‘What do you mean?’ she bluffed, also in a whisper.

‘I saw you. You got on the train with us. And you went to the loo when the ticket man came round. You thought nobody saw you, but I saw you. You don’t have a ticket.’

‘So what?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Henry said with an exaggerated wink. ‘I won’t tell.’

Alex let out a deep breath she hadn’t realised she was
holding
. ‘Thanks.’

‘If you give me twenty pounds.’

‘What?’ she hissed.

‘Twenty pounds. You have more than that. I saw it.’

‘But that’s…that’s blackmail!’

‘Whatever.’ He gave a little shrug. ‘It’s up to you. Give me twenty pounds, or I’ll tell my mum. I’ll find the ticket man and tell him. They’ll take you to gaol. Is that what you want?’

Alex would have liked to strangle him. Instead she reached in her pocket, peeled off two ten-pound notes from her already diminished bankroll, and slapped them on the tray table.

Henry snatched them up. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You won’t regret it. Your secret’s safe with me.’ Then he was gone.

What stupid television programme did he get that from? Alex wondered. Mirrored in the window, two fat tears slid from the
corners
of her eyes. Angrily she dashed them away. She hadn’t cried yet, and she wasn’t going to cry now. Crying would get her nowhere.

Neville collected a stack of e-mail print-outs from the computer lab and returned with them to his desk. Before he started reading them, he followed Evans’ suggestion and made a phone call to check on the hot line. Probably not much had come through yet; Alex’s photo would have been shown on the telly’s mid-day news bulletins, but it wouldn’t be until it appeared in the papers that they would expect to get much response.

‘We’ve had a few calls,’ he was told. ‘The usual nutters, of course. They’re always the first ones to ring. One bloke swears he saw her at a chippy in Kilburn, a bit after four yesterday afternoon. I’m more inclined to believe the old chap who says he saw her in St. John’s Wood High Street at about the same time. He says she wasn’t watching where she was going, and she slipped and fell on the ice. He helped her up, he says, and told her to be more careful.’

‘That sounds about right,’ Neville acknowledged, though it didn’t actually help them much.

‘The most interesting one,’ she went on, ‘was from a woman who was going through Paddington Station last night, rushing to catch a train at a quarter past five.’

‘Oh?’ Neville sat up straighter; the Paddington connection had not yet been made public, so there was a good chance that this one was authentic.

‘She says that a girl who looked like Alex pushed past her,
running
. She took a good look at her, she said, because she was annoyed at the girl’s bad manners—didn’t stop or even excuse herself, after she’d knocked the woman’s suitcase over. Our caller ended up missing her train by a few seconds, and blamed the girl.’

‘The girl was running?’ he repeated, swallowing round a sudden lump in his throat.

‘Yes, and someone was running after her, calling “Sasha.” An older man. Overweight, balding. He didn’t stop, either.’

‘Did she say whether this man caught the girl?’

‘The woman didn’t hang about to find out. She was running for her own train, wasn’t she?’

Neville put the phone down, and cradled his head between his hands. ‘Oh, God,’ he groaned. ‘Christ Almighty.’

At least, he told himself, she’d had the sense to run. Maybe— just maybe—she’d got away.

And there should be CCTV footage from Paddington which could help them to determine that. He picked the phone back up and sent an officer to collect it.

At some point the penny had dropped for Callie: ‘a girl has gone missing,’ Marco had said in his message. That girl must be Morag’s granddaughter.

Leaving Morag with Bella for a few minutes, she slipped back into the kitchen and used her mobile to ring Marco.

‘Can you talk?’ she said when he answered.

‘Well, it isn’t really a very good time. Did you get my
message
? I’m involved in a difficult case. Would it be all right if we talked tonight?’

‘It’s why I’m ringing, really,’ she explained quickly. ‘Your case. The girl who’s missing. Alex Hamilton, is it?’

‘That’s right. You’ve seen the news, then?’

The news: she hadn’t even thought about that. She’d have to turn it on and see what they said, although that might upset Morag. ‘No. I’m with her grandmother. She’s a member of my congregation. I’ve got to know her a bit recently, since she’s moved to London.’

‘The grandmother!’

‘I was just wondering if you could tell me anything that I could pass on to her. Anything helpful. She heard about it from
the police, Marco,’ she added, her voice shaky with emotion. ‘Her son hasn’t even rung her, and she says that it wouldn’t do any good to ring him.’

‘She’s probably right,’ Marco acknowledged quietly. ‘He wouldn’t want her here.’

‘Well, can you tell me anything? What’s the situation?’

He lowered his voice even further. ‘Listen,
cara mia
. Give me a couple of minutes. I’ll ring you back.’

From that she understood that he wasn’t really free to talk. She busied herself by tidying the kitchen, washing up the tea mugs and rinsing the pot in readiness for the next inevitable round of tea-making.

When he rang back as promised, he spoke in a more normal tone of voice, though it echoed a bit. ‘I’m in the loo,’ he explained. ‘For privacy.’

He confirmed to her what Morag had already heard: Alex had walked out of the flat at some point in the afternoon, after a row with her stepmother.

‘Her stepmother sounds like a nightmare,’ Callie said. ‘Or is Morag just prejudiced against her? Is Jilly really as bad as Morag says?’

‘Probably worse. I think she’s probably the most self-absorbed person I’ve ever met. And shallow with it.’ He added, ‘Thank goodness she’s gone.’

‘Gone!’

‘Oh, not for good.’ Marco gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Jilly just couldn’t cope with not being the centre of attention. This morning she packed a bag and said she was going to her parents’, until all this was resolved. I certainly wasn’t sorry to see her go.’

‘What about
him
?’ Callie asked. ‘Angus? What do you make of him?’

‘At first I didn’t like him at all,’ Marco admitted. ‘Yes, I know he’s under a lot of pressure, but I don’t in general deal well with people who have to be in control. And he patronised me dreadfully.’

Callie felt indignant on his behalf. ‘But you’re there to help him.’

‘Not in the sort of specific way he was looking for. I couldn’t just wave a magic wand and bring his daughter home. I have to say, though, he’s treated me with more respect since I figured out the password to Alex’s computer.’ He chuckled.

‘Now you’ve lost me. Computer? Password?’

‘It’s a long story,
cara mia
. I’ll tell you all about it some time.’

‘I don’t suppose I’ll see you tonight?’ Callie asked, surprised at how disappointed she was at that prospect.

‘Possibly not. Depends on what happens this afternoon.’

‘I suppose Alex might walk in any minute? Or be found somewhere, safe and sound?’ That, thought Callie, seemed unlikely: the longer the girl was away, the less chance there was of a rapid happy ending to the story. That was the unarticulated fear which, she knew, gripped Morag at the moment. Alex had been missing overnight, not just for an hour or two. How could that be explained away?

‘So what shall I tell Morag?’ Callie asked. ‘I want to be as helpful as possible.’

There was a pause on the other end of the phone, as if Marco were weighing his words. ‘If you want to be helpful,
cara mia
, just stay with her. Keep her out of our hair, and out of Angus’ hair. We’ve got enough to cope with here without an hysterical granny added into the mix.’

‘Morag isn’t hysterical,’ Callie protested. ‘She’s concerned—of course she is. And worried sick. But she’s not the hysterical type.’

‘Then,’ Marco said, ‘just do whatever you have to do to keep her occupied.’

The train stopped at Newcastle, with its high bridges over the Tyne, then Berwick-upon-Tweed, right on the edge of the sea. A moment later they were across the border.

Scotland!

Alex wished she could open the train window and breathe in the air of her homeland. But these trains were not designed
with window-opening in mind. She had to content herself with feasting her eyes instead, gazing at the gentle hills of the Borders, beautiful even in the icy grip of winter. Not spectacular like her own Highlands, she thought, yet beautiful in their own
dignified
, understated way.

Scotland: the country of her birth, the land of her
ancestors
. Blue-painted Picts, warlike Celts, stretching back beyond recorded history. She couldn’t have articulated, nor did she fully understand, the pull the country exerted on her, the grip it had on her heart. Yet Alex knew that, in spite of everything, she was happier now than she had been in months—since that black day when she’d been taken across the border into England, all the way to alien London.

She was home.

The e-mails were profoundly depressing. Neville, reading through them, felt almost suicidal.

Such a lonely girl Alex was. Isolated.

Kirsty, it was clear to see, had moved on. She had new friends, new interests. A boyfriend, even.

Alex, on the other hand, had not moved on. She lived entirely in the past, clinging to memories of a close friendship which had run its course, unnurtured by proximity.

And then Jack had come along. Jack, with his easy familiarity and ready compliments. Jack’s friendship, proffered by e-mail, had been grabbed by her like a life-line.

She had constructed a fantasy world round him, round their relationship. ‘Sasha’—the name she used to sign her e-mails, and by which Jack addressed her. That had baffled him at first, but as he read the e-mails Neville quickly came to understand that Sasha was the fantasy Alex: older, sophisticated, knowing. She’d tried so hard to sound grown up, worldly-wise.

He had no doubt, though, that Jack would not have been fooled for a minute. Jack must have known full well that Sasha was not sixteen. Not, as she wanted him to believe, experienced in the ways of the world and of men. Alex’s naivety, her
innocence
, shone through her e-mails. Any fool could have seen it.

Jack, then, knew that she was really just a little girl.

And he had taken advantage of her loneliness, her need for human contact. He had flattered her, complimented her, offered
her emotional intimacy and the chance to confide in him. Led her down a path with inevitable consequences.

Grooming. Wasn’t that the word they used now for what internet paedophiles did to lay the groundwork for eventual face-to-face contact with their victims? It was calculated, gradual, carefully judged. Don’t rush things; don’t scare them off. Just make them trust you. Make them…love you.

Neville slammed his fist down on the print-outs. It was disgusting. Sickening. The worst sort of exploitation. And the mind boggled at where it might actually lead.

Where
was
Alex Hamilton? Was she with this sicko, right now?

He was going to catch this piece of scum, Neville vowed to himself.

His phone rang.

‘Hey, Guv,’ said Danny Duffy. ‘This bloke wasn’t as clever as he thought. He could have used a Hotmail account, or
something
that would have made it harder to track him down. But he’s used a regular ISP, and they’ve given me his details. His real name isn’t Jack, of course,’ he added.

‘Tell me.’ Neville was already halfway out of his chair.

‘He’s called Lee Bicknell. Lives in Camden Town. Off Chalk Farm Road.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Waverley Station, Edinburgh.

Alex had been to Edinburgh several times. Once she’d been on a school trip, on a coach, but the other times she’d come by train from Aviemore into Waverley Station. With Mum and Dad, once that she could remember, when they’d stayed in a hotel for several days and done all the sights. Mum had been at university in Edinburgh; she loved the city and wanted to show it off. Then there had been a few day trips with Mum alone, and one time with Granny and Granddad, who had taken her to Jenners to see the Christmas decorations and Father Christmas.

So it was a sense of familiarity that greeted her as she stepped off the train. She was so excited that she almost forgot to be cautious about the guards at the end of the platform.

They
were
actually checking tickets, she realised with alarm.

Looking round quickly, she saw Henry’s family a bit behind her, just getting off the train; it had evidently taken them a while to gather their possessions and their children together. Alex lingered till they passed, then once again attached herself to them.

Henry gave her a knowing look; she returned a malevolent glare, and once she was safely through the barriers, she stuck her tongue out at him—the hateful little toad—and peeled off in a different direction.

Now.

She was in Edinburgh, but she still had to get to Kelso. Alex had a vague idea of where it was, somewhere in the Borders area that they’d just passed through. Not too far from Berwick, from Melrose.

Perhaps there would be a train. Though, she reminded herself, she was now down to eighteen pounds, eighty-one pence.

A bus, then?

She came out of the station, following the signs for the Tourist Information centre. That would be her best bet for getting her bearings, planning the next step.

Neville knew he could have justified sending someone else to bring in Jack, also known as Lee Bicknell. There were plenty of things for him to do at the station, not least briefing Evans on the contents of the e-mails. But he was beginning to take this one very personally, and he reasoned that the e-mails were less important now that they knew who they were after.

First he rang Danny Duffy back. ‘Good work,’ he said
belatedly
. ‘But don’t think it means you can go home just yet. Or head off on that shopping trip, a few hours late.’

‘I hate shopping anyway,’ Danny said cheerfully. ‘What’s up?’

‘I hope we’ll have something else for you to take a look at this afternoon. And the CCTV footage from Paddington ought to be with you soon as well.’

‘No problem, Guv.’

Then he collected Sid Cowley—‘I’ll explain on the way,’ he said—and set off by car across London.

Traffic was bad. ‘Bloody Christmas shoppers,’ Cowley kept reminding him, like a broken record. And he wasn’t very familiar with this part of town. Way off his patch. Fortunately Cowley was a pretty good navigator.

‘I always figured that if I couldn’t make it as a cop,’ Cowley confessed after he’d got them out of a fairly nasty tailback by directing Neville round some side streets, ‘I could drive a taxi.’

‘You never cease to amaze me, Sid,’ conceded Neville.

The house was a small mid-terrace Victorian, red brick, wedged between one which had been pebble-dashed and another with fake stone cladding.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ Neville said, pulling the car up in front. He was, he acknowledged to himself, looking forward to it.

The man who opened the door to them was short, chubby, balding. Late thirties, early forties. His nervous smile revealed bad teeth. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, looking back and forth between the two of them.

Neville showed his warrant card. ‘Mr. Bicknell? Lee Bicknell?’

The man nodded. Another nervous smile, this one even less convincing.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Stewart, and this is Detective Sergeant Cowley. Is it all right if we come in and have a word?’

‘Well…’

‘Thank you.’ Neville virtually pushed past him, through the narrow corridor and into the tiny front room. The lounge: two chairs and a telly.

‘I don’t know what this is all about,’ Lee Bicknell said, his voice breathy, finishing almost on a squeak.

‘We’re about to tell you.’ Neville narrowed his eyes. ‘Mr. Bicknell, do you know a girl called Alex Hamilton?’

‘Uh…no.’

‘How about someone called Sasha?’

There was an unmistakable intake of breath, and the answer came too quickly, too firmly. ‘No.’

‘Mr. Bicknell, is it all right if we take a look round your house?’

He spread his hands out defensively. ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong!’

Neville smiled. ‘Then you won’t have anything to hide, will you?’ He nodded at Cowley, who was already on his way out into the corridor.

It was a basic two-up-two-down house, with another small room—furnished as a dining room—behind the one they’d been in and a diminutive galley kitchen at the back, leading out into a paved yard with a washing line. A few bedraggled containers round the edges of the yard, containing dead plants, seemed to constitute the garden.

‘See, there’s nothing here,’ the man said triumphantly.

‘Upstairs?’ suggested Cowley.

They retraced their steps, with Bicknell following them closely, making little noises of protest. The steep, narrow stairs to the first floor were almost impassable, with more than half their width taken up with a stair lift. Neville, who was pretty fit himself, didn’t know how the chubby Bicknell could squeeze himself through that space.

Two rooms upstairs, plus a bathroom tucked behind the stairs. The door of the back room was open; Neville led the way into it.

It was neat as the proverbial pin, he observed. Bed—a single bed—made, the spread pulled up and tucked round the pillow. The bedside table dust-free; an old wardrobe crammed in the corner. Ugly patterned carpet, but it bore the marks of a recent hoovering.

Either this man was a clean-freak, or he was hiding
something
.

Neville had a quick look in the wardrobe, which held
nothing
but a few shirts and pairs of trousers, then turned and went towards the closed door of the front room.

‘That’s Mother’s room,’ squeaked Lee Bicknell, clearly
agitated
.

That explained the stair lift. ‘We’ll try not to disturb her,’ promised Neville. ‘Is she ill?’

‘Actually, she’s…passed. Last year.’

‘Then she won’t mind, will she?’ contributed Cowley,
pushing
the door open. ‘Guv, here’s the computer,’ he said over his shoulder.

‘That’s…that’s mine.’ Bicknell shoved his way past Cowley into the room—an old-fashioned room, slightly larger than the back bedroom, dominated by a bed with a candlewick spread— and stood protectively in front of the computer. Sitting incongruously on what was evidently his mother’s dressing table, it was a new-looking machine with a large flat screen. The better, thought Neville cynically, to view downloaded images on—downloaded images, he had no doubt, of a particularly nasty sort.

‘Mind if we take a look, Mr. Bicknell?’ he asked.

‘No! I mean, yes. I do mind.’ The man drew himself up to his full height and stared them down. ‘This is private property. My own private property, and you have no right.’

Neville and Sid Cowley looked at each other as Neville spoke. ‘Mr. Bicknell, we have good reason to believe that this computer contains evidence relevant to a criminal matter which we’re investigating. That gives us the right to take it with us. And we’d like to ask you to come with us, as well. We have some things we’d like to discuss with you, back at the station.’

‘Helping us with our enquiries, like,’ Cowley added.

The man’s eyes widened; his pupils dilated. ‘Are you
arresting
me?’

‘We’re asking you to come with us,’ Neville repeated. ‘If you refuse, we might feel that arrest is the only option.’

His shoulders sagged; he lowered his head. ‘All right. I’ll come.’

But Neville wasn’t quite finished. ‘One more question before we go, Mr. Bicknell,’ he said. ‘Does this house have a cellar?’

‘No. No cellar. You’ve seen everything.’

‘I’ll check to make sure,’ volunteered Cowley as he unplugged the computer, detached its internet connection, and hefted it in his arms.

It was soon ascertained that Lee Bicknell was telling the truth, at least in one matter: there was no cellar, no loft to speak of. Not even a garden shed. Nowhere to hide a stack of dirty magazines, let alone a little girl. A
live
little girl, anyway.

Neville wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. Maybe, he told himself, it meant that she’d got away.

The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.