The Secret Child (A DI Amy Winter Thriller Book 2) Read online

  Taking two tentative, wobbly steps, he lowered himself into his wheelchair. The room was big enough to squeeze past the sofa and the single bed. A bunch of games were piled up in the corner and a box of Lego had been upended on the floor. He returned his glance to Ellen. He probably had her to thank for that. After manoeuvring his wheelchair around the mess, he used the toilet and washed his hands.

  There was no way his daddy would leave him somewhere like this. He had tried the door earlier; he knew he was locked in. What would his favourite superheroes do? Should he look for a weapon? Defend himself? Hide? He knew that bad things often happened to kids who were taken by strange men. They’d had talks about stranger danger at school. So why had Miss Pringle allowed him to get in the taxi? He scratched his head, feeling all in a muddle. His stomach was twisted up in knots and his chest hurt from swallowing back his tears. He steered himself back into the room to find Ellen patiently waiting on the sofa. It was up to him to protect them both now.

  ‘See that big piece of green Lego?’ he said, nodding to the pile on the floor. ‘Can you give it to me?’ It was a long, narrow piece of rigid plastic with sharp corners. Lego might not be a weapon, but he knew that it hurt enough for Daddy to swear when he stepped on one in his bare feet. He thought of all the Home Alone movies they had watched together. Toby clenched the piece of Lego tightly in his hand. If the man was out to hurt them, then he would fight for all he was worth.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Head bowed, Stuart scrubbed the inside of the cooking pot until his own warped reflection stared back at him. Dousing it in the water, he set it aside on the draining board. The kitchen was uncomfortably warm, and he dried his hands on his apron before swiping the sweat from his brow.

  ‘The dishwasher’s on the blink, so we need this lot done by hand,’ his supervisor shouted, stacking food-encrusted pots and pans on the kitchen worktop next to him. Despite the new hearing aids lodged in his ears, George delivered every word at the top of his voice. At the age of fifty-four, his hearing had been restored, but Stuart supposed that old habits were hard to break. Responding with a nod, he got to work. At least he would be left alone, given time to contemplate things. He had seen the way Deborah McCauley had looked at him: as if he was shit on her shoe. She would have had a right laugh if she’d known he worked in the kitchens of the restaurant she’d brought him to. He’d almost cancelled their lunch date, scared his colleagues would show him up. In fact, nobody had recognised him. His charity-shop suit had thrown them off the scent. Back here, in the bowels of the kitchen, nobody was interested in what he looked like, only that he got the job done. It had been the same when he worked for Dr Curtis. The man was so wrapped up in what he was doing to those poor kids that he never gave him or Christina a second thought. Had Deborah kept tabs on them to ensure they kept their silence? He would have spoken up in a heartbeat, had he not been implicated himself.

  He watched the dirty water swirl down the plughole as he prepared to fill it with fresh suds and start again. If only it was so easy to make the past evaporate. He thought about Jodie, his girlfriend. She was looking after his son today. As single parents, they stuck together, helping each other out when they could. But now their relationship had progressed to a new level. He had been squirrelling away some savings and had just enough money to buy her a ring. All he wanted for his family was a brighter future. Was it too much to ask?

  He squeezed the washing-up liquid bottle, his thoughts on autopilot as he worked. It was a catch-22. He wanted to stay at home more to keep Toby safe, but he had to work extended hours to pay for the taxi to take him to and from school. He couldn’t win. Toby had been through so much in his short lifetime. His degenerative disease had proved too much for his mother, Kim, to handle and she had given him up. Only recently had he agreed to use his wheelchair. In a way, guilt had crippled Kim too. She hadn’t known she was pregnant until long after their one-night stand. By then, the damage was already done. She had tried to get clean too late.

  He remembered the day the social came knocking on his door. The day he found out he had a three-year-old son. Discovering that Toby had been dumped by his mother had broken Stuart’s heart. He had barely known his own father. He would not have the same thing happen to his son. With the help of social care, they made his high-rise flat into a place fit enough to bring up a kid. Out went the cigarettes and the booze. In came the full-time job. His son had given him a reason to get out of bed. Despite all his problems, Toby had saved him. His son was fuelled with a spirit and determination that put Stuart to shame. Now a monster from the past threatened to blow it all apart.

  Methodically, he worked through the pile of pots and pans, raking over his worries until everything was cleared away.

  ‘Oi! Stuart!’ George shouted from a couple of feet away. ‘You finished yet?’

  ‘Yeah, all done,’ he answered, checking his watch. Toby should be home. He’d give it five more minutes and then he’d ring Jodie to check everything was OK.

  ‘Get yourself down to the car park. A courier’s asking for you,’ George said. ‘In future, have your deliveries sent to your home address.’ He scratched a pimple breaking out on his chin before turning and walking away.

  Stuart scowled. He hadn’t ordered anything to be delivered to work . . . Then a wave of fear threatened to engulf him as he undid his apron and hung it on the wall. Had something happened to Toby? The ride down in the lift felt like an eternity and his heart was in his mouth by the time he reached the ground floor.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said, when the package was thrust into his hands. Wearing a tinted visor, the courier was a leather-clad brick shithouse. Stuart waited for him to produce an electronic device for him to sign. But instead, he retrieved his motorbike keys from his pocket and headed back to his bike. Now Stuart was scared. Tearing open the packaging, he could barely breathe as a ghost of the past raised its ugly head. Encased in black sponge within the cardboard box were four phials. The same as the ones used in Dr Curtis’s early tests. ‘Who are you?’ Stuart asked, advancing on the courier. He didn’t care how big he was. ‘If you’ve hurt my son . . .’ But his words were drowned out by the roar of the motorbike engine as the courier took off.

  Hands shaking, Stuart plucked a black envelope from within the box and scanned the words on the card inside.

  There are four phials in this package.

  One is poisoned. Three are safe.

  Drink one for me to notify police about Toby’s location.

  Risk your life for the one you love – a choice not afforded to me.

  Luka

  Stuart’s whole world crumbled as he absorbed the words. His boy. Someone had his boy. But Toby needed special care – and without his medication he would fall ill. With a rising sense of dread, Stuart realised that his worst nightmare had come true. A sudden buzzing vibration returned his attention to the package in his hand. Pushing back the sponge, he slid out a mobile phone. The words Answer me flashed up on the screen, and Stuart’s blood ran cold.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘I needed that,’ Amy said as she joined her mother in the kitchen. Despite the pain in her fingers, her early-morning punchbag session had done the trick. Sleep had surprised her after all, granting a full eight hours of rest. The feeling of being refreshed was a novel one, and she felt ready for whatever was thrown in her direction. She did not have long to wait. ‘Have you taken Dotty out?’ she said, frowning as she noticed the lead missing from the hook in the hall.

  ‘Yes. I . . . I went to get the paper,’ Flora replied.

  Amy’s eyes trailed to the morning edition of the London Echo on the kitchen table. It was unusual for her mother to be fully dressed at this early hour, let alone to have taken Dotty for her morning walk.

  ‘What’s so interesting that you couldn’t wait for the paperboy to deliver it?’ Amy asked, switching on the kettle and taking down a cup. ‘Would you like a cup of . . .’ She stalled, catching the forlorn expression o
n her mother’s face. ‘What’s wrong?’

  The words had barely left her lips before her mobile phone vibrated on the kitchen counter.

  ‘Don’t answer it!’ Flora’s words were brittle as they sliced through the air.

  ‘Of course I’m going to answer it. What if it’s work?’

  ‘Don’t!’ Flora snatched it from the counter, jabbing at the button to reject the call. No sooner had it stopped than the landline rang. Amy swivelled from the phone back to her mother. ‘What’s going on?’

  Pressing her finger to her lips, Flora picked up the home phone. ‘Yes? Hello, Patrick.’ She paused, pleading with her eyes as Amy advanced to take the call. It was Paddy, but such were her mother’s old-fashioned ways that she addressed him by his full name. ‘She’s out with the dog . . . Yes, she’s aware. I’ll get her to call you when she comes back . . . No . . . no trouble at all. Thank you. Bye.’

  ‘You’re scaring me now.’ Amy paled at the prospect of what lay ahead. Her mother was not an assertive woman. There had to be a good reason behind her behaviour today.

  ‘I wanted to be the one to tell you,’ she said, sliding the newspaper across the kitchen table. Unfolding it, she exposed the front page for Amy to read.

  MET COP DAUGHTER OF BRENTWOOD BEAST, the headlines screamed, stealing Amy’s breath. Her gaze fell on the reporter’s name. Adam Rossi. He had done it. He had betrayed her in the worst possible way.

  ‘I can’t believe he did that,’ Flora said, her face soured in disgust.

  Amy scanned the page, her heart plummeting as she absorbed the damning words. Here was the passion he was known for, the flair that had been lacking in his piece about Dr Curtis. It spoke of Lillian Grimes as if she were the victim. How the police officer handling the case had adopted her daughter and how details of Lillian’s case were later leaked to the press. In another paragraph, it spoke of evidence being planted at the scene, of Lillian’s appeal, her claims of innocence and her dreams of being free. It told how her daughter, DI Amy Winter, had turned against her, despite Lillian’s recent cooperation in the case of the missing children brutally murdered all those years ago by Lillian’s husband, Jack Grimes. ‘I was terrified to leave him,’ Lillian stated in the interview. ‘He raped and abused me, then threatened to kill my children if I went to the police. I never imagined that I would end up in prison for something my husband did.’ Amy’s stomach churned as the past reared its ugly head all over again.

  ‘Here.’ Placing a cup of tea before her, Flora tilted her head. ‘Why don’t you call in sick? Let things die down a bit before you go back to work.’

  Work. The thought hit her like a punch to the stomach. What would her colleagues think of her now? Inhaling a deep breath, Amy pushed the paper away. ‘How did you know about this?’

  ‘Winifred rang. Her son runs the newsagent’s around the corner. He let me in early so I could have a copy.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Amy said, painfully aware of the gossip this would generate. ‘The tittle-tattle will die down in a few days.’

  ‘It’s a bit more than tittle-tattle – what about your job?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. All the important people already know.’ Dotty whimpered at her feet, picking up on her unease. Amy bent down, giving her a quick cuddle before casting an eye over the clock on the wall. ‘It’s time I headed off. What’s it like outside? Will I need my hood?’ She would cycle to work; the journey would give her time to think.

  ‘It’s frosty, no rain forecast for today.’ Flora looked at her quizzically. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Absolutely. And if anyone rings you up for a quote, tell them to mind their own business. As for Adam . . .’

  ‘Don’t you worry, love, he’s burned his bridges with me. You stick with that nice Donovan chap.’ She paused, as if listening to an incoming thought. ‘He knows, doesn’t he? You’ve told him?’

  Amy forced a smile. ‘Of course.’ But the words were hollow as they left her lips. How would he react when he found out? Why would anyone want to date the daughter of a serial killer?

  ‘What about Craig?’ Flora asked as Amy headed for the door.

  Amy sighed. It was a small blessing that her detective inspector brother had taken a week off work. From the day Amy was adopted, he had made her feel like part of the family, even if their competitive natures sometimes got in the way. ‘Can you speak to him? I’ve got to get to work.’

  ‘I’ll order a taxi. Tell him in person,’ Flora said, with a swift nod of the head. ‘I’ll bring Dotty too.’

  If it weren’t for the subject matter, Amy would have been amused to hear of her mother turning up at Craig’s door at this early hour. She wondered who Flora would catch him in bed with today. Their mother never refused an opportunity to snoop, and Craig’s life was a closed book. ‘It’s a bit early, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m his mother. It’s never too early,’ Flora said, riffling in the drawer for the number of a taxi firm.

  Amy’s legs felt weak as she cycled to work. Forging on, she prepared herself mentally for what lay ahead. The rays of morning sun provided little comfort, and she brushed a strand of hair away from her face, realising her helmet was nestled with her bag in the basket on the front of her bike. Was that what things were going to be like now? Her thoughts unfocused, trailing back to her painful past? Shame encompassed her like a black shroud. She felt dirty, at fault. It was illogical to blame herself for what had happened, but she remained painfully aware that her biological parents had sometimes used her as bait to lure their innocent victims in. If only she could go back to being her four-year-old self and scream at those young girls not to get into the car.

  Fear had served to gag her. She had seen far too much at such a young age. Squeezing the brakes on her bicycle, she came to a halt at the traffic lights. What if Lillian was right? Was that why she touched the cheeks of the dead when she attended a murder scene? Why her heart beat a little bit faster at the prospect of dealing with a murder case? The only difference between you and me is that you have the law on your side. Lillian’s words taunted her as they replayed on a loop.

  The toot of a car horn almost made Amy jump out of her skin. The lights had barely turned green, and she gave the driver a dirty look before continuing on her way. The sight of the police station made her stomach lurch. She had known that this day would come, but now, in the middle of a kidnapping case, the timing could not be worse. DCI Pike already knew of her background, which she had since shared with the command team. Would the rest of her colleagues be as understanding? Or would they view her as part of the killer family they despised?

  All of this had come at a time when she needed their focus the most. ‘C’mon, you can do this,’ she mumbled to herself under her breath. But it wasn’t her attitude she was worried about. It was that of her team.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The Curtis Institute, December 1984

  Slipping out, Luka ran down the hall of the old university, his plimsolls beating against the tiled floor. It was risky, taking off after his music lessons, but Luka could not bear to go through another round of tests. He needed his mama. He needed to go home.

  Wincing, he waited for his sight to adjust to the natural light flooding through the expansive windows on either side. A maze of rooms and corridors lay ahead, filled with the chatter of busy students much older than him. He ignored their inquisitive glances, his shoulders hunched, his head hung low. The space was a stark contrast to the fluorescent-lit accommodation in which he spent most of his time. Following the signs to the canteen, his attention was drawn to a large glass counter housing tray upon tray of hot food. The scents of different dishes rose up his nostrils, making him salivate. He thought of the children at home living on the street. Why was it that some people had so much food while others had none?

  ‘Mama!’ he called, tears pricking his eyes as his sense of panic grew. Soon they would find him. Clamp a hand on his shoulder and force him back. But he di
d not recognise any of the faces behind the glass counter where they served food. ‘Mama!’ The word pierced the air, more insistent this time. A blonde-haired young woman approached him, touching his shoulder. Flinching, he jumped from the contact.

  ‘You OK?’ she asked, a gentle curiosity behind her eyes. Her hair peeked out of a white hairnet and she smelled faintly of the spices from the curry listed on the specials board.

  ‘I want Mama,’ he cried, feeling like a baby as tears accumulated in his eyes. Pointing towards the kitchens, he gave her an imploring look. He swivelled his head from left to right. Any second now, the orderlies could drag him back to that waiting room in time for the next round of tests.

  ‘You must be Sasha’s boy,’ the lady replied, leading him through to the canteen staff entrance. ‘She told me you were staying in the old dorms.’

  Luka caught a faint whiff of crisp, fresh air. Had it not been for Mama, he would have burst through the doors that led into the outside yard. This place had become the worst type of prison, and all he wanted was an escape. But what would happen then? Papa was saving up the money Mama earned and sent home. It would help them through the hard times, for the days Papa was unable to work. Guilt speared Luka’s heart like a physical pain. Such thoughts had ensured his silence, but he couldn’t take it anymore.

  ‘Luka,’ his mama said. ‘What are you doing here?’ Wiping her hands on her apron, she took him into a side room which was filled with mops and cleaning products of every kind. Upturning two empty buckets, she sat on one and patted the other for him to do the same. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, her face pale and strained.