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

  The discovery that she was alive changed everything. Her existence was welcome, but also one of the many facets of the past that Amy was still coming to terms with. How had Sally-Ann stayed in the shadows for so long? Why come forward now? But asking such questions would mean pulling the scab off an old wound. It was easier for Amy to throw herself into work than to allow herself to be consumed by past events.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Novokuznetsk, Soviet Union, 1984

  As he sat at the makeshift kitchen table, Ivan’s head hung low. ‘I’ve never worked so hard to be so poor.’ He spoke on the exhale, his words peppered with cigarette smoke. Having finished his shift in the coal mine, he watched his wife, Sasha, prepare their food. As always, he spoke in Russian, and the words could be easily translated into English in Luka’s mind. Proud of her British heritage, Sasha had pushed the language upon her son from an early age.

  At just six years of age, Lukasha Ivanovich Volkov knew only hardship, yet his teachers said that he was one of the lucky ones. His papa had a job and was fit to work. His mother was educated and resourceful. As for Luka . . . he was bright. ‘Advanced beyond his years’, according to his teachers.

  Most importantly of all, his family loved each other, which was more than could be said for many on their street. Poverty bred frustration, and violence was commonplace in his neighbourhood. While Luka and his family lived in a small apartment purposely built for miners, others shared communal living spaces without gas, heat or running water. The fireplace in their kitchen-cum-living room was better than nothing, and most days they had enough kindling and wood to cook food and keep themselves warm.

  But yet his mother complained, ‘Why, among all the mines and steel mills, is there so much poverty? I waited hours in the rain for this sliver of meat.’ She stirred the stew, her brows knitted in a frown. Life in Novokuznetsk was tough, and those unable to work struggled to feed their children. Grim-faced and poverty-stricken, many youngsters fled their homes, living among the wild dogs as they begged for scraps of food. Most people did not have the luxury of pets, and those that did had turned them loose long ago. Drugs were a problem in their area, a temporary solution for teenagers with no hope and no support. But among the glue sniffers and the destitute were small pockets of people who genuinely cared for each other. A reassuring smile, a word of encouragement; they had to stick together because otherwise there was no point in going on.

  Luka tried not to concern himself with such things as he played with his toy aeroplane. He imagined himself travelling on it, visiting the faraway lands that he read about in books. How wonderful it must feel to fly like a bird in the sky.

  ‘Luka, come and get your food,’ his mother said. ‘And wash your hands.’

  ‘Yes, mamochka,’ he said, rising from the floor. His stomach rumbled as he tucked into his stew and his eyes flicked to Mama’s portion, which was half the size of his.

  But Mama was busy focusing on winning his father round. ‘We wouldn’t have all these worries if you let me apply for the scholarship,’ she said. With her wavy black hair and long dark lashes, Mama was pretty when she smiled. But today her features were taut, her words imbued with dogged determination.

  Papa rolled his eyes, broth dripping from his spoon as he held it in mid-air. His face was stained with coal dust, accentuating the wrinkles too plentiful for his age. ‘I told you. If it’s too good to be true, then it usually is.’

  ‘But the Curtis Institute would be our passport to England. Can you imagine seeing London? Those bright red buses, the colourful clothes and shops. All the tourist attractions. The Tower of London and Windsor Castle.’

  ‘And how could you afford to visit these places? You think this Dr Curtis is going to show you around London and expect nothing in return?’

  ‘But he’s not getting nothing, is he? Luka’s bright. The teachers say he’s gifted.’ Sasha edged towards her husband. ‘I can get a job, earn money while he takes part in the trial. It could pave the way to a better life for us all.’

  ‘And he couldn’t find these gifted children in London?’

  ‘They want children from all over. Please. Let me apply and see what happens after that.’

  Exhaling loudly, Ivan dropped his spoon into his bowl. ‘Fine, if it makes you happy, but don’t get your hopes up. Nice things don’t happen to people like us.’

  Luka wiped the dribble of broth that edged down his chin. Soon his stomach would grumble again but for the moment hope was on his horizon. ‘Are we going to England?’ His heart gave a little flutter at the thought.

  His mother turned to him, her smile lighting up the room. ‘Perhaps, sinochka. Perhaps.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Amy had barely entered her office when her phone rang. ‘Hello?’ she said, without checking the caller display. She grabbed her police-issue harness from the back of her chair, visibly withering as she recognised her caller’s voice.

  ‘At last, my darling daughter sees fit to answer my calls.’ Like liquid poison, Lillian Grimes’s voice seeped down the line.

  Amy’s spirits plummeted. It was bad enough the woman haunted her nightmares; why must she insist on ringing her at work? ‘Go to hell!’ she said, before slamming down the phone. She had a scene to attend and there was no point in expending any more energy on Lillian Grimes. As the phone rang for the second time, she unleashed her annoyance.

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Sod off, or I’ll do you for harassment!’

  ‘Steady on . . . what did I do to deserve this?’ The voice on the other end was friendly and warm, in total contrast to the scheming caller seconds before. A recent acquaintance, DI Donovan of Essex Police had got to know Amy well. Too well.

  Amy sighed. Her relationship with her ex, Adam, had reinforced the idea that she was better off alone.

  ‘Oh. Sorry, I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’ A smile was carried on his words. ‘Everything OK? You haven’t returned my calls.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Peering out of her office window, Amy watched her team hard at work. ‘I’ve been up to my eyes in it. I didn’t finish until nearly two this morning and I was back at the crack of dawn.’

  ‘Ah, the life of a bobby – who’d want it?’

  ‘I guess we’re gluttons for punishment. Look, I can’t talk right now. Is it important?’ She was still irritated by Lillian’s call, and the planner on her desk was jam-packed with things to do.

  ‘No . . . I’ll be in your neck of the woods soon, maybe we could meet up then?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Her eyes flickered to Molly’s as the young officer approached her office door, car keys in hand.

  ‘Um, sorry, I’ve . . .’

  ‘. . . got to go.’ Donovan finished her sentence. ‘No problem. Speak soon.’

  Ending the call, Amy paused for breath. She was too wrapped up in work to talk about hooking up. Inside, she was buzzing from the tingle of urgency that heralded each new case. As Molly drove them to the scene, Amy used the time to think.

  Amy’s position as DI of the high-priority crime unit offered up a variety of backdrops to her day. She often visited luxurious London homes, but rarely did she envy the homeowners. Their grief was just as real as those with barely a penny to their name. Such seemed the case today as she spoke to the Curtis family about the disappearance of their child.

  At five foot eight, Dr Curtis was not a tall man, but his commanding presence hinted that he was used to getting his own way. His silver-grey beard was neatly trimmed, his sky-blue eyes intense in their gaze. Walking ahead of Amy and Molly, he led them past a spiral staircase into the living room. Plaques and family photos were dotted across the walls, and the delicate scent of Dr Vranjes Ginger Lime infusers permeated the room. When she’d visited Harrods with Sally-Ann the week before, Amy had lingered over them with an intent to buy – until she saw the price tag attached. But judging by the furnishings in their household, the seventy-five-pound diffusers were the cheapest
items in the room.

  As Amy took a seat across from the doctor, her attention was drawn to his wife. Aged thirty-eight, Nicole Curtis was twenty-seven years her husband’s junior, and wife number three. Her wavy brunette hair was scooped up into a high ponytail, her slim build accentuated by her fitted black dress. Wringing her hands, she sat next to Dr Curtis, her eyes darting from his face to Amy’s as they spoke in turn. The antithesis of her husband, this woman was clearly accustomed to taking a back seat.

  Amy’s cool grey eyes were sharp and focused as she pinned Mrs Curtis with her gaze. ‘Why haven’t you reported Ellen missing? I’ve read your statements, but I’ve yet to find any explanation as to why you didn’t make the call.’

  ‘You’re here, aren’t you?’ the doctor said tersely. ‘Therefore, she has been reported missing.’

  ‘But not by you,’ Amy replied, still staring at his wife. ‘Which makes me wonder why.’ She watched Mrs Curtis squirm. ‘It could be any number of things. We’ll get to the bottom of it eventually.’

  Nicole’s lips parted to speak, but her voice was drowned out by that of her husband.

  ‘I can assure you we’re not withholding information—’

  But Dr Curtis was not the only person who could interrupt. Amy carried on as if he hadn’t said a word. ‘There’s a couple of reasons why parents don’t report their child missing. I’m sorry to say I’ve encountered both.’

  ‘When you say “sorry” . . .’ Nicole said, her voice faint.

  ‘Neither ended well,’ Amy replied, without further explanation. ‘Now, you could have been warned not to speak to the police because someone is issuing demands. Or you could be responsible, and trying to cover it up . . .’ She raised a hand, silencing Dr Curtis as he began to protest. ‘Either way, I’m not leaving this room until you tell me what’s going on.’

  Beside her, Amy heard Molly swallow, her knees pressed tightly together and her black leather pocket notebook flipped open to take notes. Amy liked Molly. She was as good an investigator as some of the old sweats on her team. But she had a habit of being in awe of those in the public eye, something Amy was keen to eliminate. Celebrities were no less culpable for their crimes than anyone else.

  ‘We have not laid a finger on our child.’ His face taut, Dr Curtis rose from his chair. ‘Ellen was safely tucked up in bed when we left for a social engagement. The babysitter checked in on her at nine o’clock, and she was fast asleep. She called 999 at ten o’clock when the fire broke out. When she went upstairs to wake Ellen, she was gone.’ He paced the room as he spoke, his words mirroring those in the statement he had given to the police.

  ‘You’re not answering my question,’ Amy said.

  ‘That’s because there’s nothing more to say.’ Pausing at the Victorian fireplace, Dr Curtis stared into nothingness.

  ‘When it comes to the whereabouts of a missing child there is plenty more to say.’ Amy stood, her chin held high. ‘Either tell me now or we’ll discuss it down at the station.’ She turned to Mrs Curtis. With her legs and arms crossed, Nicole appeared to have tied herself up in knots.

  ‘We haven’t hurt her,’ she blurted out. ‘And we haven’t received a ransom note. At least . . . not yet.’

  Amy nodded soberly. At last, she was getting somewhere. She heard Molly click her pen, ready to take notes. ‘Do you know her abductor?’

  Dr Curtis scowled at his wife before answering on her behalf. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Would you care to enlighten me?’ Amy said.

  ‘By doing so, I would be signing Ellen’s death warrant,’ he replied.

  Amy sighed. ‘So you pay them off and get Ellen back safely? You think it’s that easy?’

  Dr Curtis shook his head. ‘There may not be a ransom note, but involving the police will make things a whole lot worse.’

  ‘For whom?’ Amy asked. ‘I take it there’s been some kind of contact, otherwise you would have called us straight away.’

  Amy narrowed her eyes as she caught Dr Curtis deliver a warning shake of the head to his wife. ‘Believe me when I tell you I only want what’s best for my child. I can’t risk aggravating this person any more than they already are.’

  Giving up on Nicole, Amy took a step towards him. ‘You underestimate my team. You’ll have a far better outcome with our support. At least give us enough to make some background checks. You can’t do this on your own.’

  ‘Tell her,’ Nicole said, clutching her hands to her chest. ‘We know who he is.’

  Amy turned to Dr Curtis, but he remained tight-lipped. ‘I could arrest you both for obstruction, then carry on our chat at the police station?’

  ‘You misunderstand me, Officer.’ Dr Curtis faced her. ‘I can’t tell you who took our daughter, because the man my wife’s referring to is dead.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Deborah McCauley strained to understand the woman on the other end of the phone. Her voice was punctuated by sobs, her breath coming in judders as she shrieked down the line.

  ‘He’s got her, I know it! He said he’d get his revenge, and he has!’

  ‘Calm down. Only dogs can hear you at this pitch. Now, take a slow breath . . .’ Deborah tried to calm the fretting mother. ‘And another . . .’ She was used to dealing with hysterical women. During her career as a psychiatrist, she had come across people in all sorts of turmoil, but Nicole Curtis was in a class of her own.

  Pouring herself a cup of black filter coffee, Deborah sat at her kitchen breakfast bar and crossed her long, slim legs. Her cane was propped up beside her. It was long and glittery, just like the shoe bobbing from the tip of her foot. She wondered why every phone call from Nicole involved a drama of some kind.

  ‘It’s Ellen. He’s taken my little girl. And now the police are treating us like criminals. Hu—’ Nicole stuttered, her words tripping over her sobs. ‘Hugh told me not to call but I . . . I don’t know what to do.’

  The esteemed Dr Hugh Curtis, Deborah thought, rolling her eyes. If only people knew. She’d been in her early twenties when they first worked together, and now, decades later, he was incapable of shocking her. It was a quality yet to be afforded to his third wife.

  Deborah’s blonde hair was now streaked with silver and her health had taken a nosedive. But her memories of her time at the Curtis Institute were still as sharp as a blade. She took a breath, preparing to issue the comfort that Dr Curtis was incapable of providing. ‘I told you before, Luka’s dead. He can’t hurt you.’

  ‘But he can hurt Ellen. Who else would have taken her? It’s got to be him.’ An anguished moan escaped Nicole’s lips. ‘Hugh said we should hang tight and wait for the kidnapper to call. But what if Ellen’s hurt . . . or worse?’

  ‘Just . . .’ Deborah frowned, trying to make sense of it all. ‘Just start from the beginning. When was the last time you saw her?’

  Nicole repeated her account of events.

  ‘How?’ Deborah replied. ‘How did he take her without being seen?’

  ‘The side door had been jemmied open. The police think he used the fire as a diversion to slip away. He’s alive, Deborah. All this time, I’ve been trying to tell you . . . do you believe me now?’

  It was true, Nicole had warned them, but her concerns were never reported to the police. Starting five years ago, Nicole and Hugh had received a bunch of flowers at their home on the same date each year. The message that accompanied them was particularly chilling . . . and now he had carried out his threat.

  Deborah knew better than to ask why Ellen hadn’t screamed. Her reactions were different to those of ordinary children, but that was down to her upbringing more than anything else. Deborah’s thoughts wandered briefly to Luka and a pang of guilt hit home. ‘I thought you had CCTV?’ she said, reining in her emotions.

  Nicole sniffed, her sobs finally subsiding. ‘It doesn’t record. You can check it live on the app, but it doesn’t keep anything.’

  ‘Of course it bloody doesn’t.’ Deborah stared down at her cup of coffee, w
hich was now turning cold. Behind her, the washing machine began the rhythm of a spin cycle. Listening to Nicole, her stomach was beginning to feel the same way. Luka was damaged, there was no doubting that – and it was hardly surprising after what they had put him through. She bowed her head as Nicole’s anguished cries bored into her brain. ‘Are you sure Ellen didn’t get scared of the fire and run? You can’t expect her to react like other children. She has no concept of danger.’

  Nicole’s response was instant, set in another high-pitched tone. ‘Don’t you think I know that? I’m her mother. You don’t need to tell me what my daughter is and isn’t aware of. I told Hugh this would happen. How’s she going to fend for herself? She’s only four.’

  ‘Hey, you called me, remember? There’s no need to snap my head off.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Nicole replied in a quiet voice.

  That’s better, Deborah thought, having put her back in her box. Hugh’s voice rang clear in her memory: The parents of test subjects need to be controlled. Oh, the irony. How did he feel now he was the one being scrutinised? Another thought sent a dart of worry. It was only a matter of time before the authorities turned their attention towards her. Deborah rubbed her forehead, now coated in a light sheen of sweat. ‘And you haven’t mentioned Luka to the police? You know what will happen if they start digging . . .’

  ‘But why shouldn’t we tell them if it helps bring Ellen home? He’s back. I don’t know how, but he’s alive and he’s taken my little girl . . .’ An exhalation of breath ruffled the phone line. ‘You knew him better than anyone. What should I do?’

  ‘Listen to me. Luka’s dead. The police are aware. Just sit tight for now.’ Deborah clutched the telephone handset, staring into space. ‘There’s no point digging into the past. Tell them as little as possible, or we’ll all be facing jail.’

  She ended the call. Why Hugh had to confide in Nicole, of all people, she did not know.