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

  Deborah’s Apple Watch raised an alert that her heart was beating far too fast. Like a tangled web, past and present were weaving themselves around her, making it difficult to breathe.

  The receiver still warm in her hand, she attempted to make a group call to her old colleagues – Stuart and Christina were no doubt panicking. The ties of the past kept them tightly bound together, even though she had not seen them in years. The four of them had stayed true to their word. But for how much longer? If their secret came out . . . Her hold on the receiver tightened.

  It would mean the end of her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The bruise was yellow and the size of a small buttercup on Ellen’s skin. Her kidnapper frowned. He had forgotten how delicate children were. Spending time in their presence gave him the creeps.

  ‘I want my mummy.’ Snatching back her wrist, Ellen petulantly folded her arms. The tracksuit was a size too big and he’d had to bribe her with a Mars bar to put it on.

  ‘Here,’ he said, picking up the plastic shopping bag and rummaging for another bar of chocolate. ‘Try this. It’ll make you feel better.’ A hint of a Russian accent coloured his words.

  ‘Mummy says chocolate is bad for my teef,’ Ellen said, clearly unaccustomed to the joys of a Mars bar. The thought of breaking her meticulously planned diet made the man smile. Compromises needed to be made with a child in captivity. It was something he understood only too well.

  ‘I won’t tell her if you don’t,’ he replied. His thoughts darkened. Ellen would not live long enough to tell any tales. Rising from the sofa, he glanced around the room. Photographs, maps and plans had, until recently, adorned the walls. He remembered the first day he got here, how everything had seemed so bare.

  A flat-screen television was positioned next to where the plans of Ellen’s home had hung. Tiny blobs of Blu-Tack still clung to the paintwork where the photographs of the other children had been displayed. Now all that remained were four windowless white walls.

  Ellen sucked on her Mars bar, her eyes growing wide as she tried to comprehend the impending threat. Yes, she had been brought up shielded from the world, but he knew from the books in her bedroom that she was no stranger to a fairy tale or two. A smile spread on his lips as he decided to breathe life into an old Russian folk tale. ‘I’m keeping you safe from Baba Yaga,’ he whispered conspiratorially, looking over his shoulder as if to check whether she was there.

  Temporarily unplugging the chocolate bar from her mouth, Ellen licked her lips. ‘Who?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? Baba Yaga – the witch who set fire to your house. In Russia they call her Baba Yaga Kostianaya Noga.’ His features became animated as he recounted the tale. ‘She’s got a long, thin nose which scratches the ceiling when she snores. Her legs are pure bone, her teeth as sharp as knives, and she lives in a house on chicken legs.’ He relished the look of fresh fear in Ellen’s eyes. ‘That’s why I brought you to my special place. See?’ He pointed to the walls of their room. ‘No windows.’ Leaning towards her, he whispered for effect: ‘She flies around in the night, feasting on children whose parents have been bad. Whenever she is near, the birds become silent and the wind screeches a warning to those far and wide.’

  ‘Mummy and Daddy aren’t b-bad,’ she said, a sob catching in her throat. The man had improvised that part of the story and was enjoying its effect.

  ‘But they are,’ he rasped, ‘which is why they asked me to hide you. Do you understand? That’s why you must do as I say.’

  Ellen nodded solemnly, chocolate dribbling between her dimpled fingers. She had no reason to disbelieve him. A product of her father’s upbringing, she was untainted by the outside world. Every word the man spoke was taken literally and she offered him her complete trust. He watched as she began to sob, half-heartedly returning the Mars bar to her lips.

  ‘No crying.’ He reached for a packet of wet wipes from the coffee table. ‘She’ll hear you. Now eat up. You don’t need to worry. As long as you’re quiet, you’re safe.’

  ‘Who are you?’ she said, clumsily swiping away the chocolate from her chin.

  ‘You can call me Luka,’ he replied, overcome by a sense of surrealness. Kidnap carried a hefty prison sentence. But he wasn’t planning on getting caught. He looked at the child, his resolve strengthening. It had to be done.

  ‘W-where are you going?’ She pushed her spectacles up her nose, her big blue eyes following his movements as he strode towards the door.

  ‘To keep a lookout, of course. And remember – not a sound.’ He closed the heavy door behind him, blocking out Ellen’s sobs. The soundproof room would afford him some peace, and she had enough food and fizzy drinks to last her the day. Leaning against the bookcase, he pushed it back so it was against the wall. So this was what it felt like to be the one in control. But what had started off as a source of mild amusement had turned sour on his tongue. Frightening a four-year-old girl was a hollow victory. Besides, he had things to do. The next part of his plan was ready to be put into action. Ellen would not be here for very long.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Flicking on the kettle, Amy spooned coffee and sugar into her favourite James Bond mug. There was a crack in the handle and a tidemark that was impossible to remove, but it had been a gift from her father. Her lucky mug. His guidance was sorely missed. She sniffed the carton of milk from the fridge before adding a dollop on to the coffee granules and pouring the boiling water. In a rare moment to herself, she stared at the undissolved coffee granules floating on top. She could almost hear her father groan that she was making it all wrong.

  She was doing this a lot lately, keeping his memory alive by imagining what he would say. His absence had left a huge hole in her life, and the last thing she needed was Lillian Grimes trying to fill the space. Months had passed since Amy had discovered the devastating truth, and Lillian seemed determined to have her say. The echoes of Jack and Lillian’s laughter still rang in the chambers of Amy’s memories, along with the screams of the victims they had taken captive over thirty years ago.

  Was four-year-old Ellen Curtis screaming in a basement somewhere? Or had her body been disposed of like a piece of rubbish, or buried in the grounds of her parents’ home? Amy’s thoughts roamed, unwanted invaders scuttling in her brain. Lately, every snatched moment of solitude returned her to the past: a place of unfinished business, with ugly memories waiting for release.

  DS Paddy Byrne sidled into the office kitchen beside her, empty mug in hand. He seemed happier in his work now his life was back on an even keel. They had yet to have a proper chat about the recent turn of events regarding Lillian Grimes, but work was relentless and their personal lives would have to wait.

  ‘The kettle’s just boiled.’ Amy smiled, grateful for some respite from her thoughts. ‘Manage to dig anything up?’ she added, referring to the case. Dr Curtis’s comment about Ellen’s kidnapper being a dead man was bizarre, but further questioning had been fruitless and Amy had instructed the team to investigate his past.

  Having become famous through his career as an experimental psychologist, Dr Curtis had gained further notoriety after releasing a string of bestselling books on childhood behaviour. His face was often on television as he was regularly consulted on the topic, although his charismatic on-screen persona was far removed from the character Amy had encountered today. It was hardly surprising, given the stress he was under, but Amy sensed there was more to Ellen’s disappearance than Dr Curtis was letting on.

  Paddy’s spoon clinked against his cup as he stirred sugar into his tea. ‘Curtis did a brief stint in an animal-testing lab before moving on to child psychology. It was forty years ago, though, so I can’t see that it’s relevant to this case.’

  ‘We need to know everything. A full résumé of his background, and Nicole’s too. Their childhoods, their parents, their social circles. Are either of them having an affair? Do they owe anyone money? Something stinks in that house, and I want to know what it is.’

  I
t was bad enough they were playing catch-up, as the kidnapping had been reported late. Amy had requested undercover surveillance of the Curtis family home, but, given a lot of their budget had been blown on their last big case, chances were she would be turned down. At the moment, the Curtis family were victims, but Amy knew from experience how quickly things could turn.

  Paddy sipped his tea. ‘The officers involved in the house search said that Ellen’s room was spotless. The whole place was like a show home, nothing out of place.’

  ‘I guess when you’re as rich as Curtis you can afford to pay cleaners to pick up after you.’ Amy wondered how scrupulously their home had been cleaned after Ellen disappeared. She sipped her coffee, conscious of the time. ‘There was something very Stepford Wives about Nicole,’ she continued. ‘You should have seen the way Curtis looked at her. We need to speak to her on her own.’ But all attempts to do so had failed and, unless the parents became suspects, it was something Amy could not force. She checked her watch. Time for the briefing.

  Side by side, she walked with Paddy to the conference room, mug of coffee in hand. Even in her heels she was dwarfed by Paddy’s form. Their relationship had been strengthened since Sally-Ann’s identity was revealed. Not only was Paddy one of Amy’s closest friends, he was living with her sister too. He had been as surprised as anyone to discover who she really was. They were all a little shell-shocked, going through the motions until they found a better way to cope.

  Within minutes, her team had filed in, and Amy began briefing the specialist officers assigned to the case. She glared at the desk phone as it rang with persistence, interrupting her flow. Front-counter staff knew better than to transfer calls to this number, so who were they trying to put through?

  ‘Quiet for a minute,’ she said, halting the background chatter as she picked up the receiver. ‘DI Winter speaking. We’re mid-briefing. This better be good.’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but I’ve got a caller here who insists on speaking only to you.’ Daphne from the front desk sounded somewhat affronted. ‘I tried your airwaves but you weren’t picking up.’

  Amy’s radio was sitting on her office desk but, to be fair, she switched it on more than most. Uniformed officers were expected to have theirs on at all times, but detectives could get away with having one transmitting in the background, as long as they were contactable by phone. Besides, their rechargeable batteries barely lasted the day and, like everything else, were in short supply.

  ‘Can you take a message?’ Amy presumed it was another follow-up. Their appeal had just hit the press, meaning crank calls and dead-end leads weren’t far behind. She sighed. They would never get through the briefing at this rate and she was acutely aware that all eyes were on her.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Daphne replied. ‘He’s saying he has Dr Curtis’s child.’

  ‘So you’re telling me the kidnapper is on the line.’ Amy raised her voice for everyone in the room to hear. Their low mumblings came to an immediate end. ‘What are you waiting for? Put him through!’ Raising her finger to her lips, she signalled to her colleagues to be quiet as she activated the speakerphone. Amy would never win awards for her phone manner. She mused that it was probably a crank call, but it would not do any harm for them to listen, just in case. She watched as Paddy slipped his phone from his pocket, pressed the record button and slid it across the table in her direction. Molly stretched in her seat to reach for her notepad, pen in her other hand. They would take note of every word said.

  The call seemed like a gift that had dropped into her lap. Was Ellen’s kidnapper really on the line?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nicole stared mournfully out the window. Losing Ellen had made her re-evaluate everything. She had thrown everyone out, telling them she needed time to think. Hugh had gone searching for their daughter and instructed her to stay at home in case Ellen returned. As if it would be that easy. The very thing that had attracted Nicole to her much older husband had also led to their downfall. It was his fault Ellen had been scooped from her bed. His actions that had put her in danger.

  Luka was alive. She was convinced of it. Who else would send them a wreath on the anniversary of his death each year? And the words on the card inside the stiff black envelope pinned to the front . . . they chilled her to the bone.

  From what she gathered, she was not the only one to receive such communications. Her husband’s hushed phone calls told her that Deborah, Stuart and Christina received the yearly reminders too.

  She turned the card over in her fingers as she read the message once more.

  Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home

  Your house is on fire

  Your child is gone . . .

  Luka

  She should have handed it to DI Winter, but instead it had burned a hole in the pocket of her dress. Why hadn’t she listened to Hugh when he told her to throw it away? He would be furious to know she had kept it all this time. The note was a warning of what was to come – payback for the practices at her husband’s institution. He had been drunk when he’d confided in her and now they were too scared to go to the police. Each year after the flowers, everything went quiet and they fooled themselves into believing their tormentor was making empty threats. When had he first planned Ellen’s abduction? How could he hurt an innocent child? An eye for an eye . . . The words filtered into her consciousness, loaded with gloomy foreboding.

  It was so hard, not having anyone to talk to. Hugh claimed to love Ellen, but theirs was not a typical father/daughter relationship. Each night he sat in his private office making notes, writing in his journals, updating his peers. Ellen was a test subject, like so many before her. A canary in a gilded cage. Nicole had thought about leaving him, taking Ellen far away and starting again. But with what? As long as she lived with Hugh she was well cared for – both of them were. He had reassured her that Ellen was different and that he had her best interests at heart, but what about now? She should never have put money before her daughter’s freedom . . .

  Nicole’s thoughts were stilled by the shrill ring of the doorbell. Could it be? Her heart jerked in her chest. Was it Ellen? Or were the police bringing bad news?

  Time seemed to move in slow motion as she answered the front door. The last thing she expected to see was a leather-clad courier on her doorstep, his bulky frame blocking out the light from outside. ‘Yes?’ she said, her eyes wide and unblinking as she waited for him to speak.

  His face obscured by the tinted helmet, he silently offered her the parcel in his hands.

  Nicole accepted the package, her mouth falling open as she realised this was no ordinary delivery. For one thing, most courier firms used a van, and there was something about the way the man loomed over her that made her uneasy.

  He thrust the parcel into her hands before walking away.

  ‘Do you need me to sign for it?’ Nicole called after him, but he failed to acknowledge her words.

  Nicole looked beyond him into the empty courtyard as he stood next to his motorbike. It was a small mercy that the media had not yet found their address, as their appeal had just hit the press. Was Luka watching? Was he Luka?

  Nicole’s expression changed. ‘Is this a ransom note?’ she called, feeling suddenly afraid. Surely it wouldn’t be delivered here, in broad daylight? But the courier ignored her question and the roar of his motorbike drowned out her words as he rode away.

  Returning to the confines of her home, Nicole tugged at the brown-paper packaging, her hands shaking as a small cardboard box was revealed. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the black envelope resting on top. The same black envelope containing the card signed Luka that she received each year. It was expensive, made of thick, bonded paper.

  Slowly opening the envelope, she thought about stories she had read of terrorists who sent explosives in the post. Biting her bottom lip, she slid out the white card within, instantly recognising the childish scrawl of the signature below. Her eyes darting from left to right, she read the wo
rds.

  There are four phials in this package.

  One is poisoned. Three are safe.

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

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

  Luka

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said aloud, her heart beating so hard she could feel it through the thin material of her dress. She closed the door behind her, shutting out the outside world. Luka was alive, she was convinced of it. But what did he mean, a choice not afforded to me?

  Nicole explored the box. The contents consisted of four glass phials which glinted in the light. Three contained blue liquid. The fourth was red. Her fingers brushed against the black sponge base that held the phials in place. It was clear that Luka had prepared for this day. Everything about this moment felt too monumental for Nicole to process it on her own. She walked into the living room, her body moving on autopilot. Where was Hugh? She wasn’t used to making decisions for herself. She needed him to . . .

  The box vibrated in her hand, making her yelp as it came to life. Steadying herself, Nicole listened to a ringtone coming from within. Cautiously, she worked her fingers into a gap between the sponge and the cardboard and pulled out a black iPhone. It was scuffed from use, and Answer me flashed up on the screen as a request for a FaceTime call came through. A sob clogged Nicole’s throat as she stared in disbelief at the battered phone. Was she about to come face to face with her daughter’s kidnapper? Was Ellen there? She pressed the icon to accept the call.

  ‘You’ve got one minute.’ A gravelly voice made her jump as the face of a man filled the screen. At least, she thought it was a man. His face was cloaked by a semi-transparent face mask, its painted orange lips and thick black eyebrows giving him a sinister edge.

  Nicole stared at him, overcome by emotion as she tried to deal with the situation she found herself in. ‘Who are you? What have you done with Ellen?’ It did not take a genius to work out that this man was involved in her daughter’s kidnapping. Summoning all of her courage, she demanded to speak to Ellen. But the deadness behind his eyes made her words wither in her throat. ‘Please,’ she squeaked. ‘Let me see her?’