The Secret Child (A DI Amy Winter Thriller Book 2) Page 8

  ‘Is this connected to Lillian?’ Adam asked. ‘Because I’ve been meaning to talk to you about—’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Lillian bloody Grimes,’ Amy interrupted, the thought of her biological mother making her gut churn. She checked that nobody was listening before giving him further details of Ellen and Nicole’s cases.

  ‘I’ll talk to my boss,’ he said. ‘It depends on the type of story this guy wants to run.’ Adam paused to sip his espresso. ‘Listen, can we forget about work for a few minutes? I know we parted on bad terms, but you can come to me any time, you know that, don’t you?’

  Amy’s face grew stony. She had Flora to thank for this. No doubt her mother had filled his head with stories of how Amy couldn’t cope on her own. It was a small blessing that he didn’t know about her relationship to Lillian. ‘Weren’t you listening?’ she said. ‘A child’s life is at risk. It’s the only reason I’m here.’

  ‘And here was I, thinking it would be nice to work together again.’ Adam scowled as he swallowed the last of his panettone. ‘But you’ve changed. Become quite a bitch, by all accounts.’

  Amy snorted. She was his little potato five minutes ago. Not that it mattered. Right now, all of her emotions were wrapped up in bringing Ellen home.

  ‘Can you help me or not?’ Her chair screeched against the floor as she pushed it back with force. ‘Because my time is precious right now.’

  ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you.’ Adam reached for her wrist, his anger flaring as she snatched it away. ‘Why are you being like this? We have a history together. It means something to me.’

  Amy exhaled, willing to stroke his ego if it meant getting back on track. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, forcing a smile as she sat back down. ‘It’s this new team I’m on . . . it’s very pressured. I really need your help.’ She swallowed her pride, along with the swear word skimming her tongue. She would win Adam around a lot more quickly if she pandered to his ego and acted as the helpless female he wanted her to be. Her thoughts returned to Ellen. She was somewhere in the city. In Amy’s experience, it was too risky for a kidnapper to take their charge very far. But was she alive?

  ‘I’ll help you,’ Adam said, the smile returning to his face, ‘although we get lots of correspondence about celebrities. If the allegations aren’t backed up, it goes nowhere. If he did send a letter last year, it probably ended up in the bin. The law is strict on what we can publish these days.’ His eyes danced over a svelte young barista as she came on duty. The woman turned her gaze towards him, obviously feeling the heat of his stare. Amy gritted her teeth. The old dog. She would never have his full attention now. ‘Will you come back to the station?’ she said. ‘We can go through it together.’

  ‘Or we could go back to your mum’s, order pizza, make an evening of it . . . it would be nice to have a proper chat.’

  With great effort, Amy quelled the words on her tongue. He had not one iota of concern for Ellen. If Adam had his way, they would be faffing about eating pizza and drinking wine – then they’d fall into her bed. Why else did he want this cosy ‘chat’?

  ‘When is your deadline for tomorrow’s edition?’ she said, grabbing her handbag from the floor.

  ‘Midnight, if we get the letter soon and I shuffle a few things about.’ Adam threw a wistful glance at the barista as they prepared to leave. ‘But there’s no way they’ll let me run it on the front page.’

  ‘It’s got to be front-page.’ Amy tensed, her fingers gripping the lip of her bag. ‘I’m serious. A child could die.’

  ‘You’re asking me to commit to a story when we don’t even know what he’s going to say!’ Adam pushed his seat back under the table after he had vacated it. He met Amy’s eyes, regret crossing his face. ‘Fine. I’ll run it by my boss.’

  ‘Front-page?’

  ‘I’ll do my best. I promise.’

  Her ex had let her down so many times. Amy prayed this was one promise he could keep.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Amy’s head bobbed up as she realised she had begun to doze off at her office desk. Her evening had comprised overseeing the investigation, chasing up leads and liaising with the media department about their latest press release. The caller’s letter had been sent to the Echo as predicted, and Adam had promised to do his best to print a non-libellous version of his words. Amy stared at the scanned copy. She had read the letter three times but was struggling to absorb it. Surely children weren’t tested like laboratory mice here in the UK? She returned her gaze to the printout.

  I came from Russia, left before the collapse of the Soviet Union. Fear was constantly in the background and you were always being watched. People regularly disappeared with no explanation and any mention of their name was followed by hushed whispers and warning glances through narrowed eyes. I lived in poverty, saw the destitute, but was told we had more than most.

  My mother brought me to England in the hope of a better life. But Dr Curtis showed us little compassion and went back on every promise he made. Our passports were taken. My environment was toxic. My room was windowless and I had little contact with the outside world. Everything I did was monitored, and the tests became increasingly hard to bear. What saved me were the sightseeing trips to London. Without them I would surely have lost my mind . . .

  Amy scrolled to the last paragraph on the page.

  . . . we were nothing more than prisoners, kept against our will. I was marked, like several others, lab rats for Curtis’s use. Just like in my home town, children disappeared and nothing more was said . . .

  A shadow at her door made Amy’s heart falter. It was their lead CSI. ‘Malcolm, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve come to rescue you, darling. Haven’t you noticed everyone else has gone home?’ Malcolm’s mouth twitched in a smile as he leaned against her office doorway, hands in pockets, ankles crossed. He was the very epitome of suave, and Amy loved being in his company.

  ‘I sent them home an hour ago.’ She yawned. ‘We’re in for an early start.’ Stretching her arms, the bones in her shoulders cracked, making Malcolm wince.

  ‘You’ve finished late every day this week. It’s time we got you out of here.’

  ‘But I wanted to talk to you about the case. I got your report and—’

  ‘C’mon now.’ Malcolm gently guided her out of her chair. ‘I’m up for talking shop, but not here. If we hurry, we can grab a swift one in the Ladbroke Arms before closing time.’

  Amy checked her watch: 10.30 p.m. They would have to be quick. ‘My bike’s out the back and I need to update my planner for tomorrow. I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘You’re not cycling at this hour, you’ll freeze to death. I’ll drop you home.’ He ushered her towards the door. ‘Come along – chop chop. And give your hair a comb, darling, it’s a frightful state.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Amy said ruefully, reaching for her bag. As she peered into her compact, she had to agree. Quickly running a brush through it, she applied a light coating of lipstick to disguise the paleness of her lips.

  Malcolm was right, she was working herself too hard. She needed to ease her foot off the pedal or she would be no use to anyone at all.

  As Malcolm stood at the bar, Amy thought of her relationships with her colleagues and how important they had become. In the police, you were part of a much bigger family. While in uniform, you were usually paired up with the same person, who became your ‘work husband’ or ‘work wife’. And conversations weren’t just limited to the job. In the wee hours, officers opened up about their personal lives and family problems. But not Amy. It was why she had got on so well with Paddy when he was appointed her tutor after she joined. Talk of home lives was avoided in favour of suspect motivations or the latest crime hotspots. Work was both a passion and a distraction from what was going on at home.

  As Malcolm brought their drinks to the table, she knew that he was the same, keeping work and home separate. His wife was a sensitive soul with a love of knitting, and unlikel
y to want to hear of his latest gruesome research.

  ‘Cheers, darling,’ he said, clinking his glass of diet cola against her gin and tonic. Amy gave him a grateful smile before taking a much-needed sip.

  ‘What do you think of this? We found it on the body.’ Amy opened the photos app on her phone. She wasn’t meant to photograph evidence, but Dr Curtis’s reaction to the note had bothered her, and it was something she’d wanted to contemplate at home. She tilted her phone so nobody else could see.

  Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home

  Your house is on fire

  Your child is gone . . .

  Luka

  ‘Luka and his mother died in a fire, didn’t they?’ Malcolm mused. ‘Perhaps whoever wrote this set the fire to get revenge on Dr Curtis. Maybe that’s why Nicole nearly died too.’

  Having committed the image to memory, Amy put her phone away. ‘The card doesn’t seem recent. It’s old and battered, as if Nicole’s had it for some time. It seems like a warning, rather than an immediate threat. Why didn’t she report it to the police?’

  ‘Perhaps she had something to hide.’

  ‘The letter sent to the paper talks about children going missing from the Curtis Institute, but we’ve no evidence of that.’ Amy sighed, her brows knitted in a frown as she tried to imagine what life had been like in the institute. ‘Do you think it’s true, what he wrote about Dr Curtis? He’s not the nicest of men, but testing children? It all seems so far-fetched.’ The possibility of Curtis using children in such a way had plagued Amy’s thoughts since her visit to his ex-wife that morning.

  ‘On the contrary . . .’ Malcolm paused to sip his drink. ‘Have you heard of the Little Albert experiment?’

  Amy’s puzzled expression relayed that she hadn’t.

  ‘You should familiarise yourself with the case.’ He crossed his legs, a leather shoe bobbing as he enjoyed his captive audience. ‘It involved a chap named John Watson who conditioned a nine-month-old baby to the extent that the child developed irrational fears.’

  ‘Nine months old?’

  Malcolm nodded, clearly in his element. ‘He started by introducing the baby to a white rat. As expected at that age, little Albert showed no fear. But then Watson made a terrible racket by hammering a steel bar every time the baby touched the rat. He did it again with other animals and objects, until the baby was terrified of them all. The very sight of them made him cry.’

  ‘How was that sanctioned?’ Amy asked. It sounded like something out of the pages of a Stephen King novel.

  ‘It was back in 1920, and not the worst experiment by far. It’s referred to now by scholars. Some would say we learned a lot from it.’

  ‘Really?’ Amy replied, unable to comprehend the justification for such acts.

  ‘It’s fascinating,’ Malcolm said. ‘Mind you, I was shocked at some of the experiments conducted on children when I did my research. It wasn’t that long ago that the law changed and such things came to an end.’

  ‘Is that what happened to Luka? He was brought over here on the promise of a scholarship, wasn’t he?’ Amy’s team was still digging, but the details of Luka’s past were slowly filtering through.

  ‘So I heard. It reminds me of another case I researched – the Willowbrook Studies.’

  Amy smiled. This was why Malcolm had wanted to take her out, and she loved him for it. Like her, he lived and breathed his job and was keen to impart what he had learned.

  ‘It involved some children with learning disabilities who were promised enrolment into Willowbrook State School in Staten Island, New York. All their parents had to do was to sign a consent form allowing their children to be vaccinated.’

  ‘Something tells me this involved more than vaccinations.’ Amy put her glass down on the table after taking another sip.

  ‘Oh, they were vaccinated all right.’ Malcolm’s face grew serious. ‘Fed the faeces of patients with viral hepatitis to track the development of the strain.’

  Amy baulked. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Back in the 1960s this sort of experimentation was rife, and none of it against the law. I researched a whole plethora of cases which were government-approved. One clinic that experimented on children with cerebral palsy had over 1,400 patients die in their care over five years.’

  Amy gaped in disbelief. ‘That’s horrendous. Surely they were arrested when it was brought to light?’

  Malcolm shook his head. ‘As far as I could see, not a single researcher has been prosecuted for such experimentation. But how could they be, when it was government-approved?’

  There was a pause as Amy took it all in. ‘Why take a child from Russia? Surely Dr Curtis could have used kids from the UK.’

  ‘There could have been more likelihood of intervention with an English child. Curtis made trips to Russian orphanages before Luka’s mother applied for the post.’

  ‘So you think choosing him for his intelligence was a ruse?’

  ‘Let me put it this way. Curtis was a lot more likely to get the family on board if they believed Luka had some special gift. He was clever, yes, and offers of a scholarship made them dream of better days. You have to remember, this was before the collapse of the Soviet Union. Back then, poverty was rife. As for corruption . . . one wrong word could land you in prison. The offer of a scholarship in Britain would have been a dream come true.’

  Malcolm’s words echoed those of the letter she had read twenty minutes before. ‘But that was years ago. Why wait so long for revenge? Unless seeing Dr Curtis in the media brought it all back.’ Amy realised she had answered her own question.

  ‘True, but why did he insist on dealing only with you? He contacted you for a reason. You investigate serious crime. What really happened at the Curtis Institute?’

  ‘The building was old, in need of a facelift. It wasn’t safe for students to sleep in the dorms, which is why the previous occupants moved out. But Dr Curtis managed to lease it for six months.’ Amy reeled off her officers’ research to date. ‘On the night of the fire, the alarms didn’t work and the orderly on duty was on a cigarette break. Luka and his mother were asleep in their rooms. The experiments had wound down by then and the other students had left. According to the paperwork, arrangements were being made for Luka and his mum to travel home.’

  ‘But the fire took care of that,’ Malcolm added.

  Amy nodded. ‘By the time the alarm was raised, it was too late.’

  ‘Or was it?’ Malcolm said. ‘You’ve seen the records . . . there’s no grave. Perhaps our kidnapper is Luka? Maybe he survived the fire after all.’

  ‘Well – that,’ Amy said, stifling a yawn, ‘is what we have to find out.’

  Malcolm did not know it, but he had just read her thoughts.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  July 1984

  From the moment he boarded the plane, Luka felt the walls of the cabin closing in. Even the air seemed thinner as he dragged it into his lungs in short, anxious breaths. In truth, he wanted to be a big boy and make Papa proud. Besides, how could he tell Mama he was scared? She had been brimming over with excitement ever since the date was set, unable to sit still for more than a minute at a time.

  His father had remained suspicious, brooding over the doctor’s motivations for bringing them halfway across the world. It left Luka in a permanent state of nervousness, and he wasn’t sure if it was the good or bad kind. The doctor’s visit to his home was brief and did not allay his father’s fears. Dr Curtis was an abrupt man, with little time for pleasantries. It was only due to his companion, Deborah McCauley, that Luka was still allowed to go. He could tell by the way her father looked at her that he thought she was pretty. Luka liked her gentle voice, and there was something in her eyes that made him feel a connection, even though they had never met before now. Her long blonde lashes fluttered each time her father turned his attention towards her, and she effortlessly translated his concerns to Dr Curtis. Deborah voiced the doctor’s abrupt answers in a way that sounded
comforting, softening his explanations to put Ivan’s mind at rest.

  Luka leaned forward, his world expanding as he stared through the frosted porthole window at the earth rising up from below. ‘Look, Mama! I can see England!’ he exclaimed – and, smiling, Sasha craned her neck to enjoy the view. Her eyes shone with hope, but the ragged tissue clutched between her fingers told Luka there was fear there too.

  After negotiating the airport, they were met by Dr Curtis, who drove them to the institute in his car. Their journey was cloaked in darkness, and by the time they got there, Luka was too tired to take in the sights. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ Dr Curtis said, leaving Deborah to bring them in. She was wearing a white lab coat, her blonde hair tied into a ponytail. ‘Right.’ She clapped her hands together, making Sasha jump. ‘You must be exhausted. Let me show you to your rooms.’ Luka understood why Mama was jumpy. This creepy old building was not what they had expected at all.

  ‘Rooms?’ Sasha tightened her grip on Luka, drawing him near. ‘We stay together – yes?’

  Deborah smiled. The kind of patient smile you give a toddler when they don’t understand. ‘We thought it would be best if you had separate rooms. Besides . . . this used to be a university. There are only dorms – no family rooms here.’

  ‘This cannot be right.’ Sasha spoke in Russian, pausing for Deborah to absorb her words. ‘Luka shares with me.’

  Deborah continued walking as if his mama had not spoken at all. She explained that the building had been empty for a year before Dr Curtis leased it for his studies. ‘We’ve had some problems with vandals, so Dr Curtis thought it better to leave the windows boarded up on this floor.’

  The absence of windows created an eerie sense of isolation, and Luka was sure he’d just caught sight of a mouse scuttling down the corridor. A flush rising to her face, Deborah led Sasha to her quarters. Despite the damp spores creeping up the walls, the room was dry and warm, with a television in the corner and a thick blue blanket covering a single bed. Deborah showed them to the small communal kitchen across the way.