Silent Playgrounds Page 4

  Her arms ached and her leg smarted where she had scraped it. It had occurred to her as she dropped into the yard that she would be in trouble if there were drunks or vandals, because she had no easy way out, but the lack of voices, of human sound, had reassured her, and she was right. There was no one there, just the wheel, turning and turning, the sluice open, the water falling onto the blades, the wheel turning down, down into the shadows, darker under the trees now that the sun was lower. The water cascaded, throwing out a spray of droplets that shone in rainbow colours where the sun caught them. As she watched, the flood of water narrowed, became a trickle, the rainbow lights faded and the wheel slowed, slowed and stopped. She moved closer to the railing and looked over the edge, down into the darkness where the wheel had turned.

  Flowers in the water. Someone had scattered blue flowers that swirled in the turbulence left by the wheel, and the rays of the sun came through the canopy of the trees and turned the surface of the water into patterns of silver and blue, light and flowers, water and forget-me-nots. The bright light dimmed as a cloud crossed the sun, and the water was suddenly transparent, the stones on the wall beneath the water a soft yellow, the fronds of the fern dancing where they dipped below the surface. There was her reflection again, staring up at her from deep down, down beneath the wheel, down in the shadows, in the darkness. But the face was a bleached white, the eyes blank, staring, and the hair waving in the current was pale gold.

  She didn’t remember climbing back out of the yard. She didn’t remember stopping the cyclist on the path. She just remembered sitting on the dry and stony ground, her back pressed against the wall as the feet ran past her.

  Lucy. Lucy in the water under the churning wheel.

  3

  The body of the young woman had been pulled partly into the conduit that took the water back into the stream. A diver had gone down into the narrow space to free her from the grip of the water, so that they could, slowly and carefully, lift her out. The forget-me-nots caught in her hair and stuck to her face as she came out of the water. There were red marks around her mouth and, as her head lolled back against the man lifting her, a trickle of bloodstained water ran down her face. Suspicious death. She was young: seventeen, eighteen? She was wearing a T-shirt, nothing on her feet.

  Detective Inspector Steve McCarthy looked away, at the scene around him. The wheel was still and silent. There was a smell of damp stone and wood in the air, of weed and stagnant water. The yard was fading into shadows as the sun sank lower behind the trees. A breeze blew, and the trees sighed and rustled, sending the shadows chasing across the flagstones. The flagstones of the yard were mossy and overgrown. The scene-of-crime team were already going over the ground and the wheel, looking for traces of the person or the people who had dumped the girl in the water, who had set the mechanisms going. McCarthy frowned. He couldn’t understand the turning wheel. It had attracted attention to the place.

  As the team lowered the body onto the stretcher, the senior investigating officer, Detective Superintendent Tom Brooke, passed his quick, professional eye over it and looked at the pathologist. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I can’t tell you anything at the moment. She doesn’t look as though she’s been in the water for long, but I don’t know what that current will have done to any evidence.’

  ‘What do you think, Steve?’

  ‘Some kind of freak accident?’ McCarthy, observing beside Brooke, very much wanted it to have been an accident. He had just left a murder inquiry, one that had dragged on for several weeks without so much as the identity of the victim – a vagrant, an old man someone had kicked and then slashed to death with a broken whisky bottle – being found out. He’d planned to take some leave. Another murder inquiry would put paid to that straight away.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ The pathologist looked at McCarthy with dislike. She thought he was a cold fish. ‘I can’t tell you anything until I’ve done the PM.’ They watched as the stretcher was wheeled out of the yard to the waiting ambulance.

  The pathologist’s refusal to give an opinion didn’t bother McCarthy. He’d known before he asked the question that this was no accident. When he’d first seen the face in the water, he’d thought, Kids messing about. The park was a playground for the local teenagers in the evenings and at night. They played interesting games. From the road after dark, you could see firelight in the woods. In the mornings, the litter of broken bottles, used condoms, empty cans, told their own stories. Needles in the old toilets, graffiti on the buildings and even on the trees. Girls and boys come out to play … She could have been a member of one of the gangs, could have been messing around, got the wheel started, fallen in and drowned. Poetic justice in McCarthy’s mind. But he knew that theory was unlikely.

  The pathologist had finished packing her things together. McCarthy walked back to her car with her. ‘Do you know who she is?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ve got a seventeen-year-old answers the description, Emma Allan. We haven’t got an official identification yet. But the woman who found the body says it’s her. It’s all tied up with the missing-child case from earlier on.’ He caught the pathologist’s glance. ‘No, the child turned up safe and well.’

  ‘The woman who found her,’ the pathologist persisted, ‘can’t she make it official?’

  ‘She said it was the child at first,’ McCarthy replied, remembering the woman’s white-faced incoherence. ‘She didn’t know she’d been found.’ He anticipated the next comment. ‘It was understandable, but we don’t need an identification from someone who sees what she expects to see, rather than what’s there.’

  The pathologist looked at him for a moment and shrugged. ‘I’ll get back then,’ she said, pulling off her gloves.

  McCarthy looked at the long expanse of the park stretching away west towards the countryside and east back into the city. He’d already worked out that the park was almost impossible to seal off. The gates at either end were blocked; he’d arranged for the path closer to Shepherd Wheel to be closed, but access from the woods, the allotments, across the fields – the park was wide open. They needed to complete the searches of the scene quickly. They needed to get the yard checked, and the wheel. They still needed to find the place where the woman had been killed.

  At first, McCarthy’s money had been on the yard behind the mill, secluded and shielded from observers by trees. But there was no evidence of anything on those mossy stones. One of the SOCOs had found traces of blood on the wall of the mill, the wall that ran straight down into the water, forming one side of the wheel pit. There was a small, dark window in that wall, a few feet above the water. Brooke thought they’d find the evidence they wanted inside the locked-up mill. That scene was secure, and he was content to wait until they had more daylight to work by.

  They’d had trouble contacting a key-holder. They’d had to break open the padlock on the yard gate, but the workshop itself could wait. That reminded McCarthy of something else he needed to do. He went back to the old bridge to talk to the woman who’d found the dead girl. He’d recognized her as soon as he’d arrived. It was the woman with the wary eyes, who had watched him from her seat beside Jane Fielding, as though she was defending her friend from him. She’d said very little apart from giving him a vivid thumbnail sketch of Lucy’s father that McCarthy would have found entertaining under other circumstances.

  She had been sitting on the ground by the old workshop, her knees drawn up, her head resting on her arms. He had gone up to her, and she’d lifted her head and looked at him with shocked, blank eyes, her face drained so that the wash of colour from the sun looked almost yellow. She hadn’t seemed to take it in when he’d said to her, ‘It isn’t Lucy. Lucy’s safe. It isn’t a child.’ He’d knelt down beside her to make sure she’d understood him, and she’d stiffened as though she found his presence threatening. She’d muttered something about responsible or responsibility, and tried to stand up, weaving a little as the shock took her. He’d held her arm, and waved one of the WPCs over.
‘Look after …’ He paused.

  ‘Milner,’ she’d said. ‘Suzanne Milner. I’m fine. I just stood up too quickly. I’m fine.’

  ‘OK, Mrs Milner, but I’ll need to talk to you before you go.’ He’d given the officer some instructions, and then gone to where Brooke was waiting, watching the men working in the wheel yard. Now, as he headed back to the woman, he wondered who to get to interview her. He ran his mind over the things she might have seen and not seen, the things he needed to get her to remember. He thought about her story of the wheel slowing and stopping as she watched it. Who had stopped it?

  What did he know about her? Nothing, except she had some connection with the Fielding woman. It had all seemed like a rather arty, new-age setup – not McCarthy’s kind of thing at all. Her story puzzled him. She’d apparently climbed the gate to look in the wheel yard – a climb that McCarthy wouldn’t have liked to tackle, not with those spikes threatening vulnerable bits. He wondered what she’d expected to find.

  It was midnight. Suzanne sat at her desk, her head in her hands. She couldn’t sleep. She kept seeing that face in the water, and it kept being Lucy. There was something unreal, dreamlike, about the whole thing. The detective – what was his name? McCarthy, that was it – had told her: It isn’t Lucy. Lucy’s safe. It isn’t a child, but she couldn’t get that picture of Lucy’s face out of her mind. She’d gone round to Jane’s as soon as they told her she could go but the house was locked up and empty. She’d come back home and wandered listlessly round, picking up discarded books, shoes, cups and putting them down again. The shards of her weekend lay around her. She bit her thumbnail until a sudden pain warned her that she’d bitten it below the quick. She wondered about phoning Dave, but that would give him a chance to say those things again: Can’t you even …? He’s not a bloody pet, Suze … !

  She sorted through some of the papers that were in her Monday’s to-do pile, ordering them by size, large on the top, small on the bottom, then reversing the order. They wouldn’t make a neat pyramid either way, because they were different shapes and sizes. She went and stood by the window, looking out into the now dark street.

  Q. But, you haven’t told me. Where do you go in the evenings? You know, going out, seeing your friends, things like that.

  A. Simon’s got somewhere.

  Q. Simon? Is that your brother?

  A. Er … not … I can’t … (Pause 5 seconds.)

  Q. In the evenings, Ashley. You said that Simon’s got somewhere. Is that where you go?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Where is it?

  A. It’s … I can’t … em … It’s … you go down by the garage, where Lee’s name is.

  Q. Lee? Do you see Lee in the evenings?

  A. Not … It’s so and … em … they said it was all going to be different. I don’t know, I didn’t know …

  Q. What? I’m sorry, Ashley, I don’t follow you.

  A. Doesn’t matter.

  The tape ran on. Her mind, in the way that it did when she was tired, drifted away from her. She was in the office at the Alpha Project, talking to Richard Kean, the Alpha psychologist. He’d made the rules clear. ‘You can’t have access to the confidential records,’ he’d said. ‘And that includes their police records, I’m afraid. Not at this stage. They all have the kinds of profile you were looking for: persistent, destructive criminal behaviour.’ She’d nodded in agreement. She wasn’t about to argue after the weeks of careful negotiation it had taken her to get through the door of the centre. She’d … The machine clicked, and she realized that the tape had run on to its end. Maybe she ought to go to bed. She wasn’t concentrating. She pressed the REWIND button and watched as the numbers on the counter reversed themselves. Then she pressed PLAY.

  Q. Tell me about your family, Ashley.

  A. Er … It’s not …

  Q. Sorry, you don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not.

  A. Yes.

  Q. You want to tell me?

  A. Brothers and sisters?

  Q. If …

  A. (Laughs.) Brothers and sisters.

  Q. Sorry, Ashley, I don’t understand.

  A. Er … So … em … loose …

  Q. What?

  A. Simon.

  Q. Simon is your brother?

  A. Yes.

  She’d asked Richard about that, after she’d taped Ashley. ‘Ashley says he has a brother. I’d got the impression he was an only child.’

  Richard had pulled at his lip, thinking. ‘Well, if he’s been talking to you … It isn’t confidential as such. Ashley’s background is very disrupted. He has a brother who went into care years ago. He was autistic; the family couldn’t cope. Then when they found out Ashley had problems, that was when he went into care as well.’ He was more forthcoming these days, more inclined to treat her like another professional. ‘That’s the root of Ashley’s problem, I think. No one wanted him. He’s never had anyone who really cared about him. That’s hard to cope with.’

  The tape ran on. Never had anyone who loved him. Suzanne had loved Adam, but that hadn’t been enough. Her mind was too tired to resist the images. The wet stone had sprouted weeds and ferns, a lush growth that flourished away from the light. The stones were green with lichen. Far down, the water was racing, smooth and strong. Someone was looking up at her from under the water, but she couldn’t make out the features, the current was too fast. Then it cleared, and the eyes opened and looked at her with fear and panic and pleading. Adam’s face, looking up at her from under the water.

  Lucy lay in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. It was late. She was tired, but she didn’t want to go to sleep. Not yet. She’d been to a place with her mum, and talked about the park to Alicia. Alicia said she was a policeman, but she wasn’t a proper one, in a uniform, with a hat. There were voices downstairs – Mum and Dad talking. Her daddy had come all the way from London on his motor bike. She heard Daddy’s voice getting louder. He was cross with Mum.

  She turned over in bed. She hadn’t told. She’d kept the secret, but she didn’t know what to do now. She wished Sophie was there. Sophie would know. She turned over again. Her bed wouldn’t get comfortable. She looked at the window. It was dark outside. She couldn’t see it because the curtains were drawn, but she knew the dark was there. It was OK, though. Tamby would be watching. Chasing… Sophie would say, monsters… But Tamby would watch. All safe, she told him in her head.

  She heard Daddy’s voice: ‘For fuck’s sake, Jane, what did she say?’ and then his voice got quieter. She knew what they were talking about. They thought she didn’t know, but she did. They were talking about Emma. The monsters had got Emma, Lucy knew that. Emma was the grown-up and Lucy was the little girl, but Lucy knew about monsters. She’d tried to tell Emma, but Emma wouldn’t listen. Emma thought it was safe to play with the monsters, but Lucy knew. You play with the monsters one, two, three times, and they get you. Lucy sighed. She had tried to look out for Emma, she really had.

  Daddy’s voice, loud again. ‘I want to know what she said!’

  She looked at the curtain. It was moving, just a bit, just the way it did when it was draughty. It’s just the draught, Mum said. Lucy didn’t know where to watch, and the dark made it harder. It was like that game they played in the yard at school, Grandmother’s Footsteps. You turned your back and they all came for you, moving so quietly you couldn’t hear them. You turned really quickly, but they were still as anything. You never saw them move, but each time you turned, they were in a different place, nearer and nearer. But they couldn’t move as long as you were looking at them.

  She was only six, but she knew about the monsters.

  4

  When Suzanne finally fell asleep, she dreamt. It was the familiar dream, the one she had thought she was free of, of Adam, calling to her: Look at me, Suzanne! Listen to me, Suzanne! And her father: I hold you responsible for this, Suzanne! She pulled herself out of sleep in panic, gasping, disorientated. She sat up, trying to see the clock face. The sky outsid
e was beginning to lighten. It was nearly five. Her nightdress felt damp, and her legs were tangled up in the sheets. Adam’s face stayed with her, bringing the familiar cold lump in her stomach. She pushed the image away. Over. Gone.

  The relief she’d felt faded as the events of the evening before came back into her head. She tried to shut the memory of Emma firmly out of her mind, but she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about what it would be like to be held under the water as the wheel churned above you, or to feel someone’s cold hands on you with killing intent, to … The pictures in her mind were spinning out of control now. Look at me … Listen to me …

  She needed to get up, do something. It was five to five. She’d go and work on the tapes again for a couple of hours, then have breakfast.

  They searched the workshop at Shepherd Wheel at first light the next morning. The roads were empty as McCarthy drove from his flat towards the park. He left his car in the entrance to the park and walked the few hundred yards to Shepherd Wheel, enjoying the silence, broken by the birdsong, the emptiness, and the stillness of the morning. Shepherd Wheel looked tranquil in the early sun, the moss-covered roof glowing a warm yellow, the walls and path dappled with shadow.

  A key-holder from the museums department was there to open up the workshops for them, a young woman who, McCarthy noticed, looked anything but put out at her out-of-hours excursion. If anything, she looked excited. He guessed she was in her late twenties. She had short chestnut hair in untidy curls, her face slightly flushed, eyes shining as she took in the scene. She smiled and held out her hand. ‘Liz Delaney. Hello.’

  He shook her hand. ‘Steve McCarthy.’ Yesterday’s search had found very little in the yard. Now they needed to look inside the workshops themselves. There were two doors, painted municipal green, with heavy hasps for the padlocks that kept the building closed and secure. He took the keys that Liz Delaney was holding out to him. ‘How long is it since someone was last in there?’ he asked her.