A Cry in the Night Read online

  TWO

  Zoe Barnes stared out at the water, rubbed her hands against the cold, and took everything in. She’d read up on the area before they’d set out from Manchester but the facts and figures now felt redundant as she faced Lullingdale Water. Yes, the lake was indeed big – two miles long from north to south – and the maps certainly showed the steep slopes’ gradations with perfect detail, but nothing on paper could have reflected the sheer scale of the place. She took in the woodland to the left and the shale-strewn slopes on the right. The sky was blue but the sun had already fallen below the fells’ peaks, making it feel like twilight, although it was still only mid-afternoon. A faint mist hovered above the water like a gossamer shroud, twisting with the currents. She felt silly for letting it distract her from the job in hand and turned her attention back to the shoreline.

  ‘The boy’s bike was found there,’ she said, pointing.

  Her boss, Sam, walked over to her and she felt tiny next to his hulking frame. He looked to where she’d gestured and nodded.

  ‘Bike there,’ she continued, ‘found by the mother at quarter-to-five or round about. Then there’s a lot of shouting and running about and not much sense. Last known sighting of Arthur and Lily was when they left the school gates together at 3.30.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Sam.

  It was, and she was glad that he’d noticed it too. They always thought alike.

  ‘What time are we seeing the parents?’ she asked.

  ‘Half an hour,’ he replied and stretched, rolling his shoulders, now free from the confines of the car. It had been a long journey and he hadn’t spoken much. While his silences made many of her colleagues uncomfortable, they didn’t bother her.

  ‘Okay, let’s check in to the hotel first,’ he said.

  She reminded him that the hotel was actually just a room above a pub and made a joke about being ‘strangers in these parts’. He just threw the keys at her.

  ‘Bet your mobile phone won’t work half the time,’ she added. ‘And all there is to eat is minestrone soup from a packet and rabbit stew.’

  ‘DC Barnes.’

  ‘Yes, DI Taylor?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Shutting right up, sir,’ she said with a grin.

  They walked back to the car, which was parked a small distance away from the lake, at the end of a road that looked as though it had just given up. When they got there, Sam stopped and looked back at the scene. Zoe did the same, seeing a thin line of clouds roll over the peaks to the left, illuminated by an invisible sun. A flock of geese flew low over the still water and she was struck by how quiet it was. There was no one on the water. When she was younger she’d visited the bigger, more popular lakes that were covered with sailing boats or jet skis. She remembered happy childhood days – splashing in and around the water by day, giggling in tents at night. But this lake was absolutely still.

  Sam’s hands hung loosely by his sides and she wondered how he didn’t feel the cold. She tried to do the same, but after a few minutes she dug them back into her pockets.

  ‘There’s only one way down here,’ Sam said. ‘This road. It comes down to here, and stops here at the car park.’

  They looked at the small gravelly square; room enough for two, maybe three, cars, plus the stile and nicely painted footpath sign nearby.

  ‘There are no roads around the lake,’ Sam continued. ‘So if someone took them, they’d need to have parked here. Or carried them away – but that’s more risky and would probably have been seen. We must make sure the local police checked all the CCTV that leads to here. If there is any.’

  She nodded, cross that she hadn’t spotted this herself.

  ‘And I like minestrone soup,’ Sam said with a wink. They got into the car and adjusted their seats – him pushing back, her coming forward.

  ‘Good spot for running,’ she said. He nodded, uninterested. ‘How long do you think we’ll be here?’

  He just shrugged. It was a stupid question, really. Missing kids’ cases were notoriously difficult to predict and she knew it. Sam had said that they were there to double-check it had all been done properly after the initial investigation had run cold, but she knew that anything could happen once they got stuck in. Something about the lake pulled her eyes back to it. The mist on the water had thickened and the far end of the lake was gone.

  ‘You know this is witch country?’ Zoe said, a grin on her face.

  He looked at her. He had beautiful blue eyes, light and delicate. It was a stare that got people talking.

  ‘Back in the old days,’ she added to end the silence, ‘sixteen something or other. There was meant to be some sort of witches’ cabal here. It’s in the guidebook.’

  ‘You bought a guidebook?’

  She shrugged – why not? – but felt silly and over-eager. She wished herself older and more hardbitten.

  Sam said nothing, and she could tell his mind was now elsewhere. He was often like this. He would be talking and then something would take over, and he would disappear for a bit. It seemed to freak out some of their colleagues, but Zoe knew him too well for any of that. She guessed that he was thinking about his wife. So she let him be and turned the key in the ignition, reversing the car back and away.

  Another glance at Lullingdale Water. She saw some birds fly into the mist and disappear, but they didn’t seem to come back out. She would have stopped and checked it out properly if she had been on her own, but Sam’s silence forced her hand onto the gears, turning the wheel and steering them towards the village.

  THREE

  Zoe was right. Sam was thinking about his wife. He was remembering the way she let her hair fall on his face as she lay on top of him, laughing when he grumbled. He stared out of the window at the tall hedging that lined the narrow road and tried to shake her out of his head. His mind found a new preoccupation: his meeting that morning with Chief Superintendent Frey.

  Michael Frey was a tall, gaunt man who chose to keep his white hair cropped, giving himself a military appearance. He liked to look ‘severe’ and therefore smiled as little as possible. It was a decent enough performance and it only sagged when in the company of tougher men who would naturally smell the fraud. Then the Chief Superintendent would become a little too eager to be one of the lads. As a result, Sam loathed him.

  ‘So we have an odd one,’ Mr Frey said, patting Sam on the shoulder and offering him a seat. He returned to the other side of his desk and played with a paperweight as he talked. ‘Two children have gone missing – you might have seen the reports. Brother and sister – Arthur and Lily Downing. Last seen near their local village up in the Lake District. It’s been four weeks now and the local police haven’t got anywhere. Press has got bored, thankfully, and moved on. But I wanted one of my boys to have a second look. I thought it was one for you.’

  Sam wondered what this meant, unsure why this was coming from the lofty position of Chief Superintendent and not from his immediate boss, his DCI.

  ‘You look well, by the way,’ said Frey to fill the silence. ‘Still pumping iron? Still boxing?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Good for you. If it weren’t for my knees … too many marathons.’

  What a tit, thought Sam. He waited for the Chief Superintendent to continue, a blank stare on his face.

  ‘Good, yes, right. So, pop up, stay for a bit, there’s a local hotel that isn’t too dear so we won’t have the taxpayers muttering. See what you can find out. Never good when the little ones vanish, is it?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No. Few too many recently.’

  Chief Superintendent Frey left his last comment hanging in the air. Sam had a good idea as to what he was talking about, but waited for his boss to continue. He watched the white-haired man play with the glass paperweight, the light throwing spectrums onto his desk.

  ‘How are your girls?’ was all his boss ventured after the silence had dragged on too long.

  ‘They’re doing well, tha
nk you, sir. Stronger by the day.’

  ‘Well, that’s women for you,’ Mr Frey replied. Then he reached behind him and dumped a large stack of thick manila envelopes onto the desk.

  ‘Look at these, will you?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘I don’t know if they’re relevant to your case or not. Impossible to tell at this stage, but you should be as well informed as possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

  ‘Good. And I’d be careful about how much you tell your young detective constable. What’s her name?’

  ‘Zoe Barnes, sir.’

  ‘Barnes. Yes. She’s very popular.’

  ‘She’s very good at her job.’

  ‘Pretty little thing too. Just be wary of how much you divulge.’

  The envelopes sat between them. The topmost was threatening to slip off and ruin the perfect order of the desk. Sam didn’t move to take them, wary of the privilege of secrets.

  ‘Keep me informed, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Straight to me. Right?’

  The meeting over, Sam stood, reluctantly scooped up the files, and thanked his boss again. Later he dumped them in the back of his car.

  They were sliding around in the boot right now, as Zoe drove them into the village. They passed the medieval church and turned left before the pub, following the hand-painted sign to the patrons’ car park. The Black Bull was a white, picturesque building with a pretty thatched roof. Around it were old, identical houses with black doors and window frames. The conformity gave the village a toy-town feel. A few doors down was a shop, then nothing – just a country lane with neighbouring fields filled with sheep. There were thirty houses in all – each one dainty and proper. The word ‘sleepy’ was irresistible. Once parked, they got their things out of the boot, Zoe waiting for Sam as he stuffed the files into a backpack. He saw that she looked at them with interest, but didn’t ask him what was inside.

  He felt guilty. He knew what they were, even without reading them. Everyone knew about them. They’d caused a frenzy of debate across the country; terrible tales about monstrous women. And he knew what Mr Frey had implied by advising him to exclude Zoe. That he should only trust men. It made Sam hate him all the more.

  ‘Shithole,’ muttered his partner.

  ‘Fifteen minutes to check in and dump our stuff. Then let’s go and meet the parents.’

  ‘So, boss, how long do you think you’d last in a place like this? I’d go crazy after six months.’

  He looked around at the quiet pavements, the pretty cottages and hedgerows. The fells rose up behind them, the darkening sky turning their browns and greens to purples and blacks. Even the leafless winter trees seemed pretty and bucolic.

  ‘I’d last a week,’ he said with a grin. Zoe’s hard laugh seemed too loud for this sweet place. They grabbed their things and marched towards the pub.

  FOUR

  Tim Downing hung up the phone and turned to look at his wife. Sarah was sitting at the large wooden kitchen table, staring at a mug of tea. It was all either of them seemed to do. Make tea or drink booze, and stare at the table.

  Sarah was beautiful. Even now, crumpled by grief, her eyes puffy and her face sagging without expression, she still looked incredible. He watched her thin fingers clutch the mug and felt like crying all over again. He fiddled with the shirt he’d ironed this morning and didn’t know what else to do. He had always considered himself successful and the money he’d earned had seemed to prove this true, but all it had done was make him feel bigger and stronger than he really was. Arthur and Lily’s disappearance had exposed the lie brutally.

  ‘The cops are here. New ones,’ he said.

  She didn’t reply. Her hands wrung the mug, slowly strangling it.

  ‘Staying at the Black Bull.’

  Still nothing from her. Not even the barest acknowledgement. Tim stared at his own mug on the black marble worktop. The coffee was untouched, stone-cold. He exhaled a weak, shivery breath and dug his hands into his pockets.

  The thick curtains had been closed for days. The stagnant climate within seemed all the worse for it.

  ‘Are you going to get dressed for them?’

  It came out as an accusation, but it was just concern. She sat barefoot in a thin nightie and dressing gown, her long, lithe legs exposed to the thigh.

  ‘What do they care?’ she replied. Her eyes never moved from the mug.

  That was all he’d get out of her. He went over and put his hand on her shoulder, leaned in and kissed her cheek. Her hand went to his, held it there, pressed hard to keep him close. He was so grateful for the contact, so desperate to feel needed.

  The tears rose again.

  FIVE

  It was September 15th of the previous year, and Constable Eddy Pearson had only been in the job for five weeks. He was barely nineteen and as eager as a puppy. He was partnered with Alan Troughton, who was known by one and all as a miserable bastard. The hope was that he’d knock a little bit of the keenness out of Eddy before he did something silly.

  Eddy and Alan had been called to a disturbance in Mapleside Avenue, a well-to-do leafy road in a posher part of Manchester. An elderly lady had been complaining about the noise from next door. She’d been grumbling for some weeks and this was one of many calls. Troughton thought this would be an excellent opportunity for young Eddy to try his diplomatic skills on the utterly uncharmable old woman.

  They never got to see her. As Troughton rang on her doorbell, Eddy had wandered over to the neighbouring house, and was about to comment on the fact that there was no noise whatsoever when he saw a young girl throw herself at the first-floor window. She was soaking wet, but fully clothed. The glass cracked but did not break. Eddy and the girl’s eyes met and he saw terror there. And then an arm appeared from behind her and dragged her out of sight.

  Troughton saw none of this but he did see the cracked glass and paid attention to the yapping of his new colleague. Moving towards the house, he radioed in his concerns, banging loudly on the door. Eddy was frantic by now. As Troughton rang again and peered in through the large windows at the front of the house, Eddy ran to the back. He yanked hard on the back door. To his frustration, it was also locked. He could hear Troughton ringing repeatedly on the doorbell, clearly getting nowhere. He thought of the little girl again, her wet hair matted against her forehead.

  He got inside without remembering exactly how. Evidence suggested that he had barged the door open. He ran through the rooms, calling out, until he saw a woman staring at him from the top of the stairs. She was about his age, with long dark hair that fell to her shoulders. It was the way she gazed at him that was most disquieting: the tilt of her head, the slackness of her mouth, the hint of a smile. Then he noticed that the sleeves of her jumper were dripping with water.

  He ran at her and expected her to claw at him and fight, but instead she just collapsed as he shoved her and lay still where she fell, inanimate on the landing. Eddy ran past her, the doorbell ringing continually, the woman making no attempt to get up.

  He found the girl in the bath. Her hair swam before her face like weed in a lake. Her eyes were open, no longer scared. A tiny bubble of air slipped from her lips. Her skin seemed so white. She was naked now and although she was dead, Eddy was embarrassed to look at her. The little drowned girl stared up at the ceiling, alone under the water.

  Troughton found Eddy about five minutes later. The woman was still lying on the floor where his colleague had barged past her. Her cold, detached gaze echoed that of the girl in the water. Eddy was lying on the bathroom floor, the girl now in his arms after he’d failed to resuscitate her. His hand stroked her wet hair.

  The woman was the nanny of a wealthy couple, Matt and Diane Parlour. The girl was their only daughter, Melinda. The evidence against the nanny was undeniable. The only troubling aspect was a lack of motive. As arresting officers, Eddy and Troughton were the first to interview her, although the case was soon passed on to CID. Eddi
e sat opposite her, unable to speak. Troughton asked the questions, but the nanny didn’t respond. She just gazed at Eddy with that same curious, vague, unknowable expression. It was soon decided that she was unfit to stand trial and needed psychiatric evaluation.

  Eddy was interviewed himself some days later. It was partly a debrief, partly an examination into his own state of mind, and partly another box that Human Resources required ticked. He knew the answers he was meant to give – the reasons needed to justify forcibly entering a premises. He said exactly what he was meant to say and was commended for it. But when asked about the nanny and why he believed she had drowned poor little Melinda, his professionalism was derailed. He tried to sidestep the questions with a shrug, but this was not acceptable. He had faced something cruel and cold, without any comprehensible sense or reason. He had seen terror in the eyes of a little girl and he had seen her look to him for help. And he had failed her. He had watched that woman stare at him across the table in a police interview room without any sense of remorse or shame or any emotion that would make sense to him. And so, when pressed to answer the question, young Eddy Pearson floundered.

  ‘She was just fucking evil. A fucking witch,’ he stammered.

  Witch. It was the first time the word had been used like this for years. The word would stick.

  *

  Sam snapped the case file shut. He had imagined the details too vividly. There were copies of photographs, but he chose not to look at them.

  There was a bang on the door. It was Zoe.

  ‘Come on then, we’re five minutes behind already,’ she said as she breezed in, checking out his hotel room. ‘I take it all back. By the way, they’ve got wi-fi.’ And then she noticed that nothing was unpacked, his bags lay on the bed, that he was still wearing his coat, with the closed file in his hand.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ There was an awkward pause and he saw her eyes narrow, taking this in. She was a good cop, he reminded himself. ‘Sorry for being late. Got distracted.’