The Secret Child (DI Amy Winter #2)(12)

‘Could be some nutcase.’ Paddy shrugged. ‘It’s all very odd.’ He pushed the car into gear as the traffic lights turned green. ‘It doesn’t help that everyone’s so tight-lipped about the past.’

Amy agreed. Her team had obtained records of Luka and his mother, Sasha, coming to the UK in 1984 on a scholarship programme, but there were scant details about him participating in the psychological trials. ‘It’s tragic, isn’t it? How they both died.’ She was referring to Luka and his mother and the fire that had claimed their lives. ‘And all the records going up in smoke.’ She paused, speaking her thoughts aloud. ‘The fact that they were cremated seems very convenient too.’

Paddy gave her a sideways glance that suggested she was out of her tree. ‘You don’t seriously believe that nutter, do you? He’s not Luka. He’s yanking your chain.’

Just the same, Amy wondered what had gone on behind the scenes at the Curtis Institute. She needed details of the experiments and further information on the deaths of Luka and his mother.

‘I reckon Nicole has been in contact with him from the off.’ Paddy manoeuvred the car through traffic. To his left, a city bus rumbled past, almost drowning out his words.

Amy knew he was talking about their suspect. Minutes passed before she spoke, having assembled her thoughts. ‘He mentioned Nicole for a reason. He wants us to give chase.’ She gazed out of the car window as Paddy took the road to the Curtis family’s residence. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s watching the house.’ A point-to-point call on the police radio informed her that officers had tried but failed to get an answer on the landline. A prickle of concern grew. She did not know enough about Ellen’s kidnapper to build a profile of him, but it was obvious he took pleasure in playing games. That’s why he’d been drawn to Amy after reading about her latest case in the press.

On reaching the Curtis house, she opened her car door before Paddy had even put on the handbrake, unable to wait a second longer to find out what was going on.

Gravel crunched underfoot as they approached the expansive drive, and Amy frowned at the appearance of a single skid mark in a perfectly formed arc. A motorbike, perhaps? Someone who had turned in a hurry to leave? Next to it was Dr Curtis’s Mercedes.

Paddy pointed to the cherished licence plate: CUR711S. ‘I bet that cost a few quid.’

Amy was unimpressed, although it did serve to tell her that Curtis was home after all. She touched the hood. Warm. As she approached the front door, a howl rose from within, making Paddy and Amy exchange a look. Raising her finger, Amy signalled for Paddy to go around the back, conscious that if there was an intruder present it would be their first means of escape.

Patting his jacket pockets, Paddy’s face fell. ‘My radio . . . I left it at the nick.’

It was not the first time he had forgotten it. Unclicking her radio from her shoulder harness, Amy threw it in his direction. If necessary, she could make use of the airwaves in the car.

Inside, the howling came to an abrupt stop. There was no time to spare. ‘Open up!’ Amy commanded, keeping her finger pressed on the doorbell. No response. Crouching, she peered through the letterbox. Down the hall, she could see Dr Curtis standing, his head in his hands.

‘Police. Open up!’ Amy’s voice carried through the letterbox.

Slowly, he glanced up at her, each movement a monumental effort. Rising to her feet, Amy acknowledged Paddy as he returned.

‘It’s all locked up,’ he said, just as Dr Curtis opened the door. The tears wetting his face conveyed that something was very wrong.

‘She’s dead,’ he blurted as they followed him inside.

‘What? Who? Are you talking about Ellen?’ Amy said, trying to fuse together the pieces of the puzzle. ‘Have you spoken to her kidnapper?’

Dr Curtis’s mouth hung open as he looked from Amy to Paddy. His grey hair stood in tufts on his head, his skin was pallid. ‘Ki-kidnapper?’ he stuttered.

‘Where’s Nicole?’ Amy said, brushing past him to check the rest of the house.

Raising a shaking hand, Dr Curtis pointed towards the living room.

Relaying his call sign, Paddy updated Control.

Amy’s heart skittered in her chest as she caught sight of a pair of feet sticking out from behind the sofa. A kitten-heeled shoe lay on its side and, in the oddest of moments, she noticed that Nicole’s toenails were painted metallic blue. It was strange how, in the most panic-stricken times, the smallest details came into view. As she rushed to the body, her police training took over, but later in the night when she could not sleep, those blue-painted toenails would resurface in her thoughts.

Lifeless, Nicole lay on her back, jagged paths of dried blood crusting her nostrils and mouth. The cream carpet was covered in splatters from where she must have coughed before she crumpled to the floor. With two fingers, Amy touched the side of her neck. Her skin was graveyard-cold. It could not end like this. Amy’s jaw clenched as she tilted back Nicole’s head and prepared to resuscitate. She had carried out CPR many times in her career and was not about to give up now. Her chest compressions were quick and firm and she resisted Paddy’s offer of help.

‘You stay with Curtis and show the paramedics in,’ she said. There would be no contamination of evidence on her watch. She had seen the discarded mobile phone on the ground, too battered and scuffed to be Nicole’s. To the side lay what looked like small glass phials, next to a box that had been torn open with force. Pinching Nicole’s nose, Amy put her thoughts on pause as she sealed her mouth over it and delivered two breaths. After another round of CPR she detected the faintest of pulses beneath the skin. ‘She’s still alive!’ Amy called to Paddy, who had detained Dr Curtis in the hall. It was how they worked. One officer worked while the other watched their back.