The Secret Child (DI Amy Winter #2)(14)

From the privacy of the monitoring room, Amy rolled her eyes. How much longer was he going to drag this out?

Curtis cleared his throat. ‘No. I want to get this over with so they can concentrate on looking for Ellen and whoever did this to my wife.’ He prodded the air with his finger. ‘Have you had any more updates? I should be by her side.’

‘Can you answer the question?’ Steve interjected.

Curtis glared at DC Moss, finally delivering his response. ‘No comment.’

A vein throbbed in Amy’s forehead as the stress of the investigation hit home. Right now, Nicole was in an induced coma with suspected poisoning. It was not known at this stage if she would pull through.

Steve raised an eyebrow, unaware of Amy’s concerns. ‘You do understand that by responding “no comment” to this question, the court can draw an inference – in other words, they may wonder why you’re unable to—’

‘I’m an educated man, Detective,’ Dr Curtis interrupted, folding his arms once more across his chest. ‘I know what an inference is. Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d move things along.’

But Steve refused to budge. ‘I want to talk about your work at the Curtis Institute in 1984 and 1985. Tell me about your time with Luka.’

‘No comment.’

Amy leaned back in her chair as Curtis continued to answer ‘no comment’ to the remainder of Steve and Molly’s questions. She watched as he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. The very sight of the note had sent the doctor into a cold sweat. Peering more closely at the monitor, Amy tuned into her intuitions, staring at the man under scrutiny from her team. His arms were wrapped around his torso as he leaned forward. Hunched in his chair, his breathing was rapid, his nostrils flared. Amy had encountered enough victims to read the signs. Dr Curtis was scared.





CHAPTER TEN

Novokuznetsk, Soviet Union, 1984

It had been two hours and ten minutes since the letter was delivered. In all that time, Mama had not stopped pacing the floor. Her eyes were bright, her voice animated. ‘Just think,’ she said. ‘The Tower of London, the Changing of the Guards . . . You’re going to love it!’

‘But Papa said . . .’ Luka replied, barely daring to believe that such a trip was possible. And without his father too. There was no way Papa would allow the family unit to be split up – would he?

It seemed his question would soon be answered, as Ivan walked through the door. Up until today, going to London had seemed as unlikely as the fairy stories his mother read to him at bedtime. It had all begun when his teacher asked the class to complete some psychometric tests. He was the only boy in his class who could not just spell the word but fully understood what it meant. It was on the back of his good results that Mama had plucked up the courage to apply to the Curtis Institute for them both to attend.

The letter his mother clutched in her fingers was from a man called Dr Curtis. Luka had been invited to join his study group in London for six whole months. According to Mama, a scholarship meant they would stay in the dorms and he would receive the best schooling under their care.

At six years of age, Luka knew far more than his friends. Fluent in both English and Russian, he could also solve the algebra problems his teachers set. Yet there were things he did not understand. Papa had said more than once that he lacked common sense. Despite Luka inheriting his broad stature and cheery demeanour, Ivan insisted that life in the mines was not for him. Mama agreed, which was why she had gone to so much trouble with tonight’s chicken dish. It had warranted another trip to the market, and Luka’s fingers were red and sore from plucking the feathers embedded in the bird’s skin. As usual, nothing would be wasted. She would keep the bones, claws and head to form the base of a stew tomorrow night. Luka imagined that they would not have to go to such lengths when it came to food in England.

‘Please, Ivan,’ Mama pleaded with his father when they sat down at the table to eat. All of their arguments took place over dinner. Not that it was ever much of an argument. She had only the time it took to eat the meal to get her point across. By the time Papa had finished eating, his mind would be made up and there would be no changing it.

‘What sort of study group is this?’ Papa replied. ‘You hear about human trafficking. You could be sold off as slaves, for all I know.’

‘Look!’ Mama said, waving the letter in front of his face. ‘It’s from a real institute, backed by the government – legal and above board. Only the brightest children are being offered a place.’

‘And what if it doesn’t work out?’ Papa paused to chew his chicken. ‘What then?’

‘We come home. Only this time we’ll have money lining our pockets.’ Mama smiled, pushing a stray hair from her face.

‘Very well.’ Ivan sighed. ‘But I worry about you. Yes, Luka is clever. Far cleverer than me. But you both lack common sense.’ Still grumbling, he picked up his bowl and slurped the remains. Luka was glad his papa didn’t drink alcohol, like some of his friends’ fathers. Some distilled it from rotten potatoes and beets. Others drank cologne, which was a tenth of the cost of the vodka sold in the shops. Last week, one of the people in their block of flats had died from drinking anti-freeze. Such examples were often given by Luka’s mother as reasons why they should move to the UK. But his father was still rambling on, explaining why they should stay.